Claws of the Tigress, The Firebrand & The Pearls of Bonfadini (3 Historical Adventures in One Edition). Max Brand
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said the beggar.
“Do you recognize her?” asked Tizzo.
“Almost!” said the beggar. “Tell me a little more.”
And he kept on smiling down at the ground.
“Her voice,” said Tizzo, “is singular. Of a million ladies, or of a million angels, there is not one who can speak like her. And when she sings, the heart of a man grows big with joy and floats like a bubble. Do you hear? Like a golden bubble!”
“I hear you,” said the beggar.
“Her hands,” said Tizzo, “are small but not weak. They are hands which could rein a horse as well as use a needle.”
“Ah?” said the beggar.
“And—I forgot—on her face, below the right eye, there is a little mark—not a blemish, you see—but a small spot of black; as though God would not give to the world absolute perfection or, rather, as though He would place a signature upon her; or as though through one fault he would make the rest of her beauty to shine more brightly. Am I clear?”
Ugo, the beggar, looked suddenly into the distance, squinting his eyes.
“Ah ha! You know her!” said Tizzo.
“I am trying to think. I shall go to see, signore. I shall go to a certain house and make sure. And then where shall I find you?”
“At that inn down the street. The one which carries the sign of the stag. I shall be there.”
“Within a little while, I shall be with you, signore, and tell you yes or no.”
“What is your name?”
“I am called Ugo, signore.”
“Look, Ugo. You see this emerald which is set into the hilt of my dagger?”
“I see it very clearly. It is a beautiful stone.”
“I swear to God that if you bring me to the lady, you shall have this stone for your own.”
A faint groan of hungry desire burst from the lips of Ugo. In fact, he seemed about to speak more words but controlled himself with an effort.
“At the Sign of the Golden Stag—within an hour, I hope, signore.”
And Ugo turned and strode up the street like a young man, because it seemed to him that, when he saw the emerald, he had looked into a green deeper than the blue peace of Heaven.
He continued on his way until he came to a great house where many horses were tethered and where there was a huge bustling from the court. Into this he made his way and said to the tall porter at the door: “My friend, carry word that Ugo, the beggar, has important word for Messer Astorre. It is a thing that I dare not speak in the streets or to any ear except to that of Messer Astorre himself.”
Then he added, “Or to my lord, Giovanpaolo.”
At this second name the porter stopped his smiling.
“Messer Astorre,” he said, “is engaged in talk with an important man. If I break in upon him, I must give some excuse.”
“It shall be this,” said Ugo. “Tell him that there is a beggar who is not a fool or crazy, but who dares to demand immediately to speak to him.”
The porter hesitated, but the eye of the old man was burning with such a light that after a moment he was told to wait at the door while the porter went to announce him.
This was the way in which Ugo, after a time, passed through a door of inlaid wood and came into a room lighted by two deep windows, in one of which sat the famous warrior whose name at that time was celebrated throughout Italy—the great Astorre Baglioni. First the beggar glanced hesitantly and covetously all about him at the rich hangings which covered the walls of the room and then toward a pair of magnificent paintings done in the gay Venetian style. Afterwards he approached the noble Astorre, bowing profoundly and repeatedly.
“Your name is Ugo,” said Messer Astorre, “and you have something to say to me?”
The second man in the room, a tall, darkly handsome fellow who had been striding around in an excited manner, shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window as though he could hardly endure the interruption.
“What I have to say is for the ear of my lord alone,” said Ugo.
“Whatever is fit for me is proper for my friend, Mateo Marozzo, to hear,” said the warrior.
“Messer Astorre,” said Ugo, “it is a thing that concerns your sister, the Lady Beatrice, I believe.”
Mateo Marozzo whirled about suddenly, with an exclamation and Ugo shrank a little.
“Be quiet, Mateo,” said Astorre. “Don’t frighten the man.”
“The word was,” said Ugo, “that the noble lady your sister was gone from the town, stolen away from it by thieves hired by some of the cursed house of the Oddi. But this very day a young man spoke to me in the street, described her, and offered me a jewel if I could find her for him.”
“So?” said Astorre, smiling. Then he added: “My sister has been returned safely to the town. Who is this man who asked for her?”
“I do not know his name, my lord. He is a young man with red hair and eyes of a blue that shines like the blade of a fine sword, or like the blue underpart of a flame.”
“Astorre!” Mateo called. “It is the man! It is the man! Give him to me!”
“Well, no doubt you shall have him if you want,” said Astorre. “But who is he?”
“He is called Tizzo. I heard his name called out in the fight. He is the Firebrand. And it was he who knocked the wits out of my head with a lucky stroke of his battle-ax.”
“Ah?” exclaimed Astorre. “Have the Oddi become so bold as this? Are they sending their agents like this into the middle of Perugia? Are they searching for Beatrice to steal her from us again? By God, Mateo, if we can catch this fellow, you shall have him. And if you don’t tear out of him some information about the Oddi plans, call me a fool and a liar! My friend, where is this fellow?”
“At the Sign of the Golden Stag,” said Ugo, beginning to tremble in body and voice as he realized that he had struck upon great news indeed.
“He is yours,” said Astorre to Marozzo. “Go take him and do what you will with him.”
CHAPTER 8
At the Sign of the Golden Stag a man whose face was roughed over with beard to the eyes was talking loudly in the big taproom. He had on a long yellow coat and pointed shoes of red; and he walked back and forth a little through the room, while all eyes followed him. The afternoon had grown so dark with rain that lamps had been lighted in the room and these cast an uncertain and wavering light. Tizzo followed the movements of the tall stranger with interest because he found the voice vaguely familiar, but not the face. He was wondering where he could have seen before that shaggy front; and in the meantime he sipped some of the cool white wine of Orvieto and listened to the stranger’s talk. The beggar, Ugo, surely would soon return.
The man of the yellow coat was a doctor, it appeared, and he was peddling in the taproom some of his cures; for instance—“A powder made of the wing cases of the golden rose chafer, an excellent thing for cases of rheumatism. Let the sick man put four large pinches of this powder into a glass of wine and swallow off the draught when he goes to bed at night. The taste will not be good but what is bad for the belly is good for the bones.” Or again the doctor was saying: “When old men find themselves feeble, their eyes watering, their joints creaking, their breathing short, their sleep long, I have here an excellent remedy.