CHAPTER II. GINO FALCONE
When I think of my mother now I do not see her as she appeared in anyof the scenes that already I have set down. There is one picture of herthat is burnt as with an acid upon my memory, a picture which the meremention of her name, the mere thought of her, never fails to evoke likea ghost before me. I see her always as she appeared one evening when shecame suddenly and without warning upon Falcone and me in the armoury ofthe citadel.
I see her again, a tall, slight, graceful woman, her oval face of thetranslucent pallor of wax, framed in a nun-like coif, over which wasthrown a long black veil that fell to her waist and there joined theblack unrelieved draperies that she always wore. This sable garb was nomere mourning for my father. His death had made as little change inher apparel as in her general life. It had been ever thus as far as mymemory can travel; always had her raiment been the same, those trailingfunereal draperies. Again I see them, and that pallid face with itssunken eyes, around which there were great brown patches that seemed tointensify the depth at which they were set and the sombre lustre of themon the rare occasions when she raised them; those slim, wax-like hands,with a chaplet of beads entwined about the left wrist and hanging thenceto a silver crucifix at the end.
She moved almost silently, as a ghost; and where she passed she seemedto leave a trail of sorrow and sadness in her wake, just as a worldlywoman leaves a trail of perfume.
Thus looked she when she came upon us there that evening, and thus willshe live for ever in my memory, for that was the first time that I knewrebellion against the yoke she was imposing upon me; the first time thatour wills clashed, hers and mine; and as a consequence, maybe, was itthe first time that I considered her with purpose and defined her tomyself.
The thing befell some three months after the coming of Falcone toMondolfo.
That the old man-at-arms should have exerted a strong attraction uponmy young mind, you will readily understand. His intimate connection withthat dimly remembered father, who stood secretly in my imagination inthe position that my mother would have had St. Augustine occupy, drew meto his equerry like metal to a lodestone.
And this attraction was reciprocal. Of his own accord old Falcone soughtme out, lingering in my neighbourhood at first like a dog that looks fora kindly word. He had not long to wait. Daily we had our meetings andour talks and daily did these grow in length; and they were stolen hoursof which I said no word to my mother, nor did others for a season, sothat all was well.
Our talks were naturally of my father, and it was through Falcone thatI came to know something of the greatness of that noble-souled, valiantgentleman, whom the old servant painted for me as one who combined withthe courage of the lion the wiliness of the fox.
He discoursed of their feats of arms together, he described chargesof horse that set my nerves a-tingle as in fancy I heard the blareof trumpets and the deafening thunder of hooves upon the turf. Ofescalades, of surprises, of breaches stormed, of camisades and ambushes,of dark treacheries and great heroisms did he descant to fire myyouthful fancy, to fill me first with delight, and then with frenzy whenI came to think that in all these things my life must have no part, thatfor me another road was set--a grey, gloomy road at the end of which wasdangled a reward which did not greatly interest me.
And then one day from fighting as an endeavour, as a pitting of forceagainst force and astuteness against astuteness, he came to talk offighting as an art.
It was from old Falcone that first I heard of Marozzo, thatmiracle-worker in weapons, that master at whose academy in Bologna thecraft of swordsmanship was to be acquired, so that from fighting withhis irons as a beast with its claws, by sheer brute strength and bruteinstinct, man might by practised skill and knowledge gain advantagesagainst which mere strength must spend itself in vain.
What he told me amazed me beyond anything that I had ever heard, evenfrom himself, and what he told me he illustrated, flinging himself intothe poises taught by Marozzo that I might appreciate the marvellousscience of the thing.
Thus was it that for the first time I made the acquaintance--anacquaintance held by few men in those days--of those marvellous guardsof Marozzo's devising; Falcone showed me the difference between themandritto and the roverso, the false edge and the true, the stramazoneand the tondo; and he left me spellbound by that marvellous guardappropriately called by Marozzo the iron girdle--a low guard on thelevel of the waist, which on the very parry gives an opening for thepoint, so that in one movement you may ward and strike.
At last, when I questioned him, he admitted that during theirwanderings, my father, with that recklessness that alternated curiouslywith his caution, had ventured into the city of Bologna notwithstandingthat it was a Papal fief, for the sole purpose of studying with Marozzothat Falcone himself had daily accompanied him, witnessed the lessons,and afterwards practised with my father, so that he had come to learnmost of the secrets that Marozzo taught.
One day, at last, very timidly, like one who, whilst overconscious ofhis utter unworthiness, ventures to crave a boon which he knows himselfwithout the right to expect, I asked Falcone would he show me somethingof Marozzo's art with real weapons.
I had feared a rebuff. I had thought that even old Falcone might laughat one predestined to the study of theology, desiring to enter into themysteries of sword-craft. But my fears were far indeed from having afoundation. There was no laughter in the equerry's grey eyes, whilstthe smile upon his lips was a smile of gladness, of eagerness, almost ofthankfulness to see me so set.
And so it came to pass that daily thereafter did we practise for an houror so in the armoury with sword and buckler, and with every lessonmy proficiency with the iron grew in a manner that Falcone termedprodigious, swearing that I was born to the sword, that the knack of itwas in the very blood of me.
It may be that affection for me caused him to overrate the progress thatI made and the aptitude I showed; it may even be that what he said wasno more than the good-natured flattery of one who loved me and wouldhave me take pleasure in myself. And yet when I look back at the lad Iwas, I incline to think that he spoke no more than sober truth.
I have alluded to the curious, almost inexplicable delight it affordedme to feel in my hands the balance of a pike for the first time. Fainwould I tell you something of all that I felt when first my fingersclosed about a sword-hilt, the forefinger passed over the quillons inthe new manner, as Falcone showed me. But it defies all power of words.The sweet seduction of its balance, the white gleaming beauty of theblade, were things that thrilled me with something akin to the thrill ofthe first kiss of passion. It was not quite the same, I know; yet I canthink of nothing else in life that is worthy of being compared with it.
I was at the time a lad in my thirteenth year, but I was well-grown andstrong beyond my age, despite the fact that my mother had restrained mefrom all those exercises of horsemanship, of arms, and of wrestling bywhich boys of my years attain development. I stood almost as tall thenas Falcone himself--who was accounted of a good height--and if myreach fell something short of his, I made up for this by the youthfulquickness of my movements; so that soon--unless out of good nature herefrained from exerting his full vigour--I found myself Falcone's match.
Fra Gervasio, who was then my tutor, and with whom my mornings werespent in perfecting my Latin and giving me the rudiments of Greek, soonhad his suspicions of where the hour of the siesta was spent by me withold Falcone. But the good, saintly man held his peace, a matter which atthat time intrigued me. Others there were, however, who thought well tobear the tale of our doings to my mother, and thus it happened that shecame upon us that day in the armoury, each of us in shirt and breechesat sword-and-target play.
We fell apart upon her entrance, each with a guilty feeling, likechildren caught in a forbidden orchard, for all that Falcone heldhimself proudly erect, his grizzled head thrown back, his eyes cold andhard.
A long while it seemed ere she spoke, and once or twice I shot her afurtive comprehensive glance, and
saw her as I shall ever see her to mydying day.
Her eyes were upon me. I do not believe that she gave Falcone a singlethought at first. It was at me only that she looked, and with such asorrow in her glance to see me so vigorous and lusty, as surely couldnot have been fetched there by the sight of my corpse itself. Her lipsmoved awhile in silence; and whether she was at her everlasting prayers,or whether she was endeavouring to speak but could not for emotion, I donot know. At last her voice came, laden with a chill reproach.
"Agostino!" she said, and waited as if for some answer from me.
It was in that instant that rebellion stirred in me. Her coming hadturned me cold, for all that my body was overheated from the exerciseand I was sweating furiously. Now, at the sound of her voice, somethingof the injustice that oppressed me, something of the unreasoning bigotrythat chained and fettered me, stood clear before my mental visionfor the first time. It warmed me again with the warmth of sullenindignation. I returned her no answer beyond a curtly respectfulinvitation that she should speak her mind, couched--as had been herreproof--in a single word of address.
"Madonna?" I challenged, and emulating something of old Falcone'sattitude, I drew myself erect, flung back my head, and brought my eyesto the level of her own by an effort of will such as I had never yetexerted.
It was, I think, the bravest thing I ever did. I felt, in doing it, asone feels who has nerved himself to enter fire. And when the thing wasdone, the ease of it surprised me. There followed no catastrophe such asI expected. Before my glance, grown suddenly so very bold, her own eyesdrooped and fell away as was her habit. She spoke thereafter withoutlooking at me, in that cold, emotionless voice that was peculiar to heralways, the voice of one in whom the founts of all that is sweet andtolerant and tender in life are for ever frozen.
"What are you doing with weapons, Agostino?" she asked me.
"As you see, madam mother, I am at practice," I answered, and out ofthe corner of my eye I caught the grim approving twitch of old Falcone'slips.
"At practice?" she echoed, dully as one who does not understand. Thenvery slowly she shook her sorrowful head. "Men practise what they mustone day perform, Agostino. To your books, then, and leave swords forbloody men, nor ever let me see you again with weapons in your hands ifyou respect me."
"Had you not come hither, madam mother, you had been spared the sightto-day," I answered with some lingering spark of my rebellious firestill smouldering.
"It was God's will that I should come to set a term to such vanitiesbefore they take too strong a hold upon you," answered she. "Lay downthose weapons."
Had she been angry, I think I could have withstood her. Anger in her atsuch a time must have been as steel upon the flint of my own nature. Butagainst that incarnation of sorrow and sadness, my purpose, my strengthof character were turned to water. By similar means had she everprevailed with my poor father. And I had, too, the habit of obediencewhich is not so lightly broken as I had at first accounted possible.
Sullenly then I set down my sword upon a bench that stood against thewall, and my target with it. As I turned aside to do so, her gloomy eyeswere poised for an instant upon Falcone, who stood grim and silent. Thenthey were lowered again ere she began to address him.
"You have done very ill, Falcone," said she. "You have abused my trustin you, and you have sought to pervert my son and to lead him into waysof evil."
He started under that reproof like a fiery stallion under the spur. Hisface flushed scarlet. The habit of obedience may have been strong inFalcone too; but it was obedience to men; with women he had never hadmuch to do, old warrior though he was. Moreover, in this he felt that anaffront had been put upon the memory of Giovanni d'Anguissola, who wasmy father and who went nigh to being Falcone's god. And this his answerplainly showed.
"The ways into which I lead your son, Madonna," said he in a low voicethat boomed up and echoed in the groined ceiling overhead, "are theways that were trod by my lord his father. And who says that the waysof Giovanni d'Anguissola were evil ways lies foully, be he man orwoman, patrician or villein, pope or devil." And upon that he pausedmagnificently, his eyes aflash.
She shuddered under his rough speech. Then answered without looking up,and with no trace of anger in her voice:
"You are restored to health and strength by now, Messer Falcone. Theseneschal shall have orders to pay you ten gold ducats in discharge ofall that may be still your due from us. See that by night you have leftMondolfo."
And then, without changing her deadly inflection, or even making anoticeable pause, "Come, Agostino," she commanded.
But I did not move. Her words had fixed me there with horror. I heardfrom Falcone a sound that was between a growl and a sob. I dared notlook at him, but the eye of my fancy saw him standing rigid, pale, andself-contained.
What would he do, what would he say? Oh, she had done a cruel, abitterly cruel wrong. This poor old warrior, all scarred and patchedfrom wounds that he had taken in my father's service, to be turnedaway in his old age, as we should not have turned away a dog! It was amonstrous thing. Mondolfo was his home. The Anguissola were his family,and their honour was his honour, since as a villein he had no honour ofhis own. To cast him out thus!
All this flashed through my anguished mind in one brief throb of time,as I waited, marvelling what he would do, what say, in answer to thatdismissal.
He would not plead, or else I did not know him; and I was sure of that,without knowing what else there was that must make it impossible for oldFalcone to stoop to ask a favour of my mother.
Awhile he just stood there, his wits overthrown by sheer surprise. Andthen, when at last he moved, the thing he did was the last thing thatI had looked for. Not to her did he turn; not to her, but to me, and hedropped on one knee before me.
"My lord!" he cried, and before he added another word I knew alreadywhat else he was about to say. For never yet had I been so addressed inmy lordship of Mondolfo. To all there I was just the Madonnino. But toFalcone, in that supreme hour of his need, I was become his lord.
"My lord," he said, then. "Is it your wish that I should go?"
I drew back, still wrought upon by my surprise; and then my mother'svoice came cold and acid.
"The Madonnino's wish is not concerned in this, Mester Falcone. It is Iwho order your departure."
Falcone did not answer her; he affected not to hear her, and continuedto address himself to me.
"You are the master here, my lord," he urged. "You are the law inMondolfo. You carry life and death in your right hand, and against yourwill no man or woman in your lordship can prevail."
He spoke the truth, a mighty truth which had stood like a mountainbefore me all these months, yet which I had not seen.
"I shall go or remain as you decree, my lord," he added; and then,almost in a snarl of defiance, "I obey none other," he concluded, "norpope nor devil."
"Agostino, I am waiting for you," came my mother's voice from thedoorway.
Something had me by the throat. It was Temptation, and old Falconewas the tempter. More than that was he--though how much more I did notdream, nor with what authority he acted there. He was the Mentor whoshowed me the road to freedom and to manhood; he showed me how at a blowI might shiver the chains that held me, and shake them from me like thecobwebs that they were. He tested me, too; tried my courage and mywill; and to my undoing was it that he found me wanting in that hour. Myregrets for him went near to giving me the resolution that I lacked. Yeteven these fell short.
I would to God I had given heed to him. I would to God I had flungback my head and told my mother--as he prompted me--that I was lord ofMondolfo, and that Falcone must remain since I so willed it.
I strove to do so out of my love for him rather than out of any suchfine spirit as he sought to inspire in me. Had I succeeded I hadestablished my dominion, I had become arbiter of my fate; and how muchof misery, of anguish, and of sin might I not thereafter have beenspared!
The hour was crucial, though I knew
it not. I stood at a parting ofways; yet for lack of courage I hesitated to take the road to which soinvitingly he beckoned me.
And then, before I could make any answer such as I desired, such as Istrove to make, my mother spoke again, and by her tone, which had grownfaltering and tearful--as was her wont in the old days when she ruledmy father--she riveted anew the fetters I was endeavouring with all thestrength of my poor young soul to snap.
"Tell him, Agostino, that your will is as your mother's. Tell him so andcome. I am waiting for you."
I stifled a groan, and let my arms fall limply to my sides. I was aweakling and contemptible. I realized it. And yet to-day when I lookback I see how vast a strength I should have needed. I was but thirteenand of a spirit that had been cowed by her, and was held under herthrall.
"I... I am sorry, Falcone," I faltered, and there were tears in my eyes.
I shrugged again--shrugged in token of my despair and grief andimpotence--and I moved down the long room towards the door where mymother waited.
I did not dare to bestow another look upon that poor broken old warrior,that faithful, lifelong servant, turned thus cruelly upon the world by awoman whom bigotry had sapped of all human feelings and a boy who was acoward masquerading under a great name.
I heard his gasping sob, and the sound smote upon my heart and hurt meas if it had been iron. I had failed him. He must suffer more in theknowledge of my unworthiness to be called the son of that master whom hehad worshipped than in the destitution that might await him.
I reached the door.
"My lord! My lord!" he cried after me despairingly. On the verythreshold I stood arrested by that heartbroken cry of his. I halfturned.
"Falcone... " I began.
And then my mother's white hand fell upon my wrist.
"Come, my son," she said, once more impassive.
Nervelessly I obeyed her, and as I passed out I heard Falcone's voicecrying:
"My lord, my lord! God help me, and God help you!" An hour later hehad left the citadel, and on the stones of the courtyard lay ten goldenducats which he had scattered there, and which not one of the greedygrooms or serving-men could take courage to pick up, so fearful a cursehad old Falcone laid upon that money when he cast it from him.