by Terry Jones
‘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 da
rk 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 wit
h 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 . . .’
Chapter 3
Milan 1385
‘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?’
