The sequel you already guess, and its telling need not keep us long.
That night Vignate and six hundred men, wearing their shirts over their armour, rode into as pretty an ambush about the village of Pavone as is to be found in the history of such operations. It was a clear night, and, although there was no moon, there was just light enough from the starflecked sky to make it ideal, from the point of view of either party, for the business in hand.
There was some rough fighting for perhaps a half-hour, and a good deal of blood was shed, for Vignate's men, infuriated at finding themselves trapped, fought viciously and invited hard knocks in return.
Bellarion in the handsome armour of Boucicault's gift, but without a headpiece, to which as yet he had been unable to accustom himself, held aloof from the furious scrimmage, just as he had held aloof from the jousts in Milan. He had a horror of personal violence and manhandling, which some contemporaries who detected it have accounted a grave flaw in his nature. Nevertheless, one blow at least for his side was forced upon him, and all things considered it was a singularly appropriate blow. It was towards the end of the fight, just as the followers of Vignate began to own defeat and throw down their weapons, that one man, all cased in armour and with a headpiece whose peaked vizor gave him the appearance of some monstrous bird, came charging furiously at the ring of enemies that confined him. He was through and over them in that terrific charge, and the way of escape was clear before him save for the aloof Bellarion, who of his own volition would have made no move to check that impetuous career. But the fool must needs drive straight at Bellarion through the gloom. Bellarion pulled his horse aside, and by that swerve avoided the couched lance which he suspected rather than saw. Then, rising in his stirrups as that impetuous knight rushed by, he crashed the mace with which he had armed himself upon the peaked vizor, and rolled his assailant from the saddle.
Thereafter he behaved with knightly consideration. He got down from his horse, and relieved the fallen warrior of his helmet, so as to give him air, which presently revived him. By the usages of chivalry the man was Bellarion's prisoner.
The fight was over. Already men with lanterns were going over the meadow which had served for battle-ground; and into the village of Pavone, to the great alarm of its rustic inhabitants, the disarmed survivors of Vignate's force, amounting still to close upon five hundred, were being closely herded by Facino's men. Through this dense press Bellarion conducted his prisoner, in the charge of two Burgundians.
In the main room of Facino's quarters the two first confronted each other in the light. Bellarion laughed as he looked into that flat, swarthy countenance with the pouting lips that were frothing now with rage.
'You filthy, venal hound! You've sold yourself to the highest bidder! Had I known it was you, you might have slit my throat or ever I would have surrendered.'
Facino, in the chair to which his swathed leg confined him, and Carmagnola, who had come but a moment ago to report the engagement at an end, stared now at Bellarion's raging prisoner, in whom they recognised Vignate. And meanwhile Bellarion was answering him.
'I was never for sale, my lord. You are not discerning. I was my Lord Facino's man when I sought you this morning in Alessandria.'
Vignate looked at him, and incredulity was tempering the hate of his glance.
'It was a trick!' He could hardly believe that a man should have dared so much. 'You are not Farfalla, captain of fortune?'
'My name is Bellarion.'
'It's the name of a trickster, then, a cheat, a foul, treacherous hind, who imposed upon me with lies.' He looked past his captor at Facino, who was smiling. 'Is this how you fight, Facino?'
'Merciful God!' Facino laughed. 'Are you to prate of chivalry and knight-errantry, you faithless brigand! Count it against him, Bellarion, when you fix his ransom. He is your prisoner. If he were mine I'd not enlarge him under fifty thousand ducats. His people of Lodi should find the money, and so learn what it means to harbour such a tyrant.'
Savage eyes glowered at Facino. Pouting lips were twisted in vicious hate. 'Pray God, Facino, that you never fall prisoner of mine.'
Bellarion tapped his shoulder, and he tapped hard. 'I do not like you, Messer de Vignate. You're a fool, and the world is troubled already by too many of your kind. So little am I venal that from a sense of duty to mankind I might send your head to the Duke of Milan you betrayed, and so forgo the hundred thousand ducats ransom you're to pay to me.'
Vignate's mouth fell open.
'Say nothing more,' Bellarion admonished him. 'What you've said so far has already cost you fifty thousand ducats. Insolence is a costly luxury in a prisoner.' He turned to the attendant Burgundians. 'Take him above-stairs, strip off his armour, and bind him securely.'
'Why, you inhuman barbarian! I've surrendered to you. You have my word.'
'Your word!' Bellarion loosed a laugh that was like a blow in the face. 'Gian Galeazzo Visconti had your word, yet before he was cold you were in arms against his son. I'll trust my bonds rather than your word, my lord.' He waved them out, and as he turned, Facino and Carmagnola saw that he was quivering.
'Trickster and betrayer, eh! And to be called so by such a Judas!'
Thus he showed what had stirred him. Yet not quite all. They were not to guess that he could have borne the epithets with equanimity if they had not reminded him of other lips that had uttered them.
'Solace yourself with the ransom, boy. And you're not modest, faith! A hundred thousand! Well, well!' Facino laughed. 'You were in luck to take Vignate prisoner.'
'In luck, indeed,' Carmagnola curtly agreed. Then turned to face Facino. 'And so, my lord, the affair is happily concluded.'
'Concluded?' There was derision in Bellarion's interjection. 'Why, sir, the affair has not yet begun. This was no more than the prelude.'
'Prelude to what?'
'To the capture of Alessandria. It's to be taken before daylight.'
They stared at him, and Facino was frowning almost in displeasure.
'You said nothing of this.'
'I thought it would be clear. Why do I lure Vignate to make a camisade from Alessandria with six hundred men wearing their shirts over their arms, to be met here by another three hundred under Captain Farfalla similarly bedecked? Nine hundred horsemen, or thereabouts, with their shirts over their arms will ride back in triumph to Alessandria in the dim light of dawn. And the jubilant garrison will lift up its gates to receive them.'
'You intended that?' said Facino, when at last he found his voice.
'What else? Is it not a logical consummation? You should break your morning fast in Alessandria, my lord.'
Facino, the great captain, looked almost with reverence at this fledgling in the art of war.
'By God, boy! You should go far. At Travo you showed your natural talent for this game of arms. But this ...'
'Shall we come to details?' said Bellarion to remind them that time was precious.
Little, however, remained to be concerted. By Bellarion's contriving the entire condotta was waiting under arms. Facino offered Bellarion command of what he called the white-shirts, to be supported by Carmagnola with the main battle. Bellarion, however, thought that Carmagnola should lead the white-shirts.
'Theirs will be the honour of the affair,' Facino reminded him. 'I offer it to you as your due.'
'Let Messer Carmagnola have it. What fighting there may be will fall to the lot of the pretended returning camisaders when the garrison discovers the imposture. That is a business which Messer Carmagnola understands better than I do.'
'You are generous, sir,' said Carmagnola.
Bellarion looked sharply to see if he were sneering. But for once Carmagnola was obviously sincere.
As Bellarion had planned, so the thing fell out.
In the grey light of breaking day, creeping pallid and colourless as the moonstone over the meadows about Alessandria, the anxious watchers from the walls beheld a host approaching, whose white-shirts announced them for Vignate and his raiders. Down went drawbridge, up portcullis, to admit them. Over the timbers of the bridge they thundered, under the deep archway of the gatehouse they streamed, and the waiting soldiery of Vignate deafened the ears of the townsfolk with their cheers, which abruptly turned to cries of rage and fear. For the camisaders were amongst them, beating them down and back, breaking a way into the gatehouse, assuming possession of the machinery that controlled drawbridge and portcullis, and spreading themselves out into the square within to hold the approaches of the gate. Their true quality was at last revealed, and in the tall armoured man on the tall horse who led and directed them Francesco Busone of Carmagnola was recognised by many.
And now as the daylight grew, another host advanced upon the city, the main battle of Facino's army. This was followed by yet a third, a force detailed to escort the disarmed camisaders of Vignate who were being brought back prisoners.
When two hours later Facino broke his fast in the citadel, as Bellarion had promised him that he should, with his officers about him, and his Countess, her beauty all aglow, at the table's foot, there was already peace and order in the captured city.