Читать книгу The Fool Beloved - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 8

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“Aha!” exclaimed Jacomo as soon as they were alone. “So much for our royal spitfire and right shrewish hell-cat! And ‘Gonzago’, quo’ she, and gives him her hand most loving. Gonzago—pah!”

“Yet,” said Fortunio, thoughtfully, “he is in every sense a man.”

“That I now like less than afore.”

“And night,” sighed Fortunio, “falls apace!”

“Ay! And where is our Angelo?”

“God save him wheresoever he be!”

“Amen! And it seems God shall save him from wedding our shrewish claw-cat also, the which is excellent well. For as she is proudly arrogant as her sire, Angelo is stubborn as thyself——”

“Am I stubborn, Jacomo?”

“As a mule, as a rock, ay, as this stout burgonet o’ thine that would yield nowise to heartiest buffets! Thus, as I’m saying, this marriage would be mere scratch and bite cat and doggery!” Here ensued a silence except for Jacomo’s polishing and Fortunio’s limping step while the shadows slowly deepened upon them.

“Old Friend,” sighed Fortunio at last, halting in his restless walk, “he should have been with us long and long ere this.”

“Lord,” answered Jacomo, bending to his labour, “we hoped for and expected him at noon.”

“Jacomo, what shall have stayed him, think you?”

“Lord,” answered Jacomo, stooping lower, “the roads be ... somewhat ... perilous.”

“Yet he rides not alone.... Ah, would to heaven I had sent an escort!”

“Ay, would you had!”

“Yet he is not alone ... and hath a cool head!”

“Cool as thine own, Fortunio! Also with petronel and rapier few can match him—the which is no wonder, for we learned him, thou and I!”

“And yet ... ha, Jacomo, my mind misgives me! I ... feel a great despondency! There’s evil abroad, Jacomo; I sense it i’ the very air ... this lurking menace that creepeth unseen ... and ever nearer....”

“Yet this is peace,” growled Jacomo; “hark to those foolish bells! And the city full o’ revelling fools and all unguarded, like this thy castle, though our gates be shut, I’ve seen to that! But in these walls we are alone save for old Bartoldi and a few other aged folk!”

“Well, what then, thou dismal, hangdog, growling misery? This is a night for rejoicing.”

“True, my lord, and thus—whatsoever this night may bring, this is our comfort—we can die only once.”

“Now out upon thee, Jacomo; what talk is this of death? Instead, go call for lights that I may read—old Plato here shall be far better company. ‘Let there be light!’ ” Thus presently came old Bartoldi bearing tall candles in many-branched silver sconces; but even as he set them down, a horn brayed at the outer gate, whereat down went Fortunio’s book again and he limped to the narrow lattice, eagerly expectant.

“Can this be Angelo—at last?” he questioned, in shaken voice; and in strangely gentle tone Jacomo answered:

“Dear my lord, I fear not. He would never summon us so, but come by the postern and secret stair i’ the wall yonder.”

“Ah, true, old friend,” sighed Fortunio, bowing his head distressfully, nor did he look up when came Bartoldi, saying:

“My lord, a gentleman o’ the court, one Messire Astorgio with message from her grace.”

“The name is strange to me. Know you this gentleman, Jacomo?”

“Ay, for bedizened bladder o’ lard that clacketh like a mill and to less account.”

“And from the Duchess! I must see him. Go, bid him to me.” So came this gentleman with small, very youthful page attendant. A very precious and extremely modish gentleman page attendant. A very precious and extremely modish gentleman was Messire Astorgio, curled, perfumed and belaced, a creature of art from delicate shoe to stupendous ruff. He smiled, performed a complicated bow, struck an attitude and spoke:

“Right noble and most potent gracious lord, I greet you humbly yet passing well—my lord God keep you!”

“And you, sir.”

“Noble and most excellent Fortunio, to thee I, as ambassador and envoy extraordinary, come from our gracious lady Duchess, this peerless paragon of all beauteous perfection, bearing unto thee for thy gracious acceptance this most precious thing yet more precious made by the lovely giver, to wit—our Duchess, no less! O page, present!”

The boy instantly kneeling, proffered his master a velvet cushion whereon reposed this gift of the Duchess, a silver goblet and a flask of wine. With beringed fingers, delicately spread, Astorgio lifted these tenderly, saying as he did so:

“Valiant Fortunio, glory-crowned victor and hero of our deliverance, lo—here within this crystal pent is wine of most ripe, most rare and notable vintage! This our gracious lady sendeth thee, in token of her love and to thy later engorgement, her loving command thus: that when creeping hand of clock shall point the hour of ten of this most happy and felicitous night of nights—to be forever remembered to thy undying glory—that when at this same said hour, she herself and all her court do rise to pledge unanimous our new-won freedom—won by thy so valiant, potent, all conquering hand—then, yea even then, thyself, here at thy cloistered ease, shall also rise and thereupon drink, honouring this toast that doth but honour thee. My lord, behold now my embassage accompt!”

“My thanks, sir,” said Fortunio, taking the flask and setting it by. “To the Duchess my love and service. Tell her that upon stroke of ten I will drink this pledge.” Then Fortunio saluted and limped away, leaving Messire Astorgio gazing after him like one astonished.

“Now, by my beard,” he exclaimed, caressing that silky adornment with jewelled hand, “I do protest myself quite—quite astonished and amazed!”

“Ah,” growled Jacomo, “so am I! Sir, you have wonderous gift o’ words!”

“In faith, sir, I am something reputed therefore.”

“And, sir, being such wonder ’tis no wonder. But, sir, wherefore doth your beard so amaze you?”

“Nay, nay, sir! ’Tis not my beard, this is a familiarity. My amazement is that yon gentleman can be the great lord Fortunio.”

“Sir, it can and is! Wherefore did he thus astonish you?”

“For that he is so other than I, by report, expected.”

“How ‘other’, sir?”

“Good sir, fame’s loud-voiced clarions have so trumpeted and engloried him that I protest he falleth sadly short of my fond expectation.”

“How short, sir?” enquired Jacomo, leaning nearer.

“By inches—this way and that. For meseemeth he should, to justly represent himself and justify popular expectancy, he should, I say, be something larger of stature and more commanding of feature, form and presentment.”

“Larger, sir?” enquired Jacomo, softly.

“Oh, infinitely! He should be greater to the eye as he is to the ear; of bodily semblance vastly more heroical.”

“He-roical?” said Jacomo, almost whispering.

“Even so! Heroical as Mars and as godlike! His eyes, voice, look and every gesture should command, compel——” Out shot Jacomo’s powerful hand to seize the astonished speaker’s delicate wrist in powerful gripe.

“So—now, sir,” he growled, “I shall compel you somewhat—to use those bejemmed ears and purblind eyes. Look now upon this corselet, lo—here a lance-point smote him; there a bullet; here is dint o’ sword and here an axe! Look now on this battered helmet, see—’tis nothing over-large. Yet in all this world you shall not find a head great enough to fill it. See you this plume, this handful o’ sorry feathers broken now and faded all—yet many a man beholding them, ’mid shock o’ battle and breaking ranks, hath forgot weariness, pain o’ wounds and fear o’ death, because ’neath these same feathers Fortunio fought. I’ve seen ’em stem defeat and, surging above the reeling press, show us the bloody path to victory. Sir, in this world be men great and small, but only one such as he. Wherefore, I had liefer lie dead upon a dunghill with Fortunio than feast with kings. And now, sir, I bid your lordly daintiness good night.”

Astorgio cherished his bruised wrist, made a half-bow, grimaced a smile and, beckoning to his little round-eyed page, departed with gallant swing of modish cloak and graceful play of slender legs.

Scarcely had this gorgeous person vanished behind closed door than Jacomo spat towards it with vehemence and exclaimed:

“That—for thee, thou thing—thou flatulent, bejewelled, ladylike no-thing!” Hearing a sound, he glanced up and beheld Fortunio smiling from the doorway of his bedchamber.

“Truly,” he nodded, “a very dainty, too—too gentle man.”

“Ay, by my blood! Too dainty for work, too delicate for war, too precious for aught save tripping and toeing it, bowing and scraping, primping and prattling—pah! And ’twas for such whim-whams we coarser wretches fought and endured what time they lay soft, slept sound, fed full and enjoyed the sweets o’ life! As for ourselves, I am a blemish o’ scars and thou goest with a limp and art besides a wifeless, childless, solitary man!”

“Not solitary, old friend; ’twere impossible with thee to plague me! Moreover, there is young Angelo——”

“Ay, but where? And the day quite sped. See at casement and loophole stealthy night peepeth!”

“Ah, verily night is upon us too soon!”

“And the clock yonder,” growled Jacomo, “with its every cursed tick my fear grows, as it hath done since I heard on’t.”

“Heard? Of what, man?”

“The cloak! That damned cloak with its thrice accursed secret dispatch—ha, tis the very mark for murder——”

“Jacomo, bridle that tongue; it becomes a torment! Peace, I say! Never speak of murder and Angelo in the same breath.”

“Ha, Fortunio, what a plague is this—to wait and wait! God’s my life, in all our fighting I never felt the like o’ this! To die in battle is clean, manly death! To be snatched by furtive shot or stealthy steel, ha—or poison, that weapon o’ vile cowardice——”

“May also be manly death, Jacomo, and too often hath been ere now, alas! But no more o’ this—no more, I say! I came seeking my book, my Plato.”

“ ’Tis here, ’neath thy helmet, this good burgonet—and, Fortunio, when it fended thee in hazard o’ battle, thy face never showed then so worn and haggardly as now—in this night of peace! For then, though battle, life and all were at stake, Angelo was safe! Here is thy book, and for pastime read or tell me of it, prithee.”

“When didst ever incline to books, Jacomo?”

“Never till now, for mayhap in thy book is some thought may lift my mind above present care.”

So Fortunio opened the book, saying:

“This was writ by the great Plato concerning his beloved teacher Socrates—one of the wisest and noblest men that ever lived—and yet he died by poison, Jacomo, and right manfully!”

“Ah! Was he murdered?”

“Ay, he was! And by his fellow Athenians after they had tried and condemned him for daring to learn them a new and better philosophy of life. And, like you and me, he had been a soldier and by account most valiant, not only in victory but defeat.”

“Defeat—so!” nodded Jacomo, glancing up from the pauldron he was burnishing, “then right soldier was he! I’d fain hear more of him.”

“Well, hearken to what he says before his judges!” And Fortunio read aloud: “ ‘When I was ordered by your generals to my post at Potidaea and at Delium and at Amphipolis I remained there at risk of my life, like other men—so ’twould be strange were I to desert my post for fear of death now—when God commandeth me, as I am persuaded he has done.’ Then, Jacomo, here again: ‘Athenians, I love ye right well, but I will obey God rather than you, so long as I have strength and breath, I will not cease from his work. Never will I do what I know to be evil or shrink from good—for fear of death.... In battle a man may ’scape death by throwing down his arms and kneeling to beg for life, and many other ways there are to avoid death—if a man be so contemptible as to say or do or promise anything, no matter how base.’ ”

“Good!” exclaimed Jacomo. “What like was he, this Socrates?”

“A very ugly man——”

“Aha! Good again, for I’m no Apollo! Prithee read more.”

“Why then,” said Fortunio, turning certain pages, “hear what he says after they have condemned him to die by poison: ‘If death be absence of all sensation, a sleep untroubled by any dream, ’twill be a blessedness, a marvellous gain. But if it be only a journey to a better place where in a new life are all the noble great ones whom death has glorified—for this I am willing to die many times.’ And here, Jacomo, are his last words to the tribunal: ‘And since ye all, my judges, according to nature must die, I pray you shall one and all meet death with a good courage, believing this truth—that no evil can ever grieve a good man, in life, in death, or the hereafter.’ And these last words, Jacomo, I have underlined because I think they are, or should be, an abiding comfort to all men!”

“Ay, truly!” nodded Jacomo. “And how did he take his death?”

“As he had lived—unfearing. For thus it is written by one who saw: ‘When handed the poison-cup Socrates took it quite cheerfully, without trembling or change of feature, saying: “Now I pray my journey hence may be prosperous.” Then putting the cup to his lips he drank the poison quite calmly.... And now my tears came fast and I covered my face, weeping not for him but for myself in losing such a friend. And all others of us lamented also until he spake us consolation, bidding us not to grieve. And this the while, to help the poison, he walked about until his legs failed. Then he lay down and the man who gave the poison began to examine his feet and legs, asking if he had any feeling there. Socrates answered No; and said that when the chill reached his heart he should be gone. And so it befell, for after brief space, he made a last, sudden movement. And when the man uncovered his face, his eyes were fixed.... Such was the end of Socrates who was, I am sure, the wisest, noblest and best man that I have ever known.’ Well, here was a right noble end, eh, mine ancient?”

“Ay, faith!” growled Jacomo. “Poisoned like a cur-dog he died like a very man!”

Thus they talked, and with no further mention of Angelo, while the great clock above them ticked on remorselessly until came old Bartoldi to announce supper:

“Nought but cold meats, my masters, with a sallet.”

“We’ve ate far worse!” quoth Jacomo, rising. “So bring us to ’t, man.”

Thus presently seated in small, arras-hung chamber bright with the glow of candles, they supped together, talking of many things and events past and present, yet still without mention of Angelo, because of their fearful, ever-growing anxiety; while in the hall without, the hands of the clock crept on and on until:

“Hearken!” exclaimed Jacomo, pushing back his chair. “Ten o’ the clock, ’tis the hour for our toast, Jenevra’s gift—this ‘most precious wine in crystal pent!’ Ha, what precious fool is yon prinking Astorgio!”

So the wine was brought, the silver goblet filled and with this in hand Fortunio rose, saying:

“To the future welfare of this our State and happiness to all men, with abiding joy to those of us who died that this peace might be.” Then setting goblet to lip he drank—choked and sinking back in his chair, shivered as with sudden chill.... Setting down the half-emptied goblet, he stared from it to Jacomo who had reached for it to drink in turn.

“Wait!” said he, in hoarse, breathless accents. “Jacomo—wait!”

“Why—how now, my lord, what’s here?”

“Horror, Jacomo! The ... hidden hand ... again, but ... it hath struck true ... at last. I’m poisoned! They have succeeded ... this time! So, touch not the wine, Jacomo!”

“Nay, but, my lord ... oh, God, Fortunio, this was sent us by the Duchess, our Jenevra——”

“Yet—poison, Jacomo! I’m ... dying! See how ... I shake ... how I sweat! Ah, merciful Jesu ... let it be ... soon!”

Dumb with grief and amazement, Jacomo stared down into this so loved face now wet and drawn with the throes of swiftly approaching death.... The spasm passing, these pallid lips spoke again and less distressfully:

“To sleep, or perchance to meet all ... those great ones whom death ... hath glorified——”

“No—ah, no!” groaned Jacomo, falling to his knees. “Oh, Fortunio, my lord ... Oh, loved master and friend, not death! And yet if this be so as now seemeth too sure, into death will I follow thee. As side by side we fought, so will we go together in a friendship which I do pray God shall be eternal.”

“Nay, Jacomo, old friend, wait ... wait God’s own time.... Live on! Jenevra and the State shall need thee.”

“Yet I need thee, lord! And being a selfish man, thee will I have to follow and serve in death as in life!” So saying, Jacomo brimmed the goblet and lifting it in steady hand, emptied it at a draught.

And now ensued a period not to be described, wherein the devilish venom did its cruel work on pain-racked, writhing bodies; but by degrees soul rose triumphant above perishing flesh, for, amid the gloom that deepened upon them, they talked, heartening one another so long as speech and strength endured:

“My lord ... Fortunio, I ... am with thee ... now and ever——”

“Ay, I see thee yet ... though, Jacomo, mine ancient ... no banner have I for ... thee to bear....”

“Instead, lord ... my hand.”

“Ay, I feel it ... and in this gloom.... Oh, I am ... marvellous glad of thee ... Jacomo, for I ... have so truly loved thee.... Ah, now ... it cometh ... cold, cold and ... darkness! But thou art here, my Jacomo, and ... beyond is ... light....”

The bells rang on, though Fortunio heard not, and though Jacomo scowled, it was not now because of their merry pealing; for with hands fast clasped, these brothers in arms so long together in peril of life, were in death together still.