Читать книгу The Mysteries of Florence - George Lippard - Страница 5

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From the clear azure of the summer sky, the mid-day sun shone over the lofty battlements and massive towers of an ancient castle, which, rising amid the heights of a precipitous rock, lay basking in the warm atmosphere; while along the spacious court-yard, and among the nooks and crevices of the dark gray walls, the mellow beams fell lazily, gilding each point they touched, and turning the blackened rocks to brightened gold, with the voluptuous light of a summer noon.

The massive cliff, from whose stern foundations the castle arose, sank suddenly, with a precipitous descent, into the bed of the valley, while around, venerable with the grandeur of ages, swept the magnificent forest, with its mass of verdure mellowing in the sunlight; and, winding on its way of silver, a broad and rapid stream, gleaming from the deep green foliage, now gave each wave and ripple to the kiss of day, and now, sweeping in its shadowy nooks, sheltered its beauty from the dazzling light.

Far along the view, forest towered over forest, and sloping meadows, dotted with cottages, succeeded shelving fields, golden with wheat, or gay with vines; while many a pleasant hill-side arose from amid the embowering woods, with the peaceful summit sleeping in the sun-light, and the straight shadows of the still noon resting along the depths of the valley, from which it greenly ascended.

Along the edge of the horizon, amid the tall peaks of the far-off mountains, summer clouds, vast and gorgeous, lay basking in the sunlight, with their fantastic forms, of every hue and shape—now dark, now bright, now golden, now gray, and again white as the new-fallen snow—all clearly and delicately relieved by the back-ground of azure, transparent and glassy as the sky of some voluptuous dream.

The hour was still and solemn, with the peculiar silence and solemnity of the high noon; the broad banner floated heavily from the loftiest tower of the castle, unruffled by a whisper of the wind; and along the court-yard, and throughout the castle, a death-like silence reigned, which betokened any thing save the presence of numerous bodies of armed men within the castle walls.

The sentinels who waited at the castle gate, rested indolently upon their pikes, and glancing over the spacious court-yard, marked, with a look of discontent, the absence of all signs of animation from those walls which had so often rung with sounds of gay carousal and shouts of merriment. All was still and solemn where, in days by-gone, not a sound had awoke the echoes of the time-darkened walls save the loud laugh of the careless reveller, the merry carol of the minstrel, or the glee-song of the banquet hall.

A footstep—a mailed and booted footstep—broke the silence of the air, and presently, appearing from the shadow of the lofty hall door of the castle, a stout and strong-limbed soldier emerged into the light of the sun. As he descended the steps of stone, he paused for a moment, and glanced around the court-yard. Stout, without being bulky in figure, the person of the yeoman was marked by broad shoulders, a chest massive and prominent, arms that were all bone and muscle, and legs that discovered the bold and rugged outline of strong physical power, hardened by fatigue and toil.

He raised his cap of buff, surmounted by a dark plume, and plated with steel, from his brow, and the sunbeams fell upon a rugged countenance, darkened by the sun, and seamed by innumerable wrinkles, with a low, yet massive forehead, a nose short, straight, yet prominent, a wide mouth, with thin lips, and cheek-bones high and bold in outline, while his clear blue eyes, with their quick and varying glance, afforded a strange contrast to his toil-hardened and sunburnt features. Around his throat, and over his prominent chin, grew a thick and rugged beard, dark as his eyebrows in hue, while his hair, slightly touched by age, and worn short and close, gave a marked outline to his head, that completed the expression of dogged courage and blunt frankness visible in every lineament of his countenance.

Attired in doublet and hose of buff, defended by a plate of massive steel on the breast, with smaller plates on each arm and leg, the yeoman wore boots of slouching buckskin, while a broad belt of darkened leather, thrown over his manly chest, supported the short, straight sword, which depended from his left side.

Having glanced along the court-yard, and marked the sentinels waiting lazily beside the castle gate, the yeoman’s eye wandered to the banner which clung heavily around the towering staff, and then depositing his cap on his head with an air of discontent, as he again surveyed the castle yard—

“St. Withold!” he cried, in a voice as rugged as his face—“St. Withold! but some foul spell of the fiend’s own making has fallen upon these old walls! All dull—all dead—all leaden! Even yon flag, which kissed the breeze of the Holy Land, not three months agone, looks dull and drowsy. ‘Slife! a man might as well be dead as live in this manner. No feasting—no songs—no carousing! Ugh! A pest take it all, I say! No jousts—no tournaments—no mellays! The foul fiend take it, I say; and Sathanas wither the heathen hand that winged the poisoned javelin at my knightly Lord—Julian, Count of this gallant castle Di Albarone! The foul fiend wither the hand of the paynim dog, I say!”

“Ha, ha, ha! my good Robin,” laughed a clear and youthful voice, “by my troth, thou’rt sadly out of temper! What has ruffled thee, my buff-and-buckskin? Holy Mary—what a face!”

Robin turned, and beheld the slender form of a daintily appareled youth, whose full cheeks were wrinkled with laughter, while his merry hazel eyes seemed dancing in the light of their own glee.

“Out of temper!” exclaimed rough Robin, as he glanced at the laughing youth; “out of temper! By St. Withold! there’s good reason for’t, too. Look ye, my bird of a page, never since I left the service of mine own native prince, the brave Richard, of the Lion Heart—never since the day when the gallant Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword drew his sword in the wars of Palestine, under the banner of Count Julian Di Albarone, have I felt so sick, so wearied in heart, as I do this day—mark ye, my page! ‘Out of temper,’ forsooth! Answer me, then, popinjay—does not our gallant Lord Julian lie wasting away in yon sick-chamber, with the poison of an incurable wound eating his very heart? Answer me that, Guiseppo.”

“Ay, marry does he, my good Robin,” the page answered, as he played with a jeweled chain that hung from his neck; “but then thou knowest he will recover. He will again mount his war-horse! Ay, my good Lord Julian will again lead armies to battle in the wilds of Palestine! He will, by my troth, Rough Robin!”

“I fear me, never, never,” the yeoman replied, in a subdued tone. “Look ye, Guiseppo, what dost think of this thin-faced half-brother of the Count, the scholar Aldarin? There’s a mystery about the man—I like him not. Thy master, the Duke of Florence, hath now been three days at this good castle of Albarone—why is he so much in the company of this keen-eyed Aldarin? By St. Withold! I like it not. Marry, boy, but the devil’s a-brewing a pretty pot of yeast for somebody’s bread! Guiseppo, canst tell me naught concerning the object of the visit of thy master, the Duke, to this castle—hey, boy?”

“Why, Robin,” replied the page, as, placing one small hand on either side of his slender waist, he glanced at the yeoman with a sidelong look; “why, Robin, didst ever hear of—of—the fair Ladye Annabel? Eh, Robin?”

“The fair Ladye Annabel! Tut! boy, thou triflest with me. The fair Ladye Annabel—she is the lovely daughter of this crusty old scholar. Her mother was an Eastern woman; and the fair girl first saw the light in the wilds of Palestine, when the scholar Aldarin accompanied his brother thither. Marry, ’tis more than sixteen—seventeen years since. ’Tis long ago—very long. By St. Withold! those were merry days. But come, sir page, why name the Ladye Annabel and the Duke in the same breath?”

The restless Guiseppo sprang aside with a nimble movement, and then folding his arms, stood at the distance of a few paces, regarding the stout yeoman with a look of mock gravity and solemn humor.

“What wouldst give to know, Robin?” he exclaimed, with a peculiar contortion of his mirthful face. “Hark ye, my stout yeoman, ‘My Lord Duke of Florence and the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.’ Dost like the sound? What says my rough soldier, now?”

“I see a light,” slowly responded Robin; “I see a light!” and he slowly drew his sword half-way from the scabbard. “But as yet ’tis but a pestilent Jack o’ lanthorn light, dancing about a tangled marsh of pits and bogs, with plenty o’hidden traps to catch honest men by the heels, i’ faith. Annabel and the Duke! Ho—ho! Then the game’s up with the son o’ th’ Count—my Lord Adrian?”

“Wag that clumsy tongue o’ thine with a spice o’ caution, Robin,” whispered the merry page. “See, the sharp-faced steward o’ th’ castle draws nigh, and with him a group of sworn grumblers. The four old esquires who followed our lord to battle in the wilds o’ Palestine—a soldier, with a carbuncled visage, and a lounging servitor, the huntsman o’ th’ castle. Hark! didst ever hear such eloquent growling?”

And as Robin turned to listen, he beheld the strangely contrasted party lounging slowly along the castle yard, with the indolent gait of men having little to do save to eat, to drink, to sleep, and to gossip, while around them the lazy hours of the silent castle-walls dragged onward with wings of lead.

“Talk not to me of thrift, sir steward,” cried the bluff-faced and thick-headed huntsman. “When my Lord, Count Julian, was well—not a day passed but a lusty buck was steaming on the castle hearth—”

“Wine flowed like water,” chimed in the soldier with the fiery nose. “Your true soldier swore by his beaker alone—”

“Now!” interrupted the sharp-faced steward, waving his thin hands, and with an expressive shrug of the shoulders; “now, my lord the Count is sick. The scholar Aldarin hath the rule. Tell me, sir huntsman, and you, sir, of the fiery nose, is there any waste o’ flesh or liquor in the castle? Is not the signer careful of the beeves of my lord. No longer are we quiet folks disturbed by your carousings: no silly dances, no rude catches o’ vile camp-follower songs! By the Virgin, no!”

“By the true wood o’ th’ cross, sir steward, thou’rt a rare one!” growled a white-haired esquire, as his scarred and sunburnt visage was turned angrily toward the sharp-faced steward. “Dost think men o’ mettle are made o’ such broomstick bones and mud-puddle blood as thou? Body o’ Bacchus, no! ‘No carousing!’ I’d e’en like to see thee on a jolly carouse!”

“Say rather, sir esquire,” Robin the Rough exclaimed, as the party reached his side, “say rather, you’d e’en wish to see a death’s-head making mirth at a feast, or a funeral procession strike up a jolly fandango! Sir steward at a feast!—the owl at a gathering o’ nightingales!”

The sharped-faced steward was about to make an angry reply, when a sudden thrill ran through the party. Each tongue was stilled, and each man stood motionless in the full glare of the noon-day sun.

“Hist! The Signor Aldarin approaches,” whispered the page Guiseppo. “He comes from the castle gate along to the castle hall.”

And as each head was stealthily turned over the shoulder toward the castle gate, there came gliding along, with cat-like steps and downcast look, a man of severe aspect, whose gray eye—cold, flashing, and clear, in its unchangeable glance—seemed as though it could read the very heart.

A tunic of dark velvet, disclosing the spare outlines of his slim figure, reached to his ankles, and over this garment, depending from his right shoulder, he wore a robe of similar color, passed under his left arm, joined in front by a chain of gold, and then falling in sweeping folds to his sandaled feet.

A cap of dark fur, bright with a single gem of strange lustre, gave a striking relief to his high, pale forehead, seamed by a single deep wrinkle, shooting upward from between the eyebrows, while his gray hair fell in slight masses down along the hollow cheeks and over his neck and shoulders.

“This is the—scholar!” growled one of the white-haired esquires. “His days have been passed in the laboratory, while his brother’s sword hath flashed at the head of armies.”

“The saints preserve me from the wizard-tribe, say I!” muttered Robin the Rough; and as he spoke, with an involuntary movement of fear, the party separated on either side of the castle hall, leaving room for the passage of the Signor Aldarin.

He came slowly onward, with his head downcast, neither looking to the one side nor to the other. He ascended the steps of stone, and in a moment was lost to the view of the loiterers in the castle yard.

The hall of the castle passed, a passage traversed, and another stairway ascended, the stooping scholar stood in a small ante-chamber, with the light of the noon-day sun subdued to a twilight obscurity by the absence of windows from the place, while an evening gloom hung around the narrow walls, the arching ceiling of darkened stone, and the floor of tesselated marble. A single casement, long and narrow, reaching from floor to arch, gave entrance to a straggling beam of daylight, disclosing the stout and muscular form of a man-at-arms, with armor and helmet of steel, who, pike in hand, waited beside a massive door, opening into one of the principal apartments of the castle.

With a soft, gliding footstep, the Signor Aldarin glided along the tesselated floor, and stood beside the man-at-arms, ere he was aware of his approach.

“Ha! Balvardo, thou keepest strict watch beside the sick chamber of my lord.” The words broke from the Signor Aldarin. “Hast obeyed my behest?”

“E’en so, my lord,” the sentinel began, in a rough, surly tone.

“How, vassal! Dost name me with the title of my brother? Have a care, good Balvardo, have a care!”

“He chides me in a rough voice,” murmured the sentinel, as though speaking to his own ear; “and yet a wild light flashes over his features at the word. Signor, I but mistook the word—a slip o’ th’ tongue,” he exclaimed aloud. “Thy behests have been obeyed. No one has been suffered to pass into the chamber of my Lord Di Albarone since morning dawn, save the fair Ladye Annabel, who waits beside the couch of the wounded knight.”

“Come hither, Balvardo. Look from this narrow window: mark you well the dial-plate in the castle yard. In a few moments the shadow will sweep across the path of high noon. When high noon and the shadow meet, thy charge is over. The soothing potion which I gave my brother at daybreak, will have taken its proper effect. Until that moment, keep strict watch: let not a soul enter the Red Chamber on the peril of thy life!”

And with the command, the Signor swept from the ante-chamber, gliding along a corridor opposite the one from which he had just emerged, and his low footsteps in a moment had ceased to echo along the dark old arches.

“He is gone,” the sentinel murmured, slowly pacing the tesselated floor. “He comes like a cat—he glides hence like a ghost. Hark! footsteps from opposite corridors meeting in this ante-chamber. By’r Lady! here comes Adrian, the son of this sick lord, and from the opposite gallery emerges the monk Albertine, the tool and counsellor of my Lord of Florence. ’Tis a moody monk and a shrewd boy. I’faith, there’s a pair o’ ’em.”

And as he spoke, sweeping from the shadows of the northern gallery came a dark-robed monk, walking with hastened step, his arms folded on his breast, and his head drooped low, as if in thought, while the outlines of his face were enveloped in the folds of his priestly cowl. And as he swept onward toward the centre of the ante-chamber, from the southern gallery, with slow and solemn steps, advanced a youth of some twenty summers, attired in the gay dress of a cavalier, with a frank, open visage, marked by the lines of premature thought, and relieved by rich and luxuriant locks of golden hair sweeping along each cheek down to the shoulders.

“Whither speed ye, Lord Adrian?” exclaimed the deep, sonorous voice of the monk, as the twain met breast to breast in the centre of the rich mosaic floor. “Whither speed ye, heir of Albarone, at this hour?”

“Whither do I speed?” cried the cavalier, starting with sudden surprise. “Sir monk, I wend to the sick-chamber of my father.”

The monk grasped the cavalier suddenly by the right hand, and raised it as suddenly in the light of the sunbeams streaming through the solitary window.

“An hour since, this hand was graced by a signet ring: the signet ring which has been an heirloom in thy house for centuries. Dost remember the prophecy spoken of that strange ring? Dost remember the rude lines of the vandal seer:

‘While treasured and holily worn,

An omen of glory and good:

When from the hand the ruby is torn,

An omen of doom and of blood.’”

“Sir monk, the lines are rude; yet I mind me well the words of the prophecy, are an household sound to an heir of Albarone. Yet why this sudden grasp of my hand? Why thus urgent? The fire in thine eye seems not of earth.”

“Lord Adrian, by the Virgin tell me how long since parted this finger from the ruby signet ring of thy house? Never parted that ring from the hand of heir of Albarone, without sudden evil, fearful doom, or unheard of death, gathering thick and dark around thy house!”

“I missed not the signet ring till this moment. An instant ago, I was in my chamber. Thy air is strange and solemn for the confessor of this jovial Duke, yet I will turn me, and seek the signet without delay. Thy warning may be well-timed.”

“Boy, a word in thine ear. My life has been strange and dark. I have loved the shadow rather than the light. I have courted the glare of corruption in the midnight charnel-house, rather than the blaze of the noon-day sun. I have made me a home amid strange mysteries, and from the tomes of darksome lore I have wrung the secrets of the hidden world.”

“To what tends all this, sir monk? By’r Ladye, thou’rt strangely moved!”

“And from my hidden lore have I learned this mystery of mysteries. When the stillness of midnight hangs like lead over the noon-day hour—when, at mid-noon, a strange, solemn, and voiceless silence pervades the air, spreads through the universe, and impresses the heart of each living thing with a feeling of unutterable AWE, then wicked men are doing, in the sight of heaven, with the laughter of fiends in their ears, some deed of horror, that the fiends tremble ’mid their laughter to behold. Some deed of nameless horror, which thrills the universe with AWE, making the hour of noon more terrible than midnight in the charnel-house. Look abroad, Adrian—’tis high noon. Dost hear a sound, a whisper of the wind? All silent as death—all still as the grave! The silence of this nameless AWE is upon the noon-day hour. Adrian, to thy chamber, to thy chamber, and rest not till the signet ring again encircles thy finger! There is a doom upon this hour!”

And with these words, uttered in a low, yet deep and piercing tone, the monk glided from the ante-chamber; and the cavalier, without a word, as hastily retraced his steps, and in an instant had disappeared in the shadow of the southern gallery.

“Whispered words!” muttered the bull-headed man-at-arms. “A ring! What about a ring? Ha—ha! The Monk and the Springald commune together—well! I could not make out their secret, but—but, the ring!”

And raising his sturdy form to its full height, with a grim smile on his bearded face, Balvardo glanced around the ante-chamber, and then, with a low chuckle, he let his pike fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.