by instinct, the peril of too great a reticence.
‘Since they profess to labour on behalf of the Marquis Gian Giacomo, it is natural they should name him. But I have never heard it asserted that he has knowledge of their plot.’
‘Nor any other?’ The Marquis was singularly insistent. ‘Nor any other?’ he repeated.
Bellarion showed a blank face. ‘Why? What other?’
‘Nay, sir. I am asking you.’
‘No, highness,’ he slowly answered. ‘I recall the mention of no other.’
The Prince sank back into his chair, his searching eyes never quitting the young man’s face. Then he committed what in a man so subtle was a monstrous indiscretion, giving Bellarion the explanation that he lacked.
‘You are not deep enough in their confidence yet. Return to their councils, and keep me informed of all that transpires in them. Be diligent, and you shall find me generous.’
Bellarion was genuinely aghast. ‘Your highness will delay to strike when by delay you may imperil . . . ?’
He was sternly silenced. ‘Is your counsel sought? You understand what I require of you. You have leave to go.’
‘But, highness! To return amongst them now, after openly coming here to you, will not be without its danger.’
The regent did not share his alarm. He smiled again.
‘You have chosen a path of peril as I told you. But I will help you. I discover that I have letters from Facino humbly soliciting my protection for his adoptive son whilst in Casale. It is a petition I cannot disregard. Facino is a great lord in Milan these days. My court shall be advised of it, and it will not be considered strange that I make you free of the palace. You will persuade your confederates that you avail yourself of my hospitality so that you may abuse it in their interests. That should satisfy them, and I shall look to see you here this evening. Now go with God.’
Bellarion stumbled out distracted. Nothing had gone as he intended after that too promising beginning. Perhaps had he not disclosed himself as Facino Cane’s adoptive son, he would not have supplied the Regent with a pretence that should render plausible his comings and goings. But the necessity for that disclosure was undeniable. His conduct had been dictated by the conviction that he could do for the Lady Valeria what she could not without self-betrayal do for herself. Confidently he had counted upon instant action of the Regent to crush the conspirators, and so make the Princess safe from the net in which their crazy ambitions would entangle her. Instead he had made the discovery—from the single indiscretion of the Regent—that the Marquis Theodore was already fully aware of the existence of the conspiracy and of the identity of some, if not all, of the chief conspirators. That was why he had so readily accepted Bellarion’s tale. The disclosure agreed so completely with the Regent’s knowledge that he had no cause to doubt Bellarion’s veracity. And finding him true in these most intimate details, he readily believed true the rest of his story and the specious account of his own intervention in the affair. Possibly Bellarion’s name was already known to him as that of one of the plotters who met at Barbaresco’s house.
Far, then, from achieving his real purpose, all that Bellarion had accomplished was to offer himself as another and apparently singularly apt instrument for the Regent’s dark purposes.
It was a perturbed Bellarion, a Bellarion who perceived in what dangerous waters he was swimming, who came back that noontide to Barbaresco’s house.
CHAPTER X
THE WARNING
They were very gay that night at the hospitable court of the Marquis Theodore. A comedy was performed early in the evening, a comedy which Fra Serafino in his chronicle describes as lascivious, by which he may mean no more than playful. Thereafter there was some dancing in the long hall, of which the Regent himself set the example, leading forth the ugly but graceful young Princess of Morea.
His nephew, the Marquis Gian Giacomo, followed with the Countess of Ronsecco, who would have declined the honour if she had dared, for the boy’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes glazed, his step uncertain, and his speech noisy and incoherent. And there were few who smiled as they observed the drunken antics of their future prince. Once, indeed, the Regent paused, grave and concerned of countenance, to whisper an admonition. The boy answered him with a bray of insolent laughter, and flung away, dragging the pretty countess with him. It was plain to all that the gentle, knightly Regent found it beyond his power to control his unruly, degenerate nephew.
Amongst the few who dared to smile was Messer Castruccio da Fenestrella, radiant in a suit of cloth of gold, who stood watching the mischief he had made. For it was he who had first secretly challenged Gian Giacomo to a drinking-bout during supper, and afterwards urged him to dance with the pretty wife of stiff-necked Ronsecco.
Awhile he stood looking on. Then, wearying of the entertainment, he sauntered off to join a group apart of which the Lady Valeria was the centre. Her ladies, Dionara and Isotta, were with her, the pedant Corsario, looking even less pedantic than his habit, and a half-dozen gallants who among them made all the chatter. Her highness was pale, and there was a frown between her eyes that so wistfully followed her unseemly brother, inattentive of those about her, some of whom from the kindliest motives sought to distract her attention. Her cheeks warmed a little at the approach of Castruccio, who moved into the group with easy, insolent grace.
‘My lord is gay to-night,’ he informed them lightly. None answered him. He looked at them with his flickering, shifty eyes, a sneering smile on his lips. ‘So are not you,’ he informed them. ‘You need enlivening.’ He thrust forward to the Princess, and bowed. ‘Will your highness dance?’
She did not look at him. Her eyes were fixed, and their glance went beyond him and was of such intensity that Messer Castruccio turned to seek the object of that curious contemplation.
Down the hall came striding Messer Aliprandi, the Orator of Milan, and with him a tall, black-haired young man, in a suit of red that was more conspicuous than suitable of fashion to the place or the occasion. Into the group about the Princess they came, whilst the exquisite Castruccio eyed this unfashionable young man with frank contempt, bearing his pomander-ball to his nostrils, as if to protect his olfactory organs from possible offence.
Messer Aliprandi, trimly bearded, elegant in his furred gown, and suavely mannered, bowed low before the Lady Valeria.
‘Permit me, highness, to present Messer Bellarion Cane, the son of my good friend Facino Cane of Biandrate.’
It was the Marquis Theodore, who had requested the Orator of Milan—as was proper, seeing that by reason of his paternity Bellarion was to be regarded as Milanese—to present his assumed compatriot to her highness.
Bellarion, modelling himself upon Aliprandi, executed his bow with grace.
As Fra Serafino truthfully says of him: ‘He learnt manners and customs and all things so quickly that he might aptly be termed a fluid in the jug of any circumstance.’
The Lady Valeria inclined her head with no more trace of recognition in her face than there was in Bellarion’s own.
‘You are welcome, sir,’ she said with
