The Shame of Motley by Rafael Sabatini (the reading strategies book txt) 📖

talk concerned ourselves, our future first, and later on our past. I remember that Madonna returned to the matter of the deception that I had practised, seeking to learn what reasons had impelled me, and I answered her in all truth.

“Madonna mia, I think it must have been to win your love. When Giovanni Sforza bade me, with many a threat, to write those verses, I undertook the task with ready gladness, for in its performance I was to pour out the tale of the passion that was consuming my poor heart. It occurred to me that if those verses were worthy, you might come to love their author for their beauty, and so I strove to render them beautiful. It was the same spirit urged me to don the Lord Giovanni’s armour and fight in that splendid if futile skirmish. Even as you had come to love the author for his verses, so might you come to love the warrior for his valour. That you should account the one and the other the work of Giovanni Sforza was to me a little thing, since I was well content to think that you but loved him because you accounted his the things that I had performed. Therefore was I the one you truly loved, although you did not know it. Could you but conceive what consolation that reflection was to me, you would deal lightly with me for my deceit.”

“I can conceive it,” she answered, very gently, her eyes downcast; “and now that I know the motives that impelled you, I almost love you for that deceit itself, for it seems to me that it holds some quality well worthy of devotion.”

Such was our talk, all of a nature to help us to a better understanding of each other, and all seeming to endear us more and more by showing us how close the past had already drawn us.

Later I rose and announced my intention of adventuring into Cattolica, there to procure her garments more seemly than those she wore, in which she might journey on and come into the presence of my mother. Also, there was in Cattolica a man I knew, of whom I hoped for the loan of enough money to enable me to purchase mules, to the end that we might journey in more dignity and comfort. It was then about the twentieth hour, and I hoped to return by nightfall. I took my leave of Madonna, enjoining her to rest and to seek sleep whilst I was absent; and with that I set out.

Cattolica was no more than a half-league distant, and I looked to reach it in a half-hour or so. I fell into thought as I trudged along, and I was building plans for the sunlit future that was to be ours. I was a man transformed that day, and I could have sung in spite of the chill December wind that buffeted me, so full of joy and gladness was my heart.

At Biancomonte I was likely to spend my days as little better than a peasant, but surely a peasant’s estate with such a companion as was to be mine was preferable to an emperor’s throne without her.

The bleak landscape seemed to me invested with a beauty that at no other time I should have noticed. God was good. I swore a thousand times, the world was a good world—so good that Heaven could scarce be better.

I had come, perhaps, the better half of the distance I had to travel, and I was giving full rein to my joyous fancy, when suddenly I espied ahead a company of horsemen. They were approaching me at a brisk pace, but I took no thought of them, accounting myself secure from any molestation. If it so happened that it was a search party from Pesaro, seeking two men disguised as monks who had ravished the coffin of Madonna Paola di Santafior, what should they want of Lazzaro Biancomonte? And so, in my confidence, I advanced even as they trotted quickly towards me.

Not until they were within a matter of a hundred paces did I raise my eyes to take their measure; and then I halted on my step, smitten of a sudden by an unreasoning and unreasonable fear, to see at their head the bulky form of the Governor of Cesena. He saw me, too, and, what was worse, he recognised me on the instant, for he clapped spurs to his horse and came at me as if he would ride me down. Within three paces of me he drew up his steed. Whether the memory of the other two occasions on which I had thwarted him arose now in his mind and made him wonder had not some fatality brought me across his path again to send awry his pretty schemes concerning Madonna Paula, I cannot say for certain; yet some suspicion of it occurred to me and filled me with apprehension.

“Body of Bacchus!” he roared. “Is it truly you, Boccadoro?”

“They call me Biancomonte now, Magnificent,” I answered him. But my tone was respectful, for it could profit me nothing to incense him.

“A fig for what they call you,” he snapped contemptuously. “Whence are you?”

“From Pesaro,” I answered truthfully.

“From Pesaro? But you are travelling towards it.”

“True. I was making for Cattolica, but I missed my way in seeking to shorten it. I am now returning by the high-road.”

The explanation satisfied him on that point, and being satisfied, he asked me when I had left Pesaro. A moment I hesitated.

“Late last night,” said I at last. He looked, at me, my foolish hesitation having perhaps unslipped a suspicion that was straining at its leash.

“In that case,” said he, “you can scarcely have heard the strange story that is being told there?”

I looked at him, as if puzzled, for a second. “If you mean the story of Madonna Paoia’s end, I heard it yesterday.”

“Why, what story was that?” quoth he in some surprise, his beetling brows coming together in one broad line of fur.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Men said that she had been poisoned.”

“Oh, that,” he cried indifferently. “But men say to-day that her body was stolen from the Church of San Domenico where it lay. An odd happening, is it not?” And his eyes covered me in a fierce scrutiny that again suggested to me those suspicions of his that I might be the man who had anticipated him. I was soon to learn that he had more grounds than at first I thought for those same suspicions.

“Odd, indeed,” I answered calmly, for all that I felt my pulses quickening with apprehension. “But is it true?” I added.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Rumour’s habit is to lie,” he answered. “Yet for such a lie as that, so monstrous an imagination would be needed that, rather, am I inclined to account it truth. There are no more poets in Pesaro since you left. But at what hour was it that you quitted the city?”

To hesitate again were to betray myself; it were to suggest that I was seeking an answer that should sort well with the rest of my story. Besides, what could the hour signify?”

“It would be about the first hour of night,” I said. He looked at me with increasing strangeness.

“You must indeed have wandered from your road to have got no farther than this in all that time. Perhaps you were hampered by some heavy burden?” He leered evilly, and I turned cold.

“I was burdened with nothing heavier than this body of mine and a rather uneasy conscience.”

“Where, then, have you tarried?”

At this I thought it time to rebel. Were I too meekly to submit to this examination, my very meekness might afford him fresh grounds for doubts.

“Once have I told you,” I answered wearily, “that I lost my way. And, howevermuch it may flatter me to have your Excellency evincing such an interest in my concerns, I am at a loss to find a reason for it.”

He leered prodigiously once more, and his eyebrows shot up to the level of his cap.

“I will tell you, brute beast,” he answered me. “I question you because I suspect that you are hiding something from me.”

“What should I hide from your Excellency?”

He dared not enlighten me on that point, for should his suspicions prove unfounded he would have uselessly betrayed himself.

“If you are honest, why do you lie?”

“I?” I ejaculated. “In what have I lied?”

“In that you have told me that you left Pesaro at the first hour of night. At the third hour you were still in the Church of San Domenico, whither you followed Madonna Paola’s bier.”

It was my turn to knit my brows. “Was I indeed?” quoth I. “Why, yes, it may well be. But what of that? Is the hour in which I quitted Pesaro a matter of such moment as to be worth lying over? If I said that I left about the first hour, it is because I was under the impression that it was so. But I was so distraught by grief at Madonna’s death that I may have been careless in my account of time.”

“More lies,” he blazed with sudden passion. “It may have been the third hour, you say. Fool, the gates of Pesaro close at the second hour of night. Where are your wits?”

Outwardly calm, but inwardly in a panic—more for Madonna’s sake than for my own—I promptly held out the hand on which I wore the Borgia ring. In a flash of inspiration did that counter suggest itself to me.

“There is a key that will open any gate in Romagna at any hour.”

He looked at the ring, and of what passed in his mind I can but offer a surmise. He may have remembered that once before I had fooled him with the help of that gold circlet; or he may have thought that I was secretly in the service of the Borgias, and that, acting in their interests, I had carried off Madonna Paola. Be that as it may, the sight of the ring threw him into a fury. He turned on his horse.

“Lucagnolo!” he called, and a man of officer’s rank detached himself from the score of men-at-arms and rode forward. “Let six men escort me home to Cesena. Take you the remainder and beat up the country for three leagues about this spot. Do not leave a house outside Cattolica unsearched. You know what we are seeking?”

The man inclined his head.

“If it is within the circle you have appointed, we will find it,” he answered confidently.

“Set about it,” was the surly command, and Ramiro turned again to me. “You have gone a little pale, good Messer Boccadoro,” he sneered. “We shall soon learn whether you have sought to fool me. Woe betide you, should it be so. We bear a name for swift justice at Cesena.”

“So be it then,” I answered as calmly as I might. “Meanwhile, perhaps you will now suffer me to go my ways.”

“The readier since your way must lie with ours.”

“Not so, Magnificent, I am for Cattolica.”

“Not so, animal,” he mimicked me with elephantine grace, “you are for Cesena, and you had best go with a good will. Our manner of constraining men is reputed rude.” He turned again. “Ercole, take you this man behind you. Assist him, Stefano.”

And so it was done, and a few minutes later I was riding, strapped to the steel-clad Ercole, away from Paola at every stride. Thus at every stride the anguish that possessed me increased, as the fear that they must find her rose ever higher.