The Shame of Motley - Rafael Sabatini (the two towers ebook TXT) 📗

you at any further length with the feelings that were mine as we sped northward towards Cesena. If you are a person of some imagination and not destitute of human sympathy you will be able to surmise them; if you are not—why then, my tale is not for you, and it is more than probable that you will have wearied of it and flung it aside long before you reach this page.

We rode so hard that by sunset Cesena was in sight, and ere night had fallen we were within the walls of the citadel. It was when we had dismounted and I stood in the courtyard between Ercole and another of the soldiers that Ramiro again addressed me.

“Animal,” said he, “they tell me that I bear a name for harsh measures and rough ways. You shall be a witness hereafter of how deeply I am maligned. For instead of putting you to the question and loosening your lying tongue with the rack, I am content to keep you a prisoner until my men return with that which I suspect you to be hiding from me. But if I then discover that you have sought to fool me, you shall flutter from Ramiro del’ Orca’s flagstaff.”

He pointed up to the tower of the Castle, from which a beam protruded, laden at that moment with a ghastly burden just discernible in the thickening gloom. He named it well when he called it his “flagstaff,” and the miserable banner of carrion that hung from it was a fitting pennon for the ruthless Governor of Cesena. Worthy was he to have worn the silver hauberk of Werner von Urslingen with its motto, “The enemy of God, of pity and of mercy.”

Forbidding, black-browed men caught me with rough hands and dragged me off to a dank, unlighted prison, as empty of furniture as it was full of noisome smells. And there they left me to my ugly thoughts and my deeply despondent mood what time the Governor of Cesena supped with his officers in the hall of the Castle.

Ramiro drank deep that night as was his habit, and being overladen with wine it entered his mind that in one of his dungeons lay Lazzaro Biancomonte, who, at one time, had been known as Boccadoro, the merriest Fool in Italy. In his drunkenness he grew merry, and when Ramiro del’ Orca grew merry men crossed themselves and betook them to their prayers. He would fain be amused, and to serve that end he summoned one of his sbirri and bade the fellow drag Boccadoro from his dungeon and fetch him into his presence.

When they came for me I turned cold with fear that Madonna was already taken, and, by contrast with such a fear as that, the reflection that he might carry out his threat to hang me from that black beam of his, faded into insignificant proportions.

They ushered me into a great hall, not ill-furnished, the floor strewed plentifully with rushes, and warmed by an enormous fire of blazing oak. By the door stood two pikemen in armour, like a pair of statues; in the centre of the floor was a heavy oaken board, laden now with flagons and beakers, at which sat Ramiro with a pair of gossips so villainous to look at, that the sight of them reminded me of the adage “God makes a man and then accompanies him.”

The Governor made a hideous noise at sight of me, which I was constrained to accept as an expression of horrid glee.

“Boccadoro,” said he, “do you recall that when last I had the honour of being entertained by your pert tongue, I promised you that did you ever cross my path again I would raise you to the dignity of Fool of my Court of Cesena?”

Into what magniloquence does vanity betray us! His Court of Cesena! As well might you describe a pig-sty as a bower of roses.

But his words, despite the unsavoury thing of which they seemed to hold a promise, fell sweetly on my ear, inasmuch as for the time they relieved my fears touching Madonna. It was not to advise me of her capture that he had had me haled into his odious presence. I gathered courage.

“Have you not fools enough already at Cesena?” I asked him.

A moment be looked as if he were inclining to anger. Then he burst into a coarse laugh, and turned to one of his gossips.

“Did I not tell you, Lampugnani, that his wit was quick and penetrating? Hear him, rogue. Already has he discerned your quality.” He laughed consumedly at his own jest, and turning to me he pointed to a crimson bundle on a chair beside me. “Take those garments,” he roughly bade me. “Go dress yourself in them, then come you back and entertain us.”

Without answering him, and already anticipating the nature of the clothes he bade me don, I lifted one of the garments from the heap. It was a foliated jester’s cap, with a bell hanging from every point, which gave out a tinkling sound as I picked it up. I let it fall again as though it had scorched me, the memory of what stood between Madonna Paola and me rising like a warning spectre in my mind. I would not again defile myself by the garb of folly; not again would I incur the shame of playing the Fool for the amusement of others.

“May it please your Excellency to excuse me,” I answered in a firm tone. “I have made a vow never again to put on motley.”

He eyed me sardonically for a moment, as if enjoying in anticipation the pleasure of compelling me against my will. He sat back in his chair and threw one heavily-booted leg across the other.

“In the Citadel of Cesena,” said he, “we fear neither God nor Devil, and vows are as water to us—things we cannot stomach. It does not please me to excuse you.”

I may have paled a little before the sinister smile with which he accompanied his words, but I stood my ground boldly.

“It is not,” said I, “a question of what a vow may be to you and yours, but of what a vow is to me. It is a thing I cannot break.”

“Sangue di Cristo!,” he snarled, “we will break it for you, then—that or your bones. Resolve yourself, beast, the motley or the rack—or yet, if you prefer it, there is the cord yonder.” And he pointed to the far end of the chamber where some ropes were hanging from a pulley, the implements of the ghastly torture of the cord. Of such a nature was this monster that he made a torture-chamber of his dining-hall.

“Let the rogue make acquaintance with it,” laughed Lampugnani, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth behind the black beard that bushed his lips. “I’ll swear his dancing would afford us more amusement than his quips. Swing him up, Illustrious.”

But the Illustrious seemed to ponder the matter.

“You shall have five minutes in which to decide,” he informed me presently. “They say that I am cruel. Behold how patient is my clemency. Five minutes shall you have where many another would hang you out of hand for bearding him as you have done me.”

“You may begin at once,” said I. “neither five minutes nor five years will alter my determination.”

His brow grew black with anger. “We shall see,” was all he said.

There was a silence now in which we waited, a storm of thoughts battling in my mind. Presently Ramiro caught up one of the flagons and applied it to his cup. It proved empty, and in a gust of passion he hurled it against the wall where it burst into a thousand pieces. Clearly he was very angry, and it taxed my wits to account for the little measure of patience he was showing me.

“Beppo!” he called. A page lounging by the buffet sprang to attention. He was a slender, rather delicate lad, fair of hair and blue of eyes, not more than twelve years of age. An elderly man who stood beside him—one Mariani, the seneschal of Cesena—stepped forward also, solicitude in his glance.

“Bring me wine,” bawled the ogre. “Must I tell you what I need? If you do not put those eyes of yours to better service, I’ll have them plucked from your empty head. Bestir, animal.”

The old man caught up a beaker from the buffet and handed it to the boy.

“Here, my son,” said he. “Hasten to his Excellency.”

The lad took the beaker from his father’s hands, and trembling in his fear of Ramiro’s anger, he sprang forward to serve him. In his haste the poor youth slipped in some grease that had clung to the rushes. In seeking to recover himself he tripped over the feet of one of the halberdiers that guarded me, and measured his length upon the floor at Ramiro’s feet, flooding the Governor’s legs with the wine he carried.

How shall I tell you of the horror that was the sequel?

For just one instant Ramiro looked down at the sprawling lad, his eyes glowing like a madman’s. Then suddenly he rose, stooped, and set one hand to the boy’s belt, the other to the collar of his jerkin. Feeling himself lifted, and knowing whose were the dread hands that held him, poor Beppo uttered a single scream of terror. Then Ramiro swung him round with an ease that displayed the man’s prodigious strength. For just a second he seemed to hesitate how to dispose of the human bundle that he held. Then, as if suddenly taking his resolve, that devil hurled the lad across the little intervening space, straight into the heart of the blazing fire.

Beppo hurtled against the logs with a sickening crash, and a thousand sparks leapt up and vanished in the cavern of the chimney. Ramiro wheeled sharply about, and snatching the pike from the hands of one of my guards, he pinned down the poor body of the boy to make sure of his victim’s entire destruction.

Away by the buffet old Mariani looked on with a face as grey as ashes, his eyes protruding in horror at the thing they witnessed. One glimpse I had of him, and I scarce know which was the sight that sickened me more, the fathers anguish or the twitching limbs of the burning child. Two legs and two arms protruded from the blaze and writhed and wriggled horribly what time the flames peeled the garments from them and licked the flesh from the bones. At length they fell still and sank down into the white heat of the logs, a hideous, pungent odour spreading through the chamber. From the old man by the buffet, who had stood spellbound during this ghastly scene, there broke at last an anguished cry.

“Mercy, my lord, mercy!”

The Governor of Cesena straightened himself from his task, pulled the pike from the flames, and restored it to the man-at-arms. Then turning to Mariani:

“Fetch me wine,” he bade him curtly, as he seated himself once more upon the chair from which he had risen to perform that deed of ghastly ruthlessness.

A torch spluttered suddenly in its sconce, and the fierce hissing of the fire—like some monster licking its chops over a bloody meal—were the only sounds that disturbed the stillness that ensued.

Every man there, including Ramiro’s table companions, was white to the lips; for accustomed though they might be to horrors in that brigand’s nest, this was a horror that surpassed anything they had ever witnessed. The silence irked Messer Ramiro. He looked round from under his shaggy brows, and he spluttered out an oath.

“Will you bring me this wine, pig?” he growled at the almost senseless Mariani, and in his air