Captain from Castile (40 page)

The Strozzi family, together with Dofia Maria, were spending the hot days of late summer at Le Selve near the Mount Alban hills; but Don Francisco remained behind in the city. He had numerous letters of thanks connected with the suit to finish before sailing, and he also enjoyed the company of other elderly gentlemen remaining in Florence, rather than the restless come-and-go of young people at the villa.

One morning in Filippo Strozzi's cabinet, he was dictating to his amanuensis when a page boy knocked at the door and, in reply to an impatient ''Adelante!" came in. The boy looked excited.

"A gentleman to see Your Excellency," he stammered.

"What's his name?"

"He forbade me to tell his name, Your Excellency."

"Ha, did he so?" Don Francisco's eyes kindled; his lower lip crept out. "Well then, tell him from me that I am at this moment engaged and have no time for nameless callers."

"He's a high and mighty lord," the servant faltered.

"All the more reason for him not to be ashamed of his name and to show good manners. Does he think that I am at the beck and call of any lord on earth? Let him give his name or be gone."

The page lingered. "I'll be sworn he intends no disrespect, sir. It is but his whim. He bade me say, if you refused to see him, that he has been your ancient and mortal enemy and that he had yet to learn that Don Francisco de Vargas declines to meet his enemies on foot or horse."

"Now, by God!" exclaimed the other, forgetting his stiff knee and springing up. "That's a different matter. On those terms I'll see him and welcome. Is he armed?"

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Good!" The old cavalier shook with delight. "Hand me my sword and belt there. Seiior Nameless must be a right bold and gallant fellow to come defying me under the very roof of my kinsman. Is he alone?"

"Yes, sir.''

"Then, look you, boy, if he gives trouble, I want no help. Let everyone stand back. Thank God, I have had many noble enemies in my time: but if one of them comes alone to meet me, I would not have him outnumbered or put to disadvantage. I do not care to know his name now, since that is his wish—but you say he's a gentleman and of good blood?"

"Aye, sir, I can vouch for him."

Don Francisco belted on his sword and loosened it in the scabbard. Then, walking over to a mirror, he smoothed down his sparse hair; righted his gold chain, so that it lay evenly on his shoulders and showed the pendant medallion to the best advantage; arranged the folds of his doublet.

"Who would have ever hoped for such a thing!" he exulted. "Here, on a dull morning! It's like the old days. Yes, a gallant fellow. My mortal enemy, eh? Well, well."

Beyond the cabinet lay a vast reception room, tapestried and with a riot of gods in fresco on the ceiling. Having advanced to the exact center of it, Don Francisco stopped.

"Tell the gentleman that I await his pleasure."

In the entrance hall at the far end of the room, he was aware of a

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flutter and crowding of servants. Then the throng divided; he heard the clink of a sword, and the caller entered.

He was a tall, slender man with wide shoulders and long arms. His hair, slightly grizzled, was straight-cropped on forehead and neck. He was clean-shaven, long-nosed, and had wide-set prominent eyes, with deep wrinkles at their comers. A bold chin, a big mouth, haunted by the shadow of a smile and framed by lines slanting down from the nostrils, gave a forceful, yet pleasant look to his face. Except for a heavy gold chain of the Order of St. Michael, he was dressed simply and somberly. Walking with the careless, long stride of a horseman, he rested one big hand on the hilt of his sword, and carried his velvet hat in the other.

At the first glimpse of the stranger, Don Francisco started, then stared; his lower jaw drooped. Then uttering a loud ''Vive Dids" he left his post in the center of the room and limped toward the newcomer with both hands outstretched, his sallow cheeks glowing, incredulous joy on every feature.

"Monseigneur de Bayard!"

"Ha, Monseigneur de Vargas!"

Whereupon the two enemies embraced, while the servant who had first announced the caller relaxed in the luxury of a grin.

"I should have known it was you!" exclaimed Don Francisco, when he had caught his breath. "No other man on earth would so have presented himself. You always loved your joke."

"Joke, nothing!" laughed the Frenchman. "Aren't we old and mortal enemies, my dear friend? Didn't I knock out your front teeth by good luck at Gaeta? Didn't you lift me from the saddle at Bisceglie a lance's length on my rump? Was I able to sit in comfort for the next two weeks? And haven't we thirsted for each other's blood in a dozen skirmishes, sieges, and pitched battles? If you don't call that mortal, what is it? But, faith, Monseigneur," he added more gravely, "it warms my heart to see you again. The brave days—ha? Friends and enemies, few of us are left."

"My lord," de Vargas answered, "I could now gladly say the Nunc Dimittis for the pleasure this gives me. That the cavalier sans peur et sans reproche should visit my poor self overflows the cup. I have followed your fame for years but never expected to see you again in the flesh. I thought you were in Grenoble. I never dreamed—"

"Merely a chance," put in Bayard, glad to escape from compliments. "The King's business took me to Genoa and then to Florence. When I heard you were here, I lost no time."

Don Francisco emerged momentarily from his rapture. "Wine and refreshment for the Lord Bayard!" he called. "At once! . . . This way, sir, by your leave. We can talk more at our ease in the cabinet yonder."

Bravely he tried to keep step with the other, but fell to limping; at which the French captain stopped to admire the tapestries and covered up his host's embarrassment. But when they were seated in the smaller room, doors closed, wine, cake, and fruit at hand, what talk!

Of course, they spoke French, because Frenchmen are rarely at home in another language; but it was plentifully mixed with Spanish and Italian. Bayard's hearty, ringing voice alternated with de Vargas's lisp.

"And this fine son of yours, sefior?" demanded Bayard after several minutes. "Fve been expecting him for the past six months. Is he here? Perhaps he'll ride back with me." But struck by the other's expression, he hesitated. "I ask pardon. Is it that— Surely he accompanied you from Spain?"

"No." De Vargas cleared his throat. He was torn between loyalty to Pedro and a kind of professional shame. "No."

"You mean—I hope no misfortune—"

"No—yes. Monseigneur, in view of your generous offer to my son, I hardly know what to say. The truth is"—Don Francisco gulped—"he has been guilty of flagrant disobedience. We were separated in a trifling skirmish which attended our escape. He led the rear guard and, I confess, quitted himself well. He was under orders to rejoin me here. But, sir, when he could have begun the career of arms under your guidance, when he had such an opening, what does he do but cross the Ocean Sea and enlist with a crowd of irregulars on an expedition against the Indians! Monseigneur, this is the sad truth. I am ashamed." But loyalty got the upper hand at the expense of honesty, and he added: "I believe his commander, Heman Cortes by name, is a most accomplished captain. The boy too shows promise in the management of his horse and his weapons. But alas—"

The alas did not need to be explained. It covered all that Pedro would miss: the tactics and niceties of traditional war; the ordering of vanguard, "battle," and rear guard; the developing science of artillery and musketry; siege operations against fortified places; the use of horse and foot; the etiquette and discipline of a regular army. Bayard understood. He and de Vargas were professionals discussing a youth who had turned his back on their code.

For a moment the Frenchman said nothing, but took a sip of wine, his eyes absently fixed on the cornice above Don Francisco's head. In some suspense, the latter awaited his comment.

"Mort de ma vie!" exclaimed the Great Cavalier at last. "Except for his disobedience to you, I think the young gaillard did well. Faith, yes! The more I reflect on it, very well—though I should have liked having him among my lances."

Don Francisco's eyes brightened. "How do you mean well, my lord?"

"Why, he sounds like a boy of enterprise and spirit. In truth, I envy him. . . . You say against Indians? What kind of men are they? Like Moors?"

"It may be," said the other dubiously. "I've heard that some, notably the Caribs, are brave and hardy."

"Well, then, what more would you have? Nom de dieu! Are we not at peace? Is it not better for a gentleman to fight than not to fight? Is it not better to fight something than nothing?"

"There's truth in that," de Vargas agreed.

"Is it not the first duty of a gentleman," Bayard continued, "to acquire honor? And will your son not gain more honor in war against enemies of our Faith than in riding at the quintain in my tilt yard or chasing beggarly outlaws in the mountains of Dauphine? Of course he will. He may even learn new tricks of war from the Indians to use when he returns. Time enough then to polish him off. He'll be far ahead of whippersnappers who know all the rules, but have never practised them, for the trade of arms is only learned by fighting. You must forgive him, sir, for my sake."

De Vargas beamed. With this endorsement, Pedro's adventure took on a new aspect.

"You are kind."

"Kind, no; envious, yes. I am bored, my friend. I'm a dull governor in a dull palace—little better than a bourgeois man of affairs. I attend weddings and baptisms. I hold court. Pah! Indians, eh?" He sighed. "I'd like right well to show my pennon beyond the Ocean Sea."

After dwelling on the tasteless present, conversation turned to speculation on the next war. The growing friction between Charles of Spain and King Francis promised well. But even this topic could not keep the two old soldiers very long from the past. A roll call of names: Louis d'Ars, Pedro de Peralta, Pierre de Bellabre, Alonso de Sotomayor, Berault d'Aubigny, Pedro de Paz, a score of others—names once vivid but now already faded by the passing of years, names chiefly of dead men. Bayard and de Vargas smiled fondly over one or the other; rehearsed their deeds, discussed battles, forays, and retreats; laughed often, but with a solemn undertone, as those who speak of vanished faces and days. Killed at Ravenna, killed in Navarre, killed in the

Abruzzi, killed at Marignano. The friends of their youth, the very age into which they had been born—dead and gone.

In Filippo Strozzi's luxurious study, with its books and paintings and carved cherubs, the two clean-shaven, hawk-faced, medieval gentlemen sat like discordant relics. They were old-fashioned and proud of it. They glanced with scorn at these newer fashions: this fiddle-faddle about art and poetry and useless learning; these mental subtleties that questioned even religion itself; this non-military, pretty way of building houses that could not be held against attack; this wearing of beards, which were stuffy and impractical under armor. They belonged to a simpler, more childlike age, and because of it they loved each other like brothers.

Meanwhile, Francisco de Vargas worked up to a proposal. He viewed with approval Bayard's sinewy neck, rising pillar-like from the round opening of his doublet and looking almost too big for the head it supported. He admired the Chevalier's muscular hands and thin, whipcord legs spreading out comfortably from the chair. A fighting man, por Dios!

"Monseigneur," he ventured at last, "in other days we have never had leisure completely to finish any of our passages of arms. Unfortunately we were always prevented or separated in the heat of battle. I have never been able, therefore, fully to enjoy your prowess. You are here for a few days. No doubt I shall never again have the opportunity. Would it be asking too much if I begged you for a meeting with lance and sword on horseback? Suitable weapons and horses can be found. I should always be grateful for the chance to observe your skill."

Bayard's eyes danced. "Three courses, eh? A few strokes of the sword if lances are broken?"

"If you would be so good. It would greatly honor me, even if I can give you but poor sport—"

"Nonsense!" interrupted the other. "My dear friend, it's the other way round. I'm too old a fox to be fooled by modesty. You know that you overmatch me. But faith, I'm tempted! It seems an age since I've had a breathing."

Then suddenly he stopped. De Vargas would never know that his crippled knee and the twelve years' difference between them crossed Bayard's mind. The Frenchman's face clouded.

"No, ma foi. I remember. It's impossible. Maitre Champier, my physician, forbids all violent effort because of a quartan fever I had in June. I gave him my word." He added gallantly, "And, between you

and me, it's God's providence that I did. I could not stand another jolt to my rear such as you gave me at Bisceglie."

So the morning passed too quickly. Due at the Medici Palace for dinner, Bayard took his leave; but Don Francisco accompanied him a part of the way.

They walked arm in arm, their servants behind them, an equerry leading the Chevalier's hackney. And people made way for the two famous cavaliers with their grave, battle-lined faces, erect bearing, and fearless eyes. Even court dandies, curled and perfumed, were impressed and gazed after them. For both were distinguished men, remarkable in this, that while growing old they remained young and gallant and undefeated.

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Singe the evening when Pedro de Vargas had told her about the miraculous ray in church which appointed her his Lady of Destiny, Luisa de Carvajal had succeeded in renewing the miracle at other times. She was quite aware of her spiritual, waxlike beauty, that brought a look of adoration to men's eyes; and the ray, slanting down from the narrow window, lent her an aureole, which lighted up her face and toilet to the best advantage. Not even marriage interfered with this casual pastime. Alonso Ponce, who had now become her galdn after de Silva's departure, was deeply impressed by the halo and called her "Lady of the Sunbeam," which she considered a charming and distinctive title.