The Shame of Motley, Rafael Sabatini [english novels to improve english .TXT] 📗

I was leaping up them with the frantic speed of one upon whose heels death is treading closely.

A singular, fierce joy was blent with my measure of fear; a joy at the thought that even now, in this extremity, I was outwitting him, for never a doubt had he that the burnt paper he had found on the table was all that was left of Vitelli’s letter. His fears were that I might have read it, but never a suspicion crossed his mind of such a trick as I had played upon him.

So I sped on, the gigantic Ramiro blundering after me, panting and blaspheming, for although powerful, his bulk and the wine he had taken left him no nimbleness. The distance between us widened, and if only Mariani would have the presence of mind to wait for me at the mouth of the passage, all would be as I could wish it before his dagger found my heart.

I was assuring myself of this when in the dark I stumbled, and striking my legs against a stair I hurtled forward. I recovered almost immediately, but, in my frenzy of haste to make up for the instant lost, I stumbled a second time ere I was well upon my feet.

With a roar Ramiro must have hurled himself forward, for I felt my ankle caught in a grip from which there was no escaping, and I was roughly and brutally dragged back and down those stairs; now my head, now my breast beating against the steps as I descended them one by one.

But even in that hour the letter was my first thought, and I found a way to thrust it farther under my girdle so that it should not be seen.

At last I reached the hall, half-stunned, and with all the misery of defeat and the certainty of the futility of my death to further torture my last moments. Over me stood Ramiro, his dagger upheld, ready to strike.

‘Dog!” he taunted me, “your sands are run.”

“Mercy, Magnificent,” I gasped. “I have done nothing to deserve your poniard.”

He laughed brutally, delaying his stroke that he might prolong my agony for his drunken entertainment.

“Address your prayers to Heaven,” he mocked me, “and let them concern your soul.”

And then, like a flash of inspiration came the words that should delay his hand.

“Spare me,” I cried “for I am in mortal sin.”

Impious, abandoned villain, though he was, he said too much when he boasted that he feared neither God nor Devil. He was prone to forget his God, and the lessons that as a babe he had learnt at his mother’s knee— for I take it that even Ramiro del’ Orca had once been a babe—but deep down in his soul there had remained the fear of Hell and an almost instinctive obedience to the laws of Mother Church. He could perform such ruthless cruelties as that of hurling a page into the fire to punish his clumsiness; he could rack and stab and hang men with the least shadow of compunction or twinge of conscience, but to slay a man who professed himself to be in mortal sin was a deed too appalling even for this ruthless butcher.

He hesitated a second, then he lowered his hand, his face telling me clearly how deeply he grudged me the respite which, yet, he dared not do other than accord me.

“Where shall I find me a priest?” he grumbled. “Think you the Citadel of Cesena is a monastery? I will wait while you make an act of contrition for your sins. It is all the shrift I can afford you. And get it done, for it is time I was abed. You shall have five minutes in which to clear your soul.”

By this it seemed to me—as it may well seem to you—that matters were but little mended, and instead of employing the respite he accorded me in the pious collecting of thoughts which he enjoined, I sat up—very sore from my descent of the stairs—and employed those precious moments in putting forward arguments to turn him from, his murderous purpose.

“I have lived too ungodly a life,” I protested, “to be able to squeeze into Paradise through so narrow a tate. As you would hope for your own ultimate salvation, Excellency, I do beseech you not to imperil mine.”

This disposed him, at least, to listen to me, and proceeded to assure him of the harmless nature of my visit to the hall in quest of wine to quench my thirst. I was running the grave risk of dying with lies on my lips, but I was too desperate to give the matter thought just then. His mood seemed to relent; the delay, perhaps, had calmed his first access of passion, and he was grown more reasonable. But when Ramiro cooled he was, perhaps, more malignant than ever, for it meant a return to natural condition, and Ramiro’s natural condition was one of cruelty unsurpassed.

“It may be as you say,” he answered me at last, sheathing his dagger, “and at least you have my word that I will not slay you without first assuring myself that you have lied. For to-night you shall remain in durance. To-morrow we will apply the question to you.”

The hope that had been reviving in my breast fell dead once more, and I turned cold at that threat. And yet, between now and to-morrow, much might betide, and I had cause for thankfulness, perhaps, for this respite. Thus I sought to cheer myself. But I fear I failed. To-morrow he would torture me, not so much to ascertain whether I had spoken truly, but because to his diseased mind it afforded diversion to witness a man’s anguish. No doubt it was that had urged him now to spare my life and accord me this merciless piece of mercy.

In a loud voice he called the sentry who was pacing below; and in a moment the man appeared in answer to that summons.

“You will take this knave to the chamber set apart for him up there, and you will leave him secure under lock and bar, bringing me the key of his door.”

The fellow informed himself which was the chamber, then turning to me he curtly bade me go with him. Thus was I haled back to my room, with the promise of horrors on the morrow, but with the night before me in which to scheme and pray for some miracle that might yet save me. But the days of miracles were long past. I lay on my bed and deplored with many a sigh that bitter fact. And if aught had been wanting to increase the weight of fear and anguish on my already over�burdened mind, and to aid in what almost seemed an infernal plot to utterly distract me, I had it in fresh, wild conjectures touching Madonna Paola. Where indeed could she be that Ramiro’s men had failed to find her for all that they had scoured that part of the country in which I had left her to wait for my return? What if, by now, worse had befallen her than the capture with which Ramiro’s lieutenant was charged?

With such doubts as these to haunt me, fretted as I was by my utter inability to take a step in her service, I lay. There for an hour or so in such agony of mind as is begotten only of suspense. In my girdle still reposed the treasonable letter from Vitelli to Ramiro, a mighty weapon with which to accomplish the butcher’s overthrow. But how was I to wield it imprisoned here?

I wondered why Mariani had not returned, only to remember that the soldier who had locked me in had carried the key of my prison-chamber to Ramiro.

Suddenly the stillness was disturbed by a faint tap at my door. My instincts and my reason told me it must be Mariani at last. In an instant I had leapt from the bed and whispered through the keyhole:

“Who is there?”

“It is I—Mariani—the seneschal,” came the old man’s voice, very softly, but nevertheless distinctly. “They have taken the key.”

I groaned, then in a gust of passion I fell to cursing Ramiro for that precaution.

“You have the letter?” came Mariani’s voice again.

“Aye, I have it still,” I answered.

“Have you seen what it contains?”

“A plot to assassinate the Duke—no less. Enough to get this bloody Ramiro broken on the wheel.”

I was answered by a sound that was as a gasp of malicious joy. Then the old man’s voice added:

“Can you pass it under the door? There is a sufficient gap.”

I felt, and found that he was right; I could pass the half of my hand underneath. I took the letter and thrust it through. His hands fastened on it instantly, almost snatching it from my fingers before they were ready to release it.

“Have courage,” he bade me. “Listen. I shall endeavour to leave Cesena in the morning, and I shall ride straight for Faenza. If I find the Duke there when I arrive, he should be here within some twelve or fourteen hours of my departure. Fence with Ramiro, temporise if you can till then, and all will be well with you.”

“I will do what I can,” I answered him. “But if he slays me in the meantime, at least I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that he will not be long in following me.”

“May God shield you,” he said fervently.

“May God speed you,” I answered him, with a still greater fervour.

That night, as you may well conceive, I slept but little, and that little ill. The morning, instead of relieving the fears that in the darkness had been with me, seemed to increase them. For now was the time for Mariani to act, and I was fearful as to how he might succeed. I was full of doubts lest some obstacle should have arisen to prevent his departure from Cesena, and I spent my morning in wearisome speculation.

I took an almost childish satisfaction in the thought that since, being a prisoner, I could no longer count myself the Fool of the Court of Cesena, I was free to strip the motley and assume the more sober garments in which I had been taken, and which—as you may recall—had been placed in my chamber on the previous evening. It was the very plainest raiment. For doublet I wore a buff brigandine, quilted and dagger-proof, and caught at the waist by a girdle of hammered steel; my wine-coloured hose was stout and serviceable, as were my long boots of untanned leather. Yet prouder was I of this sober apparel than ever king of his ermine.

It may have been an hour or so past noon when, at last, my solitude was invaded by a soldier who came to order me into the presence of the Governor. I had been sitting at the window, leaning against the bars and looking out at the desolate white landscape, for there had been a heavy fall of snow in the night, which reminded me—as snow ever did—of my first meeting with Madonna Paola.

I rose upon the instant, and my fears rose with me. But I kept a bold front as I went down into the hall, where Ramiro and the blackguards of his Court were sitting, with three or four men-at-arms at attention by the door. Close to the pulleys appertaining to the torture of the cord stood two leather-clad ruffians—Ramiro’s executioners.

At the head of the board, which was still strewn with fragments of food-for they had but dined—sat Ramiro del’ Orca. With him were half a dozen of his officers, whose villainous appearance pronounced them worthy of their brutal leader. The air was heavy with