The Shame of Motley Part 15

"Out of this?" I echoed, scarce understanding him at first.

"Aye, man--out of this Castle, out of Pesaro. Bestir those wits of yours. Is there no way in which it might be done, no disguise under which I might escape?"

"Escape?" quoth I, looking at him, and endeavouring to keep from my eyes the contempt that was in my heart. Dear G.o.d! Had revenge been all I sought of him, how I might have gloated over his miserable downfall!

"Do not stand there staring with those hollow eyes," he cried, anger and fear blending horridly in his voice and rendering shrill its pitch.

"Find me a way. Come, knave, find me a way, or I'll have you broken on the wheel. Set your wits to save that long, lean body from destruction.

Think, I bid you."

He was moving restlessly as he spoke, swayed by the agitation of terror that possessed him like a devil. I looked at him now without dissembling my scorn. Even in such an hour as this the habit of hectoring cruelty remained him.

"What shall it avail me to think?" I asked him in a voice that was as cold and steady as his was hot and quavering. "Were you a bird I might suggest flight across the sea to you. But you are a man, a very human, a very mortal man, although your father made you Lord of Pesaro."

Even as I was speaking, the thunder of the besiegers reached our ears--such a dull roar it was as that of a stormy sea in winter time.

Maddened by his terror he stood over me now, his eyes flashing wildly in his white face.

"Another word in such a tone," he rasped, his fingers on his dagger, "and I'll make an end of you. I need your help, animal!"

I shook my head, my glance meeting his without fear. I was of twice his strength, we were alone, and the hour was one that levelled ranks. Had he made the least attempt to carry out his threat, had he but drawn an inch of the steel he fingered, I think I should have slain him with my hands without fear or thought of consequences.

"I have no help for you such as you need," I answered him. "I am but the Fool of Pesaro. Whoever looked to a Fool for miracles?"

"But here is death," he almost moaned.

"Lord of Pesaro," I reminded him, "your mercenaries are under arms by your command, and your knights are joining them. They wait for the fulfilment of your promise to lead them out against the enemy. Shall you fail them in such an hour as this?"

He sank, limp as an empty scabbard, to a chair.

"I dare not go. It is death," he answered miserably.

"And what but death is it to remain here?" I asked, torturing him with more zest than ever he had experienced over the agonies of some poor victim on the rack. "In bearing yourself gallantly there lies a slender chance for you. Your people seeing you in arms and ready to defend them may yet be moved to a return of loyalty."

"A fig for their loyalty," was his peevish, craven answer. "What shall it avail me when I'm slain!"

G.o.d! was there ever such a coward as this, such a weak-souled, water-hearted dastard?

"But you may not be slain," I urged him. And then I sounded a fresh note. "Bethink you of Madonna Paola and of the brave things you promised her."

He flushed a little, then paled again, then sat very still. Shame had touched him at last, yet its grip was not enough to make a man of him.

A moment he remained irresolute, whilst that shame fought a hard battle with his fears.

But those fears proved stronger in the end, and his shame was overthrown by them.

"I dare not," he gasped, his slender, delicate hands clutching at the arms of his chair. "Heaven knows I am not skilled in the use of arms."

"It asks no skill," I a.s.sured him. "Put on your armour, take a sword and lay about you. The most ignorant scullion in your kitchens could perform it given that he had the spirit."

He moistened his lips with his tongue, and his eyes looked dead as a snake's. Suddenly he rose and took a step towards the armour that was piled about a great leathern chair. Then he paused and turned to me once more.

"Help me to put it on," he said in a voice that he strove to render steady. Yet scarcely had I reached the pile and taken up the breast-plate, when he recoiled again from the task. He broke into a torrent of blasphemy.

"I will not sacrifice myself," he almost screamed. "Jesus! not I. I will find a way out of this. I will live to return with an army and regain my throne."

"A most wise purpose. But, meanwhile, your men are waiting for you; Madonna Paola di Santafior is waiting for you, and--hark!--the bellowing crowd is waiting for you."

"They wait in vain," he snarled. "Who cares for them? The Lord of Pesaro am I."

"Care you, then, nothing for them? Will you have your name written in history as that of a coward who would not lift his sword to strike one blow for honour's sake ere he was driven out like a beast by the mere sound of voices?"

That touched him. His vanity rose in arms.

"Take up that corselet," he commanded hoa.r.s.ely. I did his bidding, and, without a word, he raised his arms that I might fit it to his breast.

Yet in the instant that I turned me to pick up the back-piece, a crash resounded through the chamber. He had hurled the breastplate to the ground in a fresh access of terror-rage. He strode towards me, his eyes glittering like a madman's.

"Go you!" he cried, and with outstretched arms he pointed wildly across the courtyard. "You are very ready with your counsels. Let me behold your deeds, Do you put on the armour and go out to fight those animals."

He raved, he ranted, he scarce knew what he said or did, and yet the words he uttered sank deep into my heart, and a sudden, wild ambition swelled my bosom.

"Lord of Pesaro," I cried, in a voice so compelling that it sobered him, "if I do this thing what shall be my reward?"

He stared at me stupidly for a moment. Then he laughed in a silly, crackling fashion.

"Eh?" he queried. "Gesu!" And he pa.s.sed a hand over his damp brow, and threw back the hair that c.u.mbered it. "What is the thing that you would do, Fool?"

"Why, the thing you bade me," I answered firmly. "Put on your armour, and shut down the visor so that all shall think it is the Lord Giovanni, Tyrant of Pesaro, who rides. If I do this thing, and put to rout the rabble and the fifty men that Cesare Borgia has sent, what shall be my reward?"

He watched me with twitching lips, his glare fixed upon me and a faint colour kindling in his face. He saw how easy the thing might be. Perhaps he recalled that he had heard that I was skilled in arms--having spent my youth in the exercise of them, against the time when I might fling the challenge that had brought me to my Fool's estate. Maybe he recalled how I had borne myself against long odds on that adventure with Madonna Paola, years ago. Just such a vanity as had spurred him to have me write him verses that he might pretend were of his own making, moved him now to grasp at my proposal. They would all think that Giovanni's armour contained Giovanni himself. None would ever suspect Boccadoro the Fool within that sh.e.l.l of steel. His honour would be vindicated, and he would not lose the esteem of Madonna Paola. Indeed, if I returned covered with glory, that glory would be his; and if he elected to fly thereafter, he might do so without hurt to his fair name, for he would have amply proved his mettle and his courage.

In some such fashion I doubt not that the High and Mighty Giovanni Sforza reasoned during the seconds that we stood, face to face and eye to eye, in that room, the cries of the impatient ones below almost drowned in the roar of the mult.i.tude beyond.

At last he put out his hands to seize mine, and drawing me to the light he scanned my face, Heaven alone knowing what it was he sought there.

"If you do this," said he, "Biancomonte shall be yours again, if it remains in my power to bestow it upon you now or at any future time. I swear it by my honour."

"Swear it by your fear of h.e.l.l or by your hope of Heaven and the compact is made," I answered, and so palsied was he and so fallen in spirit that he showed no resentment at the scorn of his honour my words implied, but there and then took the oath I that demanded.

"And now," I urged, "help me to put on this armour of yours."

Hurriedly I cast off my jester's doublet and my head-dress with its jangling bells, and with a wild exultation, a joy so fierce as almost to bring tears to my eyes, I held my arms aloft whilst that poor craven strapped about my body the back and breast plates of his corselet. I, the Fool, stood there as arrogant as any knight, whilst with his n.o.ble hands the Lord of Pesaro, kneeling, made secure the greaves upon my legs, the sollerets with golden spurs, the cuissarts and the genouilleres. Then he rose up, and with hands that trembled in his eagerness, he put on my bra.s.sarts and shoulder-plates, whilst I, myself, drew on my gauntlets. Next he adjusted the gorget, and handed me, last of all, the helm, a splendid head-piece of black and gold, surmounted by the Sforza lion.

I took it from him and pa.s.sed it over my head. Then ere I snapped down the visor and hid the face of Boccadoro, I bade him, unless he would render futile all this masquerade, to lock the door of his closet, and lie there concealed till my return. At that a sudden doubt a.s.sailed him.

"And what," quoth he, "if you do not return?"

In the fever that had possessed me this was a thing that had not entered into my calculations, nor should it now. I laughed, and from the hollow of my helmet not a doubt but the sound must have seemed charged with mockery. I pointed to the cap and doublet I had shed.

"Why, then, Ill.u.s.trious, it will but remain for you to complete the change."