The Tyrant and the Squire

by Terry Jones

  The Lady Donnina arched her graceful eyebrows: ‘So? You have news of Gian Galeazzo?’

  She indicated a stool near the foot of her bed. Tom perched on it and took a deep breath. He was suddenly acutely aware that perhaps no more than fifty feet from where he sat, amidst the tapestried luxury of this lady’s boudoir, his squire was lying in darkness on the stone floor of a filthy dungeon. And John was lying there at the behest of this fine lady, who now sat so comfortably in front of Tom.

  Whatever he was to say next might well determine John’s fate.

  ‘My lady. I have spent some considerable time with Gian Galeazzo, and I have been able to observe him on many occasions – sometimes on quite intimate terms.’

  ‘And you have formed an opinion as to his character and intentions towards Milan?’

  ‘I have indeed, your ladyship.’

  ‘This pretended religiosity of his,’ said Donnina de’ Porri, turning to look at Tom. ‘It is a fraud, is it not?’

  The Lady Donnina’s maid began to twist the lady’s hair into a braid, because that was how she preferred to sleep.

  ‘My lady, I had heard much about Gian Galeazzo devoutness and religious zeal. It is common knowledge . . .’

  ‘It causes my Lord Bernabò to despise his nephew, and therein lies the danger. That is why Regina della Scala was convinced it is a stratagem.’

  ‘But I have seen it for myself!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘When I first met him, he kept me on my knees in prayer for two hours!’ Tom’s complaint was so heartfelt, the Lady Donnina laughed.

  ‘You are not used to devotion, Sir Thomas Englishman!’ she smiled.

  ‘My devotion is to you, my lady,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Just tell me the truth,’ she said.

  ‘From everything I have seen of your nephew, I am convinced that the stories of his piety are not exaggerated,’ Tom continued. ‘Nor are the tales of his timidity.’

  ‘Ah! And how have you tested this timidity? Perhaps you have threatened to beat him with a broom?’ There was the ghost of a smile around the lady’s lips.

  Tom smiled too. ‘My lady, to threaten your nephew even with a broom would be more than one’s life is worth. Gian Galeazzo takes care to surround himself at all times with men-at-arms. Even when he prays. And he never leaves his palace without a guard of at least three hundred soldiers. I have heard him say that he lives in such constant fear that he cannot sleep or eat.’

  ‘What or who does he fear?’ asked Donnina de’ Porri.

  Tom looked hard at the lady. It was always difficult to guess how to present unpalatable information to a great person. Punishing the messenger was a notoriously popular sport amongst the tyrants of Lombardy.

  ‘Misguided as he is, Gian Galeazzo lives in mortal fear of his uncle, Bernabò, my lady. He is convinced that your lord wishes him ill. Of course such an idea is preposterous, as we both well know . . .’

  The smile around the mouth of the Lady Donnina de’ Porri seemed to become a little more intense.

  ‘My Lord Bernabò loves his nephew as an uncle should. Rather it is myself and the late and lamented Lady Regina della Scala who have entertained suspicions of Gian Galeazzo. My lord’s late wife was convinced that his pretended holiness was a deception designed to lull my lord into a false sense of security. Perhaps we are too worldly here in Milan. We think every act of piety is a charade. We take every man of God for a hypocrite.’

  Tom raised his eyes to those of Donnina de’ Porri’s. She was smiling, but she did not seem to be joking.

  ‘Your piety is famous throughout Lombardy, my lady. You have endowed many houses for nuns as well as hospitals for the poor.’ He chose his words carefully.

  ‘Bravo! Sir Thomas!’ smiled the Lady Donnina de’ Porri. ‘We shall make an Italian of you yet!’

  Tom bowed. ‘I forgot to offer my condolences on the death of Regina della Scala. It is a tragic event.’

  ‘Indeed. You see how the whole court mourns.’

  It was impossible to say whether the Lady Donnina was being ironic or not.

  ‘I hope she would have felt that I had adequately fulfilled the commission that you both entrusted me with.’

  ‘I am sure the Lady Regina della Scala would have been overjoyed to hear that her suspicions of her nephew were unfounded,’ replied Donnina de’ Porri, though the way she said it, it could have meant the reverse.

  Tom continued: ‘Then perhaps I may ask your ladyship if it is possible to fulfil your side of the bargain?’

  Donnina de’ Porri stopped her maid and dismissed her with a flick of the hand. The maid was gone instantly. No servant ever questioned an order in the court of Bernabò Visconti.

  ‘And what was my side of the bargain?’ she turned towards Tom, and the collar of her robe fell to one side, exposing her shoulder.

  ‘My squire . . . John . . . your ladyship remembers? You promised to release him when I had finished my commission.’ Tom did not dare look away from her.

  ‘But you have not finished, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘You wish me to go back to Pavia?’ Tom’s heart wasn’t in his mouth but it was certainly a good few inches up his gullet. He knew something bad was coming, but he had no idea how bad.

  ‘No,’ said the Lady Donnina de’ Porri, favourite mistress of Bernabò Visconti, the ruthless Lord of Milan. ‘I do not wish you to leave Milan.’

  She stood up and walked across to Tom. ‘I wish you to stay here.’

  And with that she ran her hand over his shaved head.

  Blind panic seized Tom. ‘My lady!’ he whispered, as he struggled to his feet. ‘I know you are devoted to my lord, Bernabò. I feel my presence here may compromise you in some way.’ He nodded towards the door that led into the duke’s chamber, while at the same time he made for the opposite doorway that led to the stairway.

  The Lady Donnina was too quick for him, however. She slipped effortlessly in between him and the exit, and at the same time her hand cupped the back of his neck.

  ‘Oh no, Sir Thomas. Do not go before you have collected at least part of your reward . . .’ and she pulled his face towards her own.

  ‘The only reward I seek is the release of my squire John.’ Tom’s throat had gone dry as a bone in the sun. ‘That will be more than adequate.’

  Tom felt the slight pressure on the back of his neck and his face was brought another inch towards that of the Lady Donnina de’ Porri.

  Even at such close quarters, the Lady Donnina’s beauty was enough to bring a ghost to the table. Her skin shone in the candlelight and, this close up, her eyes became dark lamps, urging the gazer to slip off his robes of common sense and take a dip in those pools of forgetfulness.

  ‘I intend to be as generous to you as I possibly can be, Sir Thomas,’ murmured the Lady Donnina.

  Tom tried to focus on the thought of his squire John – shivering in the black dungeon below at this lady’s command.

  ‘My lady, I fear I am placing you in great danger, to be here in your chamber, when your lord is next door,’ he said.

  ‘My lord is drunk as a pig,’ she whispered. ‘You have no need to fear him.’ And her lips brushed against Tom’s.

  He concentrated every bit of his mind on the image of Squire John, lying amidst the filth and detritus of a cell floor.

  ‘Your ladyship’s generosity is beyond anything I deserve . . .’ he began, but she stopped his mouth with her hand.

  ‘I do not want to hear any more excuses, Sir Thomas. I want you . . .’

  ‘But your ladyship!’ he protested. The lady smiled.

  ‘I want you . . . to tell me what you really found out at my nephew’s court.’ And with that the Lady Donnina clapped her hands and the door of her chamber was flung open, and there stood the last person Tom was expecting to see: his squire John.

  Chapter 30

  Les Gorges de l’Alagnon 1361

  At least Peter de Bury’s band of routiers hadn’t killed him. That was the one bright spot as far as Tom coul
d see. It’s true he was trussed up like a hog for slaughter, and he’d been thrown upside down on a pile of rubbish behind some rocks, but he was still alive. He was in pain where the cords were cutting into his wrists and ankles, but – as far as he could tell – he was definitely alive. Otherwise how could he have felt the bruise on his back where he’d been kicked by the man in the turban? And if he wasn’t alive, surely they wouldn’t have bothered to gag him again. No, he was definitely alive, and that was a plus.

  On the other hand, the outlook in almost every other way wasn’t too bright. As far as Tom could see, he had about as much chance of getting away from this dreadful place as the rubbish onto which he’d been thrown.

  The mercenaries had broken camp and were now milling about in readiness to leave for richer pickings elsewhere. Emily was strangely quiet, and sat there glowering at Peter de Bury and Ann.

  And Ann? What could have happened to her? Why was she going along with all this?

  Had Ann – the real Ann – the old Ann – the true Ann that Tom knew and loved – had she run away to Tartary or the deserts of Arabia? Who was this new person who now twisted her hand into Peter de Bury’s arm, until he brushed her away?

  As Tom lay on his rubbish heap, he could hear Peter de Bury issuing orders and laughing with his men above the noise of the horses’ hooves clattering on the stones and the clanking of arms and armour. Then he heard footsteps.

  At last! Ann had come back! She’d come to release him! Of course she wasn’t going to let him be abandoned to die alone at the bottom of a gorge.

  Her footsteps came round the rock and the next minute Tom felt himself being jerked up and turned round, so that he now lay face up, jackknifed over a rock adjacent to the rubbish heap. To make matters worse he found himself gazing up into the eyes not of Ann but of the scarred but handsome Peter de Bury.

  ‘I suddenly felt sorry for you,’ smiled Peter de Bury. It should have been good news to Tom, but somehow his heart sank to hear it. ‘It’s not very pleasant to be left to die of cold and hunger, so I’ll take pity on you,’ and with that Peter de Bury pulled out his knife.

  Tom struggled and wriggled, trying to speak through his gag.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ said Peter de Bury. ‘Well! Nobody’s going to hear you anyway!’ And he cut the gag away from Tom’s mouth.

  ‘What harm have I ever done to you?’ gasped Tom.

  ‘It’s not what you have done; it’s what you might do,’ smiled Peter de Bury, and he grabbed Tom’s hair, pulling his head round towards him.

  ‘Don’t you care what Ann thinks?’ asked Tom. It was his last card.

  ‘I don’t care what anybody thinks,’ said Peter de Bury. ‘I only care what people do, and if they can do anything to harm me or my men, then I have no choice.’

  Those clear blue eyes pierced Tom’s as keenly as the knife in Peter’s hand would soon be piercing his throat. Tom squirmed, his heart and mind racing each other as if they were both trying to escape in different directions. Then suddenly a familiar voice came from the other side of the rocks.

  ‘Peter!’ shouted Ann. ‘What are you doing?’

  The knife was hovering an inch away from Tom’s throat. Peter quickly moved it down to Tom’s wrists.

  ‘I was just going to cut your friend free,’ Peter de Bury told Ann. ‘But you’re right. It’s probably better not to.’ He put the knife away in its sheath, and strolled across to Ann.

  ‘But you’re not going to leave Tom here?’ said Ann.

  ‘Yes he is!’ yelled Tom.

  ‘Of course not!’ laughed Peter. ‘I’ll tell the guard captain at Lempdes that Tom’s here, and they’ll release him once we’re safely away.’

  ‘Don’t believe him!’ Tom called.

  ‘I just don’t want him following us around and causing trouble. That’s all.’ Peter had put his hands on Ann’s shoulders and was looking into her eyes with such openness and affection that even Doubting Thomas would have had no alternative but to believe him.

  ‘He was going to kill me!’

  That’s what Tom was about to shout, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the way he saw Ann looking at Peter – he simply couldn’t destroy whatever it was that made her look at him like that, even if his life was at stake. It was absurd. But there it was. Tom said nothing, and Peter de Bury and Ann walked back around the rocks and disappeared from Tom’s view.

  But then Ann reappeared and whispered: ‘Don’t worry, Tom. It’ll be all right!’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Ann!’ Tom called back, as casually as if she were off to the shops. He tried not to let her hear the fear in his voice or see the pain that his current position was causing him, as he struggled to turn himself over so that at least his back wasn’t breaking, but it was harder to do than he imagined.

  At the same time he could now hear Peter de Bury shouting to his men, and the sound of horses impatient to be off. A few moments later he heard the splashing of waters as the troop crossed the river and set off down the gorge.

  Then all was still. Tom was left alone in that desolate spot with the certain knowledge that no one was going to help him. No matter what Peter de Bury told Ann, Tom knew he had been left there to die of cold, dehydration or starvation – whichever got to him first. Or perhaps it would be the wolves.

  Tom wriggled and struggled and with a great effort managed to turn himself round. But the moment he did he almost regretted it, for in the new position he found that his nose was buried in the rubbish.

  ‘Urgh!’ he exclaimed. ‘What on earth have these characters been eating?!’

  With a bit more struggling he managed to get his nose out of the foul-smelling garbage, and the next minute he was rolling away from the heap and onto the stony riverbank.

  Once again, he wasn’t sure that this new situation was any better than the last, since the riverbank had been thoughtfully furnished with a lot of sharp stones that cut into his back and side. Nevertheless he set about trying to loose himself from his bonds. He was reasonably certain he could, and yet every time he tried, he found the cords cutting deeper into his flesh. It was almost as if they had been designed to do so.

  After several hours, Tom found every little movement had become a cross of fiery agony. His wrists were bleeding and whenever he tried to twist into a new position the pain got the better of him. Eventually he just lay there, stymied and exhausted. It was then that he was hit by a tidal wave of despair and (he was surprised to discover) humiliation.

  The sun had begun to set, and Tom was just resigning himself to a cold night in the open with only the company of wolves to keep his mind off being eaten alive, when he heard horse’s hooves coming up the road and then crossing the shallow river.

  Had Peter come back to secretly finish him off? He tried to twist round, shouted out with the pain of moving and collapsed back into the position he started in. He heard someone dismount, and the next moment he was seized by the shoulders. With the strength of sudden panic, he wrenched himself round and, for the second time that day, found himself looking into the eyes of the Frenchman in the mail coat.

  ‘You must not die,’ said the Frenchman, and he cut the cords that bound Tom.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tom, hardly daring to believe his luck. In fact he half thought that he must have slumped into an exhausted sleep, and this rescue was simply a dream. ‘Thank you,’ he said again.

  ‘You have to get the Pope’s message back to my people in Compertrix in Champagne,’ said the Frenchman. ‘They are waiting for you.’

  Tom wanted to say: ‘The Pope cares nothing for your people. All he cares about is the money in his coffers and the power in his hands. Don’t hope for any mercy from that man, even if he were to deign to give an answer to you . . .’

  But Tom bit his lip. What use would it do to tell the man the truth? Let him believe this little bit of hope in this seemingly hopeless world.

  ‘Here,’ said the man. ‘I found you this.’ They were standing in the rema
ins of the bandits’ camp, and the Frenchman was thrusting the reins of a horse into Tom’s hands. ‘The owner had no more use for it,’ he said, and he passed his hand over his throat. Then, without another word, he jumped onto his own horse and rode off into the gathering dusk.

  Tom turned to look at the horse. It was the first time he had actually owned one of his own . . . if you could call it ‘owning’ something when it had come to you via an act of murder. Nevertheless he instantly loved this horse. It was young and fiery but it had an intelligence in its eyes that made Tom feel that he would be able to communicate with it, and a wave of optimism surged through him.

  ‘I’ll call you Bucephalus,’ Tom told the horse, and patted its neck.

  The next moment he vaulted into the saddle and turned his new mount to face the way the routiers had gone.

  ‘Well!’ he explained to his horse. ‘You don’t think I’d leave Emily and Ann in the clutches of a bunch of villains like them!’

  And with that he kicked Bucephalus’s sides gently and the horse obediently broke into a trot, as Tom set off in pursuit of his erstwhile tormentors.

  Chapter 31

  The Wolf’s Leap 1361

  Tom spent that night in a hay-barn outside the town of Lempdes. He gathered the hay around him and was so warm and exhausted that he didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky. He could hear people moving around outside the barn; they had discovered Bucephalus, and were discussing what a fully-fitted war horse was doing tethered to a post outside their barn.

  Some said that with another couple of neighbours they would be able to seize the man-at-arms was who must be hiding in the barn. Others said it would be safer to bolt the doors and burn the place down. It was at this point that Tom stuck his head out of the door and steered the conversation round to less belligerent tactics.

  By the time he left, he and the farmers had become bosom friends, and both he and Bucephalus had eaten enough breakfast to last them to the end of the month.

  But Tom was anxious to be off. He had no idea how far ahead Peter de Bury and his men had got, but they now had over a day and a half’s start on him, and he reckoned that even if he rode flat out for the rest of the day and tomorrow, he probably wouldn’t catch up with them until the day after. And goodness knows what might have happened to Emily and Ann in that time.