Читать книгу The Fool Beloved - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 12

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In the city was tumult; rapturous joy gave place to grief, despair and a growing fury, for while some wailed and wept, others raved and clamoured for vengeance instant and bloody; brandished steel glittered and the air rang with shouts and screams of: “Death! Death to the murderers!”

Through the wild hubbub of this frenzied multitude, two soldiers, fierce-seeming, powerful men, forced their way until at last, having won free of the clamorous city, they paused to regain their breath, gazing round about and upon each other like the utterly dismayed fellows they were.

“Andrea,” said the first, “I’ll never believe it till these eyes do tell me ’tis so.”

“Nor I, Manfred, nor I! ’Tis calamity too vast for belief. For, as this be true, then here’s an end to all—and woe to our duchy!”

“Andrea, would I were blind ere my eyes do tell me such fearsome thing! Come, let’s on—to know the truth on’t one way or t’other and right speedily.”

Thus, breathless and sweating with haste, they came to Fidena, this castle where no man watched and no familiar voice answered their distressful shouts.... From courtyard to hall they tramped together, and from room to room until, opening a certain door——

“Mother o’ God!” gasped Manfred, reeling back.

“Ah, blessed Jesu!” groaned Andrea, falling to his knees. And, after a while:

“Lookee,” whispered Manfred, “how he sitteth—as he but rested, all at ease!”

“Ah!” whispered Andrea. “And Jacomo ... kneeleth as in prayer.”

“And their hands, Andrea, their hands fast clasped.”

“Ay! They ever loved each other in life, so do they now in death. Come away, Manfred; this place is by them made too holy.”

“And I ... oh, Andrea, I am blind now ... blind with grief! Reach me thy hand.”

So they left this chamber of death, closing the door with reverent gentleness; and being come into the echoing hall, they sank down, there at the great table, staring on each other in a sorrow beyond words, and no sound to break the dreadful hush about them save the slow, solemn tick of the clock.

“So,” groaned Andrea, at last, “ ’tis true! And a God’s name, what now? What must—what can we do?”

“Never ask me, Andrea; I’m heart-broke, spirit-broke and lost! Nought can ever be the same again. This that was a fairish world is now a cursed dog-hole!”

“But how—how came such death? I saw no blood.”

“Nor I. Yet dead are they ... by act o’ God or foul contrivance o’ the fiend!”

“Ah—murder!” exclaimed Andrea. “Yet—can it be so?”

“Ay, what other can it be?”

“Yet they showed no wound, no single mark of violence. Then in what furtive, dreadful shape came death, Manfred? How can men die and show so marvellous peaceful?”

“These were no ordinary men, Andrea! Thus—perchance death was the more kindly, I pray the blessed saints this was so—ay, even though murder crept sudden, unseen and——” Manfred’s bearded lips stiffened to silence, but even then out flashed his dagger and he crouched, whispering:

“Footsteps!”

“I hear,” breathed Andrea, drawing sword. Then, from somewhere beyond or within the massive wall, a voice hailed, faintly:

“Oho—within! Is there none to welcome me?” At this familiar voice sword and dagger were sheathed instantly and these two men, officers of Fortunio’s famous, hard-fighting guard, rose to stare towards a certain curtained alcove with looks of very dreadful expectation; the curtain stirred, was drawn aside and into the candle-light, pale and dusty with travel, stepped Count Angelo. For a moment he paused to shade dazzled eyes, then:

“Andrea!” he cried, joyfully. “And Manfred, too! Oh, dear friends well met, indeed. Give me your hands. I came by the old secret stair yonder where we played as boys. But tell me—why is the castle unguarded? And wherefore so silent? Is not Fortunio here? Heaven forbid he is away when I so weary for sight of him! Ah—why look ye so? And both dumb! Is my lord away ... on business ... at the court? How—silent yet? Speak—is my brother here? Speak, Manfred.”

“My lord, he is.”

“Where then? And why this stillness, this—this dreadful hush? And why—why ring those mournful bells? Andrea, I charge thee—speak, answer me!”

“Lord ... dear Angelo ... !”

“Ha, why dost choke? Why do thy hands so gripe and shake? Is aught amiss? Is my brother sick? How is Fortunio?”

“Angelo ... my dear lord,” groaned Manfred, “all is ... very well with him.”

“Ah,” whispered Angelo, backing from them, “if this be so, why show ye thus ... livid ... as corpses? What is the horror in thine eyes, Andrea? Why do I ... all sudden ... quake ... as with a palsy? And ... Oh, dear Christ, why ... why do the city’s bells ring a death knell? Oh, God!” he whispered. “Oh, God of mercy—not this, not this! Forbid ... ah ... forbid it——”

Speech seemed to fail him and for a moment he leaned weakly upon the table, then cried aloud in dreadful voice: “Fortunio, speak! Come to me! Brother, I am here at last! Fortunio, for love of God ... let me hear thy loved voice ... once more—speak!”

Ensued now a space of dreadful silence; a stillness which became so unbearable at last that, with sudden gesture, Angelo started erect, strode across the hall and, as if guided by instinct, turned aside to a certain door and, thrusting it open, entered that small, silent chamber of death....

“Here,” whispered Andrea, cowering, “here is most dreadful thing, Manfred!”

“Ah!” whispered Manfred, glaring about helplessly. “Here’s madness, or mayhap—another dying!”

“He is far beyond our comfort, Manfred.”

“Ay, and of all the holy angels, besides! What shall he be doing so long there with his dead?”

“Praying, I hope!”

“No prayer shall ever bring back our lord Fortunio! Nor shall we ever see his like again. As for young Angelo, we must——”

“Hist, man—yonder he is! And himself now like death!”

“So God and the saints help him!”

Angelo’s head was bare now, his down-bent face hidden in his long, dark hair. Standing thus, he turned and twisted his hat in restless hands, gazing down at it with eyes wide though sightless, and when he spoke it was in drowsy, broken voice:

“Death, sirs, hath been ... marvellous busy about me o’ late and ... in especial with those I most loved.... First, my English John ... now Jacomo that would ride me on his shoulder when I was small imp ... and lastly ... my brother that I am too late to see in life.... Far better I had died with John upon the road ... than such homecoming as this.”

“Angelo ... dear my lord,” groaned Manfred, venturing a step nearer.

“Nay, sir, grieve not for me. Save all your sorrow for this duchy; hers is the greater loss. Fortunio is dead—he that was our shield, our ever constant need and hope for the future, is now a senseless, silent lump for burial! This man of men! Yet there be thousands for whom the grave doth yawn, their dying a benefit to all—the Tyrant whose reeking, red, ambitious heel doth grind the face of a nation—traitors, hypocrites, friends forsworn and sycophants that wink upon iniquity—things of foulness that, wriggling ’neath the wide arch of heaven, contaminate the very air whereby other vileness is bred! Thus, see you, Evil persists and Fortunio dies! Wherefore now I grope and grope vainly to find the hand of God.”

“Oh,” gasped Andrea, “my lord, Angelo—Angelo——”

“Indeed, Angelo am I, though truly of no deed, being one of small doing and little worth—wherefore I live while yonder Fortunio sitteth dead! This man so mighty of deed and thought! This inspirer of other men! This conqueror of armies and so resistless in battle, so wise and potent in council—yonder he sits now so pitifully helpless he shall fall at a push and lie to be trodden upon! Thus endeth our great and good Fortunio ... and my loved brother! So—now come I to know the how and who of it, nor rest until I bring his slayers to God’s justice or die of it.”

“And, by God, we are with thee!” cried the two, almost in a breath.

Then Angelo tossed aside the hat and, coming to them, took a hand of each, saying:

“Andrea and Manfred, we that were boys together, tonight Fortunio’s death shall make us brothers. Let us vow devotion to his memory and never to rest until God’s justice is done upon his murderers. Amen!”

“Amen!” repeated the two, reverently.

“Now sit, brothers, and counsel me, for these long years of absence have made me a stranger. Yet first—when was this evil wrought, think ye?” And Manfred answered:

“Scarce two hours since, I reckon, eh, Andrea?”

“ ’Twould be about then the bells changed their note.”

“And how think ye it was done?”

“ ’Tis past our imagining!” sighed Andrea.

“Ay,” quoth Manfred, “for there is no spot o’ blood or——” He checked and averted his head, abashed.

“Nay,” said Angelo, clapping hand on his broad shoulder, “speak forthright, Manfred; I were fool to be squeamish. Indeed there was no blood nor any sign of violence; instead there is a wine flask and silver goblet. Go fetch them, Manfred.”

“Ah—poison!” exclaimed Andrea. “We thought of this and yet scarce dared so think or speak on it, for—Angelo, this same wine as we do know, Manfred and I, was sent by her grace and most expressly.”

“So?” murmured Angelo. “The Duchess?”

“And this the very flask and here the cup!” said Manfred setting them upon the table. Angelo glanced from one to other with dilating eyes, then slowly reached for and took up the goblet; he peered into it, smelt it, probed the dregs in it with questing finger-tip, tasted, sipped, spat vehemently and, setting down this fatal thing, stared at it beneath drawn brows.

“Poison?” Andrea questioned, softly.

“A devil’s subtle brew!” sighed Angelo.

“But ... nay, but,” stammered Manfred, appalled, “this was gift ... of the Duchess ... bestowed by her own hand!”

“So Andrea tells me.”

“But to ... to suspect ... our Duchess——?”

“Manfred, shall rank and high estate exempt her? Moreover, this may not be her gift.”

“But, Angelo, alas—it is—in very truth. We saw, Andrea and I; we can swear to it.”

“Then would ye swear like fools. This wine may have been changed on its ways here. Who conveyed it?”

“The lord Astorgio.”

“I mind him for a prattling, pedantical whiffler. He is no murderer nor accomplice—none would trust such babbler.”

“Yet ’twas he brought it.”

“Yet shall braying ass turn tiger, prating jackdaw to stooping falcon? Who is there now at court or in the State that by this hellish deed hath most to gain?”

“None that I know.”

“Nor I.”

“Then who, now at court and beside the Duchess, is greatest?”

“The lord Sebastian Valetti.”

“Ay, he is chiefest councillor of the ten since Morelli fled.”

“Mean you Julio Morelli that was once my brother’s friend?”

“That same. But he was accused of treason, falsely as some do think, and fled for his life.”

“So?” murmured Angelo. “And ’twas Julio Morelli sent me the cloak.”

“Ay,” said Andrea, taking it up, “ ’tis here, Angelo!”

“Nay, this was my friend John’s! That I mean was stolen ... stolen! And wherefore? Why should they take my cloak and leave poor John’s?”

“My lord, what of this cloak?”

“So much, Andrea, that I fear my poor friend died of it! As briefly thus. Scarce are we safe ashore and at our inn, he and I, than cometh a dusty messenger bearing to me a black velvet cloak garnished with silver, saying ’tis a gift from his lord Julio Morelli. So, in this cloak I rode ... then were we so often assailed by divers rogues ... and as I now suspect, all by reason of that same cloak! Nearing home, it was my friend’s whim to change habits with me and thus, he in my cloak and I in his, we came as evening fell to the inn of the Black Horse. And there yet again we were beset and my poor John killed, and, as I now believe, in mistake for me. Thus, ’twould seem he died of my hat and cloak, a most deadly and virulent disease!”

“Ah!” sighed Andrea. “Here was more villainy!”

“But why,” questioned Manfred, “why should the rogues take your hat and cloak? That’s the question!”

“Whereto I can find two answers: to wit, to prove their wearer was dead, or because hid in that cloak was something of value ... a jewel of price ... a secret message? One or other. Thus the question I ask is: to whom was this manifest proof of my death shown? Who employed these murderers? Have ye now any ideas?”

“None, Angelo, none!”

“Nor I, alas!”

“Yet, brothers, here somewhere about us is a stealthy evil.”

“Ah,” snarled Manfred, clenching hairy fists, “hither or yon is lurking Iniquity, creeping, bloody-handed Treachery!”

“True,” said Andrea, with helpless gesture; “yet how may we uncover it, how come at it? We are lost i’ the dark and all bemused! What shall guide us, show us light and point us the way?”

“Villainy itself!” replied Angelo, grimly. “For Villainy triumphant shall grow boastful, so overweening and malapert, it shall betray itself, especially to such as we whose eyes and ears shall be ever on the alert! Also, my brothers, we have this one advantage—Villainy believeth me dead, the proof of my hat and cloak. Thus I who now speak to you am a ghost—and right ghostly will I act——” Even as the words were uttered they started, all three, and turned as from somewhere nearby rose a soft, shrill wailing that died to a twitter and was gone.

“Saints ... defend us!” gasped Manfred, clutching, dagger-hilt. “What foul thing was yon?”

“Hush!” whispered Angelo; and after brief pause the dismal sound was repeated nearer and plainer.

“Some ... thing ... comes!” whispered Manfred, and out again flickered his ready steel.

“Stir not!” whispered Angelo, with commanding gesture. Thus motionless and silent, they waited till once again came this desolate wail—that changed suddenly to the running trill of merry, liquid notes of a pipe and therewith a faint jingling like fairy bells, that grew ever louder until—into the hall on parti-coloured, capering legs tripped a jester or buffoon, a lean fellow whose comical visage was framed in a hood with cockscomb aflaunt and ass’s ears adangle and adorned with little bells like his escalloped cape: in one hand he grasped a pipe—in the other fool’s bauble, which he flourished in airy salutation as, with ridiculously ceremonious bow, he cried:

“Sweet gallants, most noble lordings, hither come I to glad ye with dance, song, quip, quirk and quiddity in the fond and foolish hope that, being fool of parts, my folly shall befool ye for my part that ye shall, for your part, part, for my part, with such trifling fee or guerdon as may impart——”

“Off!” snarled Manfred, rising. “Lord, I’ll see this fool out and about his business.”

“Indeed,” said Angelo, thoughtfully, “I’d fain see him about his business——”

“Fie—fie!” cried the Jester, approaching with fantastic dancing steps. “Such business can no business be, since Folly is too wise for such folly.”

“Tell me,” said Angelo, beckoning him nearer, “how long hast played the fool?”

“Since fool I was, sir, that’s to say—since I could so think.”

“Then shall thinking swell the list of fools?”

“Verily! For since he that thinketh himself wise is a fool and he that knoweth himself fool is, so thinking wise, wise by ye by nowise so wisely thinking.”

“Hast a nimble wit——”

“Ah, lording, I am a genius and there’s my tragical sorrow! For though genius being of the mind, and therefore transcendental, may soar above base body, perch on a moonbeam, ride the wind, juggle with the stars and pierce the illimitable distances beyond, yet must it perforce sink back to earth to eat, alas! For here’s the shame on’t, Genius hath a belly! Thus, let him mount to heaven yet shall belly drag him down again. So, by reason of this baser part I am no better than I am, a poor, strolling Folly that must needs fool, since belly’s need is constant and inconstant, alack, its filling.”

“So folly doth not pay then?”

“But poorly, sir, since every man is his own fool these days and we of the profession be out of place and ill served. This day I have taken so much money I might swallow it at a gulp.”

Drawing forth his purse, Angelo emptied it upon the table, saying:

“Couldst swallow this?”

“At a gulp!” nodded the jester, patting the worn pouch at his girdle.

“Here be—eighty odd ducats. How like you them?”

“Like, quoth’a? I’m in love with ’em, yet would jilt ’em for eight hundred.”

“These shall be yours for a consideration.”

“Then, most beneficent lord, I’ll sing ye, dance ye, rhyme and riddle ye——”

“Nay,” said Angelo, beckoning. “Tonight I myself would play the wanton wag—hearken in your ear....” Then while his two companions watched gloomily askance, Angelo rose and, drawing the Jester aside, spoke him whispering and to such effect that the Jester, forgetting his antic drollery, grew solemn, staring like one greatly astonished.

“Come, take up the money!” said Angelo. The Jester’s obedience was instant.

“What now, my noble master?” he enquired, closing his thus well-filled pouch with quivering fingers. “What now?”

“Go, wait me in the courtyard.”

Now, when the Jester had departed, Angelo took up his sheathed rapier, loosed off his dagger and gave them to his wondering companions saying:

“Brothers of mine, keep these in memory of Count Angelo who on this so fatal night was murdered at the Black Horse inn. Thus, when you hear mention of him and his sudden end, as you will ere long, then shall you with woeful visage shake your heads and sigh: “Alas, poor Angelo, that he should die so soon! And now, for the time, my right trusty ones, farewell.”

“Nay, but, my lord,” cried Manfred, “what’s for us?”

“And,” pleaded Andrea, “what wilt thou do now, Angelo?”

“Do?” he repeated, turning for one last look at that closed door. “Why now, being dead, what should I do but flit like disembodied spirit, and haunt as ghost should do? As for yourselves—remember we henceforth are a trinity of vengeance, a triune nemesis for remorseless justice, to do and dare all until this unseen, unknown stealthy evil shall be uncovered, rooted out and utterly destroyed! To the which good end I pray God strengthen us.... And so farewell.”