by Terry Jones
‘It would be an honour,’ he said.
Caterina ignored him, and took out a piece of paper from a locked drawer. Paper was often more expensive than parchment or vellum, but clearly Caterina was used to using it. She sat down again and began to write.
Tom pretended to read the titles of several more books and to write them down on his wax tablet; indeed he copied them in but, if you had asked him afterwards what those names were, he would not have been able to tell you. He was too busy worrying about what it was that Caterina had in store for him.
Finally Caterina finished. She dusted the ink with a little fine sand and when it had dried, she folded the letter up and took out a length of wax. This she melted onto the folded pages and then pressed her ring into the molten blob of wax to seal it.
She then wrote the name of the recipient on the outside of the letter, and turned to Tom.
‘You will oblige me by saying nothing of this to my lord,’ she said in her commanding voice. Tom bowed his compliance.
Secretly his heart was sinking. He saw it all too clearly now. He was about to become the go-between in a love affair between the Lady Caterina and some member of Bernabò’s court – perhaps an old flame of her youth. Were these Viscontis deliberately making life as dangerous for him as they possibly could? What had they all got against him? He’d never done them any harm!
But then how could he deny the Lady Caterina anything without her denouncing him as a spy to her lord? And here she was – not only standing in front of him but placing the letter into his hands.
The heavy folded paper felt like a death warrant, but he bowed to the Lady Caterina as she turned on her heel and strode out of the library.
Tom shut his eyes. But he knew when he opened them he would still be holding that fatal piece of paper.
He could see it all: he’d get caught red-handed with the letter either passing through the gates of Pavia, or else he’d be waylaid on the road by Bernabò’s men, or else they’d pick him up entering Milan . . . it didn’t matter which side caught him with it, the result would be the same. He could look forward to a nice spot of torture to loosen his tongue and then a leisurely and painful death. The lords of Lombardy did not take kindly to their wives or sisters or daughters being enamoured of the wrong men.
That was precisely why he was so worried about his squire John.
But then, he thought ruefully, the lords of Lombardy probably felt even less kindly towards the go-betweens in these affairs. Go-between! The word stuck in his throat. There was no getting away from it – that’s what he had become, as well as a spy and a double agent . . .
Tom opened his eyes and turned the letter over. As he read the name of the recipient, he felt as if a comet had struck the library. He was engulfed in a fiery explosion that wiped out all other problems in one allengulfing calamity. Just a few moments ago, he’d thought that life simply couldn’t get any more complicated or dangerous. But it just had.
The name on the letter was his own.
Chapter 19
Le Truc du Midi 1361
When he’d relit his candle in record-breaking time, back in that cave within a cave, Tom had expected to find the Beast of Gévaudan devouring the beautiful Lady Emilia de Valois, so in one way he was relieved to find that she was in the arms of a man. The man, however, looked as near to a Beast as a man could get without actually being one.
He had grabbed Emily around the throat. His face was marred with dirt and dust from the road, and his black beard looked as if it could have provided a good home for all manner of wildlife. In fact, thought Tom, the man must have had some sort of interest in ornithology, for he was muttering in Emily’s ear:
‘What are you after, my pretty bird?’
Tom, however, was in no mood to listen to small talk about the Wonderful World of Nature. He drew his sword. The moment he did, however, he felt ridiculous. He tried to hold the sword in a suitably aggressive way. But it was no good. No matter what he did he simply couldn’t make it look anything near as threatening as the man was now making his fist. It was, Tom felt, something to do with belief.
Belief and maybe aptitude and possibly practice . . . and from the look of him, Tom reckoned that the fellow had had a considerable amount of practice with his fist and possibly with swords as well.
‘Let her go!’ said Tom, but speaking just made it worse. His voice simply didn’t carry any sort of authority. He might just as well have been saying: ‘Can you pass the marmalade?’ or ‘Let’s go and play tiddlywinks!’
This was confirmed by the fact that the man simply ignored him as he leered into Emily’s contorted face: ‘You’re a pretty one, and no mistake!’
‘Let her go!’ Tom tried saying it this time in a deeper register and frowning as he said it. But it still came out sounding like he was demanding his marbles back. The bandit (which is what he must have been if he wasn’t an ornithologist) turned and sneered at Tom.
‘Run along, little ’un!’ he said. He was carrying a crossbow on his back and a quiver of bolts over his shoulder, but he made no attempt to reach for them.
Tom pulled himself up to his full height, even though, as the man had so unkindly pointed out, his full height wasn’t all that impressive, and prepared to lunge at him, but at that moment the tinder – which all this time had been flaring in the tinderbox – sputtered and started to die. Tom dived for the candle stub and thrust the wick into the dying flame. He just caught it and the candle hesitated into life as the tinderbox fire died.
The man, in the meantime, had pulled Emily into the tunnel and was dragging her back towards the daylight. Tom dived after them, grabbing one of Emily’s ankles, but a sudden kick from the man threw him back and Emily was dragged still screaming through the tunnel.
At that moment Tom heard another moan from behind the pile of rubble. He ran back to Ann and was soon undoing her gag and desperately trying to loosen her bonds.
‘He was going to leave me to die!’ said Ann. ‘He said he’d enjoy hearing my cries getting weaker.’
At that moment a far-from-weak cry split the air . . . Emily’s scream must have been loud enough to burst the bandit’s eardrums. They heard him curse her.
‘I can’t undo this knot!’ exclaimed Tom.
‘Then leave it!’ yelled Ann. ‘Go and help Emily!’
‘I can’t leave you!’
‘Yes, you can!’ urged Ann. ‘Hurry! She’s in trouble!’
So Tom grabbed his sword, and – leaving the candle beside Ann as she struggled to free herself – he leapt across to the tunnel. He emerged into the front cave in time to see Emily bite the bandit’s arm.
‘You little vixen!’ the bandit yelled at her, grabbing her throat in his bare hands. ‘You venomous snake! I’ll throttle the life out of you!’
But Emily fought back, punching and kicking the man as they fell together and started to roll around on the floor of the cave. The crossbow fell off his back and the quiver of bolts scattered across the floor of the cave.
Tom raced towards them, lifting his sword in the air as he did so, and fell flat on his face yet again.
‘Idiot!’ he screamed at himself. He’d tripped over the crossbow.
Emily, meanwhile, was still furiously pummelling the man’s face and chest as the two of them twisted and rolled over and over on the ground – making it impossible for Tom to strike at the man without being in danger of hitting his friend.
After some moments of this, however, Emily managed to get her finger into the bandit’s eye. He yelled and fell back for a second, which was all Tom needed. He lunged forward and thrust his sword into the man’s arm.
The bandit looked up at Tom and snarled, and before Tom had time to pull his sword back, the bandit had grabbed his arm and yanked him off his feet. Suddenly the sword was flying out of his hand and the man’s knee was on his chest.
‘So much for my career as an expert swordsman!’ thought Tom, as a stunning blow across the jaw made his head whirl. And t
he next minute the bandit’s knife, which had miraculously appeared in his hand, would have slashed across his throat, had it not been for Emily, who crashed a rock down on the man’s head. He groaned and slumped forward on top of Tom.
Tom pushed him off and leapt away, but the man was only momentarily stunned. He staggered to his feet, and before Tom could repossess himself of his sword, the bandit had grabbed it and was slashing it in front of Tom’s face. Tom turned and ran towards the mouth of the cave, and so did Emily, while the bandit, who seemed to have become quite crazed by the blow on the head, whirled around slashing the air and cursing and shouting, the blood running down his sword arm and over his hand.
‘He’s crazy!’ exclaimed Tom.
‘He stinks!’ yelled Emily.
‘Look out!’ The bandit was upon them, brandishing the sword and describing in surprisingly exact detail the size of pieces into which he was intending to cut them.
It only took Tom and Emily a second to decide they’d heard enough, whereupon they turned and fled from the cave. The bandit, however, seemed determined that they should hear him out. And he was in a position to carry his point, for not only was he extremely large but he also happened to be extremely fast on his feet.
Now in those days athletic events usually involved men assaulting other men on horseback with large lances or swords, but if they’d held plain and simple running events, such as we do today, I have to tell you that this bandit would have been a champion sprinter. Of course, living in the fourteenth century, he was to live out his life without ever knowing how well he could have done in the 2012 Olympics. He knew he was fast, of course, but never having been entered for the 100 metres sprint or the 4 x 400 metres relay he could have had no idea of just how fractionally much faster he was than any other runner of his time. It was one of those instances of a desert flower blooming unseen . . . although a desert flower is not an image one would have readily associated with this particular bandit.
All this, of course, was bad news for Tom and Emily, for it meant that in just a few strides, the man had caught up with them and grabbed Emily by the sleeve of her dress. He yanked her hard, and she went sprawling in the thistles.
Tom felt the blade of the sword slice both the air above his head and the hair above his head, as he ducked and ran, praying that this time he wouldn’t fall over. But, I’m afraid, that is exactly what he did.
‘Damn!’ was all Tom thought as he too sprawled into the thistles and saw the bandit looming above him. The man swung the sword up in the air. Tom shut his eyes and waited to find out what it was like to have one’s head severed from one’s body. The usual thoughts came into his mind, such as: ‘How long will my head go on thinking when it’s off?’ and ‘If I can see my body as my head flies away from it, how will I know it’s mine if it hasn’t got a head?’
But he never found out. Several seconds after he had thought he should have found the answer to both questions, he hadn’t. So he opened his eyes and saw the bandit still standing there above him, with the sword above his head, ready to strike.
‘Well go on,’ Tom shouted. ‘Get it over with!’
It was then that Tom noticed a curious look on the man’s face. It was the sort of look you might expect to find on a young frog’s face when it learns that some humans eat amphibians – or the look on a princess’s face when she kisses the prince and realises he’s a frog after all – a sort of cross between disbelief and horror.
Before Tom could turn to see what had produced this interesting facial expression, Emily had regained her feet and had begun lashing at the man from behind. But he just stood there, and Emily too gradually stopped hitting him and adopted a facial expression that was very closely akin to the bandit’s. In her case, perhaps, it was more the look of a high-born lady who feels she has been grossly assaulted by someone far below her station but who suddenly realises there could be worse things in store. Which, come to think of it, was almost exactly the case.
A snarl swung Tom’s attention round to the object of their interest. And there it was! Edging slowly out of the forest – the size of an ox but the shape of a wolf – a creature with malice in its eyes and saliva dripping from its huge bared teeth.
Without even realising what they were doing all three humans were instinctively stepping backwards, as if they thought they could escape those jaws and those razor-sharp claws by simply backing away. They stepped backwards carefully, deliberately, never taking their eyes off the creature, trying to assess each glint in its eyes as those cold and hungry pupils flicked from Emily to the bandit to Tom . . .
And the bandit kept that sword above his head ready for that terrible moment when the Beast would spring . . . which was surely about to happen . . .
Tom thought: maybe if he turned and ran in one direction and Emily ran in another the Beast might go for the bandit in the middle. But before he could work out the logistics, it all happened.
The bandit’s heel caught a tree stump and he pitched backwards, and that was the trigger they’d all been waiting for. The Beast sprang. It arched through the air so effortlessly it might have been a scarf of silk. Tom could hardly believe the height it leapt. In fact, talking about the 2012 Olympics, the Beast could easily have set a new world record, if super-wolves had been eligible.
As it flew through the air it roared, and then it roared again as it hit the bandit. The next moment its muzzle was covered in blood and it was shaking the man like a rag doll.
Why Tom and Emily stood there watching, rather than running away, would be hard to explain. Perhaps they thought they could help the man. Perhaps they knew there could be no escape from a creature of such power and speed. At all events, instead of getting out of danger’s way they just stood rooted to the spot – a couple of mice fascinated by the cat who is destined to kill them. But, as the Beast turned its huge head to snarl at them, something even more extraordinary happened.
The snarling suddenly died in the Beast’s throat. Its eyes widened and it opened its bloody jaws as if to roar, but no sound came out. It swayed and then keeled over, and the next moment it was lying there as lifeless as the man whose life it had itself just taken.
For several moments Tom couldn’t work out what had happened. Then he heard a voice shout: ‘Are you two all right?’
He turned and there was Ann standing at the cave entrance with the bandit’s crossbow in her hands. And when Tom turned back to the Beast that had terrorised that region for so many years, he could see a crossbow bolt sticking out of the middle of its forehead.
All he could think of saying was: ‘Great shot, Ann!’
Chapter 20
Pavia 1385 / Marvejols 1361
Ah! If only Ann were here now to cut through the Gordian knot of his current situation – to solve the current tangle of problems with one simple, unexpected stroke. That was what she was so good at . . . or used to be . . .
Sir Thomas English smiled to himself as he rode out of the north gate of Pavia to take the direct road to Milan. The smile meant he was recalling to mind the evening that followed those events outside the bandit’s cave so long ago.
Word of the slaying of the Beast got back to Marvejols before Tom, Emily and Ann did. How such news can travel faster that those who are carrying it is one of those mysteries that will probably never be resolved. But get back before them the news certainly did, so that by the time the trio walked in through the fortified gate of the town, a small crowd had gathered. The people didn’t cheer, or shout out, ‘Well done, you three!’ or anything like that. No. They just stood and stared.
Perhaps they were just in too much awe of the mighty Beast-slayers to dare to say anything? Or perhaps they just didn’t quite believe what they had only heard had happened.
Tom, Emily and Ann walked through the silent crowd and then, without any warning, Emily fainted.
Theatrically speaking it was a perfect piece of timing. The crowd snapped out of their enchanted silence and thronged around the young people. T
hey lifted Emily up and bore her to the main inn. Tom and Ann also found themselves picked up bodily by many hands and as the excited bubble of chatter began to swell around them, they too were carried aloft to the inn. There the landlord poured them mazers of wine, while the townsfolk crowded in ready to hear the story.
Emily was revived. Food was set before them. And for the next hour they were quizzed and questioned about how this wonderful thing had happened.
Sometime later, there was a roar from the people outside who had been unable to fit into the inn, and the landlord led his star guests to the door in time to see the Beast itself, being carried on two stout poles by a dozen men.
Dead, it seemed even larger than it had alive. Its inert mass, hanging from the poles, seemed to impose itself on the world of the living – daring folk to touch it, to try and lift its huge paws, to imagine what the death it brought was like.
The men flung the vast carcass down in the marketplace, under the light of two flaming torches. And the crowd was once again mute, as they gathered round that terrible thing and wondered . . .
Sir Thomas English shook the memory out of his head. That was all many years ago. Today, as he set out upon the road back to Milan from Pavia, his problems could not be resolved simply by slaying a Beast – at least not by slaying one Beast alone.
When he had last left Milan, he had hoped that the coils of the Visconti serpent would have been loosened from around him. But he had found instead that he was tighter in their grip than ever. Now he felt that in place of one Visconti serpent, there were two, winding themselves tighter and tighter around him until they would squeeze all the sense and life out of him.
What was it Ann used to say? ‘Situation, Alternatives, Action’? Well, the situation was simple enough . . . no, wait a minute! It wasn’t at all! The situation was far from simple. That was the whole point. The situation was so mind-bogglingly complicated that Tom couldn’t even get his head around it. The alternatives didn’t seem to exist, and the action was being dictated to him.
