“Your brother Gian Maria is dead, my lord, and you are Duke of Milan.”
“Duke of Milan? I am … ?” The grotesque young face showed bewilderment, confusion, fear. “And Gian Maria … Dead, do you say?”
Bellarion did not mince matters. “He was despatched to hell this morning by some gentlemen in Milan.”
“Jesus-Mary!” croaked the Prince, and fell to trembling. “Murdered … And you … ?” He heaved himself higher in the bed with one arm, whilst he flung out the other in accusation. He did not love his brother. He profited greatly by his death. But a Visconti does not permit that others shall lay hands on a Visconti.
Bellarion laughed oddly. He had been forestalled. Perhaps it was as well. No need now to speak of his intentions.
“He was slain on his way to Mass this morning, at just about the hour that I arrived here from Bergamo.”
The accusing arm fell heavily to the Prince’s obese flank. The beady, lacklustre eyes still peered at the young condottiero.
“Almost I thought … And Giannino is dead … murdered! God rest him!” The phrase was mechanical. “Tell me about it.”
Bellarion recited what he knew, then staggered out, on the arm of the servant who was to conduct him to the room prepared for him.
“What a world! What a dunghill!” he muttered as he went. “And how well the old abbot knows it. Pax multa in cella, foris autem plurima bella!”
VI
The Inheritance
Facino Cane, Count of Biandrate, Lord of Novara, Dertona, Varese, Rosate, Valsassina, and of all the lands on Lake Maggiore as far as Vogogna, was buried with great pomp in the Church of San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro.
His chief mourners were his captains summoned from Bergamo to do that last honour to their departed leader. At their head, as mourner in chief, walked Facino’s adoptive son Bellarion Cane, Count of Gavi. The others included Francesco Busone of Carmagnola, Giorgio Valperga, Nicolino Marsalia, Werner von Stoffel, and Vaugeois the Burgundian.
Koenigshofen and the Piedmontese Giasone Trotta were absent, having remained at Bergamo with the army.
Thereafter the captains assembled in the Hall of Mirrors to hear the will and last instructions of Facino. To read them came Facino’s secretary, accompanied by the Pavese notary who had drawn up the testament three days ago. Thither also came the Countess robed entirely in black and heavily veiled.
The rich and important fief of Valsassina was now disclosed to have been left by Facino to his adoptive son Bellarion, “in earnest of my love and to recompense his loyalty and worth.” Apart from that and a legacy in money for Carmagnola, the whole of his vast territorial possessions of cities, lands, and fortresses—mostly acquired since he had been deposed in favour of Malatesta—besides the enormous sum of four hundred thousand ducats, were all bequeathed to his widow. He expressed the wish that Bellarion should succeed him in the command of his condotta, and reminding his other captains that strength lies in unity he recommended them to remain united under Bellarion’s leadership, at least until the task of restoring order to the duchy should be fulfilled. To his captains also he recommended his widow, putting it upon them to see her firmly established in the dominions he bequeathed to her.
When the reading was done, the captains rose in their places and turned to Madonna Beatrice where she sat like an ebony statue at the table’s head. Carmagnola, ever theatrical, ever a man of attitudes, drew his sword with a flourish and laid it on the board.
“Madonna, to you I surrender the authority I held under my Lord Facino, and I leave it in your hands until such time as it shall please you to reinvest me in it.”
The ceremonious gesture caught the fancy of the others. Valperga followed the example instantly, and presently five swords lay naked on the oak. To these, Bellarion, after a moment, a little scornful of this ritual, as he was of all unnecessary displays, added his own.
The Countess rose. She thanked them in a voice that shook with emotion, and one by one restored their weapons to them, naming each as she did so. Bellarion’s, however, she left upon the board, wherefore Bellarion, wondering a little, remained when she dismissed the others.
Slowly then she resumed her seat. Slowly she raised and threw back her veil, disclosing a face, which beyond a deeper pallor resulting, perhaps, from contrast with her sable raiment, showed little trace of grief. Her feline eyes considered him, a little frown between their fine black brows.
“You were the last to offer me that homage, Bellarion.” Her voice was slow and softly attuned. “Why did you hesitate? Are you reluctant?”
“It was a gesture, madonna, that becomes the Carmagnolas of this world. Sincerity requires no symbols, and it was only at the symbol that I boggled. My service and my life are unreservedly at your command.”
There was a pause. Her eyes continued to ponder him. “Take up your sword,” she said at last.
He moved to do so, and then checked. “Yourself you restored theirs to the others.”
“The others are not as you. Upon you has fallen the mantle of Facino. How much of that mantle will you wear, Bellarion?”
“As much of it as my lord intended. You have heard his testament, madonna.”
“But not your own interpretation of it.”
“Have I not said that my life and services are at your command, as my lord, to whom I owe everything, enjoined upon me?”
“Your life and services,” she said slowly. Her breast heaved as if in repressed agitation. “That is much to offer, Bellarion. Do you ask nothing in return?”
“I offer these in return for all that I have received already. It is I who make payment, madonna.”
Again there was a baffled pause. She sighed heavily. “You make it hard for me, Bellarion.” There was a pathetic break in her voice.
“What do I make hard?”
She
