The Tyrant and the Squire

by Terry Jones

  There was certainly nothing mournful about the quails and the sauced pigeons that they ate for the evening meal, nor about the sweetbreads and the sliced boar’s head. Nor was there anything the least melancholic about the wine that flowed – white and red – out of the copious gilded jugs.

  And although Tom had been given a black tunic to wear in his function as a minstrel, the music that he found himself joining in during the feast fitted well with the un-grief-stricken atmosphere of laughter and gaiety that filled the hall.

  Eventually the dishes of the first course were cleared away, and Tom saw the steward whispering to the great Lord and pointing in his direction.

  This was it, then. Would Bernabò recognise the erstwhile treacherous Englishman? Tom suddenly realised that the tests so far had been quite modest . . . he’d been talking to people in ill-lit rooms and doorways. Now he was to step forward as the centre of attention . . . an attention which it was his duty to hold for some time . . . while people ran their eyes over every inch of his body and every pore of his skin. It was hardly a comfortable position for a would-be spy in disguise to find himself in.

  However, there was no going back now.

  Tom took a deep breath as the Lord of Milan raised his finger towards him, and stepped forward. All eyes in the room turned on Tom.

  Chapter 25

  Saint-Flour 1361

  The moon was peering over the city of Saint-Flour as if it were trying to get a better look at what was going on down below on the bridge over the river Ander.

  Tom, Ann, Emily and the huge barrel-shaped Englishman, whose name unsurprisingly turned out to be ‘Barrel’, had arrived on the bridge without being spotted by the nightwatch. They crept up to the little house in the centre of the bridge and Ann whispered through the slit in the wall.

  ‘Giovanna!’

  There was a pause, and when the reply came, it was from someone who was already wide awake:

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s us,’ whispered Ann, still in her Squire Alan mode. ‘The strangers who talked to you earlier.’

  ‘The one who sang? Is he there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ said Tom.

  ‘We’ve come to get you out,’ whispered Ann.

  ‘No . . .’ came the response.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Tom. ‘We really have!’

  ‘What’s all this about?’ The rough voice of Barrel the Englishman cut over the sound of the river running below them. ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘She’s the guardian of the treasure,’ whispered Ann.

  ‘Well, look out, lassie!’ cried the Englishman in English. ‘That’s all mine now!’ And before anyone could stop him, he had started attacking the wall with one of the iron bars.

  ‘No! Stop! Please!’ cried the Maid of the Bridge.

  ‘Mind out in there!’ yelled the Englishman.

  ‘Careful!’ said Tom. But Barrel seemed to have been seized by some powerful demon that doubled his strength and halved his powers of comprehension. He had loosened one stone already and was in the process of smashing it in without the slightest regard for anyone who might happen to be on the other side.

  ‘Watch out for the girl!’ cried Ann.

  ‘Please stop!’ cried the Maid of the Bridge.

  ‘Where’s the gold!’ yelled Barrel, smashing the iron bar into the next stone and prising it loose with surprising ease.

  ‘You mustn’t do this!’

  A face had appeared in the opening that had been created. It was a thin white face – the face of a ghost or of someone who was not quite alive and not quite dead.

  But the Englishman didn’t even see it . . . he was far too preoccupied smashing at the stone like a man possessed. Bits of rock flew in all directions, and the next moment a second stone had been dislodged.

  ‘Please!’ cried the ghost from inside.

  ‘Stop that!’ cried another voice.

  ‘It’s the nightwatch!’ yelled Emily, taking to her heels across to the far side of the bridge in search of a hiding spot.

  ‘Stop them!’ cried another member of the watch.

  ‘It’s going to a good cause!’ cried Barrel, who was totally unaware of the new arrivals. ‘Ah!’

  This last exclamation was occasioned by an arrow which had grazed one of his arms before bouncing off the wall of the little house. Another arrow shot past Tom’s ears and disappeared through the hole in the wall.

  ‘Aaaargh!’ This arrangement of letters is a rather unsatisfactory attempt to represent the noise that the Englishman made as he turned on the nightwatch. It was the sort of noise a performing bear might make when it turns on its tormentors or that an ogre might make as it tears the wings off a fairy.

  You see, all his working life Barrel the Englishman had felt he’d missed out. Everything had pretty much gone wrong for him ever since he first left England, which was some seven years ago now. He had signed up in the Black Prince’s army with the usual hope of getting rich quick. But despite the staggering victory at Poitiers in which the king of France himself was captured and held for a king’s ransom, none of that staggering amount of money (three million golden ecus, they said) had trickled down his way. Barrel had always found himself either on the wrong side of the ditch when a nobleman was captured, or stuck in the tavern, when the most profitable looting took place.

  Perhaps it was his dedication to filling up his barrel shape with the appropriate alcoholic liquids that made him less alert than his companions when it came to pillaging and plundering, but somehow he had always just missed the rich pickings that he had understood would await any soldier in the employ of the English Crown.

  Even when Sir Robert Knolles had sacked the town of Auxerre, he’d been under the table in an inn somewhere and had missed the party of a lifetime – or so his mates told him.

  But despite all the disappointments and missed opportunities, he’d clung to the one dream of getting rich quick. So when Ann had told him of the treasure that was kept in the little house on the bridge of Saint-Flour, he suddenly saw an end to his years of humiliation. Here was treasure to be divided up and – miracle of miracles! – no one to divide it up with! You see, I am afraid that Barrel had not only no intention of sharing the treasure with his mates, whom he’d left back at the inn, he also had absolutely no intention of sharing it with Tom, Squire Alan and Emily.

  No! For the first time in his professional career, Barrel thought he was about to acquire the riches that he had always deserved. And, befuddled though his brain may have been, he had no intention of letting anyone – especially the nightwatch – get in the way.

  He therefore charged at the three nightwatchmen, quite oblivious to yet another arrow that sped past his shoulder.

  How the three nightwatchmen could miss such a bulky target is a mystery, although it should be freely admitted that none of them were experts with the bow, being craftsman and traders in their normal lives. What is more, all of them were of a nervous disposition. This nervousness was not at all diminished by the sight and sound of a roaring, maddened bear made out of barrels windmilling down the bridge towards them.

  To tell the truth, at that moment the three nightwatchmen shared an identical thought, although none of them were to ever discover this, for reasons which will soon become apparent. Each one of them, unbeknownst to the others, found the idea flashing through his brain that somehow the Maid of the Bridge had been miraculously turned into a huge bear. And now it had broken out of the little house on the bridge and was intent on wreaking revenge on the good townsfolk of Saint-Flour for her incarceration.

  It was an absurd idea, of course, but perhaps not so absurd for people who were prepared to wall up a girl to protect a bridge.

  Jacoppo, the eldest of the nightwatch (and a cabinet maker during the day), turned and ran. Ernesto, the youngest (a spice-seller), simply jumped off the bridge into the shallow waters of the Ander, where he splashed and stumbled before reaching the other bank some way downstream. Frederic
o, the third member of the nightwatch (and a tailor), stood there in horror as the miraculous Avenging Bear descended on him. His mind whirred, but failed to tell his body what to do. The result was that he remained rooted to the spot, as he thought: ‘The Avenging Bear has a sword!’

  And that was the last thought he had upon this earth, as Barrel brought the sword slicing down upon him.

  However, Frederico had been holding a crossbow. He had been given it by a German condottiere in lieu of payment for a handsome gown he had made for him. Frederico was the only member of the nightwatch to own such a weapon, and he always carried it fully wound up and loaded whenever he was on duty. He never actually used it, of course, but it gave him a nice comfortable feeling of power as he patrolled the darkened streets of Saint-Flour, for it was beautifully made.

  Barrel, in his headlong charge, however, had failed to notice what a splendid weapon Frederico was pointing at him. The result was that the same moment he sliced through the nightwatchman, Frederico’s finger slipped the catch and the bolt shot out of the crossbow and straight into the barrel-like chest of the Englishman.

  Now being shot at point-blank range by a crossbow is not something that you can walk away from with a shrug of the shoulders. In fact it’s something you simply don’t walk away from.

  Barrel was no exception. He sort of grunted and sank to his knees. He didn’t protest against his fate. In a way he knew he had it coming. He knew, really, in his heart of hearts, that he would never get his hands on a vast chest of treasure. He knew really, deep down inside, that he had led a dissolute life of drinking and killing and drinking and torture and drinking and . . . well, just drinking, and that he would meet a sticky end one day when he was least expecting it, and it just happened to be today.

  He knelt there for some moments, on the bridge of Saint-Flour, taking in the sound of the rushing water below him, and then he keeled over and his spirit departed to wherever spirits go.

  Tom and Ann, all this time, had been cowering behind the little house on the bridge, and watching the events take place with a horrified fascination.

  Ann’s first reaction was a curious one considering the circumstances – well, that’s what she thought anyway. She immediately felt responsible for the death of the Englishman.

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault,’ said Tom later, as they were strolling along the road towards Massiac.

  ‘But if I hadn’t persuaded him to come with us, he would still be alive.’

  Ann was determined to keep her guilt intact. It was most unlike her, thought Tom. Why did she care a fig about the dreadful English soldier? But then there was a lot about her that seemed to be different and he didn’t really understand.

  That was later, however. For now, they were still on the bridge. The destruction of the nightwatch meant that at least they could complete the rescue.

  Tom and Ann raced round to the other side of the tiny house on the bridge, where the Englishman had partially torn down the wall.

  ‘Giovanna!’ shouted Ann. ‘Where are you? Can you get through this hole?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Hurry, Giovanna!’ Ann was now whispering again, although she couldn’t have told you why. ‘Before the rest arrive!’

  But Giovanna’s voice came out of the blackness.

  ‘I can’t leave. I have chosen to die here.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To protect the city!’

  ‘But it’s all stuff and nonsense!’ whispered Ann. ‘Your sitting here and praying isn’t going to keep the bridge safe. The only thing that’ll do that is a proper troop of armed men. It’s just the town’s too mean to pay for them!’

  ‘I can’t leave.’

  ‘Yes! You can! You can get through this hole! Come on! I can hear people coming!’ cried Ann.

  ‘No . . .’ said the ghost voice. ‘I shall never leave . . .’

  ‘Someone’s coming!’ whispered Tom.

  ‘Quick!’ cried Ann.

  But there was no answer.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Ann, ‘you can get through!’ And she pushed herself into the hole that the Englishman had made. ‘Giovanna! Don’t be pathetic!’

  Tom watched Ann disappear though the hole in the wall at the same time as he saw the rest of the townsfolk appear in the street that led up to the bridge. One moment they weren’t there, the next moment they were. One moment Ann was there, the next moment she had been swallowed up by the gaping hole. Tom found himself thinking: ‘Perhaps this little house on the bridge swallows up young women and never lets them out again.’

  He yelled: ‘Ann!’ as her legs disappeared through the hole in the stonework.

  Ann didn’t reply.

  ‘Ann!’ hissed Tom. ‘They’re coming!’

  The townsfolk had gathered in a small uncertain group, but now a leader appeared to have joined them and they had begun advancing cautiously up the street.

  Ann’s face appeared in the hole in the wall. She looked for all the world like the Maid of the Bridge: she had gone deadly white, and she seemed suddenly to be more like a ghost. ‘I knew it!’ said the irrational voice inside Tom’s head. ‘The little house on the bridge has swapped one girl for the other . . . or else it makes them all the same!’

  But his rational voice said aloud: ‘Let’s get out of here, Ann!!’

  ‘She was right!’ said Ann. ‘She’ll never leave this dreadful place.’

  ‘Make her!’ said Tom. ‘Push her out!’

  But Ann was already hauling an inert body through the hole. The Maid of the Bridge fell at Tom’s feet. Her simple shift was soaked with blood, and the shaft of one of the nightwatchmen’s arrows protruded from her chest.

  ‘She’s dead! And it’s my fault!’ said Ann.

  ‘Look out!’ yelled Tom. Another arrow had just parted his hair and slammed into the wall above Ann’s head. It seemed that the nightwatchmen weren’t the only armed folk in the town. Tom grabbed Ann’s hand and yanked her out of the hole, and before another arrow could be fitted to another bowstring, the pair of them were running for their lives over the bridge of Saint-Flour, and across the river Ander.

  And before the good (though unfortunately superstitious) townsfolk of Saint-Flour had reached the little house on the bridge, Tom and Ann had disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  Chapter 26

  Les Gorges de l’Alagnon 1361

  ‘You were right, Tom, I shouldn’t have meddled in other people’s affairs.’

  They had been walking along a well-travelled road which ran beside a river which was in the process of rushing back to where they had come from, as if keen to investigate what had happened there. On either side, well-ordered hills of farmland had accompanied them, but now the country grew wilder. The hills had turned into steep cliffs that crowded in on both the road and the river – pushing them ever closer together until they were both squeezed into the dismal constraint of a gorge.

  Tom and Ann were striding on ahead, whilst Emily was dawdling behind, strumming on Tom’s citole. Ann kept on shooting exasperated glances behind, as Emily tried to remember the words of ‘Come Hither, Love, and Lie by Me’ or some other ditty.

  Eventually Ann shouted back: ‘Oh! Shut up!’ and Emily stopped strumming and looked up rather hurt.

  Tom had never seen Ann like this.

  ‘But you didn’t know they were going to shoot her,’ said Tom.

  ‘If I hadn’t interfered, they wouldn’t have. She’d still be alive.’

  ‘But what kind of a life was that?’ asked Tom.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ snapped Ann. ‘We don’t “put people out of their misery” like dogs or cats!’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Tom was stumbling for words. ‘But it was right to try and rescue her. It’s barbaric walling her in like that!’

  ‘Yes, we had no choice . . .’ agreed Ann, but it sounded like an accusation.

  What had happened to the old Ann? Tom wondered. The old Ann was so full of confidence. Th
e old Ann always knew the answers. The old Ann was so free from doubt.

  ‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ said the new Ann. ‘Never.’

  Tom looked across at his best friend. He felt confused and foolish. It was as if he had lost someone dear to him, and yet this was Ann walking alongside him in the same way that Ann always walked alongside him. True, she was dressed as Squire Alan, but there was nothing un-Ann-like about that. In fact he found it reassuring that she was still able to carry off her disguise as a boy. And yet for some reason he couldn’t shake off the feeling that the old Ann had been shot in the night by a stray arrow and he hadn’t noticed . . .

  But no . . . that was wrong too . . . hadn’t Ann seemed different ever since they’d rescued her from the Pope’s prison in Avignon? The more he thought about it the more it seemed that that was where they’d left the old Ann: incarcerated somewhere in that ghastly fortress of paranoia.

  And it wasn’t as if he didn’t like the new Ann. In some ways, the new Ann was more sympathetic, more . . . he couldn’t say likeable because there was nothing about the old Ann he didn’t like, but he felt he could put his arm round the new Ann and tell her that everything would be all right and that, whatever she thought she had done, he believed in her and always would believe in her – none of which would have occurred to him to do to the old Ann.

  ‘Stop where you are!’

  The words were French, but there was no mistaking the accent. It was best Cheshire.

  ‘We’re English!’ cried Tom. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Four armed men had ridden out from behind a large rock and were now blocking their path. Two were pointing crossbows at them and the other two had drawn swords.

  ‘I don’t care if you’re Ethiopians!’ said the man from Cheshire. ‘Grab ’em!’