The Tyrant and the Squire

by Terry Jones

  And before they knew what was happening, four more had emerged from the rocks and Tom, Ann and Emily found themselves pinioned with their arms behind them. What happened next was, in truth, a demonstration of sheer professionalism and expertise. Tom’s bundle was unceremoniously snatched from him by a soldier who was, unaccountably, wearing a turban, and the next minute, hands were all over him searching for the possessions on his person.

  Emily was screaming blue murder as the men made coarse jokes and ran their hands over her rich clothing. Ann, or rather Squire Alan, was fighting and kicking with all her strength and with such effect that not a single soldier had been able to lay a finger on her.

  ‘All right!’ said the man-at-arms from Cheshire. ‘That’s enough. Tie those two up and let the young lad follow if he wants.’

  With that Tom and Emily were unceremoniously hog-tied and thrown across a couple of the horses. The party then wheeled about and rode off deeper into the wilderness of the gorge. And Ann, who had retreated to a safe distance, had no option but to run after them, if she wished to keep her companions in sight.

  A mile down the road, they passed under the supervision of an impossibly high-sided castle perched on an equally impossibly high-sided crag. But if the owners of that magnificent place had once intended to enforce their law upon the land, they must have given up long ago. Now the castle no longer deigned to look down on the goings on of mere mortals living out their lives on the earth below. It had been abandoned.

  The path and the river, however, seemed to have developed a symbiotic relationship and were getting along together just fine: as the one grew wider, the other grew narrower. They had just reached a point where it was the river’s turn to spread itself and indulge in idle chatter as it bubbled over a shallow bed.

  Here the riders wheeled their horses into the water and started to wade across to the dismal bank on the other side. Tom had the feeling that they were crossing the river Lethe into the underworld, which, in a sense, was to prove to be not far off the mark.

  Once across, they scrambled onto the bank between some trees and found themselves in a camp, hidden from view under a shelf of rock. Like toads under a stone, Tom thought, but of course he didn’t say that.

  About fourteen armed men had gathered in this particular troop of routiers, as they were called by the locals. They were mostly English, but one or two were German and there seemed to be a couple of Frenchmen too. The arrival of the captives was greeted with whooping and catcalling.

  Tom and Emily were bundled off the horses and thrown in front of the man who seemed to be their leader. His face was weathered, and he had a scar right across his forehead that reached down across his eye and onto his cheek. It seemed a miracle that his eye could have survived such a sword stroke as must have produced that gash.

  ‘So? What have we got here?’ he asked.

  ‘We picked them up on the road to Lempdes,’ said the man from Cheshire. ‘She looks like she might be worth a fair ransom,’ he added, nodding at Emily.

  ‘Quite a lady!’ agreed the leader of the troop, looking her up and down. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Don’t you dare touch those!’ exclaimed Emily.

  One of the others had produced the bundle of Emily’s clothing.

  ‘Open it up!’ ordered the leader.

  ‘Don’t you . . .’ began Emily, but then she stopped, as the leader turned to look at her. He had blue eyes that seemed to light up as he smiled at her, and for a moment Emily simply stared at him. But then she turned away with such disdain that his smile turned into a chuckle, and Emily’s gesture was spoiled.

  Meanwhile the bundle was thrown onto the floor and the men quickly opened it up, whistling with appreciation at the rich clothes that were revealed.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . those are the Valois fleur-de-lys, if I’m not mistaken,’ murmured the leader. ‘It seems to me, gentlemen, we may have struck richer than we could have possibly imagined!’ And once again he looked Emily up and down appreciatively, but this time she returned his gaze without flinching.

  ‘I’m English!’ interrupted Tom. He had finally managed to get rid of the gag that they had tied round his mouth. ‘And she’s a good friend of mine!’

  He nodded at Emily.

  The leader turned on Tom, and smiled an icy smile. ‘I couldn’t care less if you were Ethiopian.’

  ‘That’s exactly what that fellow from Cheshire said,’ Tom wanted to say, but instead he simply muttered: ‘Well . . . we’re on the same side, aren’t we?’

  Tom hadn’t realised he was making a particularly funny remark, but once it had escaped his lips, he knew he had. It was – apparently – hilarious.

  ‘I don’t know whose “side” you’re on,’ remarked the scar-faced leader, doing an alarmingly good job of controlling his amusement. ‘But we’re on our side.’

  ‘Il a raison!’ said a Frenchman in a mail coat.

  ‘Ja,’ said a German. ‘Wir sind auf unserer seite!’

  And once again, Tom found himself the centre of a hilarious round of laughter, which would have satisfied a court jester’s wildest dreams.

  During the general uproar, Tom noticed that the Frenchman had sidled up to him.

  ‘Je vous connais,’ he said. ‘I know you.’

  ‘I don’t think you do,’ replied Tom.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I do . . .’ insisted the Frenchman, but before he could say any more the leader was rapping out commands.

  ‘Untie the girl. Give her some food. But get rid of the boy. We’ll get nothing for him.’

  ‘Oh! And there was another lad hanging around . . .’ said the man from Cheshire. ‘Looks like he’s caught up with us.’

  He nodded towards the trees down by the river, where Ann had just appeared. She was warily keeping her distance, but peering intently across at the encampment.

  ‘Good old Ann!’ thought Tom. ‘She’ll think of a way of getting us out of this! That’s what she’s doing now . . . she’s studying the layout of this place and working out how to rescue us . . . situation . . . alternatives . . . action . . .! That’s it! She’ll know what to . . .’

  But the thought petered out in his mind, because Ann had suddenly started behaving in a very odd way indeed.

  ‘She’s gone mad!’ was Tom’s first thought. For, instead of waiting for night or until there was no one around to attempt a rescue, Ann was now walking – quite deliberately and slowly – into the very centre of the routiers’ encampment.

  It must be a trick, thought Tom. Ann must have some plan . . . at least the old Ann would have had a plan, and maybe walking into the middle of the danger could have been part of it . . . but this wasn’t the old Ann . . . this was the new Ann, and the new Ann walked as if in a dream right into the midst of those bandits and robbers.

  Once there, she turned to the scar-faced leader with the blue eyes and the flashing smile, and said something that was to change Tom’s life forever.

  ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Peter de Bury!’

  Chapter 27

  Milan 1385

  Minstrels normally performed behind a screen, or up in a gallery . . . somewhere separated from the important people in the hall. That way they did not interfere with the conversation and, more crucially, they couldn’t eavesdrop on any secret matters of state that might be being discussed. Minstrels, you see, were frequently employed as spies.

  Bernabò Visconti, however, showed contempt for most things. He showed contempt for most people, and he showed contempt for most customs – including the positioning of minstrels. Which is how Sir Thomas English, currently in the guise of the minstrel Robin of Arundel, found himself being brought forward into the centre of the hall to sing an elegy in memory of the late Regina della Scala, the deceased wife of the Lord of Milan.

  And there, sitting next to the great Lord of Milan, sat the woman who had – in all probability – poisoned his wife. How could he sing something which would console the one without antagonising the other
?

  Tom’s nerves were wound up as tight as the strings of his citole. He had only had a few hours to cobble together a musical tribute. Even a professional musician would have found it taxing, and Sir Thomas was not a professional musician. Of course not! A professional musician was a paid entertainer – the lowest of the low. Mere riff-raff. Sir Thomas could, of course, play and sing – after all, he was an accomplished knight – but he would never have demeaned himself by receiving money for his artistic endeavours. His playing and singing was strictly for the boudoir or the private chamber. Public performance on the scale on which he was about to embark was not in his remit.

  Besides, it also didn’t help knowing that he was a wanted man. The Lord of Milan had had his picture put up all over town, alongside a text accusing him of treason and of attempting to seduce his favourite mistress. Perhaps singing to the court was not the best method of keeping out of the tyrant’s way. Even though he’d shaved off his red hair, he could still be recognisable, and every eye was now turned on him as he stood there before the ruthless and unpredictable Lord of Milan.

  ‘You’ve got a song about my wife?’ barked Bernabò.

  ‘I have an elegy, my liege,’ said Sir Thomas, and he bowed deeply.

  ‘Then let’s have it! If it’s good, I’ll give you this!’ Bernabò pulled a brooch off his coat and flung it down on the table. ‘If it stinks, you’ll spend the night in the kennels!’

  And then he barked again with that humourless laugh of his, and, of course, the whole court joined in.

  Tom knew only too well what spending a night in the kennels might mean. If he were to be locked up with the Great Danes, he would not see the light of another day. Tom suddenly knew what a jelly felt like sitting on a hot plate.

  And, talking of heat, Tom had just noticed that the temperature in the stuffy hall had pulled one of the strings on his citole out of tune.

  ‘My lord,’ said Tom, quickly fiddling with the wayward string, ‘the Lady Regina della Scala shines in all our minds like the evening star – beautiful amidst the darkness of her loss.’

  There was an automatic smattering of applause. There always was nowadays whenever anyone said anything about the Lady Regina della Scala. Tom bowed, still retuning his string. Bernabò, however, was getting impatient. He signalled to him to start, muttering at the same time: ‘And don’t make it too long!’

  Tom finally got the string to the right pitch and launched into his elegy, which began, roughly speaking, on the following lines:

  ‘When I see her empty place

  I remember how her grace

  Lit the room and filled the hall.

  Now the clothes I wear are black,

  Could I have my lady back

  I’d count myself the Count of All.’

  He went on like this for a dozen more verses, each one ending with the refrain ‘I’d count myself the Count of All’. The tune was an English one, which he knew would be fresh to Italian ears. A lot of the content was borrowed, but he hoped no one would recognise it. Looking round the faces of the court, it was hard to tell how anybody was reacting.

  It was even harder to tell how the great Bernabò was reacting. He was just sitting there with his eyes shut, nodding in time to the music. Tom was rather pleased with the refrain ‘I’d count myself the Count of All’, which worked just as well, he thought, in Italian as in English. And paying a compliment to the Count of Milan was probably more important, Tom calculated, than paying one to his deceased wife.

  At last, Tom reached the end of his elegy. He played the final flourish and bowed low. There was total silence.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ said Tom to himself. ‘My career as a minstrel lasted precisely one number. Pity, really. I actually rather enjoyed the performance.’

  Tom kept his head down in the bow. He could already hear the Great Danes snarling and snapping around his ankles.

  He finally felt he couldn’t stay bowing any longer, and straightened up. Glancing round the faces of the court, he instantly realised that whether they liked it or not was totally irrelevant. Every courtier’s eyes were fixed on the great Bernabò. Of course! Nobody could possibly have an opinion until the great man had expressed his.

  Bernabò, however, was at that moment particularly inscrutable. He was sitting there, eyes shut, head nodding, just as if he were still listening to the song. The Lady Donnina was equally inscrutable. She sat there beside her lord simply staring at Tom. Before her gaze, Tom felt quite naked . . . exposed . . . as if every secret in him was written all over his body for all to read.

  ‘That is it, my lord,’ said Tom, making another elaborate bow. ‘There is no more.’

  His heart was beating like a drum as he waited to hear his fate. A dog sniffed his crotch. Actually it was a real dog that had been prowling around the hall, but Tom couldn’t help reacting as if it had been the first of the Great Danes come to tear him to pieces. He gave a great yell. A ripple of amusement went round the hall.

  But still the Lord of Milan simply sat there, eyes closed, nodding. Every eye in the place swivelled back from Tom to the lord, waiting for the word.

  Eventually the chief steward, who was standing just behind the count, jogged him discretely, and the great man woke up. Bernabò looked around in some surprise, saw Tom still holding his citole, and – perhaps to cover up the fact that he had fallen into an alcohol-induced stupor, or else out of relief that yet another tedious elegy was already over – immediately clapped and shouted: ‘Bravo! Robin of Arundel! Well done!’

  And with that the entire hall burst into polite applause and Tom bowed again, and felt the sweat trickling down under his armpits. At the same time he brushed away the dog that had been sniffing around him.

  The steward bent down again and whispered something to Bernabò, who obediently picked up the brooch and flung it at Tom.

  ‘Here! Buy yourself a new horse with that!’

  The thought flashed through Tom’s mind: ‘He knows I’ve lost my horse! He must know who I am! The game’s up!’ and the returning image of the kennels made him miss the brooch. It fell with a clatter onto the tiled floor.

  ‘You minstrels always let your money slip through your fingers!’ roared the Lord of Milan. The entire court naturally joined in roaring with laughter and this made Bernabò roar again with mirth – at which point Tom realised that the great Lord of Milan had far better things to do than remember the face of an Englishman who’d left his court some weeks before.

  He gratefully snatched up the brooch and retreated back into the safety of the musicians’ enclosure, where the others had already struck up a pleasing dance melody that was setting everyone’s feet tapping.

  There would soon be dancing and flirting and merrymaking in the black-draped court of the Lord of Milan. Bernabò himself was already caressing the Lady Donnina de’ Porri’s cheek with his hand. Soon, no doubt, he would be leading her off to bed, and leaving the court to its unbounded pleasures.

  Yet it would be wrong to think that Bernabò himself did not regret his wife’s death. He had always valued her highly for her common sense and her good advice. Indeed she was the one person in the whole state who ever dared oppose his whims or moderated his behaviour. Moreover her financial advice was always impeccable.

  Bernabò already missed her guiding hand and – who knows? – perhaps her death had left him feeling just that little bit vulnerable, despite his power and arrogance. He may even have had an inkling of the disaster that was soon to engulf him, and which would be entirely the result of his overweening pride. For a wretched fate was soon to overtake the Lord of Milan, and it is possible that Regina della Scala would have prevented it.

  But all that was in the future.

  For now, Bernabò Visconti was drunk. His head was turning slightly and he rose, leaning on his mistress’s shoulder. He did not see the look that the Lady Donnina de’ Porri shot towards the musicians’ enclosure. Nor did he hear her whisper to the steward to fetch the minstrel
who had just sung of Regina della Scala and bring him to her chamber.

  Chapter 28

  Les Gorges de l’Alagnon 1361

  Peter de Bury stared at the youth who stood in front of him, and who claimed to know him so well. He was certain he had never seen this young man before . . . his mind ran through several encounters he had had over the last two years, but he could not place him. And yet there was something familiar about his eyes.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ asked the youth.

  ‘I have never seen you before in my life,’ replied Peter de Bury. It was always safer to start with a denial.

  The youth seemed to collapse inside, like a lantern extinguished.

  ‘Curious . . .’ thought Peter de Bury, ‘he can’t be after money.’

  Then an even more curious thing happened. The youth spoke in a softer – an almost feminine – voice that Peter somehow recognised, one that penetrated through the many thicknesses of skin that he had been forced to acquire over the past years.

  ‘Peter! Don’t you know me?’ asked the youth.

  And then he took off his cap and gazed into Peter’s blue, blue eyes and said: ‘I have been living and dreaming of this moment for so long . . . I’m Ann.’

  As she said these words, Ann saw a most extraordinary change take place in the longed-for and much-worshipped face of Peter de Bury.

  For a second he looked as if he were seventeen again. His face was suddenly wiped clean of the scar and the lines that had gathered in the intervening time. The weathered features suddenly no longer seemed to belong to the same person . . . they were outward artefacts that were not attached to the inner man . . . and that inner man was the beautiful youth she had last seen in the garden of her father’s house back in Woodstock, near the great city of Oxford.

  They had kissed the summer before. Peter had then spent the best part of the year in the service of the Earl of Exeter, and she had not seen him. But there had not been a day when she had not thought about him, nor seen his face in her mind’s eye.