Valentine Visconti was praying in the Church of Sant’ Apollinare. It stood some way from the Visconti palace, a magnificent building, rich with the Duke’s gifts.

That morning thanksgiving rose from every church in Milan; from the palace to the hut, all showed some sign of rejoicing. The Duke had ordered public processions and thanksgiving, and none dared disobey.

His Holiness Pope Boniface had deserted the failing cause of Verona; there was nothing to be feared and little to be gained from Mastino della Scala; the Duke of Milan had offered his aid against the rebellious Florentines, and many bribes besides, and today had seen the new league between the powerful tyrant of Lombardy and His Holiness publicly ratified.

From Rome Visconti had nothing more to fear, Mastino nothing more to hope.

The country around Padua was Visconti’s too; Cologna, which he had always held, the great seaport of Chioggia, Mestre and Lovigo, betrayed by Carrara.

Bassano had fallen, and now Reggio; there was cause for thanksgiving in Milan.

As a last triumph, Valentine had been sent to offer up prayers and gifts for her brother’s success. She was guarded on her errand, practically a prisoner. Soldiers stood at every door of the church, and a mounted escort waited to conduct her back. She was on her knees before the blazing altar, her head low over her missal, but she was not offering thanks to heaven for Gian’s victories.

She thought of Graziosa with angry hate. But for that girl, della Scala had been in Milan, and Count Conrad with him — and in reward for her treachery Graziosa was to queen it over her! Visconti delighted to flaunt her with her at every turn.

That morning Visconti had told her the war was drawing to a close — said it with much meaning, and promised her, smiling, Count Conrad’s head as a wedding gift. He had been closeted long with Giannotto; strangely elated he had seemed, and Valentine shudderingly wondered what was in the air.

That there was something she knew full well; Visconti was hatching some stroke that would complete della Scala’s ruin. For some days she had seen his purpose in his face, and today the alliance with the Pope confirmed it.

She did not greatly care, she was too crushed with her own failures to care much for the failure of another. She felt sorry for Isotta d’Este, and bitter toward Count Conrad.

‘But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad,’ she thought in hot anger, ‘I would not live to grace Visconti’s triumph.’

The sound of bells penetrated even into the hushed interior of the church. As the service ended and Valentine rose to her feet, she heard them burst into wild music; the dim, incensed air seemed troubled by their triumphant throb, the gold tapestry to shake with it.

‘Is it another victory?’ murmured Valentine. The church had emptied, she was alone in it save for two ladies kneeling motionless.

The monks swept out, with a swinging of censer and a low chanting. Only one remained, putting out candles about the altar.

Valentine closed her missal and turned to leave. The sun was streaming through the gold and opal windows in a dazzling shaft of light, it fell over her face and blinded her for a second. The next, she looked round to see the solitary monk behind her. His head hidden in his cowl, his arms folded, he passed her without looking up.

‘Count Conrad is in Milan,’ he said, under his breath, and silently and swiftly he was gone.

Valentine, hardly believing she had heard aright, gazed after him wildly, then collecting herself, walked down the aisle, her brain on fire.

Her ladies-inwaiting rose, and under no excuse could she prolong her stay.

‘Count Conrad is in Milan!’

Did that mean that he would rescue her yet — was it Conrad himself who spoke?

The thought was grateful to her sore, angry heart. She had not much confidence in Count Conrad’s skill nor his chances of success — still, he was in Milan, he cared enough to have risked that, and she could wait.

After the dim church the sun was blinding, the crash of the bells deafening. Valentine mounted her horse with a throbbing heart; that whisper in the church had given her new life.

The soldiers formed up either side, behind and before; it would not have been possible for her to drop even her glove unnoticed. She was riding the streets of Milan as her brother’s trophy, as his prisoner; every one of those who bowed so humbly to her as she passed, every peasant her guards thrust back from her path, was freer than she.

Sant’Apollinare was far from the palace, and for that reason Visconti had chosen it. All Milan should see her ride to offer thanksgiving for his victories.

‘Surely there is more good news,’ said Costanza, as they crossed the bridge that spanned the canal; ‘the air is full of rejoicing, and I have seen many messengers spur past.’

Valentine set her teeth, and looked between the spears of her escort at the bright blue water beneath them. All the craft that covered its surface were gay with flags, its depth reflected buildings hung with the banners of the Viper.

‘It fills the very air we breathe,’ shuddered Valentine, ‘the shadow of the Viper.’

Costanza glanced at her.

‘I must confess,’ she replied, ‘I should be proud an it were my bearing. To be a Visconti on such a day as this would please me well; and though I am your friend, madama, I must say it.’

‘As do all the others,’ said Valentine, bitterly. ‘You are blinded by splendour and power — you see no deeper than the skin!’

‘Maybe,’ said the other lightly. ‘Yet am I glad the Duke hath triumphed, and not Mastino della Scala, who is as sullen as a peasant, and a foe to all display’

‘And his wife?’ asked Valentine in a low tone. ‘Have you no thought for her?’

Costanza shrugged her shoulders.

‘Methinks I have done much to show I have! But she is a prisoner of war, and must take her chances like another. Were it the Visconti’s wife in such a case — she would not be a prisoner long! Let Mastino della Scala tear her from his foe himself — let him do as Visconti did when the Lady Graziosa was in danger.’

‘Hold thy tongue,’ returned Valentine angrily. ‘You talk as a child — you know not what you say.’

‘I only know this,’ retorted the other, ‘I would I were the Lady Graziosa,’ and she looked defiantly at Visconti’s angry sister.

‘For shame, Costanza,’ said Valentine. ‘Remember yourself.’

They rode in silence till, at the turn of the street, another splendid cavalcade crossed theirs. It was the Lady Graziosa and her suite. Tisio Visconti and Orleans were in attendance; she rode a white palfrey.

The sun lay tenderly in her soft hair; her green dress was covered with pearls, and round her throat she wore the emeralds Visconti had promised his sister, the first jewels in Italy, robbed from della Scala.

Valentine noticed them, she noticed Graziosa’s happy face, the joy she took in the homage paid her, in Visconti’s success that so galled her, Visconti’s sister, and a sudden purpose rose in her eyes.

She smiled sweetly on Graziosa, and rode up to Orleans; the Frenchman remarked with pleasure how she outshone the Duke’s betrothed. The deep blue of her velvet robe made her skin appear of dazzling fairness, her hair was like burnished gold, her mouth like a red flower, but her eyes, for all her smile, as dangerous as Gian Maria’s could be, as mad, almost as wicked.

‘We are well met, my lord,’ she said, smiling. ‘Have there been even greater victories?’

‘I know not, lady; they say something of Lucca’s having fallen,’ returned Orleans. ‘I have been escorting the Lady Graziosa to view the new church — by the Duke’s orders’; he added in a lower tone, ‘could I have chosen my companion, it had not been she.’

Valentine listened with downcast eyes, playing with the rubies at her wrist. Her escort was grouped about her, and Costanza glanced aside at her curling lips with some mistrust.

‘The Lady Graziosa is happier and fair today,’ she whispered to her companion, and Valentine overheard and smiled the more. ‘And my brother, the Duke?’ she asked.

‘I have not seen the Duke all day,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘There is talk of an embassy to the enemy — confusion and crowds —’

‘You have been riding Milan to see the rejoicings?’ interrupted Valentine, and she raised her eyes to Graziosa once — the glance was not pleasant — then she fell to playing with her bracelet again.

‘Yes,’ said Graziosa innocently. ‘My lord bade me ride to the new church.’

She was very happy, and affection welled up in her tender heart, even for the woman who had used her so cruelly — for she was Gian’s sister.

With a timid gesture she held out her little hand to Valentine. ‘Will you not ride back beside me?’ she asked, pleadingly. But Valentine ignored her hand and her request.

‘Have you visited any other churches in your ride?’ she asked. ‘What other church in Milan should interest the Lady Graziosa?’ asked Orleans wearily, fearing to be sent back on some distasteful journey.

‘I did not know — I thought there might be one — Santa Maria, close to the western gate.’

And Valentin............