Gian Maria’s wits, which ever worked sluggishly and crookedly, were almost paralysed now under the eyes of this stern soldier. Facino had ever been able to whistle him to heel, which was the thing he most detested in Facino. It was an influence which lately, during Facino’s absence, he had been able to shake off. But he found himself cowed now, despite the support he received from the presence of Facino’s enemies. It was della Torre who answered for him.
“Is that a threat, Lord Count? Dare you suggest to his highness that you might follow the example of Buonterzo and the others? You plead for plain speaking. Be plain, then, so that his highness may know precisely what is in your mind.”
“Aye!” cried his highness, glad enough to be supplied with this command. “Be plain.”
Facino controlled his wrath until he found it transmuted into contempt.
“Does your highness heed this witling? Did it require the welcome given me today to prove my loyalty?”
“To prove it? How does it prove it?”
“How?” Facino looked at the others, taking his time to answer. “If I had a disloyal thought, all I need is to go down into the streets and unfurl my banner. The banner of the dog. How long do you think would the banner of the snake be seen in Milan after that?”
Gian Maria sat down abruptly, making incoherent noises in his throat, like a hound snarling over a bone. The other three, however, came to their feet, and della Torre spoke the thought of all.
“A subject who proclaims himself a danger to his prince has forfeited the right to live.”
But Facino laughed at them. “To it, then, sirs,” he invited. “Out with your daggers! There are three of you, and I am almost unarmed.” He paused and smiled into their sullen eyes. “You hesitate. You realise, I see, that having done it, you would need to make your souls and prepare yourselves to be torn in pieces by the mob.” He turned again to the Duke, who sat glowering. “If I boast the power which comes to me from the people’s love, it is that your highness may fully appreciate a loyalty which has no thought of using that power but to uphold your rights. These councillors of yours, who have profited by my absence to inspire in you black thoughts against me, take a different view. I will leave your highness to deliberate with them.”
He stalked out with a dignity which left them in confusion.
At last it was della Torre who spoke. “A hectoring bully, swollen with pride! He forces his measures down our throats, commits us to extravagance whose only purpose is to bolster his reputation as a condottiero, and proposes to save the duchy from ruin in one way by ruining it as effectively in another.”
But Gabriello, weak and incompetent though he might be, and although sore from Facino’s affronts, yet realised the condottiero’s indubitable worth and recognised the cardinal fact that a quarrel with him now would mean the end of all of them. He said so, thereby plunging his half-brother into deeper mortification and stirring his two fellow-councillors into resentful opposition.
“What he is doing we could do without him,” said Lonate. “Your highness could have hired these men from Boucicault, and used them to put down Facino’s insolence at the same time as Buonterzo’s.”
But Gabriello showed him the weakness of his argument. “Who would have led them? Do you dream that Boucicault would hire out the troops of the King of France without full confidence in their leader? As Facino himself says, mercenaries do not hire themselves out to be slaughtered.”
“Boucicault himself might have been hired,” suggested the fop.
“At the price of setting the heel of the King of France upon our necks. No, no,” Gabriello was emphatic, which did not, however, restrain della Torre from debating the point with him.
In the midst of the argument Gian Maria, who had sat gnawing his nails in silence, abruptly heaved himself up.
“A foul plague on you and your wrangles! I am sick of both. Settle it as you like. I’ve something better to do than sit here listening to your vapourings.” And he flung out of the room, in quest of the distractions which his vapid spirit was ever craving.
In his absence those three, the weakling, the fop, and the schemer, settled the fortunes of his throne. Della Torre, realising that the moment was not propitious for intrigue against Facino, yielded to Gabriello. It was decided that the Commune’s confirmation should be sought for Facino’s action in increasing his condotta.
So Gabriello summoned the Communal Council, and because he feared the worst, demanded the maximum sum of thirty thousand florins monthly for Facino’s troops.
The Commune of Milan, so impoverished by the continuous rebellious depredations of the last five years, was still wrangling over the matter, its members were still raising their hands and wagging their heads, when three days later Bellarion rode into Milan with a thousand horse, made up chiefly of Gascons and Burgundians, and captained by one of Boucicault’s lieutenants, an amiable gentleman named Monsieur de la Tour de Cadillac.
The people’s fear of storm and pillage, whilst diminished by Facino’s presence, was not yet entirely subdued. Hence there was a glad welcome for the considerable accretion to the defensive strength represented by this French legion.
That gave the Commune courage, and presently it was also to be afforded relief upon hearing that not thirty thousand florins monthly as Gabriello Maria Visconti had stated, but fifteen thousand was to be the stipend of the French lances.
Facino was delightedly surprised when he learnt this from Bellarion.
“You must have found that French pedlar in a singularly easy humour that he should have let you have the men on my own terms: and low terms they are.”
Bellarion
