“They say that I am hard, bloodthirsty and unfeeling,” he said in tones that were almost of complaint. “But I am not proof against so much appeal. Ignacio must find him a bride in Spain; and if he is wise and would taste the sweets of life, he will see to it that he finds him a willing one.”
“As for you two, Cesare Borgia shalt stand your friend. He owes you no less. I will be godfather to your nuptials. Thus shall the blame and consequences rest on me. Paola Sforza di Santafior is dead, men think. We will leave them thinking it. Filippo must know the truth. But you can trust me to make your brother take a reasonable view of what has come to pass. After all, there may be a disparity in your ranks. But it is purely adventitious, for noble though you may be, Madonna Paola, you are wedding one who seems no less noble at heart, whatever the parts he may have played in life.” He smiled inscrutably, as he added: “I have in mind that you once sought service with me Messer Biancomonte, and if a martial life allures you still, I’ll make you lord of something better far than Biancomonte.”
I thanked him, and Madonna joined me in that expression of gratitude—an expression that fell very short of all that was in our hearts. But touching that offer of his that I should follow his fortunes, I begged him not to insist.
“The possession of Biancomonte has from my cradle been the goal of all my hopes. It is patrimony enough for me, and there, with Madonna Paola, I’ll take a long farewell of ambition, which is but the seed of discontent.”
“Why, as you will,” he sighed. And then, before more could be said, there came from the adjoining room a piercing scream.
Cesare raised his head, and his lips parted in the faintest vestige of a smile.
“They are exacting the truth from the Governor of Cesena,” said he. “I think, Madonna, that we had better move a little farther off. Ramiro’s voice makes indifferent music for a lady’s ear.”
She was white as death at the horrid noise and all the things of which it may have reminded her, and so we passed from the antechamber and sought the more distant places of the castle.
Here let me pause. We were married on the morrow which was Christmas eve, and in the grey dawn of the Christmas morning we set out for Biancomonte with the escort which Cesare Borgia placed at our disposal.
As we rode out from the Citadel of Cesena, we saw the last of Ramiro del’ Orca. Beyond the gates, in the centre of the public square, a block stood planted in the snow. On the side nearer the castle there was a dark mass over which a rich mantle had been thrown; it was of purple colour, and in the uncertain light it was not easy to tell where the cloak ended, and the stain that embrued the snow began. On the other side of the block a decapitated head stood mounted on an upright pike, and the sightless eyes of Ramiro del’ Orca looked from his grinning face upon the town of Cesena, which he had so wantonly misruled.