“It might,” said Bellarion slowly, and fell to considering. “This is a new thought of yours, this false attack. It has its merits.”
“You approve me for once! What condescension!”
Bellarion ignored the interruption. “It also has its dangers. The party making the feint—and it will need to be a strong one or its real purpose will be guessed—might easily be thrust into the river by a determined sally.”
“It will not come to that,” Carmagnola answered quickly.
“You cannot say so much.”
“Why not? The feint will draw the besieged in that direction, but before they can sally they will be recalled by the real attack striking on the other side.”
Bellarion pondered again; but finally shook his head.
“I have said that it has its merits, and it tempts me. But I will not take the risk.”
“The risk of what?” Carmagnola was being exasperated by that quiet, determined opposition. “God’s death! Take charge of the feint yourself, if you wish. I’ll lead the storming party, and so that you do your part, I’ll answer for it that I am inside the town before daybreak and that Theodore will be in my hands.”
Valeria had remained with her shoulders to them facing the fire. Bellarion’s entrance, discovering her in Carmagnola’s arms, had covered her with confusion, filled her with a vexation not only against himself but against Carmagnola also. From this there was no recovery until Camagnola’s words came now to promise a conclusion of their troubles far speedier than any she had dared to hope.
“You’ll answer for it?” said Bellarion. “And if you fail?”
“I will not fail. You say yourself that it is soundly planned.”
“Did I say so much? Surely not. To be frank, I am more afraid of Theodore of Montferrat than of any captain I’ve yet opposed.”
“Afraid!” said Carmagnola, and sneered.
“Afraid,” Bellarion repeated quietly. “I don’t charge like a bull. I like to know exactly where I am going.”
“In this case, I have told you.”
Valeria slowly crossed to them. “Make the endeavour, at least, Lord Prince,” she begged him.
He looked from one to the other of them. “Between you, you distract me a little. And you do not learn, which is really sad. Well, have your way, Francesco. The adventure may succeed. But if it fails, do not again attempt to persuade me to any course through which I do not clearly see my way.”
Valeria in her thanks was nearer to friendliness than he had ever known since that last night at Casale. Those thanks he received with a certain chill austerity.
It was to be Carmagnola’s enterprise, and he left it to Carmagnola to make all the dispositions. The attempt was planned for the following night. It was to take place precisely at midnight, which at that time of year was the seventh hour, and the signal for launching the false attack was to be taken from the clock on San Vittore, one of the few clocks in Italy at that date to strike the hour. After an interval sufficient to allow the defenders to engage on that side, Carmagnola would open the real attack.
Empanoplied in his armour, and carrying his peaked helm in the crook of his arm, Carmagnola went to ask of the Princess a blessing on his enterprise. She broke into expressions of gratitude.
“Do not thank me yet,” he said. “Before morning, God helping me, I shall lay the State of Montferrat at your feet. Then I shall ask your thanks.”
She flushed under his ardent gaze. “I shall pray for you,” she promised him very fervently, and laid a hand upon his steel brassard. He bore it to his lips, bowed stiffly, and clanked out of the room.
Bellarion did not come to seek her. Lightly armed, with no more than back and breast and a steel cap on his head, he led out his men through the night, making a wide détour so that their movements should not be heard in Vercelli. Since mobility was of the first importance, he took with him only a body of some eight hundred horse. They filed along by the river to the east of the city, which loomed there a vast black shadow against the faintly irradiated sky. They took up their station, dismounted, unlimbered the scaling ladders which they had brought for the purposes of their demonstration, and waited.
They were, as Bellarion calculated, close upon the appointed hour when at one point of the line there was a sudden commotion. A man had been caught who had come prowling forward, and who, upon being seized, demanded to be taken at once before their leader.
Roughly they did as he required of them. And there in the dark, for they dared kindle no betraying light, Bellarion learnt that he was a loyal subject of the Duke of Milan who had slipped out of the city to inform them that the Marquis Theodore was advised of their attack and ready to meet it.
Bellarion swore profusely, a rare thing in him who seldom allowed himself to be mastered by his temper. But his fear of Theodore’s craft drove him now like a fiery spur. If Theodore was forewarned, who could say what countermeasures Theodore had not prepared? This came of lending ear to that bellowing calf Carmagnola!
Fiercely he gave the order to mount. There was some delay in the dark, and whilst they were still being marshalled the bell of San Vittore tolled the seventh hour. Some moments after that were lost before they were spurring off to warn and withdraw Carmagnola. Even then it was necessary to go cautiously through the dark over ground now sodden by several days of rain.
Before they were halfway round the din of combat burst upon the air.
Theodore had permitted Carmagnola’s men to reach and faggot the moat, and even to plant some ladders, before moving. Then he had thrown out his army, in two wings, one from the gate to the north, the other from a gate on the opposite side, and these two wings had swept round
