His thoughts were on Facino hardly cold in the grave, on this widow who had so shamelessly wooed him, yet in terms which demanded as a condition the satisfaction of her inordinate ambition; and lastly on that obese young Prince who waited for him. And in the mirror of his mind he saw a reflection of a scene now some months old. He saw again the glance of those beady, lecherous eyes lambent about Facino’s Countess.
Inspiration came to him of how best he might gratify her vast ambition, her greed of greatness. Her suggestion to him had been that he should make her Duchess of Milan, and Duchess of Milan he would make her yet.
On that half-ironic thought he came to the library where the Prince waited. Filippo Maria was seated at a table near one of the windows. Spread before him were some parchments, writing-materials, and a horn of unicorn that was almost a yard long, of solid ivory, one of the library’s most treasured possessions.
The Prince was more than usually pallid, his glance unsteady, his manner nervous and agitated. Perfunctorily he made the inquiries concerning the obsequies of Facino which courtesy demanded. He reiterated excuses already made for his own absence from the ceremony, an absence really based on resentment of the yoke which Facino had imposed upon him. That done, he picked up a parchment from the table.
“Here’s news,” he said, and his voice trembled. “Estorre Visconti has been created Duke of Milan.” He paused, and the little dark eyes blinked up at the tall Bellarion standing composed at his side. “You knew already?”
“Not so, highness.”
“And you show no surprise?”
“It is a bold step, and it may cost Messer Estorre his head. But it was to be expected from what had gone before.”
The beady eyes returned to the parchment, which shook in the podgy fingers.
“Fra Berto Caccia, the Bishop of Piacenza, preached a sermon to the people lauding the murder of my brother, and promising in Estorre’s name a Golden Age for Milan, with immunity from taxation. Thereupon they laid at his bastard feet the keys of the city, the standard of the republic, and the ducal sceptre.” He dropped the parchment, and sat back folding plump, white hands across his paunch. “This calls for action, speedily.”
“We can provide action enough to surfeit Messer Estorre.”
“Ha!” The great flabby face grew almost kindly, the little eyes beamed upon the condottiero. “Serve me well in this, Bellarion, and you shall know gratitude.”
Bellarion’s gesture seemed to wave the notion of reward aside. He came straight to facts. “We can withdraw eight thousand men from Bergamo. The place is at the point of surrender, and four thousand will well suffice to tighten the last grip upon the Malatesta vitals. Perhaps the Lord Estorre has not included that in his calculations. With eight thousand men we can sweep him out of Milan at our pleasure.”
“And you’ll give orders? You’ll give orders at once? The army, they tell me, is now in your control. Facino’s authority has descended to you, and has been accepted by your brother captains.”
And now this arch-dissembler went to work.
“Hardly so much, highness. Facino’s captains have sworn fealty, not to me, but to the Lady Beatrice.”
“But … But you, then?” The news dismayed him a little. “What place is yours?”
“At your highness’s side, if your highness commands me.”
“Yes, yes. But whom do you command? Where, exactly, do you stand now?”
“At the head of the army in any enterprise into which the Countess sends her captains.”
“The Countess?” The Prince shifted his bulk uneasily in his chair, slewing round so as to face the soldier more fully. “What then if … What if the Countess should not …” He waved his fat hands helplessly.
“It is not likely that the Countess should oppose your own wishes, highness.”
“Not likely? But—Lord of Heaven!—it’s possible.” He heaved himself up, nervous, agitated. “I must know. I must … I’ll send for her.” He reached for a hand-bell on the table.
But Bellarion’s hand closed over his own before he could ring.
“A moment, Lord Prince. Before you send for the Lady Beatrice, had you not best consider precisely what you will say to her?”
“What is to say beyond discovering her disposition towards me.”
“Can you entertain a doubt upon that, Lord Prince?” Bellarion was smiling. Their hands came away together from the bell, and fell apart. “Her disposition towards your potency is, to my knowledge, of the very kindliest. Such, indeed, that—I’ll be frank with you—I found it necessary once to remind her of her duty to her lord.”
“Ah!” The fat pale face quivered into something akin to malevolence. The Prince remembered a sudden coolness in the Countess and her removal to Melegnano, and perceived in this meddler’s confession the explanation of it. “By Saint Ambrose, that was bold of you!”
“I am accounted bold,” Bellarion reminded him, deeming it necessary.
“Aye, aye!” The shifty eyes fell away uncomfortably under his glance. “But if she is kindly disposed, then …”
“I know that she was, highness, and may be rendered so again. Though perhaps less easily now than heretofore.”
“Less easily? Why so?”
“As Facino’s widow, she is in wealth and power the equal of many a prince in Italy. She has considerable dominions …”
“Torn by Facino from the great heritage left by the Duke my father.” In that rare burst of indignation his whole bulk quivered like a great jelly.
“They might be restored to the ducal crown by peaceful arts.”
“Peaceful arts? What arts? Will you be plain?”
But the time for direct answers was not yet. “And not only has the Countess lands, but the control of a vast fortune. Some four hundred thousand ducats. You will need money, highness, for the pay of this great army now under Bergamo, and your own treasury will hardly supply it. There is taxation. But your highness knows the ills that wait on
