Bellarion the Fortunate (Historical Novel). Rafael Sabatini
and suavely mannered, bowed low before the Lady Valeria.
‘Permit me, highness, to present Messer Bellarion Cane, the son of my good friend Facino Cane of Biandrate.’
It was the Marquis Theodore, who had requested the Orator of Milan—as was proper, seeing that by reason of his paternity Bellarion was to be regarded as Milanese—to present his assumed compatriot to her highness.
Bellarion, modelling himself upon Aliprandi, executed his bow with grace.
As Fra Serafino truthfully says of him: ‘He learnt manners and customs and all things so quickly that he might aptly be termed a fluid in the jug of any circumstance.’
The Lady Valeria inclined her head with no more trace of recognition in her face than there was in Bellarion’s own.
‘You are welcome, sir,’ she said with formal graciousness, and then turned to Aliprandi. ‘I did not know that the Count of Biandrate had a son.’
‘Nor did I, madonna, until this moment. It was the Marquis Theodore who made him known to me.’ She fancied in Aliprandi’s tone something that seemed to disclaim responsibility. But she turned affably to the newcomer, and Bellarion marvelled at the ease with which she dissembled.
‘I knew the Count of Biandrate well when I was a child, and I hold his memory very dear. He was in my father’s service once, as you will know. I rejoice in the greatness he has since achieved. It should make a brave tale.’
‘Per aspera ad astra is ever a brave tale,’ Bellarion answered soberly. ‘Too often it is per astra ad aspera, if I may judge by what I have read.’
‘You shall tell me of your father, sir. I have often wished to hear the story of his advancement.’
‘To command, highness.’ He bowed again.
The others drew closer, expecting entertainment. But Bellarion, who had no such entertainment to bestow, nor knew of Facino’s life more than a fragment of what was known to all the world, extricated himself as adroitly as he could.
‘I am no practised troubadour or story-singer. And this tale of a journey to the stars should be told under the stars.’
‘Why, so it shall, then. They shine brightly enough. You shall show me Facino’s and perhaps your own.’ She rose and commanded her ladies to attend her.
Castruccio fetched a sigh of relief.
‘Give thanks,’ he said audibly to those about him, ‘for Heaven’s mercy which has spared you this weariness.’
The door at the end of the hall stood open to the terrace and the moonlight. Thither the Princess conducted Bellarion, her ladies in close attendance.
Approaching the threshold they came upon the Marquis Gian Giacomo, reeling clumsily beside the Countess of Ronsecco, who was almost on the point of tears. He paused in his caperings that he might ogle his sister.
‘Where do you go, Valeria? And who’s this long-shanks?’
She approached him. ‘You are tired, Giannino, and the Countess, too, is tired. You would be better resting awhile.’
‘Indeed, highness!’ cried the young Countess, eagerly thankful.
But the Marquis was not at all of his sister’s wise opinion.
‘Tired? Resting! You’re childish, Valeria. Always childish. Childish and meddlesome. Poking your long nose into everything. Some day you’ll poke it into something that’ll sting it. And what will it look like when it’s stung? Have you thought of that?’ He laughed derisively, and caught the Countess by the arm. ‘Let’s leave long-nose and long-shanks. Ha! Ha!’ His idiotic laughter shrilled up. He was ravished by his own humour. He let his voice ring out that all might hear and share the enjoyment of his comical conceit. ‘Long-nose and long-shanks! Long-nose and long-shanks!
‘Said she to him, your long-shanks I adore.
Said he to her, your long-nose I deplore.’
Screaming with laughter he plunged forward to resume the dance, trod upon one of his trailing, exaggerated sleeves, tripped himself, and went sprawling on the tessellated floor, his laughter louder and more idiotic than ever. A dozen ran to lift him.
The Princess tapped Bellarion sharply on the arm with her fan of ostrich-plumes. Her face was like graven stone.
‘Come,’ she commanded, and passed out ahead of him.
On the terrace she signed to her ladies to fall behind whilst with her companion she moved beyond earshot along the marble balustrade, whose moonlit pallor was here and there splashed by the black tide of trailing plants.
‘Now, sir,’ she invited in a voice of ice, ‘will you explain this new identity and your presence here?’
He answered in calm, level tones: ‘My presence explains itself when I tell you that my identity is accepted by his highness the Regent. The son of Facino Cane is not to be denied the hospitality of the Court of Montferrat.’
‘Then why did you lie to me when . . .’
‘No, no. This is the lie. This false identity was as necessary to gain admission here as was the painter’s smock I wore yesterday: another lie.’
‘You ask me to believe that you . . .’ Indignation choked her. ‘My senses tell me what you are; an agent sent to work my ruin.’
‘Your senses tell you either more or less, or else you would not now be here.’
And then it was as if the bonds of her self-control were suddenly snapped by the strain they sought to bear. ‘Oh, God!’ she cried out. ‘I am near distraction. My brother . . .’ She broke off on something akin to a sob.
Outwardly Bellarion remained calm. ‘Shall we take one thing at a time? Else we shall never be done. And I should not remain here too long with you.’
‘Why not? You have the sanction of my dear uncle, who sends you.’
‘Even so.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It is your uncle is my dupe, not you.’
‘That is what I expected you to say.’
‘You had best leave inference until you have heard me out. Inference, highness, as I have shown you once already, is not your strength.’
If she resented his words and the tone he took, she gave no expression to it. Standing rigidly against the marble balustrade, she looked away from him and down that moonlit garden with its inky shadows and tall yew hedges that were sharp black silhouettes against the faintly irradiated sky.
Briefly, swiftly, lucidly, Bellarion told her how her message had been received by the conspirators.
‘You thought to checkmate them. But they perceived the move you have overlooked, whereby they checkmate you. This proves what already I have told you: that they serve none but themselves. You and your brother are but the instruments with which they go to work. There was only one way to frustrate them; one only way to serve and save you. That way I sought.’
She interrupted him there. ‘You sought? You sought?’ Her voice held bewilderment, unbelief, and even some anger. ‘Why should you desire to save or serve me? If I could believe you, I must account you impertinent. You were a messenger, no more.’
‘Was I no more when I disclosed to you the true aims of these men and the perils of your association with them?’
‘Aye, you were more,’ she said bitterly. ‘But what were you?’
‘Your servant, madonna,’ he answered simply.
‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten. My servant. Sent by Providence, was it not?’
‘You are bitter, lady,’ said Bellarion.
‘Am I?’ She turned at last to look at him. But his face was no more than a faint white blur. ‘Perhaps I find you too sweet