“And you caught them?”
“We caught them. Yes. Nevertheless, the mule-train and the victuals won into Alessandria.”
They looked at him in wonder. Carmagnola scowled upon him. “How, sir? And this in spite of your boast that you caught them?”
Bellarion fixed him with eyes that were red and rather bleary from lack of sleep.
“In spite of it,” he agreed. “The fact is, that mule-train was conducted into Alessandria by myself.” And he sat down in the silence that followed.
“Do you say that you’ve been into Alessandria?”
“Into the very citadel. I had breakfast with the squat Lord of Lodi.”
“Will you explain yourself?” cried Facino.
Bellarion did so.
XV
The Camisade
The sequel you already guess, and its telling need not keep us long.
That night Vignate and six hundred men, wearing their shirts over their armour, rode into as pretty an ambush about the village of Pavone as is to be found in the history of such operations. It was a clear night, and, although there was no moon, there was just light enough from the star-flecked sky to make it ideal, from the point of view of either party, for the business in hand.
There was some rough fighting for perhaps a half-hour, and a good deal of blood was shed, for Vignate’s men, infuriated at finding themselves trapped, fought viciously and invited hard knocks in return.
Bellarion in the handsome armour of Boucicault’s gift, but without a headpiece, to which as yet he had been unable to accustom himself, held aloof from the furious scrimmage, just as he had held aloof from the jousts in Milan. He had a horror of personal violence and manhandling, which some contemporaries who detected it have accounted a grave flaw in his nature. Nevertheless, one blow at least for his side was forced upon him, and all things considered it was a singularly appropriate blow. It was towards the end of the fight, just as the followers of Vignate began to own defeat and throw down their weapons, that one man, all cased in armour and with a headpiece whose peaked vizor gave him the appearance of some monstrous bird, came charging furiously at the ring of enemies that confined him. He was through and over them in that terrific charge, and the way of escape was clear before him save for the aloof Bellarion, who of his own volition would have made no move to check that impetuous career. But the fool must needs drive straight at Bellarion through the gloom. Bellarion pulled his horse aside, and by that swerve avoided the couched lance which he suspected rather than saw. Then, rising in his stirrups as that impetuous knight rushed by, he crashed the mace with which he had armed himself upon the peaked vizor, and rolled his assailant from the saddle.
Thereafter he behaved with knightly consideration. He got down from his horse, and relieved the fallen warrior of his helmet, so as to give him air, which presently revived him. By the usages of chivalry the man was Bellarion’s prisoner.
The fight was over. Already men with lanterns were going over the meadow which had served for battleground; and into the village of Pavone, to the great alarm of its rustic inhabitants, the disarmed survivors of Vignate’s force, amounting still to close upon five hundred, were being closely herded by Facino’s men. Through this dense press Bellarion conducted his prisoner, in the charge of two Burgundians.
In the main room of Facino’s quarters the two first confronted each other in the light. Bellarion laughed as he looked into that flat, swarthy countenance with the pouting lips that were frothing now with rage.
“You filthy, venal hound! You’ve sold yourself to the highest bidder! Had I known it was you, you might have slit my throat or ever I would have surrendered.”
Facino, in the chair to which his swathed leg confined him, and Carmagnola, who had come but a moment ago to report the engagement at an end, stared now at Bellarion’s raging prisoner, in whom they recognised Vignate. And meanwhile Bellarion was answering him.
“I was never for sale, my lord. You are not discerning. I was my Lord Facino’s man when I sought you this morning in Alessandria.”
Vignate looked at him, and incredulity was tempering the hate of his glance.
“It was a trick!” He could hardly believe that a man should have dared so much. “You are not Farfalla, captain of fortune?”
“My name is Bellarion.”
“It’s the name of a trickster, then, a cheat, a foul, treacherous hind, who imposed upon me with lies.” He looked past his captor at Facino, who was smiling. “Is this how you fight, Facino?”
“Merciful God!” Facino laughed. “Are you to prate of chivalry and knight-errantry, you faithless brigand! Count it against him, Bellarion, when you fix his ransom. He is your prisoner. If he were mine I’d not enlarge him under fifty thousand ducats. His people of Lodi should find the money, and so learn what it means to harbour such a tyrant.”
Savage eyes glowered at Facino. Pouting lips were twisted in vicious hate. “Pray God, Facino, that you never fall prisoner of mine.”
Bellarion tapped his shoulder, and he tapped hard. “I do not like you, Messer de Vignate. You’re a fool, and the world is troubled already by too many of your kind. So little am I venal that from a sense of duty to mankind I might send your head to the Duke of Milan you betrayed, and so forgo the hundred thousand ducats ransom you’re to pay to me.”
Vignate’s mouth fell open.
“Say nothing more,” Bellarion admonished him. “What you’ve said so far has already cost you fifty thousand ducats. Insolence is a costly luxury in a prisoner.” He turned to the attendant Burgundians. “Take him above-stairs, strip off his armour, and bind him securely.”
“Why, you inhuman barbarian! I’ve surrendered to you. You have my word.”
“Your word!” Bellarion loosed a laugh that was like a blow in the face. “Gian Galeazzo Visconti had your word, yet before he was cold
