"My name," he said serenely, "is, as I have told you. Francesco."
"But you have another?" quoth Valentina, interest prompting the question.
"Why, yes, but so closely allied to the first as to be scarce worth reciting. I am Francesco Franceschi, a wandering knight."
"And a true one, as I know." She smiled at him so sweetly that Gonzaga was enraged.
"I have not heard the name before," he murmured, adding:
"Your father was——?"
"A gentleman of Tuscany."
"But not at Court?" suggested Romeo.
"Why, yes, at Court."
Then with a sly insolence that brought the blood to Francesco's cheeks, though to the chaste mind of Valentina's it meant nothing—"Ah!" he rejoined. "But then, your mother——?"
"Was more discriminating, sir, than yours," came the sharp answer, and from the shadows the fool's smothered burst of laughter added gall to it.
Gonzaga rose heavily, drawing a sharp breath, and the two men stabbed each other with their eyes. Valentina, uncomprehending, looked from one to the other.
"Sirs, sirs, what have you said?" she cried. "Why all this war of looks?"
"He is over-quick to take offence, Madonna, for an honest man," was Gonzaga's answer. "Like the snake in the grass, he is very ready with his sting when we seek to disclose him."
"For shame, Gonzaga," she cried, now rising too. "What are you saying? Are you turned witless? Come, sirs, since you are both my friends, be friends each with the other."
"Most perfect syllogism!" murmured the fool, unheeded.
"And you, Messer Francesco, forget his words. He means them not. He is very hot of fancy, but sweet at heart, this good Gonzaga."
On the instant the cloud lifted from Francesco's brow.
"Why, since you ask me," he answered, inclining his head, "if he'll but say he meant no malice by his words, I will confess as much for mine."
Gonzaga, cooling, saw that haply he had gone too fast, and was the readier to make amends. Yet in his bosom he nursed an added store of poison, a breath of which escaped him as he was leaving Valentina, and after Francesco had already gone:
"Madonna," he muttered, "I mistrust that man."
"Mistrust him? Why?" she asked, frowning despite her faith in the magnificent Romeo.
"I know not why; but it is here. I feel it." And with his hand he touched the region of his heart. "Say that he is no spy, and call me a fool."
"Why, I'll do both," she laughed. Then more sternly, added: "Get you to bed, Gonzaga. Your wits play you false. Peppino, call my ladies."
In the moment that they were left alone he stepped close up to her, spurred to madness by the jealous pangs he had that day endured. His face gleamed white in the candlelight, and in his eyes there was a lurking fierceness that gave her pause.
"Have your way, Madonna," he said, in a concentrated voice; "but to-morrow, whether we go hence, or whether we stay, he remains not with us."
She drew herself up to the full of her slender, graceful height, her eyes on a level with Gonzaga's own.
"That," she answered, "is as shall be decreed by me or him."
He breathed sharply, and his voice hardened beyond belief in one usually so gentle of tone and manner.
"Be warned, Madonna," he muttered, coming so close that with the slightest swaying she must touch him, "that if this nameless sbirro shall ever dare to stand 'twixt you and me, by God and His saints, I'll kill him! Be warned, I say."
And the door re-opening at that moment, he fell back, bowed, and brushing past the entering ladies, gained the threshold. Here someone tugged at the prodigious foliated sleeves that spread beside him on the air like the wings of a bird. He turned, and saw Peppino motioning him to lower his head.
"A word in your ear, Magnificent. There was a man once went out for wool that came back shorn."
Angrily cuffing the fool aside, he was gone.
Valentina sank down upon her window-seat, in a turmoil of mingled anger and amazement that paled her cheek and set her bosom heaving. It was the first hint of his aims respecting her that Gonzaga had ever dared let fall, and the condition in which it left her boded ill for his ultimate success. Her anger he could have borne, had he beheld it, for he would have laid it to the score of the tone he had taken with her. But her incredulity that he could indeed have dared to mean that which her senses told her he had meant, would have shown him how hopeless was his case and how affronted, how outraged in soul she had been left by this moment of passionate self-revealing. He would have understood then that in her eyes he never had been, was never like to be, aught but a servant—and one, hereafter, that, deeming presumptuous, she would keep at greater distance.
But he, dreaming little of this as he paced his chamber, smiled at his thoughts, which flowed with ready optimism. He had been a fool to give way so soon, perhaps. The season was not yet; the fruit was not ripe enough for plucking; still, what should it signify that he had given the tree a slight premonitory shake? A little premature, perhaps, but it would predispose the fruit to fall. He bethought him of her never-varying kindness to him, her fond gentleness, and he lacked the wit to see that this was no more than the natural sweetness that flowed from her as freely as flows the perfume from the flower—because Nature has so fashioned it, and not because Messer Gonzaga likes the smell. Lacking that wit, he went in blissful confidence to bed, and smiled himself softly to his sleep.
Away in the room under the Lion's Tower, the Count of Aquila, too, paced his chamber ere he sought his couch, and in his pacing caught sight of something that arrested his attention, and provoked a smile. In a corner, among his harness which Lanciotto had piled there, his shield threw back the light, displaying the Sforza lion quartered with the Aquila eagle.
"Did my sweet Gonzaga get a glimpse of that he would have no further need to pry into my parentage," he mused. And dragging the escutcheon from amongst that heap of armour, he softly opened his window and flung it far out, so that it dropped with a splash into the moat. That done, he went to bed, and he, too, fell asleep with a smile upon his lips, and in his mind a floating vision of Valentina. She needed a strong and ready hand to guide her in this rebellion against the love-at-arms of Gian Maria, and that hand he swore should be his, unless she scorned the offer of it. And so, murmuring her name with a lingering fervour, of whose true significance he was all-nescient, he sank to sleep, nor waked again until a thundering at his door aroused him. And to his still dormant senses came the voice of Lanciotto, laden with hurry and alarm.
"Awake, lord! Up, afoot! We are beset."
CHAPTER XVII. THE ENEMY
The Count leapt from his bed, and hastened to throw wide the door to admit his servant, who with excited face and voice bore him the news that Gian Maria had reached Roccaleone in the night, and was now encamped in the plain before the castle.
He was still at his tale when a page came with the message that Monna Valentina besought Messer Francesco's presence in the great hall. He dressed in all haste, and then, with Lanciotto at his heels, he descended to answer her summons. As he crossed the second courtyard he beheld Valentina's ladies grouped upon the chapel-steps in excited discussion of this happening with Fra Domenico, who, in full canonicals, was waiting to say the morning's Mass. He gave them a courteous "Good morrow," and passed on to the banqueting-hall, leaving Lanciotto without.