The Siege of Malta

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIIVenetia, clasping small, soft, muscular hands behind her pale-gold head, and lifting a flower-fair face to Francisco’s regard, had a thought of content, both for the judgment which had brought her to where she lay and the skill with which she had handled a position which had been novel to her, so that the highest stake for which she could play might still be within her grasp. She had come to a rich market, where the prospects of barter grew better with every day.

Now she listened to Francisco’s account of how he had shattered the Turkish boats, and she thought him one who might rise high in the turbulent world she knew. She did not think of it as much more than a fortunate chance (as it was), though the idea of the longer guns had been his, with a boy’s desire to make the most of his own command. Actually, he seemed to her, at this moment of conscious triumph, younger, less mature, than she had seen him before, as the excitement of the deed broke through the reserves which were born of shyness and pride, and had been augmented by the restraints which he practised toward herself.

For the moment, it even caused him to forget La Cerda’s visit, and that which must shortly be asked of her.

Venetia, surveying the world around her with cool and accurate eyes, did not regard him as a genius of battle, but as a gallant and very fortunate boy, which it was much better to be. For fortune, in her world, was a very tangible thing.

It would have been absurd to compare him, in military experience, in political knowledge, in a score of various abilities, with La Cerda, who had the name of one of the most capable men of his troubled times. But what was the use of that, if it had not kept him from the Grand Master’s disgrace, from the peril of St. Elmo’s m******e? He was one to whom fortune showed a frown which seemed unlikely to change. . . . And Venetia meant that Francisco should give her more than it could ever be in the power of La Cerda to do.

Her first thought had been no more than to change protectors, when it had seemed that La Cerda’s star had been near to set; and had he been later by half an hour when he came on Francisco and her in Angelico’s room, she might have put the virtue of the younger man to a test which it would not easily have sustained. But after that she had changed to a bolder dream. To be Francisco’s mistress might be pleasant enough, but it would be better to be his wife.

There was nothing in the fact of her known position as the amie of a monkish prince to prevent such a marriage, either in civil or ecclesiastical law, or in the social customs that ruled the time. There was more obstacle in the gutter from which she came, but even that was no more than had been overcome by other women who were among the highest in Europe then. Indeed, her position as La Cerda’s mistress might be held as evidence that it had already suffered its first defeat. By the code of that day, it was demonstration that she could not be entirely unfitted to become one of the most honoured ladies of Spain. Still—she had far to go, and some high barriers to be overcome.

She did not doubt that she had shown wisdom in her restraint, though she chafed at times that she must not follow her body’s will. To be wanton to this proud and very innocent boy (who was nearly of her own years, but was child to her) would have been pleasant enough, and would have held him by a strong cord, but she had resolved that she would be a madonna instead, and was shrewd enough to see that she took a way that held him more strongly still.

So she endured the confinement of the small chamber of stone, coming out only at night, as her safety required, feeling that she had found a safe lair at a very difficult need, and that she was not wasting her time.

None would disturb her there: the discipline was too strict: the movements of the men too straitly controlled. The turn in the stone entrance, which was in lieu of a door, and was intended to secure the occupant from the danger of shot, or flying fragments of stone, was as absolute as a concealment could be, unless one of the men should step in, and look round into his captain’s retreat; and who would venture to leave his post for such a purpose as that?

Even so, he might have been silenced or cajoled, either by bribe or threat; but, in fact, none looked, and none but Captain Antonio, who had an adjoining retreat, had suspicion, until she had become careless, and stood revealed to a sudden moon, of which she was still unaware. A few yards from the movements of men, she had been as secure as though separated by dividing miles.

She had used the exigencies of that narrow space, into which Francisco must frequently come, and where he must sleep and dress, with a discreet skill, which would have been beyond the resource of one less experienced in the world’s ways, and in the habits and dispositions of men.

He had given up his chamber within the castle, under pretext that he would not leave the battery now that St. Angelo was so closely besieged, but with the further reason that he must be constantly there to secure the privacy for his own cell that it had become vital to have. He must make it his in fact, as well as in name, that the intrusion of others might not be risked.

In this intimacy, she had been careful to maintain a physical distance, a discreet modesty, such as would hold his respect: she had made pretence that she trusted his chivalry as sufficient shield for one who was La Cerda’s mistress, not his.

But having established this distance first, she had proceeded to allure him with every weapon she had, either of beauty or wit, as though seeming unconscious of what she did; doing no more in this than to secure redundant victories in a strife she had already won. And gradually, as the days passed, she had hinted in casual ways that she was in no haste to return to La Cerda’s arms. Was it wonder if he dreamed, though with slender hope, of a time when she might come to his in a woman’s way? That she was seldom out of his waking thoughts? That in his heart he cursed the way that she had come to his power, so that he supposed he could not press her to love without his own honour’s loss, unless they should come to a freer time? Understanding which, Venetia smiled in the dark, and was well content. . . .

Now, after she had lain on her couch in that narrow place, listening to the confused uproar that told of the Turkish storm, and then to the crashing discharge of culverins that were not many yards from her own head, Francisco had come to tell her of the effect with which he had been able to use his guns.

“It will be,” she said, “a most high honour for you; for which the Order should give you thanks in a public way.”

“They will not do that,” Francisco replied, being a better prophet than she on that point. “It is not their way. Nor have I done more than to take a chance that came to my hands, and I could not miss. I have done nothing, beyond that I changed the sakers for guns of a better length that were idle in my own ship, it being moored to the inner quay. After that, the praise is for them who laid them well, that they did not miss.”

“But that,” she said, “even though it were fairly said, is not how honour is paid. It is he who succeeds, from whatever cause, and he who is first in command on the winning day who will take reward. They would make you Commander, I well suppose, for this and your Uncle’s name. But you do not think to take the oath of a Maltese knight?”

There was something more than a casual curiosity in the way in which this question was put, something of the tone of one who has a personal stake at issue on the reply, of which he could not fail to become aware, as she may have meant.

“I have not thought much of that,” he replied; “it was my uncle’s design, which, had he lived, he would have urged me to do. It is a high honour, and so esteemed in all Christian lands. But I like not the monkish vows.”

“The vows,” she said, “are not such as can be praised by a woman’s lips, be they evil or good. Nor am I likely to love that which has chased me here.

“And the Grand Master,” she went on, feeling it to be a discourse that the text required, “may not show his full wisdom in this, that he holds that we who have the high honour to be the consolation of Knights of God, are in ourselves of less honour than ladies should like to be; which is because, as I suppose, if he had his way, they would have no consolation at all, which may be more than men of a living blood will consent to endure.

“But he would see, if his harshness of hate did not cast a scarf round his reason’s eyes, that if we be faithful to whom we love, though we be not held in the Church’s bond, our honour must stand with those who may be wed in a colder way.”

She spoke what she had thought out before, as having a good sound for Francisco’s ears, but she was not unaware that it had more than one edge, coming from the lips of her who had little will to be true to La Cerda now. She had a sound instinct that, though she might be legally free to wed, she would have a better chance to win Francisco to that end if La Cerda were not alive. Why would he not die, where so many did? Even St. Elmo had not been able to bring him to that!

Her words brought La Cerda to Francisco’s mind in another way, which was as unwelcome to him.

“The Chevalier La Cerda was here to-day,” he said, “enquiring for you.”

“Leon here!” she exclaimed. “You told him naught? He does not know where I hide?”

Her voice was sharp with a sudden dread, which confirmed the doubt he had felt before as to what she would wish him to do, and gave him a satisfaction therefrom which it would have pleased her to know. But she had little pleasure in his reply, though he could deny that he had done that which was her first fear.

“I said I could tell him naught, unless I have warrant from you.”

She saw some implications of that which she did not like.

“Then he must know I am here?”

“He knows less than that. He will conclude that I can see you within the day. That I could not avoid.”

Could not avoid! She thought things which it would have been foolish to say. She grew very still, as she would when danger was near. Her face ceased to reveal her thoughts.

As she was not quick to speak, he went on: “I have his promise that he will not make revelation of aught to which you do not consent; and even then it shall be in such form that there will be nothing said of how I have held you here.”

“And how,” she asked, with some reason behind her scorn, “did he think to contrive that? We are to plead mercy of most pitiless men, and I with my hands red with the blood of death, and we are to elect what we will say, or where we will remain still. It would be to ask for the rack in an urgent voice!”

“I know not what he may have in mind,” Francisco replied, feeling that he faced a blame which should not be his, “but he would have it that I presumed too far in that which was his matter and yours, and on which he would let me know that you would come to easy accord if I let you meet. . . . But that his arm is not healed, and that I did not know what you would wish, it had been likely to come to steel, as it did when we met before.”

“When will he be next here?”

“At to-morrow noon.”

“I will tell you before then what you shall say. We will leave it now. . . . But I have been sheltered here while the storm goes by, and to venture out, when there is no evident need——!”

Francisco felt with her in that. For her to go would be as though the sun should have left the sky; and he could not think either that La Cerda would find her a surer retreat, or that she could now be disclosed without more trouble than it would be easy to overcome. Why must the man come with a bandaged arm? He should have been met with denial of all reply but a dagger’s point, and if swords and daggers had soon been bare—well, there might have been some comfort in that!

Even the great deed he had done had come to seem no more than a little thing, nor was he urgent to know whether, in that noise of strife that still thundered to south and east, the Sanglea endured or was overrun. War and love battled for his regard, and he was most aware of the tyranny of a woman’s eyes, which might be withdrawn after they had lately softened to him.

He went out to where Antonio watched by the waiting guns that would not be loosed on another prey, or at least not for that time.