Leonora D'Orco: A Historical Romance

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XXXIX.

"Prefect of Romagna!" said Ramiro d'Orco to himself, walking up and down his private cabinet in the castle of Imola; "that may create a conflict of jurisdictions with the vicars of the Church. It is an awkward office to give or to hold."

He spoke in a low voice to himself, and though his words were serious, and implied a difficulty of some magnitude, there was an unwonted smile upon his lip, as if there was something that satisfied him well.

He rang a little silver bell which stood upon the table, and when a servant appeared, ordered him to seek for Father Peter and bring him thither. The man was a long time absent, but Ramiro d'Orco sat quietly, with that well-pleased smile on his lip, gazing at some papers before him, but quite unconscious of the characters with which they were covered. What were his meditations, who can say? for some smiles are not altogether pleasant; and his was far from being benign.

At length the friar appeared--now in reality a friar, for there were strange transformations in those days; assassins sometimes became friars, and friars were not unfrequently assassins.

"Sit, good father, sit," said Ramiro d'Orco, "I have news for you."

"Good news, I hope, my lord," replied Mardocchi. "I have some news for you, too; but mine is not the best; however, it matters but little."

"Mine matters much," said Ramiro d'Orco. "What think you, Mardocchi? Our friend, Lorenzo Visconti, has been appointed by the pope, at the instigation of Louis XII., King of France, Prefect of Romagna, and is about, in this fine weather, to make a tour through the exarchate and the legations. He must come to Imola of course; and I have letters here from that high and mighty prince Cæsar, Duke of Valentinois, requiring me, by the favour in which I stand with him, to receive the prefect with all due honour, and to make his time pass pleasantly. We will do it, Mardocchi--we will do it; for, although there is a very palpable hint in Borgia's missive that no harm is to be done to the cousin of King Louis, yet, perhaps, we can so manage that he shall find means to harm himself. He has an army at his back to help Cæsar Borgia in carving out a principality from the heart of Italy; but the vicars of the Holy See, and I as the humblest of them, must reverently crave his Holiness to spare us the burden of the prefect's troops. We will receive him gladly with a noble train, but methinks we cannot admit an armed French force within our walls."

"Of course," replied Mardocchi, "that would be selling yourself to the devil without pay. But I should think he would not come to Imola. He cannot like to show himself before your eyes--and, if he did come, it would be somewhat painful to the signora your daughter."

"He will come--he will come," replied Ramiro; "and he shall be gallantly received. Fêtes and festivals shall greet him; he shall have every reverence and every joy. He shall be taught to think that we can forget as easily as he can; but he shall find that to slight the daughter of Ramiro d'Orco is to tread upon an asp. As for my Leonora, she has a proud and a noble heart. I have seen all the struggles--I have marked the terrible conflict in her breast, and she has come out victorious. My word for it, she will meet the young prefect and his fair wife with all calm courtesy, greet him as an old friend, and seem never to remember that he betrayed her unsuspecting heart, slighted her love, and left her to disappointment and regret."

"That is all very good for the beginning," said Mardocchi, who was quite a practical man; "but how does your lordship intend to proceed in the more weighty part of the business? This Lorenzo Visconti is not so easily reached as people might suppose. I told you how he killed my friend and lord, Buondoni, under the very nose of the Duke of Milan--a better man than Signor Buondoni never lived--and, if my advice had been taken, and a dagger used instead of a sword, the youth would not have troubled us any more; but Buondoni was always fond of the sword, and of doing things openly, and so----"

"I know the whole history better than even you do, my friend," replied Ramiro d'Orco; "Buondoni did like the sword, but he liked it well anointed, and this Lorenzo would have died had I not cured him. His life is mine, for I saved it for him; but as to how I shall proceed I cannot yet determine. That must depend upon the time and circumstances of his coming; but I have thought it needful to have you warned and prepared in the matter; for on your skill and assistance I rely, and you know I never forget services rendered any more than offences given."

Mardocchi made no answer for a few minutes, but remained gazing in silent thought upon the ornamented floor, until, at length, Ramiro exclaimed:

"You make no answer, friar; what are you thinking of?"

"I was thinking," said Mardocchi slowly, "of what a glorious thing it would be if we could so entangle him that we could make him not only forfeit his own life, but also that honour and renown of which he is so proud. Such things have been done, my lord, and may be done again. I have heard that when Galeazzo was Duke of Milan, he got a cavalier to poison his own sister to save her honour, as he thought, then proved the crime upon him, and put him to the rack. Now, this Lorenzo, if I have heard rightly, cares little for mere life--nay, would almost thank the man who took it from him."

"Why so?" asked Ramiro, sharply, a sudden doubt flashing across his mind, like a light in a dark night lost again as soon as seen; "why so, friar?"

"If there be any truth," said Mardocchi, fully on his guard, "in the reports brought by the followers of the great duke from France, this wife whom he has wedded is as light a piece of vanity as ever made a husband miserable. Nothing has been proved against her, but there are many suspicions of her faithlessness. She is ever followed by a train of lovers, giving her smiles now to the one, now to the other. Visconti feels the wound with all the bitterness of a proud heart, but cannot find the cure. In the meanwhile he bears himself carelessly, as if he thought not of it; but Antonio Pistrucci, Duke Cæsar's under purse-bearer, assured me that the young man was weary of his life, and that, at the storming of a castle in Navarre, he so clearly sought to lose it that the whole army saw his purpose. What I would infer, my lord, is this: if you give him merely death, you give him what he wants, and he remains unpunished but if you give him dishonour too, you inflict all that other men feel in death, and something more besides."

"That were hard to accomplish," said Ramiro d'Orco, rising, and pacing backward and forward in the room; "I see not how it can be done."

"We have time to think, my lord," replied the friar; "leave me to devise a scheme. If my brain be better than a mouldy biscuit, I will find some means. If I fail, we can always recur to the ordinary plan."

"Well, ingenuity does much," said Ramiro d'Orco; "and, as you say, Mardocchi, there is time to consider our plans well. But you mentioned news you had to bring me: what may be their purport?"

"'Tis no great matter," answered Mardocchi; "but it bears upon the very subject we have spoken of. As I came hither at your lordship's order, I saw, riding in by the Forli gate, no other than an old friend of mine, one Antonio, whom you know well, for he procured me the honour of your service. I know not whether he is a follower of this Lorenzo still, but I should think he is; and if I can find him in the city, where he must stop at least to bait his horse, I can perhaps procure information which may be serviceable."

"Serviceable indeed," replied Ramiro d'Orco, with more eagerness than he was accustomed to show; "hasten down, good friar. See where he lodges; obtain all the news you can from him. What we most want is information of this young man's plans and purposes. That once obtained, we can shape our own course to meet them. But remember, my good Mardocchi, this man, this Antonio, is a personage to be treated warily. He is shrewd and far-seeing. You must guard well every word you say."

"I know him well, my lord," replied Mardocchi. "We were at school together when we were boys, and he is not much changed since. But I will not waste time in talking. He was riding fast when I saw him, and perhaps he may only stop to bait his horse and get some food for himself."

Thus saying, Mardocchi left the room, and proceeded straight from the castle through the sort of esplanade that lay before the gates, and into the town. He walked fast, but with a meditative air; and it must be remembered that he had many things to consider.

When there is in the human heart a consciousness of evil done, there is always more or less fear; and his first thoughts were directed to calculate what where the chances of explanations taking place between Lorenzo Visconti and Ramiro d'Orco if they ever met again on familiar terms.

He soon saw, however, that those chances were small; that Lorenzo, by his marriage, had placed a barrier between the present and the past, that was not likely to be overleaped; and that while he was certain never to seek explanations himself, there was as little probability of Ramiro or Leonora either giving or receiving them.

"Besides," he argued, "if all the explanations in the world took place, they can prove nothing in the world against me."

The next consideration that presented itself was the promise he made Antonio to practise nothing against his lord's life; and though it may seem strange that a man so utterly unscrupulous should attach such importance to an adherence to his word, yet we see such anomalies every day in human character, and in his case it might easily be explained, if we had time or space to bestow upon it.

Suffice it, however, to say, in a few words, that this adherence to his word, once pledged, was the only virtue he had retained through life. A stubborn adhesion to his resolutions of any kind had characterized him even as a boy, and it had become a matter of pride with him to abide by what he had said. The difficulty with him now was that Ramiro d'Orco would indubitably require assistance from his own hand in taking vengeance upon Lorenzo Visconti, if some means could not be found to betray the young nobleman into some dangerous act which would fall back upon his own head.

This scheme had flashed suddenly through his mind while conversing with Ramiro; and he saw in it the only means of escaping from the breach of his word, or the acknowledgment of scruples which he knew would be treated with contempt. The plan when he first suggested it, was without form or feature; but now his busy and crafty brain eagerly pursued the train, and a thousand schemes suggested themselves, some of which were feasible, some wild and hopeless.

During all this time, however, he forgot not his immediate errand. He watched everything passing in the street around him, and looked in at the two small taverns in the street of the citadel. There was a better inn, however, on the small square by the bishop's palace, where were also most of the best houses of the city, and thither Mardocchi bent his way. On reaching it, he entered the great court-yard, and inquired if any strangers had arrived that day.

"Yes, father," replied the ostler to whom he spoke, "some seven or eight; one gentleman, with four or five servants and three sumpter mules, and two or three other persons."

"I will go into the stable and see the horses, my son," said Mardocchi. "You know I am fond of a fine beast, and my own mule has not its match in Imola."

The two strolled onward to the stable door, conversing familiarly, as was the custom with friar and citizen in those days; and Mardocchi passed down the line of stalls, discussing the merits of the horses, till at length he laid his hand upon the haunch of a fine grey barb, saying, "I want to see the man who rode this horse."

"He is within, at dinner in the hall," answered the ostler. "He came himself to see his horse fed while they got ready for him. He is a careful signor, and marks everything he sees. He told me in a minute that those other horses belong to the great maestro Leonardo da Vinci though he did not know him, for they passed each other close without speaking."

"I will go in and see him," said the friar; and entering the inn by the back way, he strolled into the dining-hall with an indifferent and purposeless look, as if there was no object in his coming.

Antonio was sitting alone at a table, with his back towards the door by which Mardocchi entered; but the tread of the latter upon the rushes which strewed the floor made the other turn sharply round as he came near.

"Ah! Signor Antonio, is that you?" exclaimed Mardocchi; "why what, in Fortune's name, brings you to Imola?"

"Well met, father---father what is your name? for, by my faith, I have forgotten," cried Antonio, keeping his eye fixed upon him more firmly than Mardocchi altogether liked; "and what brings you to the Keys of St. Peter? I thought that taverns and public-houses were forbidden to your sacred calling except in time of travel."

"Many things are forbidden that men do," replied Mardocchi, with a laugh; "and my sacred calling does not prevent my throat from getting dry. I came seeking a small flagon of the wine they have here, which is the best in Italy. Have you tasted it?"

"Good faith! no," answered Antonio; "I thought not to find anything worth drinking in this small, dull place."

"Then I will have a big flagon instead of a small one," rejoined Mardocchi, "and you shall share it with me. Here, drawer! drawer! bring me a big flagon of that same old Orvietto wine which I had when last I was here. You mistake much, Signor Antonio, both as to the wine and as to the place. It is no dull town, I can tell you, but as gay a city as any in Italy."

"It will be gayer before we have done with it," replied Antonio, "for there are high doings where my lady is, and she will be here ere many days are over."

"Indeed!" said Mardocchi; "but taste that wine, my son--taste that wine, and tell me if ever you drank better. Sour stuff we used to have where I passed my novitiate. They were strict in nothing but that, Antonio; but it was the rule of the order that the body must be mortified in some way, and they judged that the wine way was the safest; for, there being taverns not far off, a man might mend his drink when he went out to buy for the convent."

"By my faith! it is good, indeed," said Antonio, after a deep draught; "if the meat be as good as the drink, we shall fare well."

"Nowhere better," replied the friar; "woodcocks with bills that long, and breasts that thick" (and he demonstrated the measures on his arm and hand); "beef as fat and as juicy as if it had been cut out of an abbot's sirloin; fish from the Adriatic and the brook for Fridays; and now and then a wild-boar steak, which would make a hermit break Lent."

"Well then, my lady will fare sumptuously, and I shall be spared scolding the purveyors, as I was obliged to do at Forli," was Antonio's reply.

"But you speak only of your lady," remarked Mardocchi; "does not your lord come likewise?"

"That I cannot tell," answered Antonio; "I only know that she comes first, and waits for him here, while he makes a tour through the legations. He thinks the air of Rome too cool for her health, and, as he is very careful of her, she comes hither."

There was a sly humour in his speech which Mardocchi well understood; and he asked, "But why did he choose Imola for her residence; because he thought it was so dull, as you said just now?"

"He did not choose it," replied Antonio; "no, no, 'twas she. He gave her the choice of several cities around, and she chose Imola. She knew, perhaps, it was the place he would least like; for some of the good-natured babblers of the court had taken care to tell her of certain passages in days past, and also that the lady of his early love lived here. Madonna Eloise might think it would give him pain to meet a dame who had treated him so unkindly, and so she chose Imola."

"Theirs must be a sweet life, by all accounts," said the friar; "I have heard a good deal of this matter before from men in the cardinal's train when he went to France. They say she is unfaithful to him."

"Nay, nay, not unfaithful," replied Antonio, quickly, "but light enough to make men think her so. But now, my good friend Mardocchi, what makes you interest yourself so much in all this matter? You have got over all old grudges by this time, I hope."

"No," answered Mardocchi bluntly, "I never forget grudges or promises either, Antonio. You tied my hands, or I would have sent your lord to a better world long ago. I could have taken his life in the French camp, just when he parted from the old Cardinal Julian; for I was close behind them both, and nobody would have known it."

"I should," replied Antonio, "for I know your handiwork, Mardocchi, just as a connoisseur knows the touch of a great master's pencil. But why should you bear him ill-will? His sword got you a much better master than Buondoni."

"That I deny," said Mardocchi; "besides, I am little with this Signor Ramiro now; I am but a poor friar, and he is great lord."

"Yes, but you are much with greater lords than he," said Antonio. "I have heard of you in Rome, Mardocchi; and I could tell where you were on certain nights which you wot of; but I am as secret as the grave, my good friend. Now tell me how it fares with the Lady Leonora?"

"Oh, she is well, and gay as a sunbeam," replied Mardocchi; "the life and the delight of the city."

"Methinks if I had treated a lover so, first broke his heart and then driven him to wed without love, I should not be quite so happy," was Antonio's answer.

"It is strange," said the friar, in a natural tone; "but women are full of wild caprices."

"That is true, indeed," replied Antonio; "but she might at least have written to say she had changed her mind--that her mood was altered--that she had seen some one else she loved better."

"Did she never write?" asked the friar.

"He never received her letter, if she did," answered Antonio, in a tone so peculiar that Mardocchi's cheek changed colour, not unperceived by his companion. But Antonio instantly sought another subject, and the conversation was prolonged for more than an hour. The wine was very good, and both drank deep; but neither could persuade the other to pass the bound where the brain becomes unsteady and the tongue treacherous. When they rose to separate, the balance of knowledge gained, however, was certainly on Antonio's side. He had told nothing but what was known, or soon would be known to every one. Neither had the monk in words; but Antonio gathered not his intelligence from words. It was one of his quaint sayings that no two things were so opposite as words and facts. But every look, every turn of expression, every doubtful phrase, or endeavour to evade the point or double round the question, gave him light; and by the time Mardocchi left him, if he had not reached the truth, he had come somewhat near it.

True, he fancied that the friar had been but Ramiro's instrument in breaking through the engagement between Leonora and her lover; but that her letters had been stopped, and probably Lorenzo's intercepted, he did not doubt. To a mind so keen as his this was a sufficient clue to after discoveries; and while Mardocchi hurried back to the citadel to tell Ramiro that Antonio would stay out the day, and was about to hire the great Casa Orsina, next to the bishop's palace, for the prefect's wife--that she would be in Imola in a few days, and that Lorenzo's coming was uncertain, Antonio remained for half an hour in thought.

"No, no," he said to himself, "hers was true love, if ever I beheld it; and he says she is gay, the life and soul of the place. That is unnatural--she loves him still! And he, poor youth, loves her; and is ever contrasting her in his mind with this light, half-harlot wife, with whom it has pleased Heaven to curse him. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at her--I can see it when she scatters round her smiles on the gilded coxcombs of the court. Yet there must be something more to discover, and, please God, I will discover it."