Bellarion rose from the couch, covered by a black bearskin on which he had been reclining, and closed the beautifully illuminated copy of Juvenal’s Satires, which had been a parting gift from Filippo Maria. His gesture dismissed the Swiss halberdiers, who had ushered in this visitor. The very name of Venegono was of ill omen, and ill-omened was the man’s haggard countenance now, and his own announcement.
“I bring evil tidings, Lord Count.”
“You are consistent,” said Bellarion. “A great quality.”
Venegono stared at him. “Give me to drink,” he begged. “God! How I thirst. I have ridden from Pavia without pause save to change horse at Caravaggio.”
“From Pavia!” Bellarion’s tone and manner changed; apprehension showed in both. But not on that account was he neglectful of the needs of his guest. On an ample square table in mid-tent stood a jug of wine and some beautiful drinking-cups, their bowls of beaten gold, their stems of choicely wrought silver, beside a dish of sweetmeats, bread, and a small loaf of cheese. Bellarion poured a cup of strong red Valtelline. Venegono drained it.
“Aye, I am consistent, as you say. And so is that hellspawn Gian Maria Visconti. Of his consistency, mine. By your leave.”
He flung himself wearily into the cushioned faldstool by the table, and set down his cup. Bellarion nodded, and resumed his seat on the bearskin.
“What has happened in Pavia?”
“In Pavia nothing. Nothing yet. I rode there to warn Facino of what is happening in Milan, but Facino … The man is ill. He could do nothing if he would, so I come on to you.” And now, leaning forward, and scarcely pausing to draw breath, he launched the news he had ridden so desperately to bring. “Della Torre is back in Milan, recalled by Gian Maria.”
Bellarion waited, but nothing further came.
“Well, man?” he asked. “Is that all?”
“All? Does it mean so little to you that you ask that? Don’t you know that this damned Guelph, whom Facino banished when he should have hanged him, has been throughout the inspirer of all the evil that has been wrought against Facino and against all the Ghibellines of Milan? Don’t you understand that his return bodes ill?”
“What can he do? What can Gian Maria do? Their wings are clipped.”
“They are growing fresh ones.” Venegono came to his feet again, his weariness forgotten in his excitement. “Since della Torre’s secret return a month ago, orators have been sent to Theodore of Montferrat, to the battered Vignati, to the Esti, and even to Estorre Visconti, to invite them into a league.”
Bellarion laughed. “Let them league. If they are so mad as to do so, Facino will smash their league into shards when this Bergamo business is over. You forget that under his hand is the strongest army in Italy today. We muster over twelve thousand men.”
“My God! I seem to be listening to Facino himself.” Venegono slobbered in his excitement, his eyes wild. “It was thus he answered me.”
“Why, then, have troubled to come to me?”
“In the hope that you would see what he will not. You talk as if the army were all. You forget that Gian Maria is a thing of venom, like the emblem of his accursed house. Where there is venom and the will to use it, beware the occasion. If anything should happen to Facino, what hope will remain for the Ghibellines of Milan?”
“What should happen to Facino? At what are you hinting, man?”
Venegono looked at him between rage and compassion. “Where is Mombelli?” he asked. “Why is he not with Facino now that Facino needs him? Do you know?”
“But is he not with Facino? Has he not yet arrived?”
“Arrived? Why was he ever withdrawn? To be made physician to the Duke. A pretext, my friend, to deprive Facino of his healing services. Do you know that since his coming to Milan he has not been seen? There are rumours that he is dead, that the Duke has murdered him.”
Bellarion considered. Then he shrugged. “Your imagination fools you, Venegono. If Gian Maria proposed to strike Facino, he would surely attempt something more active and effective.”
“It may be little, I confess. But it is a straw that points the way of the wind.”
“A straw, indeed,” Bellarion agreed. “But in any case, what do you require of me? You have not told me that.”
“That you take a strong detachment of your men and repair at once to Milan to curb the Duke’s evil intentions and to deal with della Torre.”
“For that my lord’s orders would be necessary. My duty is here, Venegono, and I dare not neglect it. Nor is the matter so urgent. It can wait until Bergamo has been reduced, which will not be long.”
“Too long, it may be.”
But not all the passionate pleading with which he now distressed Bellarion could turn the latter from his clear duty, or communicate to him any of the vague alarms which agitated Venegono. And so, at last, he went his ways in despair, protesting that both Bellarion and Facino were beset with the blindness of those whom the gods wish to destroy.
Bellarion, however, saw in Venegono’s warning no more than an attempt to use him for the execution of a private vengeance. Three days later he thought he had confirmation of this. It came in a letter bearing Facino’s signature, but penned in the crabbed and pointed hand of the Countess, who had been summoned from Melegnano to minister to her lord. It informed Bellarion that the physician Mombelli had come at last in response to Facino’s request, and that Facino hoped soon to be afoot again. Indeed, there was already a perceptible improvement in his condition.
“So much for Venegono’s rumours that Mombelli has been murdered,” said Bellarion to himself, and laughed at the scaremongering of that credulous hothead.
But he thought differently when after another three days a second letter reached him signed by the Countess herself.
“My lord begs you to come to him at once,” she wrote. “He is
