A moment he stood at gaze, then spoke, in a pleasant, resonant voice, its tone faintly sardonic.
“Upon what beastliness is your highness now engaged?”
The Duke span round; the grooms stood arrested in their labours. The gentleman came sedately down the steps. “Who bade you hither?” the Duke raged at him.
“The voice of duty. First there is my duty as your governor, to see that …”
“My governor!” Sheer fury rang in the echoing words. “My governor! You do not govern me, my lord, though you may govern Milan. And you govern that at my pleasure, you’ll remember. I am the master here. It is I who am Duke. You’ll be wise not to forget it.”
“Perhaps I am not wise. Who shall say what is wisdom?” The tone continued level, easy, faintly mocking. Here was a man very sure of himself. Too sure of himself to trouble to engage in argument. “But there is another duty whose voice I have obeyed. Parental duty. For they tell me that this prisoner with whom you are proposing to be merry after your fashion claims to be my son.”
“They tell you? Who told you?” There was a threat to that unknown person in the inquiry.
“Can I remember? A court is a place of gossip. When men and women discover a piece of unusual knowledge they must be airing it. It doesn’t matter. What matters to me is whether you, too, had heard of this. Had you?” The pleasant voice was suddenly hard; it was the voice of the master, of the man who holds the whip. And it intimidated, for whilst the young Duke stormed and blustered and swore, yet he did so in a measure of defence.
“By the bones of Saint Ambrose! Did you not hear that he slew my dogs? Slew three of them, and bewitched the others.”
“He must have bewitched you, Lord Duke, at the same time, since, although you heard him claim to be my son, yet you venture to practise upon him without so much as sending me word.”
“Is it not my right? Am I not lord of life and death in my dominions?”
The dark eyes flashed in that square, shaven face. “You are …” He checked. He waved an imperious hand towards Squarcia Giramo. “Go, you, and your curs with you.”
“They are here in attendance upon me,” the Duke reminded him.
“But they are required no longer.”
“God’s Light! You grow daily more presumptuous, Facino.”
“If you will dismiss them, you may think differently.”
The Duke’s prominent eyes engaged the other’s stern glance, until, beaten by it, he swung sullenly to his knaves: “Away with you! Leave us!” Thus he owned defeat.
Facino waited until the men had gone, then quietly admonished the Duke.
“You set too much store by your dogs. And the sport you make with them is as dangerous as it is bestial. I have warned your highness before. One of these fine days the dogs of Milan will turn upon you and tear out your throat.”
“The dogs of Milan? On me?” His highness almost choked.
“On you, who account yourself lord of life and death. To be Duke of Milan is not quite the same thing as to be God. You should remember it.” Then he changed his tone. “That man you were hunting today beyond Abbiate was Francesco da Pusterla, I am told.”
“And this rogue who calls himself your son attempted to rescue him, and slew three of my best dogs. …”
“He was doing you good service, Lord Duke. It would have been better if Pusterla had escaped. As long as you hunt poor miscreants, guilty of theft or violence or of no worse crime than being needy and hungry, retribution may move slowly against you. But when you set your dogs upon the sons of a great house, you walk the edge of an abyss.”
“Do I so? Do I so? Well, well, my good Facino, as long as a Pusterla remains aboveground, so long shall my hounds be active. I don’t forget that a Pusterla was castellan of Monza when my mother died there. And you, that hear so much gossip about the town and court, must have heard what is openly said: that the scoundrel poisoned her.”
Facino looked at him with such grim significance that the Duke’s high colour faded under the glance. His face grew ashen. “By the Bones of God!” he was beginning, when Facino interrupted.
“This young man here was not to know your motives. Indeed, he did not know you were the leader of that vile hunt. All that he saw was a fellow-creature inhumanly pursued by dogs. None would call me a gentle, humane man. But I give you my word, Lord Duke, that he did what in his place I hope I should have had the courage to do, myself. I honour him for it. Apart from that, he told you that his name was Cane. It is a name that deserves some respect in Milan, even from the Duke.” His voice grew cold and hard as steel. “Hunt the Pusterla all you please, magnificent, and at your own peril. But do not hunt the Cane without first giving me warning of the intention.”
He paused. The Duke, slow-witted ever, stood between shame and rage before him, silent. Facino turned to Bellarion, his tone and manner expressing contempt of his ducal master. “Come, boy. His highness gives you leave. Put on your tunic and come with me.”
Bellarion had waited in
