Part 20

"Prince Mastino's wife—my lord—"

"What of her?" asked Gian, lightly. "How does she trouble thee?"

"I fear she is in sad woe," said Graziosa, encouraged by his tone. "She will return to Della Scala when the war is ended?"

Visconti laughed.

"The war will not be ended till she does, methinks; yet be comforted, Graziosa; before our wedding day she shall be in Della Scala's camp—and the war over: now think of it no more."

"Indeed I am satisfied; and my father, my lord?"

"Now, can I help it an he will not come to the palace? My word on it, he is safe; think no more of that, Graziosa. My word on it, he is safe! Now are you content?"

"My dear, dear lord, I am content: I will trouble you no more with questions. I am content to leave my father's safety in your hands—content."

She laid her arms about his neck, and Visconti kissed the roses on the breast that crushed them against his golden doublet, and then her upturned face.

Through the open window came the distant sound of singing; some one singing in French, and then a woman's laugh. Graziosa drew herself away, and Visconti's face darkened.

"Please heaven, she will not annoy me long," he muttered.

He took Graziosa's hand in silence and stepped out on to the terrace.

Seated on the steps was d'Orleans, playing with the red ribbons of his lute, and standing among the cluster of ladies at the foot of them was Valentine Visconti.

She looked very brilliant and beautiful, and angry and scornful; her laughter was bitter, and the veiled brightness of her eyes not pleasant.

The shade of Visconti's face deepened as he looked at her: compared to his sister, Graziosa was a candle beside the sun; the contrast did not please Gian.

D'Orleans rose and bowed low to the lady, yet in a way that was not respectful.

"So there has been a challenge from the enemy," he lisped. "Now I shall love to see a single meeting of brave swords again."

"Who said so?" asked Visconti. He came slowly down the steps; his manner had quite changed, and his eyes were on his sister.

"The Lady Valentine," said the Frenchman. "She—"

"The Lady Valentine," interrupted the Duke sternly, "had best remember—what I have often remembered to her advantage—that she is a woman, and these affairs are none of hers."

And he gave her a glance that made her wince, as always did that glance, for all her boldness.

Graziosa, her hand held lightly by the Duke, was following him down the steps, her pages behind, and Visconti kept his eyes upon his sister.

There was a meaning pause, and d'Orleans grew restless in the silence and moved away.

Valentine sent after him a look of bitter scorn, then walked slowly up to Graziosa and saluted her humbly, though her eyes were burning brightly.

Visconti watched them keenly, and noticed with displeasure how crushed and silent Graziosa showed before his brilliant sister: she shrank into herself, as if she divined the scorn Valentine concealed, and could scarce stammer a few words of greeting in reply.

"I must back to the palace, Graziosa," said Visconti, as they reached the garden, and his eyes roved over the crowd of attendants for Giannotto's figure. "Remember these are all at thy commands—and, for the present, then farewell."

To Valentine he said nothing, but turned away toward the palace with the secretary.

Graziosa looked after him, a little pained; she had noticed he was always different when his sister was there. Valentine had noticed it too, and guessed the cause, and the knowledge gave a triumph to her beauty that made it dazzling indeed.

"I fear I interrupted your discourse," she said with another curtsey.

"Indeed no, lady," replied Graziosa, timidly. "Will you not come within with me from the sun?"

"Nay, that were too much of an honor," said Valentine. "Are you not my brother's promised wife—and the savior of Milan?"

"I pray you, do not speak of it—I—I—" answered Graziosa hurriedly.

Valentine lifted her brows and opened her gray eyes wide.

"Do not speak of it? Why, 'tis a deed to be proud of—even when so well rewarded, lady."

Graziosa flushed under the mock in her tone, and turned to one of her ladies.

"We will go in—alone—since the Princess will not come," she said.

"Come and walk in the garden, madama," said Valentine. "At least it seems like liberty—there will be little enough of that when you are Duchess of Milan."

Graziosa, looking at her with frightened eyes, joined her meekly, having not the spirit to refuse.

"Now, bid your ladies back a pace—at least Gian will allow us that," and Valentine motioned them away.

"What do you mean?" faltered Graziosa, with a pang of something like envy, as she noticed the grace and dignity of Valentine's bearing, and the superb carriage of her queenly head.

Valentine shrugged her white shoulders and laughed bitterly.

"Many things—among them this—get yourself a better tirewoman and you will keep Visconti longer—learn a little spirit and you will keep him longer still."

Graziosa glanced down at her dress, the richer of the two, but worn with no such grace.

"'Tis no question of my dress, lady," she answered, with some dignity—"nor of beauty—but of love alone."

Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from the ladies following came gentle laughter.

"You think he loves you?" asked Valentine.

"I know it," answered Graziosa, proudly.

Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's betrothed like a whip-stroke.

"What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me—you insult him!"

"Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked his sister. "Have you seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the mind—worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying, stealing and murdering?"

Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother could look, her voice was very like his.

"You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?"

"I know you never raised a hand to save them—I know I love him!" cried Graziosa.

"Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a man love—you?"

"Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa, white and trembling. "And I will hear no more."

"She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti loves her!"

Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a loving gesture.

"Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away.

Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter.

"The Lady Valentine is not a gay companion to-day," remarked one of her attendants, looking at her.

"No," said Graziosa dully. Valentine's words were rankling in her heart; all the past came before her, all the tales she had heard of Visconti, all her father's tenderness, the old, happy time. What if it had all been a mistake? What if Visconti still played with her and he was what Valentine had said? The idea was too awful, she crushed it back, she would not believe.

She thought of her father with a sudden yearning; she had always turned to him in her little troubles, she felt uneasy about him with a sudden wave of homesickness. "Can I forget?" she cried in her heart. "Can I live this life and forget?"

But the next moment she calmed herself. She thought of Visconti leaning over his cathedral, of his hand in hers, of his earnest voice—and she had his word for her father's safety.

Smiling to herself, she mounted the steps to her gorgeous dwelling, made splendid by Visconti's love.

"My father! We shall be happy together again yet!" And she laughed and kissed the roses Gian had kissed, and the sun seemed bright again.

But Agnolo Vistarnini lay in the little chapel of Santa Maria Nuova, near to the western gate, with tapers burning at his head and feet, and five sword-thrusts through his heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IN VISCONTI'S HANDS

Valentine Visconti was praying in the Church of San' Apollinare. It stood some way from the Visconti palace, a magnificent building, rich with the Duke's gifts.

That morning thanksgiving rose from every church in Milan; from the palace to the hut, all showed some sign of rejoicing. The Duke had ordered public processions and thanksgiving, and none dared disobey.

His Holiness Pope Boniface had deserted the falling cause of Verona; there was nothing to be feared and little to be gained from Mastino della Scala, the Duke of Milan had offered his aid against the rebellious Florentines, and many bribes besides, and to-day had seen the new league between the powerful tyrant of Lombardy and His Holiness publicly ratified.

From Rome Visconti had nothing more to fear, Mastino nothing more to hope.

The country around Padua was Visconti's too; Cologna, which he had always held, the great seaport of Chioggia, Mestre and Lovigo, betrayed by Carrara.

Bassano had fallen, and now Reggio; there was cause for thanksgiving in Milan.

As a last triumph, Valentine had been sent to offer up prayers and gifts for her brother's success. She was guarded on her errand, practically a prisoner. Soldiers stood at every door of the church, and a mounted escort waited without to conduct her back. She was on her knees before the blazing altar, her head low over her missal, but she was not offering thanks to heaven for Gian's victories.

She thought of Graziosa with angry hate. But for that girl, Della Scala had been in Milan, and Count Conrad with him—and in reward for her treachery Graziosa was to queen it over her! Visconti delighted to flaunt her with her at every turn.

That morning Visconti had told her the war was drawing to a close—said it with much meaning, and promised her, smiling, Count Conrad's head as a wedding gift. He had been closeted long with Giannotto; strangely elated he had seemed, and Valentine shudderingly wondered what was in the air.

That there was something she knew full well; Visconti was hatching some stroke that would complete Della Scala's ruin. For some days she had seen his purpose in his face, and to-day the alliance with the Pope confirmed it.

She did not greatly care, she was too crushed with her own failures to care much for the failure of another. She felt sorry for Isotta d'Este, and bitter toward Count Conrad.

"But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad," she thought in hot anger, "I would not live to grace Visconti's triumph."

The sound of bells penetrated even into the hushed interior of the church. As the service ended and Valentine rose to her feet, she heard them burst into wild music; the dim, incensed air seemed troubled by their triumphant throb, the gold tapestry to shake with it.

"Is it another victory?" murmured Valentine. The church had emptied, she was alone in it save for two ladies kneeling motionless.

The monks swept out, with a swinging of incense and a low chanting. One only remained, putting out candles about the altar.

Valentine closed her missal and turned to leave. The sun was streaming through the gold and opal window in a dazzling shaft of light, it fell over her face and blinded her for a second. The next, she looked round to see the solitary monk behind her. His head was hidden in his cowl, his arms folded, he passed her without looking up.

"Count Conrad is in Milan," he said, under his breath, and silently and swiftly he was gone.

Valentine, hardly believing she had heard aright, gazed after him wildly, then collecting herself, walked down the aisle, her brain on fire.

Her ladies rose, in waiting, and under no excuse could she prolong her stay.

"Count Conrad is in Milan!"

Did that mean that he would rescue her yet—was it Conrad himself who spoke?

The thought was grateful to her sore, angry heart. She had not much confidence in Count Conrad's skill nor his chances of success—still, he was in Milan, he cared enough to have risked that, and she could wait.

After the dim church the sun was blinding, the crash of the bells deafening. Valentine mounted her horse with a throbbing heart; that whisper in the church had given her new life.

The soldiers formed up either side, behind and before; it would not have been possible for her to drop even her glove unnoticed. She was riding the streets of Milan as her brother's trophy, as his prisoner; every one of those who bowed so humbly to her as she passed, every peasant her guards thrust back from her path, was freer than she.

San' Apollinare was far from the palace, and for that reason Visconti had chosen it. All Milan should see her ride to offer thanksgiving for his victories.

"Surely there is more good news," said Costanza, as they crossed the bridge that spanned the canal; "the air is full of rejoicing, and I have seen many messengers spur past."

Valentine set her teeth, and looked between the spears of her escort at the bright blue water beneath them. All the craft that covered its surface were gay with flags, its depth reflected buildings hung with the banners of the Viper.

"It fills the very air we breathe," shuddered Valentine, "the shadow of the Viper."

Costanza glanced at her.

"I must confess," she replied, "I should be proud an it were my bearing. To be a Visconti on such a day as this would please me well; and though I am your friend, madama, I must say it."

"As do all the others," said Valentine, bitterly. "You are blinded by splendor and power—you see no deeper than the skin!"

"Maybe," said the other lightly. "Yet am I glad the Duke hath triumphed, and not Mastino della Scala, who is as sullen as a peasant, and a foe to all display."

"And his wife?" asked Valentine in a low tone. "Have you no thought for her?"

Costanza shrugged her shoulders.

"Methinks I have done much to show I have! But she is a prisoner of war, and must take her chances like another. Were it the Visconti's wife in such a case—she would not be a prisoner long! Let Mastino della Scala tear her from his foe himself—let him do as Visconti did when the Lady Graziosa was in danger."

"Hold thy tongue," returned Valentine angrily. "You talk as a child—you know not what you say."

"I only know this," retorted the other, "I would I were the Lady Graziosa," and she looked defiantly at Visconti's angry sister.

"For shame, Costanza," said Valentine. "Remember yourself."

They rode in silence till, at the turn of the street, another splendid cavalcade crossed theirs. It was the Lady Graziosa and her suite. Tisio Visconti and d'Orleans were in attendance; she rode a white palfrey.

The sun lay tenderly in her soft hair; her green dress was covered with pearls, and round her throat she wore the emeralds Visconti had promised his sister, the first jewels in Italy, robbed from Della Scala.

Valentine noticed them, she noticed Graziosa's happy face, the joy she took in the homage paid her, in Visconti's success that so galled her, Visconti's sister, and a sudden purpose rose in her eyes.

She smiled sweetly on Graziosa, and rode up to d'Orleans; the Frenchman remarked with pleasure how she outshone the Duke's betrothed. The deep blue of her velvet robe made her skin appear of dazzling fairness, her hair was like burnished gold, her mouth like a red flower, but her eyes, for all her smile, as dangerous as Gian Maria's could be, as mad, almost as wicked.

"We are well met, my lord," she said, smiling. "Have there been even greater victories?"

"I know not, lady; they say something of Lucca having fallen," returned d'Orleans. "I have been escorting the Lady Graziosa to view the new church—by the Duke's orders"; he added in a lower tone, "could I have chosen my companion, it had not been she."

Valentine listened with downcast eyes, playing with the rubies at her wrist. Her escort was grouped about her, and Costanza glanced aside at her curling lips with some mistrust.

"The Lady Graziosa is happier and fair to-day," she whispered to her companion, and Valentine overheard and smiled the more.

"And my brother, the Duke?" she asked.

"I have not seen the Duke all day," replied the Frenchman. "There is talk of an embassy to the enemy—confusion and crowds—"

"You have been riding Milan to see the rejoicings?" interrupted Valentine, and she raised her eyes to Graziosa once—the glance was not pleasant—then she fell to playing with her bracelet again.

"Yes," said Graziosa innocently. "My lord bade me ride to the new church."

She was very happy, and affection welled up in her tender heart, even for the woman who had used her so cruelly—for she was Gian's sister.

With a timid gesture she held out her little hand to Valentine.

"Will you not ride back beside me?" she asked, pleadingly.

But Valentine ignored her hand and her request.

"Have you visited any other churches in your ride?" she asked.

"What other church in Milan should interest the Lady Graziosa?" asked d'Orleans wearily, fearing to be sent back on some distasteful journey.

"I did not know—I thought there might be one—Santa Maria, close to the western gate."

And Valentine looked straight at Graziosa, who paled beneath her tone.

"How should that interest me?" she faltered.

Costanza put her hand on Valentine's sleeve.

"Have a care," she whispered. "Not before them all, madama, for pity's sake!"

But Visconti's sister took no heed; she gathered up her reins and signed to her escort to move on.

"Of course," she said, "why should it interest thee?—there is nothing there—it is only a small, mean church, where a poor, obscure traitor lies on his bier." She looked around the startled faces with a bitter scorn on her own. "Who has heard of him?—one Agnolo Vistarnini—killed by the Duke's orders, killed by thy lover's orders, in the very hour that ye betrayed him to him, Graziosa Vistarnini!"

She flung the words at her as if they had been knives, and if they had been they could not have been more deadly. Without a word, her hand catching at her throat, Graziosa sank from her horse, the scene in an instant one of confusion.

"Dieu! what have you done!" cried d'Orleans, springing from the saddle and raising Graziosa. "Who will answer for this?"

"She will not die of it," said Valentine, scornfully. "She will take care to live—to be Duchess of Milan."

"Oh, shame! shame!" cried Costanza, and several echoed the cry.

"'Twas no gentle act," said d'Orleans, lifting Graziosa, "and heaven save you now, Princess!"

"And our heads may have to pay for it," grumbled the officer who led Graziosa's escort. "Men, see the Princess does not escape, or there will no one of us live to save ourselves."

"Shame! shame!" said the Duke again, as Graziosa, white as death, was laid in a litter. "You have done a mad thing!" And the whole fluttering cavalcade whirled in startled confusion toward the palace.

Valentine looked after them, and there was no remorse in her face.

"You must answer to the Duke for this, madama," said the officer, "and at once."

She turned her horse slowly, and at a quiet pace rode toward the Visconti palace. Costanza began to weep.

"Nothing can save you now, mistress—why did you do it? Oh, why!"

"Count Conrad is in Milan!" was Valentine's answer to herself; and to Costanza she said, coldly, "Do not fear for me. I am too valuable to be meddled with. Even a Visconti would not dare to slay his sister before the Frenchman's eyes."

They entered the courtyard in silence, the soldiers forming up close around her. The cavalcade had ridden slowly, and there was no trace of Graziosa's arrival. The palace seemed quiet. Valentine dismounted as usual, and was mounting the entrance steps when de Lana advanced.

"I have a painful duty to discharge, Princess," he said. "You are my prisoner."

Valentine went white: she had not expected this so swiftly.

"The Lady Graziosa is in danger of her life," continued de Lana.