The Shame of Motley Part 36

And with the same calm indifference which characterised his every word and action Cesare pointed to the torture, and turned to Madonna Paola, as though he gave the matter of Ramiro del' Orca and his misdeeds not another thought.

"Mercy, my lord," rang now the voice of Ramiro, laden with horrid fear.

"I will speak."

"Then do so--to Don Miguel. He will question you in my name." Again he turned to Madonna. "Madonna Paola, may I conduct you hence? Things may perhaps occur which it is not seemly your gentle eyes should witness.

Messer Biancomonte, attend us."

Now, in spite of all that Ramiro had made me suffer, I should have been loath to have remained and witnessed his examination. That they would torture him was now inevitable. His chance of answering freely was gone. Even if he returned meek replies to Don Miguel's questions, that gentleman would, no doubt, still submit him to the cord by way of a.s.suring himself that such replies were true ones.

Gladly, then, did I turn to follow the Duke and Madonna Paola into the adjoining chamber to which Cesare led the way, even as Don Miguel's voice was raised to command his men to clear the hall, to the end that he might conduct his examination in private.

The three of us stood in the anteroom. A servant had lighted the tapers and closed the doors, and the Duke turned to me.

"First, Messer Biancomonte, to discharge my debt. You are, if I am not misinformed, the lord by right of birth of certain lands that bear your name, which suffered sequestration during the reign of the late Costanzo, Tyrant of Pesaro, whose son Giovanni upheld that confiscation.

Am I right?"

"Your Excellency is very well informed. The Lord of Pesaro did make me tardy rest.i.tution--so tardy, indeed, that the lands which he restored to me had already virtually pa.s.sed from his possession."

Cesare smiled.

"In recompense for the service you have rendered me this day," said he, and my heart thrilled at the words and at the thought of the joy which I was about to bear to my old mother, "I reinvest you in your lands of Biancomonte for so long as you are content to recognise in me your overlord, and to be loyal, true and faithful to my rule."

I bowed, murmuring something of the joy I felt and the devotion I should entertain.

"Then that is done with. You shall have the deed from my hand by morning. And now, Madonna, will you grant me some explanation of your conduct in leaving Pesaro in this man's company, instead of repairing to your brother's house, when you awakened from the effects of the potion Ramiro gave you, or must I seek the explanation from Messer Biancomonte?"

Her eyes fell before the scrutiny of his, and when they were raised again it was to meet my glance, and if Cesare could not, for himself, read the message of those eyes, why then, his penetration was by no means what the world accounted it.

"My lord," I cried, "let me explain. I love Madonna Paola. It was love of her that led me to the church and kept me there that night. It was love of her and the overmastering pa.s.sion of my grief at her so sudden death that led me, in a madness, to desire once more to look upon her face ere they delivered it to earth's keeping. Thus was it that I came to discover that she lived; thus was it that I antic.i.p.ated Ramiro del'

Orca. He came upon us almost before I had raised her from the coffin, yet love lent me strength and craft to delude him. We hid awhile in the sacristy, and it was there, after Madonna had revived, that the pent-up pa.s.sion of years burst the bond with which reason had bidden me restrain it."

"By the Host!" cried Cesare, his brows drawn down in a frown. "You are a bold man to tell me this. And you, Madonna," he cried, turning suddenly to her, "what have you to say?"

"Only, my lord, that I have suffered more I think in these past few days than has ever fallen to the life-time's share of another woman. I think, my lord, that I have suffered enough to have earned me a little peace and a little happiness for the remainder of my days. All my life have men plagued me with marriages that were hateful to me, and this has culminated in the brutal act of Ramiro del' Orca. Do you not think that I have endured enough?"

He stared at her for a moment.

"Then you love this fellow?" he gasped. "You, Madonna Paola Sforza di Santafior, one of the n.o.blest ladies in all Italy, confess to love this lordling of a few barren acres?"

"I loved him, Ill.u.s.trious, when he was less, much less, than that.

I loved him when he was little better than the Fool of the Court of Pesaro, and not even the shame of the motley that disgraced him could stay the impulse of my affections."

He laughed curiously.

"By my faith," said he, "I have gone through life complaining of the want of frankness in the men and women I have met. But you two seem to deal in it liberally enough to satisfy the most ardent seeker after truth. I would that Pontius Pilate could have known you." Then he grew sterner. "But what account of this evening's adventure am I to bear to my cousin Ignacio?"

She hung her head in silence, whilst my own spirit trembled. Then suddenly I spoke.

"My lord," said I, "if you take her back to Pesaro, you may keep the deed of Biancomonte. For unless Madonna Paola goes thither with me, your gift is a barren one, your reward of no account or value to me."

"I would not have it so," said he, his head on one side and his fingers toying with his auburn beard. "You saved my life, and you must be rewarded fittingly."

"Then, Ill.u.s.trious, in payment for my preservation of your life, do you render happy mine, and we shall thus be quits."

"My lord," cried Paola, putting forth her hands in supplication, "if you have ever loved, befriend us now."

A shadow darkened his face for an instant, then it was gone, and his expression was as inscrutable as ever. Yet he took her hands in his and looked down into her eyes.

"They say that I am hard, bloodthirsty and unfeeling," he said in tones that were almost of complaint. "But I am not proof against so much appeal. Ignacio must find him a bride in Spain; and if he is wise and would taste the sweets of life, he will see to it that he finds him a willing one."

"As for you two, Cesare Borgia shalt stand your friend. He owes you no less. I will be G.o.dfather to your nuptials. Thus shall the blame and consequences rest on me. Paola Sforza di Santafior is dead, men think.

We will leave them thinking it. Filippo must know the truth. But you can trust me to make your brother take a reasonable view of what has come to pa.s.s. After all, there may be a disparity in your ranks. But it is purely advent.i.tious, for n.o.ble though you may be, Madonna Paola, you are wedding one who seems no less n.o.ble at heart, whatever the parts he may have played in life." He smiled inscrutably, as he added: "I have in mind that you once sought service with me Messer Biancomonte, and if a martial life allures you still, I'll make you lord of something better far than Biancomonte."

I thanked him, and Madonna joined me in that expression of grat.i.tude--an expression that fell very short of all that was in our hearts. But touching that offer of his that I should follow his fortunes, I begged him not to insist.

"The possession of Biancomonte has from my cradle been the goal of all my hopes. It is patrimony enough for me, and there, with Madonna Paola, I'll take a long farewell of ambition, which is but the seed of discontent."

"Why, as you will," he sighed. And then, before more could be said, there came from the adjoining room a piercing scream.

Cesare raised his head, and his lips parted in the faintest vestige of a smile.

"They are exacting the truth from the Governor of Cesena," said he. "I think, Madonna, that we had better move a little farther off. Ramiro's voice makes indifferent music for a lady's ear."

She was white as death at the horrid noise and all the things of which it may have reminded her, and so we pa.s.sed from the antechamber and sought the more distant places of the castle.

Here let me pause. We were married on the morrow which was Christmas eve, and in the grey dawn of the Christmas morning we set out for Biancomonte with the escort which Cesare Borgia placed at our disposal.

As we rode out from the Citadel of Cesena, we saw the last of Ramiro del' Orca. Beyond the gates, in the centre of the public square, a block stood planted in the snow. On the side nearer the castle there was a dark ma.s.s over which a rich mantle had been thrown; it was of purple colour, and in the uncertain light it was not easy to tell where the cloak ended, and the stain that embrued the snow began. On the other side of the block a decapitated head stood mounted on an upright pike, and the sightless eyes of Ramiro del' Orca looked from his grinning face upon the town of Cesena, which he had so wantonly misruled.

Madonna shuddered and turned her head aside as we rode past that dread emblem of the Borgia justice.

To efface from her mind the memory of such a thing on such a day, I talked to her, as we cantered out into the country, of the life to come, of the mother that waited to welcome us, and of the glad tidings with which we were to rejoice her on that Christmas day.

There is no moral to my story. I may not end with one of those graceful admonitions beloved of Messer Boccacci to whom in my jester's days I owed so much. Not mine is it to say with him "Wherefore, gentle ladies"--or "n.o.ble sirs--beware of this, avoid that other thing."

Mine is a plain tale, written in the belief that some account of those old happenings that befell me may offer you some measure of entertainment, and written, too, in the support of certain truths which my contemporaries have been shamefully inclined and simoniacally induced to suppress. Many chroniclers set forth how the Lord Vitellozzo Vitelli and his a.s.sociates were barbarously strangled by Cesare's orders at Sinigaglia, and wilfully--for I cannot believe that it results from ignorance--are they silent touching the reason, leaving you to imagine that it was done in obedience to a ruthlessness of character beyond parallel, so that you may come to consider Cesare Borgia as black as they were paid to paint him.

To confute them do I set down these facts of which my knowledge cannot be called in question, and also that you may know the true story of Paola di Santafior--and more particularly that part of it which lies beyond the death she did not die.

The sun of that Christmas day was setting as we drew near to Biancomonte and the humble dwelling of my old mother. We fell into talk of her once more. Suddenly Paola turned in her saddle to confront me.

"Tell me, Lord of Biancomonte, will she love me a little, think you?"

she asked, to plague me.

"Who would not love you, Lady of Biancomonte?" counter-questioned I.