# Brazenhead in Milan/Chapter 5

Part 2 (Chapters V. and VI.) published in Windsor magazine, v. 29, January 1909; pp. 229-236.
   SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS.—That many times repeated asseveration of Captain Salomon Brazenhead's, that he had formed one of the suite of Duke Lionel, when that prince went out to Lombardy to marry Visconti's daughter, and that, in consequence, the poet Chaucer—"little Smugface," as he was pleased to call him—was his fellow-traveller and bosom friend, bore at the first blush the stamp of truth. It was always supported by vigorous reminiscence; the older he grew, the more positive he was of it. All this as it may be, what is beyond cavil is that we find him at Pavia in the year 1402, a fine figure of a man, scarred, crimson, shining in the face, his hair cropped in the Burgundian mode, moustachios to the ears, holding this kind of discourse to a lank and cavernous warrior, three times his own apparent age, who had proposed, we gather, before a tavern full of drinkers, to eat him raw. The irons came swinging out, there was a ding-dong passage of arms of one hundred and thirty seconds; and Captain Brazenhead had run his foe through and established his reputation in Pavia. Admirers crowded about him, to pledge and be pledged in cups, and he learned that the dead man in life had been Lisciasangue, assassin to the Duke of Milan, one of "a Mystery of Three Murderers." His Grace's condition was indeed deplorable, robbed of one-third of his assassins. "I see the aged monarch," mused Captain Brazenhead, overheard by a sympathetic throng, "maimed, as you might say, of his right hand. I see his prisons full to brim point, his lieutenants at work night and day to keep abreast of the flood." He could not restore the Duke his Lisciasangue, but so far as might be he would repair his fault and open a career for himself. "To Milan!" he said, "and there lies long Italy in the cup of my hand." By sheer impudence he obtained admission to the Duke's presence, confessed the killing of his assassin, and startled the craven Tyrant into appointing him to be Third Murderer in succession to Lisciasangue.

### CHAPTER V.
#### HOW CAPTAIN BRAZENHEAD DEALT WITH A BURGUNDIAN IN A TUNNEL.

A FOOT inside the door, indeed! And here was Captain Salomon Brazenhead with his whole fine body within already. Comfortable quarters and free table, a livery all of red, with a mask for business purposes, flattering attentions from lackeys of all sorts, partnership with two such ruffians, Camus and Gelsomino, as never, even in his experience, had tainted the air before—what could a soldier of fortune want with more? It is the misfortune of such gentlemen, when their imaginations are ardent and habit sanguine, that they can be seduced more easily by a phrase than by all the sensible temptations of Saint Anthony the Abbot. If the kindling of noble rage by a neat allocution can ever be called a misfortune, so it was with Captain Brazenhead—that when his prospects seemed most fair he told himself that all was still to do. "There lies long Italy," that too happy phrase, was what moved his discontent. To be Third Murderer to the Duke of Milan was to be something; but long Italy did not lie murdered, as yet.
His colleagues—Camus, who beneath a beetling Roman brow had the thin and bitter lips and hoarse voice of a fed Cæsar, and Gelsomino, easily mistaken for a Tartar with the toothache, with red rims to his eyes and a sour mouth shockingly awry—made plain to him his duties from the outset. He was to kill daintily, and report every night to the Duke, his master, the means and the manner of his killing. Imagination was to go to it; it was not enough to kill; he must be an artist, he must compose his murders, give them a lyrical pitch. The Prince, now that his fear had taken hold of him, was no longer able to witness the sport he loved; but his enthusiasm for it burned clear and bright, and the fire now in his blood gave a zest to his understanding such as his eyes had never lent it. He was, clearly, a virtuoso; he collected murders as other men bronzes. Captain Brazenhead, therefore, was to excel; it was little use to offer such a master anything but the best of its kind. "Kill," said Camus, "but be eloquent above all. Be a poet, brother." And Gelsomino added: "Aye! Braid your periods with blood; let your stresses be gashes, your cæsuras rents. Rhyme your passados, balance your refrains, now on this side, now on that. Stab in your Ha's! and Ugh's! and spare not your God-ha'-mercies! for by such comments you enhance a poorer recital than you need conceive. For the rest you have a free hand, and a choice of implements in the armoury. I never, myself, saw a prettier set of tools, though by my grandsire's account the great Lord Eccelino had twice the number. But we have a blade with a double crook in it, a narrow steel, sinuous, like a watersnake. I recommend it. We call it The Horseleech's Daughter—a happy name, I think. Come now, colleague, will you open the ball? There is a fellow in the Tunnel bursting ripe. Will you take him for a beginning?"
Captain Brazenhead, sitting stiffly by the wall, nursed his leg in silence. His mood was short, his method precise. "Is he but one, then? Do you pit me to one man?" He frowned. "His offence!" was his next question, and he was told, deer-stealing in the Duke's park of Marignano. It shocked him out of his dignity. "What!" he cried. "Am I to embellish a man out of the world for a collop of venison? Let the hangman deal with him; let him dance in the air—or you will ask me next to whip dogs."
Gelsomino said: "As you will. 'Tis pity you fly off so fast, for this is a great fellow of his hands. Not that he will look amiss on the gallows, by any means, for the bulk of him is bound to tell. But there he lies, for you or the tree; 'tis for you to say."
Captain Brazenhead's eyes had begun to glitter. "'Tis a big bulk, you tell me, and a man of his hands. Bones in him? thews to him? I'll see the man—I may make something of him. What's his lodging? The Tunnel, d'ye call it? Let me see him, then."
"It will be torchlight work," said Camus; "chancy, merry work."
"It shall be merrier than you guess for," said Captain Brazenhead, "for I'll have at him in the dark."
But he took a torch with him when he went masked to his work. By its shuddering light he saw his man at the far end of the dripping vault—his steady eyes, his mouth firmly set, his square jaw; a broad-shouldered, high-coloured young man.
Next he surveyed the theatre of his operations, truly named the Tunnel, since it was nothing else. "Light bad, a tricky floor, little play for the arm. We must thread with the point, I see." He fixed the torch into a ring in the wall, took off his cloak, rolled up his sleeve, cleared his throat, and said: "Now, brother."
With lowered head, but indomitable eyes, the victim awaited his death-stroke. It came not; the tense moment was sharply broken by a cry from the Executioner. "By the Mass, the man's tied up!" He dropped his sword, and advancing, took a file from his belt, and severed the manacles which held the prisoner fast to the walls. Having resumed his blade and first position, he adjured him cheerfully. "Now, then——" But the other's head remained bowed, and he kept to his knees.
"Little man," said Captain Brazenhead, "I am waiting. Lift up your head and play the soldier."
The prisoner replied: "I conceive that I play that best by suffering what I cannot avoid." Nevertheless he raised his head. "You intend to murder me," he continued. "I have commended my soul to God, and bow my body to necessity, not to you."
"Bow not at all, by Cock!" said Captain Brazenhead; "but jump up, minion, and play with me. What! we are only young once, so who says die?" He held out two swords. "Here is a choice of irons, take which you will. This one is of Pistoja, and is the longer! but Ferrara tried this other seven times in the fire. The choice is yours."
"What is this?" the prisoner stammered, and then he panted like a dog.
"Battle, my son," said Captain Brazenhead; "bloody, beauteous battle. No one is by; we have a fair field. You know the ground and are the younger man; but maybe I am in better fettle. I see that you have courage, and tell you fairly that I have some. To it, gamester, and the best throw wins."
The prisoner sobbed, then laughed aloud. "Oh, wonder!" he cried deliriously; "I had thought you my executioner."
"So I am," said Captain Brazenhead; "make no mistake."
"And yet—you offer me——"
"Why," said the Captain, "am I not to have my pleasure as well as you? Do you take me for a poulterer or a cat's-meat man?"
The prisoner threw up his arms. "Oh," says he, "here is one cast in a great mould."
Captain Brazenhead accepted the compliment. "I am a pretty fighter, I do believe," he owned. "Will you have at me in the dark? A word, and I beat out the torch."
The prisoner had taken over a sword, and was making cuts in the air. He cried: "Ha!" and stamped. Up went his left hand as he lunged forward with gaiety. "A touch!" he cried. "Have at you, soldier!"
"What of the light?" he was asked severely, and answered: "Leave it, leave it. 'Tis a pleasure to see your face."
"Gallantly said, butcher boy," returned Captain Brazenhead, and threw himself into position. "One, two; one, two; engage!" And they closed.
To it they went, as merry as could be, thrusting, foining, slicing. The deer-stealer was very limber, and had a lightning eye. Captain Brazenhead touched him once on the upper arm, but himself received no hurt. When the younger man cried "Truce!" his executioner was not sorry to oblige him.
With all the intentions in the world to do justice to the last extremity upon the malefactor before him, Captain Brazenhead could not forbear to admire so stout a fighter. And, generosity being of the essence of him, he must needs praise where he admired. Each leaning on his sword, the hero spake. "Comrade, I see that thou art a have-at-you kind of a dog-fox. Thou hast learned thy trade in a good school of fence."
"The best," said the prisoner, deep-breathing.
"Thou hast served Burgundy!" This was one of the Captain's flashes of inspiration, and it sped like an arrow to the mark.
Reverberation thrilled from the prisoner, as memories kindled in his eyes. "Ah, and so I have," he said, "and with brave fellows. The days were too long, or the nights too short,, for the game we loved. I know not which was the matter."
"'Tis little matter either way," mused aloud his executioner, who in turn was deeply stirred. "Many found them the same." He looked darkling at the other—darkling and shrewdly. Knew'st thou the Fish? The Thumb-marked Fish in Besançou? And Long-eared Noll, the drawer there? "
The prisoner raised an eyebrow and smiled awry. "Eh, if I knew them! Hark to this drinker!"
But the Captain leaned intensely forward, his voice down to a whisper. "Say—and Joconde?"
The prisoner kept his eyes fixed upon his foe. "She and I," said he carefully, "were old enemies. She beat me at last."
"Aye!" cried the Captain, on fire, "aye! and so she would. A many went down."
"Among them was I," the prisoner confessed; "but there was one, a tall man, who never failed."
"Ha!" said Brazenhead hoarsely. "What, a hollow man, a drinker?"
"He could drink against twelve."
"And was ready with his blade?"
"He was ready."
"Hairy? A deep and curious swearer? Could notch a shaft to purpose?"
"My arm," said the prisoner, "was the cross-bow; but that man had a long arm."
The Captain was trembling. "His name, his name, Burgundian?"
The answer came slowly. "They called the man Tête-d'airain, with reason. I loved him, as you might love the Pope of Rome—that is, with reverence, from afar."
His hearer gulped down his emotion. "Thy name, then, is——?"
"Bernart," he said, "is my name of the Church. But they called me Tranche-coupe for short."
Captain Brazenhead lightly plucked off his mask, and held his arms out wide. "To my bosom, child! to my breast! I am thy dear gossip Brazenhead!" There followed an affecting scene.…
"I carved my name upon him," was the substance of the Third Murderer's report to his master and lord. "I carved my name out upon him, and he died of the dot on the i. So perish all thine enemies, Milan!" But it is nevertheless the fact that Bernart Tranche-coupe lay snug on straw in a cellar, awaiting the orders of his executioner and friend.
Captain Brazenhead has been blamed for this clemency, but not by me. He had intended to do his work when his blood was properly warmed by battle, and but for his memories would have done it. I think it was the name and hardy shadow of Joconde that saved the Burgundian.