"I shall await her return from chapel," answered Ercole. He took the letter and departed. As he emerged into the courtyard he was startled to see the fool dash towards him, gasping for breath, and with excitement in every line of his quaint face.
"Quickly, Ercole!" Peppe enjoined him. "Come with me."
"Devil take you, spawn of Satan—whither?" growled the soldier.
"I will tell you as we go. We have not a moment to spare. There is treachery afoot—— Gonzaga——" he gasped, and ended desperately: "Will you come?"
Fortemani needed no second bidding. The chance of catching pretty Messer Romeo at a treachery was too sweet a lure. Snorting and puffing—for hard drinking had sorely impaired his wind—the great captain hurried the fool along, listening as they went to the gasps in which he brought out his story. It was not much, after all. Peppe had seen Messer Gonzaga repair to the armoury tower. Through an arrow-slit he had watched him take down and examine an arbalest, place it on the table and sit down to write.
"Well?" demanded Ercole. "What else?"
"Naught else. That is all," answered the hunchback.
"Heaven and hell!" roared the swashbuckler, coming to a standstill and glowering down upon his impatient companion. "And you have made me run for this?"
"And is it not enough?" retorted Peppe testily. "Will you come on?"
"Not a foot farther," returned the captain, getting very angry. "Is this a miserable jest? What of the treachery you spoke of?"
"A letter and an arbalest!" panted the maddened Peppe, grimacing horribly at this delay. "God, was there ever such a fool! Does this mean nothing to that thick, empty thing you call a head? Have you forgotten how Gian Maria's offer of a thousand florins came to Roccaleone? On an arbalest quarrel, stupid! Come on, I say, and afterwards you shall have my motley—the only livery you have a right to wear."
In the shock of enlightenment Ercole forgot to cuff the jester for his insolence, and allowed himself once more to be hurried along, across the outer court and up the steps that led to the battlements.
"You think——" he began.
"I think you had best tread more softly," snapped the fool, under his breath, "and control that thunderous wheeze, if you would surprise Ser Romeo."
Ercole accepted the hint, meek as a lamb, and leaving the fool behind him on the steps, he went softly up, and approached the armoury tower. Peering cautiously through the arrow-slit, and favoured by the fact that Gonzaga's back was towards him, he saw that he was no more than in time.
The courtier was bending down, and by the creaking sound that reached him Ercole guessed his occupation to be the winding of the arbalest string. On the table at his side lay a quarrel swathed in a sheet of paper.
Swiftly and silently Ercole moved round the tower, and the next instant he had pushed open the unfastened door and entered.
A scream of terror greeted him, and a very startled face was turned upon him by Gonzaga, who instantly sprang upright. Then, seeing who it was, the courtier's face reassumed some of its normal composure, but his glance was uneasy and his cheek pale.
"Sant Iddio!" he gasped. "You startled me, Ercole. I did not hear you coming."
And now something in the bully's face heightened the alarm in Gonzaga. He still made an effort at self-control, as planting himself between Ercole and the table, so as to screen the tell-tale shaft, he asked him what he sought there.
"That letter you have written Gian Maria," was the gruff, uncompromising answer, for Ercole reeked nothing of diplomatic issues.
Gonzaga's mouth jerked itself open, and his upper lip shuddered against his teeth.
"What—— Wha——"
"Give me that letter," Ercole insisted, now advancing upon him, and wearing an air of ferocity that drove back into Gonzaga's throat such resentful words as he bethought him of. Then, like an animal at bay—and even a rat will assert itself then—he swung aloft the heavy arbalest he held, and stood barring Ercole's way.
"Stand back!" he cried; "or by God and His saints, I'll beat your brains out."
There was a guttural laugh from the swashbuckler, and then his arms were round Gonzaga's shapely waist, and the popinjay was lifted from his feet. Viciously he brought down the cross-bow, as he had threatened; but it smote the empty air. The next instant Gonzaga was hurtled, bruised, into a corner of the tower.
In a rage so great that he felt it draining him of his very strength and choking the breath in his body, he made a movement to rise and fling himself again upon his aggressor. But Fortemani was down upon him, and for all his struggles contrived to turn him over on his face, twisting his arms behind him, and making them fast with a belt that lay at hand.
"Lie still, you scorpion!" growled the ruffler, breathing hard from his exertions. He rose, took the shaft with the letter tied about it, read the superscription—"To the High and Mighty Lord Gian Maria Sforza"—and with a chuckle of mingled relish and scorn, he was gone, locking the door.
Left alone, Gonzaga lay face downward where he had been flung, able to do little more than groan and sweat in the extremity of his despair, whilst he awaited the coming of those who would probably make an end of him. Not even from Valentina could he hope for mercy, so incriminating was the note he had penned. His letter was to enjoin the Duke to hold his men in readiness at the hour of the Angelus next morning, and to wait until Gonzaga should wave a handkerchief from the battlements. At that he was to advance immediately to the postern, which he would find open, and the rest, Gonzaga promised him, would be easy. He would take the whole garrison at their prayers and weaponless.
When Francesco read it a light leapt to his eye and an oath to his lips; but neither glance nor oath were of execration, as Ercole stood expecting. A sudden idea flashed through the Count's mind, so strange and humorous and yet so full of promise of easy accomplishment, that he burst into a laugh.
"Now may God bless this fool for the most opportune of traitors!" he exclaimed, in surprise at which Fortemani's mouth fell open, and the eyes of Peppe grew very round.
"Ercole, my friend, here is a bait to trap that lout my cousin, such as I could never have devised myself."
"You mean——?"
"Take it back to him," cried the Count, holding out the letter with a hand that trembled in the eagerness of his spirit. "Take it back, and get him by fair means or foul to shoot it as he intended; or if he refuses, why, then, do you seal it up and shoot it yourself. But see that it gets to Gian Maria!"
"May I not know what you intend?" quoth the bewildered Ercole.
"All in good time, my friend. First do my bidding with that letter. Listen! It were best that having read it you agree to join him in his betrayal of Roccaleone, your own fears as to the ultimate fate awaiting you at Gian Maria's hands being aroused. Urge him to promise you money, immunity, what you will, as your reward; but make him believe you sincere, and induce him to shoot his precious bolt. Now go! Lose no time, or they may be returning from chapel, and your opportunity will be lost. Come to me here, afterwards, and I will tell you what is in my mind. We shall have a busy night of it to-night, Ercole, and you must set me free when the others are abed. Now go!"
Ercole went, and Peppe, remaining, plagued the Count with questions which he answered until in the end the fool caught the drift of his scheme, and swore impudently that a greater jester than his Excellency did not live. Then Ercole returned.
"Is it done? Has the letter gone?" cried Francesco. Fortemani nodded.
"We are sworn brothers in this business, he and I. He added a line to his note to say that he had gained my cooperation, and that, therefore, immunity was expected for me too."