Terry Jones is a writer, actor, comedian, screenwriter, film director, presenter, poet, historian and author. He is best known as a member of the Monty Python comedy troupe.
For everyone who has enjoyed my books
Dear Reader,
The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound. Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and ebook wherever books are sold, in shops and online.
This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. At the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.
Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.
If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type squire5 in the promo code box when you check out.
Thank you for your support,
Dan, Justin and John
Founders, Unbound
Chapter 1 Milan 1385
Chapter 2 Milan 1385
Chapter 3 Milan 1385
Chapter 4 Milan 1385
Chapter 5 The Road to Pavia 1385
Chapter 6 Mende 1361
Chapter 7 The Road to Pavia 1385
Chapter 8 Pavia 1385
Chapter 9 Pavia 1385
Chapter 10 Marvejols 1361
Chapter 11 Pavia 1385
Chapter 12 Marvejols 1361
Chapter 13 Marvejols 1361
Chapter 14 Le Truc du Midi 1361
Chapter 15 Le Truc du Midi 1361
Chapter 16 Pavia 1385
Chapter 17 Pavia 1385
Chapter 18 Pavia 1385
Chapter 19 Le Truc du Midi 1361
Chapter 20 Pavia 1385 / Marvejols 1361
Chapter 21 Milan 1385
Chapter 22 Saint-Flour 1361
Chapter 23 Saint-Flour 1361
Chapter 24 Milan 1385
Chapter 25 Saint-Flour 1361
Chapter 26 Les Gorges de l’Alagnon 1361
Chapter 27 Milan 1385
Chapter 28 Les Gorges de l’Alagnon 1361
Chapter 29 Milan 1385
Chapter 30 Les Gorges de l’Alagnon 1361
Chapter 31 The Wolf’s Leap 1361
Chapter 32 Milan 1385
Chapter 33 Milan 1385
Chapter 34 The Wolf’s Leap 1361
Chapter 35 Lombardy 1385
Chapter 36 Milan 1385
Supporters
Copyright
‘If only life were as simple as you think it’s going to be,’ thought Tom, ‘it wouldn’t be nearly such fun. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be nearly as dangerous either.’
And at that precise moment it was the dangerous aspect of life rather than the fun aspect that Tom was experiencing – although he wasn’t quite sure which bit of it was more dangerous: the drop that had suddenly opened up beneath him or the animal that was at that moment banging its tusks a few feet above his head.
Goodness knows why the boar was banging its tusks against the trunk of a tree, but there it was – doing it. Maybe it was a case of sheer bad temper – after all, the creature had just been cheated of its quarry, which happened to be Tom. It was one of those curious reversals of roles of which life is full. In one moment, Tom had been the pursuer, hunting the wild boar, and yet the next moment one of his co-hunters had given a piercing whistle, Tom’s horse had reared, Tom had fallen off, and the wild boar had started chasing him.
It was just possible that the wild boar simply had poor eyesight and had mistaken the tree for Tom. In which case, thought Tom, as he watched large gobbets of bark flying off the tree in all directions, poor eyesight in wild boars was definitely something to be encouraged.
The more he thought about it, however, the more it seemed to Tom that the drop below him represented the most immediate danger. The small branch onto which Tom was pinning all his hopes of a future existence in this world was really more of a twig than a branch, and even that seemed to be in the process of coming loose from the ground out of which it was growing.
As for the ledge, onto which Tom had leapt, as he escaped the wild boar’s leading tusk, that was even now tumbling down the cliff face as a shower of earth and stones. It had not, it appeared, been the right thing to leap onto . . . but then he hadn’t had much choice – or much time to choose.
Tom was, in every sense of the word, in the middle of a cliffhanger.
At that moment, however, the danger diminished by 50 per cent. A voice rang out:
‘Sir Thomas! Sir Thomas!’
And the wild boar turned, without even saying ‘excuse me!’ to the tree, and charged off into the wood.
Tom tried to yell back but simply couldn’t find his vocal chords . . . his mind was too preoccupied with considering whether or not the danger had really been reduced by 50 per cent. True, the wild boar had run off, but the danger from the drop below him was still 100 per cent, since the twig onto which he was holding was now definitely severing forever its connection with Mother Earth.
‘Sir Thomas!’ It was the voice of his squire, John. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m here!’ Tom almost yelled, but the awful fascination of watching the last root of the twig pulling itself free of earthly ties stopped the words in his throat. Or was it the loose earth falling from the root and filling his mouth that stopped the words? At all events the only thing he could say was:
‘Mgmeurgh!’
‘Sir Thomas!’
‘Here it goes . . .’ thought Tom, watching the root. ‘Going . . . going . . .’
‘Got you!’ Squire John’s face had appeared over the cliff edge and his hand had grabbed Tom’s jerkin just as the last root came free, and Tom hung dangling from his squire’s fingers for what seemed like half an hour but was, in fact, half a second.
John’s other hand grabbed his wrist and Tom rammed his feet and hands against the cliff edge as the loose earth tumbled slowly down . . . down into the ravine.
In another thirty seconds, which felt like three hours, Tom had been hauled up to the comparative safety of the cliff edge, and Squire John was dusting him down, as a good squire should.
‘The pleasures of boar hunting are rather overrated if you ask me, John,’ Tom said. His squire grunted, and went off to find the horse.
It’s curious, thought Tom, as they rode back to the great castle of Bernabò Visconti, how you can get something you’ve always wanted, only to find out that maybe it wasn’t really what you wanted at all. Here he was, Sir Thomas English, a knight in the service of a great lord, riding with his squire, and yet nothing about being a knight was quite what he thought it was going to be . . . and the more he thought about it, the more he wondered whether what he used to think was what he now wanted anyway.
*
The Visconti fortress loomed ahead of them, and he turned to his squire and said: ‘Do you really like boar hunting, John?’
John shrugged. ‘Not that much,’ he replied. ‘It has its moments.’
‘But . . .’ said Tom.
‘Where does it get us?’ asked John, who was a bright lad.
‘Exactly!’
‘Halfway down a cliff face?’ suggested John.
Tom leaned across and cuffed him across the ears. John choked on a laugh. That was another thing Tom liked about his squire – his sense of humour.
They were now within sight of the guards, stationed outside the main gates of the Visconti stronghold. In a few minutes they would have to plunge into the gloomy depths of the palace of the great warlord of Milan. They would make their way to the great hall and then, doubtless, they would have to hang around for an hour or two until the great lord himself deigned to appear, and the dinner could commence.
‘The food isn’t bad,’ said Squire John, as if he were following Tom’s chain of thoughts.
‘Yes, but the place is so stuffy,’ replied Tom.
‘Well, nobody dares say anything,’ said John. He had a way of serving up the truth without any of the usual trimmings – no garnish, no stuffing, not even any gravy. Just plonked on your plate like a slab of raw meat.
‘Well, would you?’ asked Tom. ‘You never know what sort of a mood my Lord Bernabò is going to be in.’
‘Did you hear what he did to that funny-looking chap with the long ears?’ asked Squire John.
‘The ambassador from my lord the Conte Verde? Yes, I know,’ said Tom, ‘he said he was as ugly as a bloodhound, and he had him shut up overnight in the kennel with the other dogs. I believe it was a joke.’
‘But they were my Lord Bernabò’s Great Danes,’ gasped Squire John. ‘And by the morning all that was left of him was his earring.’
‘Some sense of humour, eh?’ said Tom.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Squire John, lowering his voice even more, so that the guards couldn’t overhear, ‘my Lord Bernabò may have a sense of humour, but I don’t think I’ve laughed once since we’ve been here.’
‘Exactly my point!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘That’s why we’ve got to escape!’
Squire John looked a bit nonplussed. ‘Escape? I didn’t know we were prisoners, Sir Thomas.’
‘We’re not,’ agreed Tom. ‘But my Lord Bernabò won’t take kindly to people spurning his hospitality. If he gets wind that we’re thinking of bunking off, he might turn ugly.’
‘That won’t be hard,’ said Squire John, although in fact the Lord Bernabò was proud of his good looks.
‘In fact it’s ten to one he’d try and stop us,’ said Tom.
‘Like how?’
‘Like . . . er . . . cutting off our legs?’
‘That would slow us down,’ agreed Squire John.
‘And the great plus is: we wouldn’t have to go boar hunting ever again,’ added Tom.
‘It’s overrated anyway,’ said his young companion, but he wasn’t laughing. In fact, as Tom looked across at him, he looked downright gloomy.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want to get away?’ asked Tom.
‘Yes, yes . . . of course . . . everything you say is true about this place . . .’
‘Ah! Don’t tell me! The lovely Jenny has her apron strings tied around your heart and you just don’t want to cut free?’ said Tom.
Squire John went bright red. ‘No . . . not Jenny . . . though indeed she is truly lovely of course . . .’
‘But only last Sunday you were ready to die for her!’ exclaimed Tom.
‘Indeed . . . I . . . er . . .’ If Squire John could have turned an even brighter red, then he would have done. ‘But . . . I met someone . . . someone so beautiful . . . so charming . . . and . . . well . . . there it is . . .’
‘And what is your new mistress’s name?’ asked Tom.
Squire John looked round as if he were searching out a hiding-hole from which to escape his master’s queries. But he was duty-bound to reply.
‘My lord . . .’ he stumbled, ‘. . . her name is Beatrice.’
Suddenly all Tom’s cheery banter dried in his throat. As if to mark the moment, a cloud passed over the sun as Tom let out a low whistle.
‘The young Lady Beatrice?’ he asked.
Squire John bit his lip and nodded.
‘John . . .’ Tom sighed. ‘It’s one thing to make eyes at a serving girl, but to make love to one of my Lord Bernabò’s own daughters . . .’
‘She is only his natural daughter,’ said John.
‘Legitimate or illegitimate – you’re playing with fire.’
‘But what can I do?’ asked John. ‘She’s told me she loves me . . . and . . .’
‘That settles it,’ said Tom, ‘the sooner we get out of here the . . .’
But at that moment they came to the city gate, which also formed the outer entrance to the Visconti palace. Two guards grabbed their horses’ bridles and the chief held out his hand for their documents.
Everywhere you went in the domain of the Visconti, you had to have passports and paperwork ever at the ready. Innkeepers had to report each and every person who stayed in their inn. Bridgekeepers kept a record of whoever crossed the rivers. Gatekeepers noted the names of those that entered and left their town. The Lords of Milan knew who was where and when almost every hour of the day. Those whose whereabouts they didn’t know were soon sniffed out by the Visconti spies. – and there were a lot of those.
‘Every time I come into this place,’ whispered Tom in English, so that the guards wouldn’t understand, ‘I feel like that poor fellow up there.’ And he nodded up towards the top of the gatehouse, where a man with his arms held up in horror was being swallowed by a serpent with a wolf’s head. The image was scored into the brickwork, and the man was painted blood red against a blue background. It was the emblem of the Visconti lords.
Squire John shuddered, as the guard returned their papers and nodded them in. Tom and his squire kicked their horses forward, and they were quickly swallowed up by the grim fortress.
They were honoured guests of the Lord of Milan. And they were trapped in his world like two flies in the jam.
No one could say that Bernabò Visconti, Lord of Milan, did not have a sense of humour. He also had a sense of what was just – so everyone said. But when you mixed these two things together the results were often unpredictable.
For example, when a priest refused to bury some poor man until he’d been paid the correct funeral dues, Bernabò told the priest he’d get his due all right, and promptly had him buried alongside the pauper – alive and upside down.
Another time, when the Pope had sent two Benedictine abbots to pronounce a sentence of excommunication on Bernabò, the Lord of Milan had thoughtfully met them on a bridge over the river Lambro, which in those days raced through the city open to the skies. There he cordially inquired whether the Pope’s representatives would prefer to eat or drink. It was made clear that ‘drinking’ involved being thrown off the bridge into the waters of the river, so the two abbots chose to eat. Their meal consisted of the entire parchment upon which the sentence of excommunication was written – along with its silk cord and seal.
The story had kept Bernabò’s court in stitches for days. You see, nobody in that court was particularly worried about divine retribution – although I suppose they should have been . . . particularly Bernabò himself, as he was eventually to discover.
This evening Bernabò appeared to be in a particularly benign mood, which – as far as Tom was concerned – made it all the worse, for as dangerous as Bernabò was when he was in a bad mood, it was his good moods that Tom found more unnerving.
And tonight Tom had an extra cause for worry. Normally Squire John would have been at his side the moment Tom stepped into the court, but tonight he was not there. Tom had been looking round the court for some time, but the young man had totally vanished. It was most unlike him.
What if John had gone to take his leave of his new paramour, Bernabò’s daughter Beatrice? What if he’d been discovered? His life would not be worth a fly’s. What if he’d told her they were planning to escape? What if she’d persuaded the young man to stay? What if she’d given their plans away?
In the court of a tyrant you were always treading on eggshells. Now Tom felt as if he were under siege with miners digging away beneath his feet. The whole edifice of his life was – for the moment – propped up by wooden struts in the mines below. Soon they would be fired, whereupon they would collapse and the whole castle would come crashing down about his ears. It was imperative that he find Squire John before anything else could . . .
‘Sir Thomas Englishman!’ a voice rang out across the great hall. Tom’s blood ran cold. It was the voice of Bernabò Visconti, the Lord of Milan. The ‘anything’ that could happen just had!
‘My lord!’ said Tom. As he stepped forward he took a quick look at the great man. It never did to stare at him, and eyes were usually averted for most of the conversation. But in that quick glance, Tom could see that Bernabò was in one of his best moods. Goodness knows what that meant.
‘Come forward!’ commanded the Lord of Milan.
Tom stepped before the great man, and the eyes of the court turned to him.
‘Tomorrow you join me on the boar hunt?’ said Bernabò.
‘Er . . . I joined you today on the boar hunt,’ replied Tom in the Lombard dialect. ‘I nearly got killed.’
This was, apparently, the funniest thing the Lord of Milan had heard all day. He laughed and laughed and looked round his court so that others started to laugh as well. It was always wise to laugh along with the most ruthless ruler in Lombardy. Bernabò laughed until tears came to his eyes.
‘I . . . er . . . fell off a cliff,’ explained Tom. Well, if the information that he’d nearly been killed had been funny, this new detail was apparently so hilarious Bernabò practically fell off his seat.
Tom sighed. He would never understand Bernabò’s sense of humour.
‘Sir Thomas Englishman!’ exclaimed the Lord of Milan, ‘I love you!’
Now this was the worst news that Tom had heard for all the months he’d been resident in the court of the ruler of Milan. If Bernabò Visconti ‘loved’ you, it meant you were well and truly in his grip. It meant that – like the viper on his emblem – he had wound his coils around you and was not going to let you go.
But what could one say? ‘Oh! My lord, I don’t think it’s real love . . . I think what you mean is that you find me amusing until you get bored with me and then have me shut up in the kennels with your Great Danes’? No, all Tom could do was make a low bow, which would, he hoped, convey the enormous sense of honour that had overwhelmed him as the great man had pronounced his sentence of undying affection upon him.
At this moment the Lady Donnina whispered something to her Lord. Now it was well known that Bernabò loved the Lady Donnina more than anything or anyone under the sun. And because of this, he found it impossible to refuse her slightest request.
Everyone understood Bernabò’s infatuation with the Lady Donnina. Her beauty was so powerful it was almost contagious . . . just by being next to her you felt more beautiful yourself. The golden light from that golden hair of hers somehow reflected on one’s own skin and made one feel richer . . . more valuable. The sparkle of her eyes and the jewels around her throat lit up the darker recesses of the heart and made even the most desperate supplicant feel unexpectedly full of light.
Everyone understood why the Lord Bernabò kept the Lady Donnina beside him day and night. His footmen understood. His servants understood. His brother understood. His children understood. Even his wife understood.
And Tom understood. He just hoped that whatever it was the Lady Donnina was suggesting to her lord at that moment, it did not involve him or his squire John.
Bernabò Visconti laughed out loud. (Yes! He was in an insufferably good mood tonight, thought Tom.) It was the best idea the Lord of Milan had ever heard. Yes! The Lady Donnina was absolutely right! It should be done at once! Call the footmen! Call the musicians! Light the oil lamps! Banish the night! We are to have a carolle in the garden! Everyone will dance! Everyone will sing! It is a beautiful night! A night for lovers! A night for rejoicing! Come! Let us step out! And Sir Thomas Englishman! Come! And lead the Lady Donnina to the first dance!
Tom’s heart sank. If it wasn’t bad enough having Bernabò saying he loved him, the last thing he wanted was the Lady Donnina’s attentions. The Lady Donnina’s attentions were the sort of attentions that could get your head separated from your shoulders and your stomach taken out and burned in front of you.
But it was too late. Tom found himself holding the Lady Donnina by the hand and escorting her out into the garden, where the servants and footmen were already tripping over each other trying to get the oil lamps in place before the court emerged.
In those days, a carolle wasn’t just for Christmas. It was actually a dance – a dance in which the dancers also sang, usually in a circle. Sometimes the men would be in one circle and the ladies in another, and they would take turns to dance and sing. Sometimes the circle would be made up of men and women alternately, and sometimes they all danced and sang together. Sometimes the men sang one part and then the women another, moving around the circle as they did so.
Tom found himself hand in hand with the Lady Donnina, as the circle of dancers formed around them. The Lord of Milan did not join the dance. He had been drinking spiced wine steadily since he returned from the hunt, and was now inclined to sit out the dancing. He would beat time with his foot, and he would observe the dancers. In fact, he would be watching everyone closely – very closely indeed. It was the Lord of Milan’s opinion that you could see into people’s heads if you stared at them hard enough. And when you saw into their heads, you could see all their thoughts, clear as if they had laid them out for you on a platter. And the best time for doing that was when their guard was down – such as when they were enjoying themselves.
The Lord Bernabò had not drunk so much spiced wine that he was not prepared to make full use of the Lady Donnina’s suggestion of a carolle in the garden. He would sit there in his high chair in the garden, under the maples, and try to spot the plotters and traitors that, he was pretty sure, always surrounded him. It was, in fact, his favourite way of passing the time – apart, that is, from the time he spent alone with the Lady Donnina.
As for Tom, he didn’t know when he’d been more alarmed. The Lady Donnina had a firm grip of his hand, and – to his horror – kept squeezing it every so often.
Could the Lord of Milan see those squeezes? wondered Tom. If so, Tom was convinced he would be a headless and stomachless Englishman before the night was out. Maybe the Lord of Milan could actually feel the squeezes himself? There was one again! Maybe each squeeze was a test and a secret signal to the great lord from his Lady? Maybe she was testing out which of his courtiers could be trusted with her? And the moment Tom squeezed her hand in return the guards and dogs would surround him and he would be marched off to the darkest torture chamber to enjoy the delights of ‘Lent’.
Now Lent of course normally refers to the forty days of fasting that any good Christian undertakes before Easter. Bernabò Visconti’s ‘Lent’, however, referred to the forty-day remission of sentence that the Lord of Milan graciously granted to those he had condemned to death. The only snag was that those forty days consisted of forty days running through the Torturer’s Handbook, with practical demonstrations and firsthand experience of most of the techniques contained therein.
All this was racing through Tom’s mind as the musicians struck up the first bars of the carolle. Under the circumstances it was very hard to look cheerful and carefree – both of which were essential requirements for anyone frequenting the court of Bernabò Visconti.
The great lord hated uncheerful people almost as much as he hated ugly people. His reasoning went like this. If anyone didn’t look cheerful, it was ten-to-one that they had a problem, and if they had a problem, it was ten-to-one that that problem had been caused by the excesses and arbitrary rule of the Lord of Milan. Thus every careworn face was a silent accusation against himself, and the Lord of Milan did not take kindly to having his evil deeds pointed out.
A lack of total cheerfulness might also be a sign that someone was preoccupied with something, and who was to say that that ‘something’ might not be about ridding Milan of its great lord? It was the sort of preoccupation that fed into Bernabò Visconti’s own chief preoccupation: how to get rid of people who wanted to get rid of him.
At this moment Tom felt his hand squeezed yet again by the Lady Donnina. He couldn’t help turning to her, whereupon her eyes instantly locked him in a steady gaze. She was at the same time singing:
‘My heart is in the hands of one
Who looks another way.
I pray he’ll turn his eyes on me
And there that they will stay.’
Tom didn’t know where to look. It would be disrespectful to turn away from the Lady Donnina’s gaze, and any disrespect for the Lady Donnina might well be seen as disrespect for Bernabò himself. And Tom could feel the eagle eyes of the Lord of Milan watching him as he danced and as he now took up with the other men their part of the song:
‘She whom I love is far away
And in another land
But till we meet another day
I’ll hold another’s hand.’
And there he was again – holding the hand of the Lady Donnina! She gave his another squeeze. Was it disrespectful not to return the squeeze? Tom had never felt more like a rabbit in a mantrap. He sort of squeezed her hand with what he hoped could have been mistaken for either a reflex reaction or a deliberate squeeze back, depending on which the Lady Donnina was expecting.
At the same moment, something happened to the Lady Donnina’s eyes . . . they slipped to one side of her head and she nodded in the same direction. Tom followed her glance and saw she was indicating a dark corner of the garden.
Sheer unadulterated panic seized Tom and jerked him up bodily so that he nearly tripped over into the Lady Donnina. Was the beloved lady of the Lord of Milan suggesting that he – Thomas the Englishman – should secretly meet up with her in the darkest corner of the garden?
This was the worst thing that had happened to him since he’d been in Milan, and yet the Lady Donnina’s eyes once more slid across to the shadows in the far corner, and she gave a meaningful nod. It seemed clear what she was trying to convey to him.
Tom thought he had better give some sort of response, since she was clearly expecting one; her eyes were once again fixed on his. So he started to give a vague understanding nod of response – the sort of nod one might give to someone who had just told you the price of a pair of kippers or who had just informed you that the world was about to end that evening. But before he could complete the understanding nod the music changed, and the ladies stepped forward into the middle of the circle to form a smaller inner ring, and away they danced from their partners. The men, Tom included, meanwhile danced in the opposite direction until the music once more brought them to the verse of the song and Tom found himself next to a dark-eyed lady-in-waiting with a mischievous smile and a prominent nose who was already singing with the other ladies:
‘So hold my hand, sweet stranger do,
Until we have to part
And since our days are brief and few
In your hand you hold my heart.’
By the end of the dance, Tom once again found himself beside the Lady Donnina. The exertion of the dance made her breast heave within her ermine-trimmed bodice, just slightly, but her red sleeves betrayed not even the slightest suspicion of sweat at any point. She looked him straight in the eyes as if challenging him to find fault or flaw in her perfect presentation. Tom bowed and before he had regained the upright position she had turned on her heel and left him. But as the musicians reached for their wine, he saw her slip inconspicuously into the shadows in the dark corner of the garden.
So did she mean it? Was she really expecting him to meet her there, in the shadows beyond the gaze of the other folk – beyond the gaze of her lord and master?
Tom quickly looked at Bernabò. He seemed too busy making ribald jokes to his drinking companions to notice what his mistress was up to – although, of course, you could never be sure.
Tom found his mind racing. Should he follow the Lady Donnina? Every sensible atom in his body told him not to. He had told Squire John that he was playing with fire if he courted the young Lady Beatrice . . . what sort of an inferno lay in store for him if he consorted with the Lord of Milan’s favourite mistress?
Look what Bernabò had done to his own daughter, Bernarda, for engaging in an affair of which he disapproved! The Lord of Milan had had Bernarda subjected to icy showers for days on end, and then walled up in a dungeon in the Porta Nuova with just enough food to keep her alive for seven months. If that was the sort of thing the Lord of Milan could do to his own daughter, what might he do to Tom?
On the other hand, if Tom did not go into the shadows of the dark corner of the garden to join the Lady Donnina when she had so clearly invited him to do so, he would surely incur the Lady’s displeasure. In which case might she not seek some sort of revenge? She could easily go to the Lord of Milan and accuse Tom of whatever crime she felt like dreaming up. As far as Tom could see, his goose was cooked whatever he did.
So he decided take his fate into his hands and, making sure he was unobserved, he slipped into the shadows and made his way round to the darkest corner of the garden.
By the time he reached the spot that the Lady Donnina had seemed to be indicating, the musicians had struck up another melody, and the dancers were taking up their positions for a new dance. Tom stood in the darkness for what seemed like an interminable time. He was quite sure the Lady Donnina was there, looking at him. He could feel her presence, although he wasn’t sure where or how close she was. However, he was determined to let her make the first move, whatever that might be.
But nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Nothing. And the longer he stood there, the more convinced Tom became that he was wrong. The Lady Donnina was not there . . . she must have slipped off somewhere else. A spasm of relief passed through Tom’s body. He must have been imagining the whole thing. What a wonderful and blessed and utterly joyful deliverance from the jaws of the Visconti monster! Tom’s heart slowly climbed up from its hiding place in his boots and once more settled itself in its proper place, under his jerkin.
‘Englishman!’
A woman’s voice, low but commanding, suddenly came out of the darkness.
‘My lady?’ whispered Tom, and his heart plummeted back down to his boots.
‘Come here,’ ordered the imperious voice.
Tom stepped forward in the direction that he thought the voice had come from, but a hand came from behind and touched him on the shoulder, spinning him round ninety degrees. The light from the distant torches just caught the side of the lady’s face. She smiled slightly, but it was not the Lady Donnina. It was Regina della Scala, the wife of Bernabò Visconti, Lord of Milan.
‘Englishman,’ said Regina, ‘you should leave. My husband suspects you of treachery.’
‘Of course! That’s why he was being so nice to me!’ thought Tom.
‘I tell you this because there is something you can do for me in return. Otherwise I would leave you to your fate,’ said the regal mistress of Milan.
‘My Lady Regina,’ said Tom, ‘I am at your service day and night.’
‘Do not be flippant with me, young man, or I will tell my husband that you have tried to make advances to the Lady Donnina here.’
Tom suddenly realised that the Lady Donnina was indeed standing behind Regina della Scala. It was well known that despite the one being Bernabò’s wife and the other his mistress, the two women looked after each other’s interests. Moreover they both did their best to mitigate some of the worst aspects of their lord’s rule.
‘What service can I provide the two most beautiful women in Lombardy?’ asked Tom, bowing to each in turn.
‘You are to go to Gian Galeazzo. Enter his service. Become his familiar. Find out all you can of his plans and return here to inform us.’
The silence hung in the air like a sheet on washday – flapping in the gale of thoughts that were now rushing through Tom’s mind.
‘You want me to act as a spy against my Lord Bernabò’s nephew, Gian Galeazzo?’ asked Tom carefully. He could barely grasp the enormity of what was being asked of him.
‘As you know, the rule of Milan is supposed to be divided equally between Bernabò and his nephew Gian Galeazzo. But Gian never sets foot here. In his father’s day the two palaces were equally full of life, but since that illustrious man’s death his nephew has been co-ruler of Milan in name only,’ said Regina della Scala. ‘We know Gian Galeazzo must be plotting something against my Lord Bernabò. But my husband is so convinced that his nephew is a weakling and a coward that he refuses to take anything about him seriously.’
‘But he’s up to something,’ added Donnina. ‘He must be. My lord is blind to it.’
‘But . . . why me?’ asked Tom.
‘You are an outsider – an Englishman,’ said Regina della Scala with what might have been the merest trace of contempt in her voice. ‘You have no commitment either way. You can tell us the truth.’
‘And what makes you think I will return once I have left the court of Milan?’
‘We know you are a man of honour,’ said the Lady Donnina. ‘If you say you will do something, you will do it.’
And suddenly there it was again! She was squeezing his hand. Tom couldn’t stop himself snatching his hand away as if it were touching the fire.
‘Besides,’ the Lady Regina cut in more prosaically, ‘your squire – what’s his name? – Gian? John? – he will remain here with us. Should you fail to return by the Feast of All Saints, your squire’s infatuation with the young Lady Beatrice may well have become common knowledge, and then who knows what my Lord Bernabò will do for him?’
‘Ahh . . .’ said Tom, as if he’d just been told the state of the weather or the name of a particular dog. ‘And if I refuse to go at all?’
‘You remember you squeezed my hand?’ said the Lady Donnina. ‘It would be most unfortunate if my Lord Bernabò ever got to hear about it.’
If there had been any doubt in Tom’s mind before, now there was none. He knew he had to find his squire immediately, and they must escape that very night – before dawn rolled across the plain of Lombardy to light up this viper’s nest of intrigue and secrecy.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ said the Lady Regina, ‘I hear that your squire was thrown into prison earlier this evening – some trifling business that I’m sure will be sorted out when you return.’
So that was it.
Tom turned to her and bowed both to the two women and to the inevitable. ‘My ladies, I am honoured by your commission,’ were the words that crossed his lips, but in his thoughts he heard another voice saying: ‘The flies never get out of the jam . . .’
‘I didn’t steal that ring . . .’ began Squire John as soon as Tom approached the bars of his cell.
‘Nobody thinks you did,’ replied Tom.
‘Then why have they put me in . . .’
‘Listen,’ said Tom. ‘The Lady Regina della Scala and Donnina de’ Porri know about the Lady Beatrice and you.’
‘But how on earth . . .?’
‘It is they who have put you in here, but they say they will release you once I return from some business they wish me to conduct.’
‘It’s all my fault!’ said John. ‘I have put you in jeopardy by loving the Lady Beatrice.’
‘They would have found some other way to make me do what they want.’
‘But I am ashamed,’ whispered Squire John. ‘What do you have to do?’
Tom regarded his squire with some affection, and then said: ‘John? Do you always tell the truth?’
‘I do, my lord!’ replied John instantly.
‘I know you do,’ said Tom. ‘And in this place that is a problem.’
‘But surely it’s right to tell the truth?’
‘What if my Lord Bernabò or – more likely – one of his torturers quizzes you about where I’ve gone and what I’m up to? You would tell him the truth – you would have no choice.’
John thought for a bit and then said slowly: ‘In that case, Sir Thomas, it would be best for me not to know.’
‘But if you say you don’t know, they won’t believe you. They will never believe that I haven’t told you where I was going.’
John was silent, waiting for his master to continue.
‘I am going to Ferrara to claim a ransom that has suddenly come available.’
‘Really?’ asked Squire John.
‘So if you are asked where I have gone,’ continued Tom patiently, ‘it will be no lie to say that is what I told you.’
Squire John nodded. It amazed him how Sir Thomas seemed to think of every eventuality. But then suddenly the image of his lady-love blotted out all else from his mind’s eye.
‘Can’t I just say goodbye to the Lady Beatrice?’
‘No! You must never go near her again! Not if you value your life.’
‘Can’t I just send her a note to tell her . . . I don’t know . . . that I’ll wait for her forever or something?’
‘John . . . the duke’s wife and his favourite mistress are both watching your every movement. For the moment you are useful to them alive, but they will not hesitate to dispose of you as soon as they want to. All we can do is play along with them until we can find a way out – and that means not doing anything more to inflame their anger against you.’
‘Sir Thomas?’ Squire John was looking down at his shoes, as he stood in the filth of the dungeon floor.
‘Yes, John?’
‘May I ask you something?’
‘You may,’ said Tom.
‘I don’t mean to be impertinent . . . Sir Thomas . . . but I was wondering . . . I mean talking about my Lady Beatrice . . . I was wondering that you don’t have a lady . . . at least I’ve never heard you mention her name . . .’
Squire John looked up anxiously to see if he had offended his master. But Tom was staring into the darkness, as if he were searching for a memory there . . . as if he expected to see some image from his past step out of that dungeon blackness to greet him with open arms and smiling face.
‘My lady?’ murmured Tom. ‘My lady is . . . I don’t know where she is . . . that is . . . I don’t know where they are. There were two ladies I served . . . I loved them both . . . both . . .’
Squire John waited . . . but that appeared to be all that Tom was going to say on the matter.
‘Time’s up!’ said an oddly falsetto voice, and instead of a precious memory, it was the jailer who stepped out of the shadows. He was the most unlikely jailer. He was as pleasant looking an individual as you could possibly find, elegantly dressed in particoloured hose and a pink tunic. He seemed to bear no affinity with the heavy and gloomy dungeons through which he passed.
The jailer smiled affably at Tom. ‘I’m afraid it’s time to go. Sorry and all that, but I’m under orders not to let anyone speak to the prisoner. I was only doing you a favour because I love England.’
‘You love England?’ said Tom in amazement.
‘Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it? Most Italians hate the English – they call them “devils incarnate”. After all, they infest our country and burn our farms and kill our people and steal from us and destroy our crops and vines and nowhere is safe from them – not a cottage, not a village. And yet I once went to England and it was very nice. I stayed with a family named Philipot. They were very nice.’
A silence descended on the dungeon. No one quite knew what to say. In the end Tom held his hand out to John. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘Uh uh!’ said the jailer. ‘No touching!’
Tom shrugged and with a last glance at his squire, he retraced his steps towards the stone stairway that led back up to the world of the living.
As Tom rode up to the great gates of Milan, he reflected once again on how nothing was at all the way he’d imagined it would be when he was young. He’d always imagined himself dressed as a knight in brightly coloured coat armour, emblazoned with his own coat of arms, a plumed helmet on his head and a vivid shield on his wrist, displaying the same arms. And yet here he was, riding out in a battered old brown jerkin that bore the marks of his mail coat and nothing else . . . no chevronels braced, or bend sinister . . . no unicorn passant, or wolf salient . . . just a brown jacket with a black cloak over his shoulders. He hadn’t even chosen himself a coat of arms yet. It seemed that irrelevant.
His horse’s harness was serviceable but not decorated. And he didn’t carry a shield. Only the sword at his side indicated a man-at-arms – although not necessarily a knight.
Another thing that was not at all the way he’d always imagined it was the weather. As a youth, he’d always imagined the future in sunshine, with a clear blue sky above. Today, despite the fact that it was already May, it was cold. The sky was dreary and there was a fine mist of damp – you couldn’t even call it rain really – but it drifted down from the clouds making everything wet and somehow unheroic. The day was as drab as Tom felt. But then this wasn’t the future – this was now.
The gatekeeper was examining the papers that had been provided for Tom by the Lady Regina della Scala.
‘What’s your business in Ferrera?’ demanded the gatekeeper.
‘Oh, it’s a debt I have to collect,’ said Tom.
‘Usual thing,’ grunted the gatekeeper, and handed the papers back. ‘Avoid the Lodi road, there are reports of bandits,’ he muttered, and Tom was through the gate and heading away from the court of Bernabò Visconti at last.
But instead of feeling relieved of the burden of the Visconti serpent that had been coiled around his heart and spirit for so many months, he felt more ensnared by it than ever.
What of Squire John? The Visconti ladies said they would release him as soon as Tom returned. But would they? In his heart of hearts Tom felt he knew that the Visconti would never suffer an insult to their pride to go unpunished; for an insult is how they would regard the love of a humble squire like John for one of the daughters of the great Bernabò.
Bernabò looked after all his children with the zeal and care of a doting father. It was quite a feat, when you considered the malignance of his own character, and even more so when you considered that he had no less than thirty children.
He certainly looked after them, but he looked after them to his own advantage. In Bernabò’s view, the marriage of every child was a business opportunity: his sons would be married off to the daughters of the wealthy, who would bring with them handsome dowries to swell the Visconti coffers, while his daughters – offered complete with lavish portions of the Visconti wealth – would be married only into the royal households of Europe, thereby extending the influence of the Visconti name. In this way, for example, he had seen his daughter Violante married off to one of the sons of the king of England.
In Bernabò’s eyes, his daughter Bernada’s sin was not a moral failing, it was far graver than that: it was bad for his business. In dallying with a courtier of low rank, she had been squandering whatever marriage potential she might have had. To put it plainly, she had been consorting with someone who was of no political or economic advantage to her father. Her fate was a warning to all the other twenty-nine children.
So would Regina della Scala and Donnina de’ Porri really let Squire John out of his prison? Would they be content with simply giving him a ticking off? Tom had to believe it for his squire’s sake, but it was an act of faith.
Then there was his own situation. Wasn’t that was just as bad as Squire John’s? Here he was travelling to the court of Pavia to spy on its lord, Gian Galeazzo Visconti – a man whose father had been not only as ruthless as his brother Bernabò but even more scheming. If his son followed in his father’s footsteps, what chance did Tom have of concealing the true purpose of his visit? Surely the eagle eyes of Gian Galeazzo would be watching him, and his mind (which was far more truly devious than Tom’s could ever hope to be) would be weighing up the deceits that Tom would be forced to employ.
And to tell the truth, Tom was really no better than Squire John when it came to deception. He had learned to employ it to survive but it did not come naturally, and a deceiver who does not truly enjoy the art of deception will, one day or another, be caught out.
One false step, one contradictory story, and Tom knew he would find himself under torture in the dungeons of Pavia, unable to rescue his squire from the dungeons of Milan. Tom knew that for the next month he would be treading a tightrope over an invisible pit of hell. The stench of the dungeons, of course, never rose up as far as the refined and lavishly furnished public rooms of the court.
At this point, his reverie was interrupted by a drop of water that had trickled somehow inside his hood and now suddenly made its way down his back. Tom shivered and tried to concentrate his mind on the journey ahead.