Two hundred of those poor wretches found in death the peace for which they clamoured. The others fled in panic, and the Duke rode on to the Broletto through streets which terror had emptied.
That night he issued an edict forbidding under pain of death the utterance of the word “Peace” in his City of Milan. Even from the Mass must that accursed word be expunged.
If they had not also clamoured for Facino, it is probable that to Facino fresh ambassadors would have been sent to invite him to return. But the Duke would have men know that he was Duke, that he was not to be coerced by the wishes of his subjects, and so, out of perversity so blind that it took no account of the pit he might be digging for himself, the Duke invited Boucicault to Milan.
When Boucicault made haste to answer, then the appeal to Facino which should have gone from the Duke went, instead, from the Duke’s despairing subjects. Hence Facino’s present summons to Bellarion.
There was no hesitation in Bellarion’s mind and fortunately no obstacle in his present employment. His agreement with the Florentine Republic had been determined in the last few days. Its renewal was at present under consideration.
He went at once to take his leave of the Signory, and, four days ahead of his army, he was in Alessandria being affectionately embraced by Facino.
He arrived at the very moment at which, in council with his captains and his ally the Marquis Theodore, who had come over from Vercelli, Facino was finally determining the course of action.
“I planned in the sure belief that you would come, bringing at least a thousand men.”
“I bring twelve hundred, all of them well seasoned.”
“Good lad, good lad!” Facino patted his shoulder. “Come you in and let them hear it from you.”
Leaning heavily upon Bellarion’s arm, for the gout was troubling him, he led his adoptive son up that winding stone staircase which Bellarion so well remembered ascending on that morning when, as a muleteer, he went to fool Vignate.
“So Master Theodore is here?” said Bellarion.
“And glad to come. He’s been restive in Vercelli, constantly plaguing me to place him in possession of Genoa. But I’ve held him off. I do not trust Master Theodore sufficiently to do all my part before he has done any of his. A sly fox that and an unscrupulous!”
“And the young Marquis?” Bellarion enquired.
Facino laughed. “You will not recognise him, he has grown so demure and staid. He thinks of entering holy orders. He’ll yet come to be a man.”
Bellarion stared. “That he was well your letters told me. But this … How did you accomplish it?”
“By driving out his tutor and the others who came with him. A foul crew!” He paused on the stairs. “I took their measure at a glance, and I had your hint. When one night Fenestrella and the tutor made the boy drunk and themselves drunk with him, I sent them back to Theodore with a letter in which I invited him to deal with them as their abuse of trust deserved. I dismissed at the same time the physician and the body-servants, and I informed Theodore that I would place about the Marquis in future none but persons whom I could trust. Perforce he must write to thank me. What else could he do? You laugh! Faith, it’s laughable enough! I laughed, too, which didn’t prevent me from being watchful.”
They resumed the ascent, and Bellarion expressed the hope that the Lady Beatrice was well. Common courtesy demanded that he should conquer his reluctance to name her to Facino. He was answered that she was at Casale, Facino having removed her thither lest Alessandria should come to be besieged.
Thus they came to the chamber where the council sat.
It was the same stone chamber with its vaulted ceiling and Gothic windows open to the sky in which Vignate had given audience to Bellarion. But it was no longer as bare as when the austere Tyrant of Lodi had inhabited it. The walls were hung with arras, and rich furnishings had been introduced by the more sybaritic Facino.
About the long oaken table sat five men, four of whom now rose. The one who remained seated, as if in assertion of his rank, was the Regent of Montferrat. To the newcomer’s bow he returned a short nod.
“Ah! The Lord Bellarion!” His tone was languid, and Facino fancied that he sneered. Wherefore he made haste to snap: “And he brings twelve hundred men to the enterprise, my lord.”
“That should ensure him a welcome,” the Regent admitted, but without cordiality. He seemed, Bellarion observed, out of humour and disgruntled, shorn of his habitual suavity.
The others came forward to greet Bellarion. First the magnificent Carmagnola, taking the eye as ever by the splendour of his raiment, the dignity of his carriage, and the poise of his handsome fair head. He was more cordial than Bellarion had yet known him. But there was something of patronage, of tutorial commendation in his congratulatory allusions to Bellarion’s achievements in the field.
“He may yet be as great a soldier as yourself, Francesco,” Facino growled, as he sagged into the chair at the table’s head to ease his leg.
Missing the irony, Carmagnola bowed. “You’ll make me vain, my lord.”
“My God!” said Facino.
Came the brawny, bearded, red-faced Koenigshofen, grinning honest welcome and taking Bellarion’s hand in a grip that almost hurt. Then followed the swarthy, mercurial little Piedmontese captain, Giasone Trotta, and lastly there was a slight, graceful, sober, self-contained boy in whom Bellarion might have failed to recognise the Gian Giacomo Paleologo of a year ago but for the increased likeness he bore to the Princess Valeria. So strong was that likeness grown that Bellarion was conscious of a thrill as
