Love-at-Arms, Page 2

  CHAPTER II. ON A MOUNTAIN PATH

  "Armed men, my lords!" had been Fanfulla's cry. "We are betrayed!"

  They looked at one another with stern eyes, and with that grimness thattakes the place which fear would hold in meaner souls.

  Then Aquila rose slowly to his feet, and with him rose the others,looking to their weapons. He softly breathed a name--"Masuccio Torri."

  "Aye," cried Lodi bitterly, "would that we had heeded your warning!Masuccio it will be, and at his heels his fifty mercenaries."

  "Not less, I'll swear, by the sound of them," said Ferrabraccio. "And webut six, without our harness."

  "Seven," the Count laconically amended, resuming his hat and looseninghis sword in its scabbard.

  "Not so, my lord," exclaimed Lodi, laying a hand upon the Count's arm."You must not stay with us. You are our only hope--the only hope ofBabbiano. If we are indeed betrayed--though by what infernal means Iknow not--and they have knowledge that six traitors met here to-night toconspire against the throne of Gian Maria, at least, I'll swear, it isnot known that you were to have met us. His Highness may conjecture,but he cannot know for sure, and if you but escape, all may yet hewell--saving with us, who matter not. Go, my lord! Remember your promiseto seek at your cousin's hand the gonfalon, and may God and His blessedSaints prosper your Excellency."

  The old man caught the young man's hand, and bending his head until hisface was hidden in his long white hair, he imprinted a kiss of fealtyupon it. But Aquila was not so easily to be dismissed.

  "Where are your horses?" he demanded.

  "Tethered at the back. But who would dare ride them at night adown thisprecipice?"

  "I dare for one," answered the young man steadily, "and so shall you alldare. A broken neck is the worst that can befall us, and I would aslief break mine on the rocks of Sant' Angelo as have it broken by theexecutioner of Babbiano."

  "Bravely said, by the Virgin!" roared Ferrabraccio. "To horse, sirs!"

  "But the only way is the way by which they come," Fanfulla remonstrated."The rest is sheer cliff."

  "Why, then, my sweet seducer, we'll go to meet them," rejoinedFerrabraccio gaily. "They are on foot, and we'll sweep over them like amountain torrent. Come, sirs, hasten! They draw nigh."

  "We have but six horses, and we are seven," another objected.

  "I have no horse," said Francesco, "I'll follow you afoot."

  "What?" cried Ferrabraccio, who seemed now to have assumed command ofthe enterprise. "Let our St. Michael bring up the rear! No, no. You, DaLodi, you are too old for this work."

  "Too old?" blazed the old man, drawing himself up to the full height ofwhat was still a very imposing figure, and his eyes seeming to takefire at this reflection upon his knightly worth. "Were the season other,Ferrabraccio, I could crave leave to show you how much of youth there isstill left in me. But----" He paused. His angry eyes had alighted uponthe Count, who stood waiting by the door, and the whole expressionof his countenance changed. "You are right, Ferrabraccio, I grow oldindeed--a dotard. Take you my horse, and begone."

  "But you?" quoth the Count solicitously.

  "I shall remain. If you do your duty well by those hirelings they willnot trouble me. It will not occur to them that one was left behind. Theywill think only of following you after you have cut through them. Go,go, sirs, or all is lost."

  They obeyed him now with a rush that seemed almost to partake of panic.In a frenzied haste Fanfulla and another tore the tetherings loose, anda moment later they were all mounted and ready for that fearful ride.The night was dark, yet not too dark. The sky was cloudless and thicklystarred, whilst a minguant moon helped to illumine the way by which theywere to go. But on that broken and uncertain mountain path the shadowslay thickly enough to make their venture desperate.

  Ferrabraccio claiming a better knowledge than his comrades of the way,placed himself at their head, with the Count beside him. Behind them,two by two, came the four others. They stood on a small ledge inthe shadow of the great cliff that loomed on their left. Thence themountain-side might be scanned--as well as in such a light it was to bediscerned. The tramp of feet had now grown louder and nearer, and withit came the clank of armour. In front of them lay the path which sloped,for a hundred yards or more, to the first corner. Below them, on theright, the path again appeared at the point where it jutted out for somehalf-dozen yards in its zigzag course, and there Fanfulla caught thegleam of steel, reflecting the feeble moonlight. He drew Ferrabraccio'sattention to it, and that stout warrior at once gave the word to start.But Francesco interposed.

  "If we do so," he objected, "we shall come upon them past the corner,and at that corner we shall be forced to slacken speed to avoid beingcarried over the edge of the cliff. Besides, in such a strait our horsesmay fail us, and refuse the ground. In any event, we shall not descendupon them with the same force as we shall carry if we wait until theycome into a straight line with us. The shadows here will screen us fromthem meanwhile."

  "You are right, Lord Count. We will wait," was the ready answer. Andwhat time they waited he grumbled lustily.

  "To be caught in such a trap as this! Body of Satan! It was a madness tohave met in a hut with but one approach."

  "We might perhaps have retreated down the cliff behind," said Francesco.

  "We might indeed--had we been sparrows or mountain cats. But being men,the way we go is the only way--and a mighty bad way it is. I should liketo be buried at Sant' Angelo, Lord Count," he continued whimsically. "Itwill be conveniently near; for once I go over the mountain-side, I'llswear naught will stop me until I reach the valley--a parcel of brokenbones."

  "Steady, my friends," murmured the voice of Aquila. "They come."

  And round that fateful corner they were now swinging into view--acompany in steel heads and bodies with partisan on shoulder. A momentthey halted now, so that the waiting party almost deemed itselfobserved. But it soon became clear that the halt was to the end that thestragglers might come up. Masuccio was a man who took no chances; everyknave of his fifty would he have before he ventured the assault.

  "Now," murmured the Count, tightening his hat upon his brow, so thatit might the better mask his features. Then rising in his stirrups,and raising his sword on high, he let his voice be heard again. But nolonger in a whisper. Like a trumpet-call it rang, echoed and re-echoedup the mountain-side.

  "Forward! St. Michael and the Virgin!"

  That mighty shout, followed as it was by a thunder of hooves, gave pauseto the advancing mercenaries. Masuccio's voice was heard, calling tothem to stand firm; bidding them kneel and ward the charge withtheir pikes; assuring them with curses that they had but to deal withhalf-dozen men. But the mountain echoes were delusive, and that thunderof descending hooves seemed to them not of a half-dozen but of aregiment. Despite Masuccio's imprecations the foremost turned, and inthat moment the riders were upon them, through them and over them, likethe mighty torrent of which Ferrabraccio had spoken.

  A dozen Swiss went down beneath that onslaught, and another dozen thathad been swept aside and over the precipice were half-way to the valleybefore that cavalcade met any check. Masuccio's remaining men strovelustily to stem this human cataract, now that they realised how smallwas the number of their assailants. They got their partisans to work,and for a few moments the battle raged hot upon that narrow way. The airwas charged with the grind and ring of steel, the stamping of men andhorses and the shrieks and curses of the maimed.

  The Lord of Aquila, ever foremost, fought desperately on. Not only withhis sword fought he, but with his horse as well. Rearing the beast onits hind legs, he would swing it round and let it descend where least itwas expected, laying about him with his sword at the same time. In vainthey sought to bring down his charger with their pikes; so swift andfurious was his action, that before their design could be accomplished,he was upon those that meditated it, scattering them out of reach tosave their skins.

  In this ferocious manner he cleared a way before him, and luck
servedhim so well that what blows were wildly aimed at him as he dashed bywent wide of striking him. At last he was all but through the press, andbut three men now fronted him. Again his charger reared, snorting, andpawing the air like a cat, and two of the three knaves before him fledincontinently aside. But the third, who was of braver stuff, dropped onone knee and presented his pike at the horse's belly. Francesco made awild attempt to save the roan that had served him so gallantly, but hewas too late. It came down to impale itself upon that waiting partisan.With a hideous scream the horse sank upon its slayer, crushing himbeneath its mighty weight, and hurling its rider forward on to theground. In an instant he was up and had turned, for all that he washalf-stunned by his fall and weakened by the loss of blood froma pike-thrust in the shoulder--of which he had hitherto remainedunconscious in the heat of battle. Two mercenaries were bearing downupon him--the same two that had been the last to fall back before him.He braced himself to meet them, thinking that his last hour was indeedcome, when Fanfulla degli Arcipreti, who had followed him closelythrough the press, now descended upon his assailants from behind, androde them down. Beside the Count he reined up, and stretched down hishand.

  "Mount behind me, Excellency," he urged him.

  "There is not time," answered Francesco, who discerned a half-dozenfigures hurrying towards them. "I will cling to your stirrup-leather,thus. Now spur!" And without waiting for Fanfulla to obey him, he caughtthe horse a blow with the flat of his sword across the hams, which sentit bounding forward. Thus they continued now that perilous descent,Fanfulla riding, and the Count half-running, half-swinging from hisstirrup. At last, when they had covered a half-mile in this fashion,and the going had grown easier, they halted that the Count might mountbehind his companion, and as they now rode along at an easier paceFrancesco realised that he and Fanfulla were the only two that had comethrough that ugly place. The gallant Ferrabraccio, hero of a hundredstrenuous battles, had gone to the ignoble doom which half in jest hehad prophesied himself. His horse had played him false at the outset ofthe charge, and taking fright it had veered aside despite his efforts tocontrol it, until, losing its foothold, man and beast had gone hurtlingover the cliff. Amerini, Fanfulla had seen slain, whilst the remainingtwo, being both unhorsed, would doubtless be the prisoners of Masuccio.

  Some three miles beyond Sant' Angelo, Fanfulla's weary horse splashedacross a ford of the Metauro, and thus, towards the second hour ofnight, they gained the territory of Urbino, where for the time theymight hold themselves safe from all pursuit.