by Terry Jones
His tummy had just started rumbling, and his mind had wandered back to the distant past, as it always did when his tummy rumbled. He always thought of Emily – the Lady Emilia de Valois – and how she lectured him once when he was young on the importance of eating proper meals at the proper time. And the thought of Emily had led on to the memory of Ann . . . and the thought of past adventures.
It was at this point that the door of the library opened and an imposing figure in a crimson gown edged with fur entered the library. She walked in without a word of apology, and for some moments, strode around the shelves not so much like someone choosing a book as like a general reviewing his troops. Her head was held erect and her aquiline nose went before her like a royal herald.
At length she finished her inspection of the assembled ranks of books. They all seemed present and correct. So she dismissed them, and turned her gaze upon the only other occupant of the room: the handsome, ginger-haired Englishman sitting at the table in the east window.
Tom stood and bowed to her. He had already recognised her as the figure he had seen in the window of the palace when he had arrived with the hunting party two days before. Since then he had learned that she was no less a person than Caterina Visconti, daughter of Bernabò Visconti, Lord of Milan and Gian Galeazzo’s uncle. For four years now, Caterina had been the wife of Gian Galeazzo.
Caterina was a handsome woman. Her father, Bernabò, was a handsome man. And Caterina did not look unlike her father, so it was only to be expected that she would be a handsome woman.
Bernabò, it has to be admitted, was a man’s man: a heavyset ox of a fellow who would have no more been seen in maidenly pursuits than he would have pulling a brewer’s dray (which he could easily have done) in his underwear.
And in some ways Caterina took after her father. Certainly you would never catch her in her underwear.
Now she was staring right through Tom, waiting for his reply.
‘A spy?’ was all Tom could think of saying for the moment. He was aware that it wasn’t the most convincing way of allaying her suspicions, but then could he really be certain of what he’d actually heard her say? Maybe Caterina had said, ‘I know you have sent me a pie,’ or ‘I know a way to play I Spy,’ thought Tom desperately. But Caterina Visconti, daughter of Bernabò, wife of Gian Galeazzo, was not someone who made light conversation of that sort.
‘Why else would my father have sent you?’ she said.
‘I can assure you, my lady, your father does not even know I am here,’ said Tom, hoping against hope that he could say the truth while at the same time avoiding incriminating himself.
Caterina narrowed her eyes and was silent for some time. She turned and plucked a book at random from the shelf. Then she seated herself on the bench and opened the volume, again seemingly at random. Without looking at Tom, she read out: ‘Choose a prudent man to write down your secrets . . .’ and then her finger ran down the page and across, and she read again: ‘You must understand that a messenger shows the wisdom of he who sent him.’
She looked up and into Tom’s eyes, and at that moment Tom realised that Caterina Visconti seldom did anything random.
‘You know these books well,’ said Tom, bowing his head in acknowledgement.
‘The Secreta Secretorum,’ replied Caterina, holding up the book. ‘The Secret of Secrets – they say it contains the advice of Aristotle to princes – the secrets of how to rule.’
‘I have heard of it,’ said Tom. ‘You are well read.’
‘I have been a wife for four years now. Until I present my lord with an heir, I have precious little else to do with my time. I spend the waking hours alone in here with these books for company.’
‘If I am in your way . . .’ Thomas made as if to leave, but a wave from the large and undoubtedly majestic hand of Caterina stopped him.
‘You cannot escape so easily, Sir Thomas Englishman,’ she said. ‘You are a spy. I know you are.’
Tom could not look her in the eye.
‘I am here on the business of the king of England,’ he mumbled. Somehow the cover story that had seemed so plausible when he was inventing it now lay exposed on the polished boards between himself and the Lady Caterina like a stillborn infant.
Caterina laughed . . . or rather she snorted and flung her sleeve over the bench on which she was sitting.
‘If it was not my father that sent you, then it must have been that witch, the Lady Donnina. Or perhaps my mother.’
‘My Lady Caterina,’ said Tom, picking his words carefully. ‘I am no spy.’
‘That’s perfectly obvious,’ retorted the Lady Caterina. ‘Anyone can see you are not used to that sort of work. But . . .’ and here Lady Caterina stared at him with a look that was more like a stranglehold than something done with the eyes, ‘someone has sent you as a spy.’
Tom said nothing, for he could think of nothing to say.
Caterina stood up and replaced the Secreta Secretorum on its shelf. She then reached for another book and thrust it towards Tom as far as its chain would permit.
‘Will you swear on this that you are not a spy?’ asked the Lady Caterina.
Tom looked from the Bible up to the black pupils of Caterina’s eyes – pupils that seemed so dilated that one might imagine they could suck in every image that they gazed upon and swallow them up for good. At length he whispered: ‘What do you want of me, Lady Caterina?’
Caterina put the Bible down and made a face towards Tom that was – he was almost certain – meant to be a smile. But it seemed the Lady Caterina did not have much practice in smiling, for it was a smile such as a corpse might make – or a ghost that had long given up hope of happiness.
‘It’s all right, Sir Thomas Englishman. I shall not give you away to my husband. Your little secret is safe with me.’
‘Little secret’? It didn’t seem that little to Tom. He frowned. He knew the sensible thing was to deny it all: to say she was mistaken . . . but – proficient as Tom had become at riding a war horse and wielding a sword – there were some knightly accomplishments that he had never truly mastered, deception being the first on the list.
He sighed. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said at length.
‘I shall tell you,’ replied the Lady Caterina, ‘when the time comes. For now I just want you to know that I know who you are and what you are doing here.’
She rose and swept towards the door. ‘Welcome to Pavia,’ she said, and was gone.
Tom sat there like a stone dog. The Visconti serpent had just wound another coil around him.
He was not in the least deluded by the calm way in which the Lady Caterina had said everything or by her reassurances that his secret was safe with her. Her voice had that steely tone that made her father’s pronouncements so dreaded – especially to a cottager whom he was condemning to death for failing to feed one of his hunting hounds.
No, there was no doubt – she was threatening him . . . but what did she want? Perhaps she was going to blackmail him into carrying out some devious plan she had devised . . . maybe against her husband or – even more alarming – against her father?
Tom tried to rid his mind of the thoughts that kept popping up like jack-in-the-boxes. He tried to read through his list of books again, but the titles kept jumping about from one place on the page to another and he soon gave up.
He went to the window and watched the sun now dipping towards the west . . . within the hour it would be dark. Did an incompetent spy stand more chance of staying concealed under cover of the night? Or was the night the time when secrets were revealed? When the inner truths were stripped bare for all to see and understand?
When he looked back into the room, he realised how truly dark it had already become without his noticing it.
Chapter 17
Pavia 1385
The same day that Sir Thomas English had first encountered the Lady Caterina Visconti, he found himself being entertained by her husband. The great man had invited him to take supper
in his private apartments. There were just the two of them, but, even so, Tom couldn’t help feeling there was more than one conversation going on.
‘You are welcome to use the library as much as you wish,’ said Gian Galeazzo, but Tom couldn’t shake off the feeling that what he was actually saying was: ‘I’d rather have you in the library than prowling around the palace, poking your nose into things that don’t concern you.’
And when Gian Galeazzo made the generous offer that ‘Tom was welcome to use his messengers whenever he had letters to send,’ Tom was certain the duke was warning him that all his correspondence would be scrutinised.
In a way it didn’t matter whether or not the Lady Caterina had told her husband of her suspicions about their English guest; the more Tom thought about it, the more likely it seemed that if the Lady Caterina could see through his guise, so could her lord.
And, even though Gian Galeazzo was as polite as the Pope on Sunday, everything he said took on an ominous ring. ‘Won’t you try a little minced quail?’ sounded more like a threat than an invitation. And once, when Gian Galeazzo happened to say: ‘This fish was caught this morning, Sir Thomas,’ Tom nearly choked.
Then – quite suddenly – the great man lurched forward, peered into Tom’s face and murmured: ‘My uncle Bernabò is a cruel and vicious man, is he not?’
It was the sort of trick question that Tom had been dreading. He gazed at his host, as if trying to gauge the exact degree of cruelty and viciousness that Gian Galeazzo had in mind. Meanwhile his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, while his mind raced through every possible combination of cruelty and viciousness that could be applied to the Lord of Milan without sounding like criticism. Eventually the words stumbled out almost of their own accord:
‘He is a formidable man.’
There. That should do it. But Gian Galeazzo was not to be fobbed off so easily.
‘You know he intends to kill me?’ he whispered conspiratorially.
‘I . . . I . . . know nothing of such matters . . .’ stuttered Tom.
‘I am so scared,’ whispered the great man. ‘I expect my every waking hour to be my last. You see how I dare not leave my palace with less than three hundred men-at-arms. I do not sleep soundly in my bed and you can see I have no appetite . . .’ He pushed his plate away from him at this point. ‘My life is wretched, Sir Thomas Englishman. All I do – every day – is pray to God to shield me from the malevolence of my uncle.’
Tom didn’t know where to look. But Gian Galeazzo kept peering into his eyes as if trying to read the solution to his life’s problems there and Tom didn’t dare look elsewhere. He had to offer his eyes up to Gian Galeazzo for inspection, as a small child might offer up its hands to show they are clean.
At this point-blank range, Tom could see that Gian Galeazzo’s irises were grey-green with little flecks of brown. He could also see how those brown-flecked, grey-green eyes flicked this way and that . . . probing . . . searching . . . doubting . . .
To be faced, at these close quarters, with the private anxieties of such a great and powerful lord was unnerving, terrifying and almost terminally embarrassing.
‘My lord,’ said Tom after a prolonged and disconcerting silence compounded by the intimate eye-scrutiny, ‘I am only too aware of my inadequacies, but if by chance I may be of any service whatsoever to your lordship, you have only to ask.’
Gian Galeazzo sat back and relaxed. It was as if a torturer had extracted the information he wanted from his victim and was now able to put his feet up for the rest of the day. The spell was broken for Tom too, and he took the opportunity to glance around the chamber.
It was fairly dark, since the Lord of Pavia did not like extravagance and would only allow a couple of candles to illuminate the table. When servants came and went with the dishes, they did so either in the dimness of the outer edges of the room or else carrying a small oil lamp in one hand.
‘He claims it’s to avoid unnecessary expense,’ Tom found himself pondering, ‘but perhaps the darkness suits him too?’
Several servants stood by, almost lost in the shadows, ready to do the great lord’s bidding the moment he lifted his finger. Gian Galeazzo may have had a reputation for frugality, but it didn’t quite add up, thought Tom. The food was excellent, the wine was choice, and there were servants to spare . . . if this was frugality, Tom wished he could be as poor. There again, it was true that Gian Galeazzo himself ate very sparingly.
But the great man was addressing him once more: ‘Sir Thomas Englishman, you are reputed to be an honest man, and I feel that I can trust you. You know I have no taste for war. Nor do I have ambitions that would move me against my uncle. All I desire is peace in which to worship the Almighty.’
‘Your piety is renowned,’ murmured Tom. The great lord bowed his head in acknowledgement. Then he went on:
‘You will return to my uncle’s court in Milan very soon. When you go perhaps you could ask certain questions on my behalf – without of course revealing that it is I who have asked you make such inquiries. All I would need to know is if and when my uncle plans to move against me. For move against me I am convinced he will. And when that happens, if I am far away from Pavia I can come to no harm. All I shall need is a little warning which, perhaps, Sir Thomas Englishman, you are in a position to give me?’
Tom laughed and laughed and laughed. In fact he was hysterical. Except of course that he kept a perfectly straight face and nodded very seriously at Gian Galeazzo’s proposal. But inwardly he wanted to roll on the floor and howl. The whole thing was a joke! Here he was – already employed by Regina della Scala, wife of Bernabò Visconti, and the Lady Donnina, mistress of Bernabò Visconti, to spy upon Gian Galeazzo – now being recruited by Gian Galeazzo to spy upon Bernabò Visconti.
‘My lord,’ said Tom. ‘I have no immediate plans for a return to Milan . . .’
‘I have some messages I would like you to deliver,’ replied Gian Galeazzo, adding under his breath: ‘Stay three or four days – or however long it takes to find out what it is necessary to know – and then come back and report direct to me . . .’
It seemed as if Tom had no choice. He was being commanded by the Lord of Pavia. He was not in a position to say no.
Chapter 18
Pavia 1385
Sir Thomas was working his way through the library, taking books off the shelves and carefully writing the titles on a wax tablet. But his mind was elsewhere entirely. It was only the night before that Gian Galeazzo had asked him to return to Milan to act as his spy, and to find out what he could about his uncle Bernabò’s intentions towards him. And yet he was already engaged to spy upon Gian Galeazzo by Bernabò’s wife and mistress.
On the one hand Tom thought, he would not be doing such a great evil . . . after all, his information would not be used to harm anyone. On the contrary, it might save Gian Galeazzo’s life, and when you considered it, Gian Galeazzo’s life was altogether a lot more worth saving than his uncle’s. So there was even a moral argument in favour of undertaking the mission.
On the other hand, there were some pretty strong arguments to the contrary, which had precious little to do with morality. Tom had been convinced that he would make the world’s most hopeless spy, even before the Lady Caterina had told him she could see right through him. And now he was being asked to act as a double agent. Surely that would more than double the jeopardy he would be in. How could he be a double agent when he found being even a single agent difficult enough?
There again, the chance of returning to Milan could prove very useful. He already had sufficient information to keep Regina della Scala and the Lady Donnina happy. Perhaps they would release his squire John, and then the two of them could escape both these nests of intrigue. They could leave Lombardy and the domain of the Visconti, and never ever return.
Tom put down the book he was holding, and gazed out of the window towards the great park of Pavia. He could see a hunting party setting out from the lodge, surrounded by their
hounds. He did not look for the figure of Gian Galeazzo, for he knew that the ruler of Pavia would not be amongst them. The great man seemed to spend all his waking hours praying in his private chapel, or talking to holy men. Prayer, devotion, study, contemplation . . . the Lord of Pavia could hardly have been more of a contrast to his uncle or to his father – neither of whom had anything but contempt for churchmen. Both lived for war and hunting and women and drinking. How such a family could have produced a flower as delicate and sweet-smelling as Gian Galeazzo was a botanical mystery.
Yet there was another mystery here in Pavia. For though Gian Galeazzo appeared to have no taste for the dangers of the hunt, yet he still kept up his father’s park . . . some said he’d even improved it. And though he professed no interest in battle, he still spent a fortune on military matters – it was said he maintained a thousand men-at-arms . . .
At this point Tom became aware that he was no longer alone in the library. He turned to find the Lady Caterina standing at the door, looking at him. Tom bowed.
‘You may carry on,’ was all the Lady Caterina said, as she took her place at a table in the great window to the south. Tom reopened the book he had taken down and diligently copied the title onto the tablet which served him as a notebook.
When he’d finished he glanced up at the Lady Caterina. To his surprise she was not reading. She was sitting perfectly still with her hands in her lap, staring at him. Tom shut the book, replaced the volume on the shelf and took down the next.
‘You are to return to Milan tomorrow?’ said the Lady Caterina.
‘As soon as that?’ Tom hadn’t realised it was all so cut and dried. A great lord like Gian Galeazzo didn’t wait for the likes of Tom to decide whether to go or not.
‘I have a letter I wish you to take,’ said the Lady Caterina. Tom bowed.
