Brazenhead in Milan/Chapter 2

was the morn and blithe the adventurer when, rising in his stirrups, Captain Brazenhead, like Chanticlere the Valiant, saluted the sun. Red in the mist, it lit the road to Milan; red in the mist that city showed, admirably strong, remarkable to any soldier's eye. He saw double walls, towers innumerable, many gates of port and antiport, the bulk of a square castle, belfries of churches, and outside the ditch, in a broad meadow, a tented camp, with silk pavilions for the captains, and men-at-arms in black and white liveries executing manœuvres at the double. "This Milan," said Captain Brazenhead, "lacks only water to flood the marshes to be as impregnable as Jericho of old—more so, indeed, since Jericho, I do remember, was taken by a man of God. He, it appears, by taking a walk round about it in the cool of the day, could level those proud walls, as with a breath you have down your house of cards. But those are tactics of despair. I would only use them when all else had failed me."

A young woman in a striped petticoat and kerchiefed head, who rode sideways upon an ass and nursed a baby, was upon the road before him, and gave a tender note to the warlike scene. The avenue of budding trees framed her in like a picture, dappled her with light and shade. "Venus rideth to assuage Mars his fury," said he, "and a pretty turn to the head she hath." He quickened his pace, overtook and accosted her.

"Damsel, by your leave," he said, "we undertake this adventure in company. Why, cheerly then, and cry Tickle my chin." She looked at him askance out of her dove's eyes, but his gaiety was not to be denied.

But "Sir," said she, "I know not how that may fall out." He stooped towards her.

"I know a couple will never fall out while the sun shineth on Milan," he admonished her.

"I too, sir," she replied, "for I am a married woman."

"It is very evident," said the Captain, with genial warmth. "In that fine little girl"

She bit her lip. "It is a boy, sir. I had supposed you better instructed. But you and I must not be seen together at the gate."

Captain Brazenhead turned his gaze most earnestly upon her. "Listen now," he said. "There's Fate in this our meeting. One star leans to another in conjunction. We do what we do under the swaying of the spheres. So sure as your name is"

"Oh!" she cried, all in a flame, "who told you that my name was Liperata?"

The soldier smiled. "Why, you, my dear. But I am in Fortune's way. I have a net, and have enmeshed thee, fair partridge. Contend no more, fold thy beating wings. We go through the gate together; afterwards we must see our way. Thou art my passport, Liperata, and I defend thy reputation with my last breath." She had no answer ready, so they ambled on together. Her confusion became her. It was to remain with him a balmy memory—like a remembered fragrance in sultry weather.

What amiable intentions he may have had in her regard, however, did not avail him to pass the entry of Milan. The posted sentinels, seeing a fine man in leather, with two swords, bestriding a horse three of whose legs, at least, were ready for war, ran nimbly in and called out the guard. Monna Liperata, free of the gates, dug heels into her donkey's ribs and jogged into the city, glancing back but once as she turned the street corner. Captain Brazenhead, however, confronted a double row of halberdiers.

He was vexed. "How now?" he cried. "Am I hosts of Midian? Cæsar with his legions? Am I Tamerlane at the door? or what the devil?"

They told him that no man could pass the gates of the city without lawful warrant. That was inexorable. "What is, is," said Captain Brazenhead, "and what must be, shall be. Et in sæcula sæculorum, Amen. You wish for my warrant, masters? He drew from his breast a strip of parchment, folded, sealed, and bound with a green cord. "Take," he said, "and read it who can."

Now, they could not; but they examined the seal, which was a broad one, with the arms of England and France upon it.

"Read you, rather," they said; so Captain Brazenhead recited the exordium, being no more able to read Latin (nor, indeed, any written tongue) than his auditors.

"Henricus dei gratia Rex Angliæ et Franciæ et dominus Hiberniæ dilecto et fideli suo T. de Compton Vicecomiti Middlesexiæ, salutem. He read no more, because he knew no more, but crushing up the parchment in his fist, looked sublimely down upon the gaping soldiery, and his words extended to the curious merchants who stood at the doors of their little shops watching the game.

"You see very well how it is, men of Lombardy," he proclaimed. "The King of England and France and Lord of Ireland sends this affectionate greeting to his cousin Milan. What, ye sour-chops, ye will not understand? Hearken then yet again." As they wondered among, themselves, he reopened the scroll and smacked it with his fist. "Henricus dei gratia, hey? How's that for my King Harry? And Vicecomiti, hey? Is't not your Visconti written fair? And will you, hirelings," he added, with a searching change of tone, "will you thrust up your dirty hands between the kissing lips of kings?"

They said that they would not, and saw in the smile that stole over the hero's face a strong resemblance to the gleaming of the morning sun upon the scarred brow of an Alp. "Then lead on, peeping Tom," were the bold words. "My business here is to greet King from King."

A strong escort conducted him through the narrow ways of the city and presented him to the Captain of the Castle. His writ was taken over, turned about, and (since nothing could be made of it) carried away to more learned officers. Captain Brazenhead meanwhile sat, quite at his ease, in the gatehouse quarters, affably conversing with all and sundry. His cause may have been good; his nerve was better.

After a period of suspense, which may have lasted an hour, or may have lasted three, two clerics entered the gatehouse and saluted him with great respect.

Captain Brazenhead stood up. "How now, my reverends?"

One of them said: "Your Excellency's credentials have been examined by our master, the Great Chamberlain, to whose mind certain little difficulties have presented themselves, which can only be dispersed by your Excellency's self." "Like enough," said Captain Brazenhead, and closed one of his eyes. "But I'll warrant you that I disperse 'em."

But the spokesman, an elderly brother of St. Dominic's order of religion, was now examining the writ. "It is clear," said he, "that the King your master directs this letter to a kinsman of our Duke, though in what degree of consanguinity the Lord T. de Compton Visconti may be to his Grace we are unable to determine."

Captain Brazenhead ejaculated "Cousin," but the Dominican did not seem to heed him.

"We see further," he pursued, poring over the parchment, "that this Lord Visconti is to have the body of one Salomone, to answer to his lord the King why with force and arms he brake the close of one Jak a-Style, and took therefrom certain of the goods of the said Jak—to wit, five hens and one cock of the value of one shilling. So far we agree, my brother, I think?" He looked at his colleague, who nodded gravely; and then both of them looked at his Excellency.

"By my faith, gentlemen," said Captain Brazenhead, after a pause for breath, "you know more about all this than I do. But I will tell you the plain truth. I was in my castle of Baynard's in Middlesex on a day, my hounds at my feet, arms laid aside; taking my ease, picking my teeth with a dagger—when the lieutenant of this same Visconti came pressing in. He must by all means see me, saith he; cannot be denied. He serves me with this—what do I say? he tenders me this scrip, saying, 'Testadirame, look to it.' A nod or a wink! What care I? Enough for you that I understand him. I take horse and arms incontinent, and off—as it were from Visconti of Middlesex to the head of his house here in Milan; but in reality, doubt it not, from King to King. Of your cocks and hens, or cocks and bulls, of Jak a-Style's poultry-yard, I know nothing. But I take it that a king can put as many things into his letters as he pleases. Gossip of the day! Or, it may well be, sand in the eyes of your Worships, who (let me tell you) are not to know everything. No, no. But I would have you know this much at least, my reverend brothers, that I have no sort of business with your Honours, and much with him you serve. My business with him is both heavy and light; it is bitter-sweet, but for his ear alone. Yours with me is to take me to his ear. Advise among yourselves now what you will do next. For my part, I sit here well enough, though I should have said, mind you, that it was the dinner-hour. In my own country it is long past it, but of your customs here in Milan, in this great house of a generous prince, I cannot speak—at present."

"All this," said the Dominican, "shall be faithfully reported to the Duke our master." So said, he vanished with his pied brother.