by Terry Jones
‘Right,’ agreed Tom. ‘So let’s keep our eyes peeled for things that aren’t goats . . .’
‘Ahhhhhh!!!’ cried Emily, pointing again at the horizon.
‘Or sheep,’ added Tom.
‘Can you use a sword?’ asked Emily. It was not the sort of question the Lady Whom He Loved and Served usually asked her knight errant, but then the whole conversation was not really typical of the romances.
‘Well . . . er . . . I’ve practised, and . . .’ Tom began, but the words tripped over his teeth and fell onto the stony ground where, as it happened, Tom’s eyes were already focused. There lay something that he’d hoped he wouldn’t see, and yet it was what he was looking for.
‘It’s hers,’ breathed Emily.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Look at it . . . it’s from her tunic – blue – see?’
Emily picked up the cloth-covered button and held it out for Tom’s inspection. There was no doubt in his mind. And if only a little round button could speak or point, instead of lying there mute and still in the palm of Emily’s hand, it could have told them which way Ann had taken . . . or – more likely perhaps – which way had she been taken . . .
‘I think it took her off in that direction,’ whispered Emily, pointing towards the hill.
‘What did?’ asked Tom.
‘The Beast!’ said Emily.
‘We don’t know for certain it was the Beast – or even that she was carried off!’ exclaimed Tom.
‘Well it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ muttered Emily. ‘I mean she didn’t get to town, she’s lost a button and she’s disappeared.’
‘But . . . her button could have just come loose . . .’ said Tom hopelessly. ‘Maybe she was hot and undid her tunic or . . .’
He was aware that Emily was looking at him sceptically. ‘Anyway, what makes you think she went in that direction?’
Emily shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Female intuition maybe?’
Tom felt another surge of irrational irritation. ‘But it could have been any direction!’
‘That’s true,’ said Emily.
‘So it hardly helps having “female intuition”!’ said Tom.
‘Well, which direction do you suggest we go then, Solomon?’
‘Er . . . well . . .’ Tom looked around for quite a considerable while.
‘No male intuition?’ asked Emily.
And in truth Tom didn’t have any opinion about which way they should go. Eventually he shrugged. ‘I suppose that direction’s as good as any,’ he mumbled rather ungraciously, and they set off in the direction that Emily’s intuition took them.
They climbed an escarpment and found themselves on the flat-topped hill they had tried to climb the previous evening. Even though it was now broad daylight, the place had taken on an even more sinister aspect. To their left a forest crept nervously up the side of the mountain. The thistles and high grass petered out before they reached the top. It seemed as if all living things were shunning that spot on God’s earth for some reason that could only be guessed at.
Suddenly Emily clutched Tom’s arm again and pointed. This time she did not cry out.
‘Emily,’ said Tom. ‘Are you going to grab my arm every time you see a sheep?’
‘It’s not a sheep, Tom,’ whispered Emily.
‘Of course it’s a sh . . .’
The word died on Tom’s lips.
‘Look! It’s miles away!’ whispered Emily. Indeed, Tom was looking, and he could see that what he had thought was a small creature a few hundred yards away was in fact much further away and therefore much larger. That was the point.
Whatever it was, it was moving fast from rock to rock, with a sort of swooping, loping motion quite unlike any animal Tom had ever seen.
‘The Beast . . .’ breathed Emily.
Without a word, she and Tom flung themselves behind a boulder, and then peered round to see where it was heading. At least the creature was not coming in their direction, but that was hardly any comfort, seeing how fast it seemed to be travelling. A moment later, it disappeared behind a rocky outcrop. Emily and Tom took to their heels and ran as fast as those heels could carry them towards the only shelter they could see: the forest.
There they lay with their hearts beating like masons’ hammers. Finally Tom poked his head above the undergrowth and looked through the trees towards the slopes where they had seen the creature. But he could see nothing.
‘It probably wasn’t the Beast,’ whispered Tom – more for his own comfort than for Emily’s. ‘Maybe it was a farmer’s dog.’
‘But you saw the size of it!’
‘Perhaps it was closer than we thought. You can never be sure about these things.’
‘Tom,’ said Emily, looking him straight in the eyes, ‘whatever that thing was, it made the hair on the back of my neck stick up on end.’
Tom didn’t argue the toss. The hair on his neck had done the same thing.
‘Shall we just leg it back to town?’ Tom whispered. ‘Or keep out of sight?’
‘Let’s run for it,’ breathed Emily. ‘The Beast would smell us out if we hid. Town’s the only place we’ll be safe.’
But Tom didn’t reply. He was looking at a tree branch that overhung the path through the wood. Something was hanging from it. And suddenly all thoughts of the Beast evacuated his mind, as he strode across to it. He knew what it was, even before he was able to recognise it, and when he pulled it off the tree he saw that it was stained with something dark. If this was indeed Ann’s hood, he knew that the dark stain must be Ann’s blood.
‘The Beast must have dragged her to its lair,’ said Emily, pointing to where the bracken had been broken down. ‘She must have put up a terrific struggle.’
‘You can see the trail,’ whispered Tom, and he was off, following the line of broken bracken that led into the heart of the forest.
Deeper and deeper they went, and as the forest grew darker and grimmer, so the doubts began to crowd in on Tom’s mind. What use could he and Emily be? If the Beast really had taken Ann, all they could do was to view her mangled remains, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough for that.
‘She may be still alive,’ said Emily. It was almost as if she was listening to the same doubts.
They’d seen the Beast in the distance. Sooner or later it would return to its lair, and – if that was where they were heading – what then?
The trail led them into a clearing. There they scrambled across some rocky ground to find themselves confronted by a cave. If Tom had tried to imagine what a Beast’s lair would be like, this would have been it.
Emily swallowed. Tom swallowed. They stood still and listened. The forest swallowed . . . or it felt like that. Then they could hear nothing save a soft rustling of the trees, as if the leaves were murmuring amongst themselves about the foolishness of these two young people, who voluntarily approached so close to the abode of the Beast of Gévaudan.
But if either Emily or Tom had felt at that moment like turning tail and running back the way they’d come, the sight of a shoe lying in the entrance to the Beast’s lair wiped all such thoughts from their minds.
They peered into the darkness of the cave, but it was impenetrable. They listened but could hear nothing coming from within . . . Tom looked at Emily. Emily looked at Tom and shrugged. It was a small gesture but Tom knew what it meant. It meant: ‘Well . . . we’ve come this far. Maybe we’re going to get eaten by the Beast. Maybe we’re not. But we’ve got to finish what we came for. We’ve got to find her . . . or what’s left of her.’
Suddenly Tom found himself shouting in a whisper: ‘Ann!’ – as if he were afraid to disturb the Beast or whatever else dwelled in that darkness. But Emily had no such compunctions.
‘ANN!’ she screamed at the top of her voice.
Tom glanced around, as if expecting the Beast to leap out at them there and then, tearing at their throats and ripping with its claws. But nothing happened. Emily’s cry echoed from within
the cave . . . but it was just an echo. The Beast did not respond, but then neither did Ann. All was silent again, save for the rustling of the forest trees: ‘Tss! Tss! What a foolish pair!’
Tom felt the knight in shining armour within him rear his head above the parapet.
‘I’m going to run in there and take a quick look around,’ he said. ‘If anything happens to me, promise you’ll run straight back to town. Don’t try and help me.’ Tom had been holding his unsheathed sword for some time now, but he suddenly became aware of it for the first time.
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Emily.
Tom opened his mouth. But whatever it was he was going to say never came out, and the knight in shining armour ducked back behind the parapet.
‘I didn’t think you wouldn’t,’ said Tom.
Emily shrugged: ‘There’s no point in being cautious. Let’s just do it as fast as we can.’
And with that Emily plunged into the dark interior . . .
Tom put down Emily’s clothes, and for a few moments rummaged around in the bundle before finally producing a tinderbox and a tiny stub of candle that he had managed to keep. Then he heaved a sigh and followed.
Chapter 15
Le Truc du Midi 1361
The air in the cave was fetid as Tom followed Emily into the gloomy interior, and there were bones on the stony floor.
‘Ohhhh!’ said Emily and Tom at the same time. Their knees went slightly weak – also at the same time. It seemed like the natural reaction.
‘That must be where it sleeps,’ whispered Emily. She was pointing to a hollow depression in the ground that was strewn with rags and sacking.
Tom found himself kicking some bones apart and wondering if they were Ann’s.
‘This is pointless,’ he muttered. ‘She’s not here. Or if she is – there’s not much of her left by now . . .’
Gradually their eyes were getting used to the gloom. It was then that Tom saw it on the floor. His heart missed a beat, and he put his hand onto a rock to steady himself. Then he bent down and picked it up.
‘Emily!’ he whispered.
Emily turned to see Tom holding out Ann’s other shoe.
‘She’s here!’ whispered Tom. ‘She’s in the cave. Somewhere . . .’
‘Maybe we should look through there,’ said Emily without enthusiasm. Tom could make out a hole no more than two feet high in the back wall of the cave, and he could see why Emily didn’t relish the idea of going through it. But that was exactly what Emily was doing.
‘Wait!’ said Tom, and he pulled out his tinderbox and began the business of making fire.
‘We haven’t time for that!’ whispered Emily. ‘The Beast may come back at any moment!’
‘There’s no point in going any further into the cave if we can’t see,’ Tom pointed out quite reasonably, as he positioned a small piece of charred rope close to the steel.
‘Well, hurry up!’ said Emily. Tom was already striking bright sparks off the steel with his flint. He used short, sharp strokes and the sparks began to jump across onto the char.
‘Hurry!’ hissed Emily.
Tom actually reckoned himself as a pretty proficient fire-maker. Sometimes, of course, it took longer than others, and this looked like it was going to be one of those longer times – or perhaps it was simply the fear that made every second they delayed in the Beast’s cave seem like an hour.
For minute after minute, Tom kept striking the flint on the steel and the sparks flew across without catching the char . . . but eventually one did, and then another, and the next minute Tom was blowing the end into a red ember.
‘Right! Now light the candle!’ cried Emily.
‘It won’t light from that,’ said Tom. ‘Haven’t you ever you done this?’
‘Of course not! My maid does that sort of thing!’
‘Well, then stop telling me what to do.’
‘Just hurry!’
Tom kept blowing the red ember until he was satisfied with it, and then he applied it to the dried leaves in his tinderbox.
‘Oh come on! The Beast’s coming! I know it is!’ moaned Emily. ‘Do you really have to do all that?’
The tinder finally burst into flame, and Tom was able to light the candle stub. He then smothered the flaming tinder.
The whole process must have taken five minutes or so, and all that time Emily had been hopping about from one foot to the other. Now they both bent down to inspect the hole. By the light of the candle they could see a tunnel running several yards through the rock and then beyond that there was just blackness again.
‘Well, let’s go!’ said Tom. Once in the narrow tunnel, a strong current of air threatened to extinguish his candle, and Tom had to crawl forwards on his elbows, holding the light in front of him with one hand, the other cupped around the fragile flame to prevent the wind extinguishing it. It was an awkward, slow process, and he hadn’t gone many yards before he felt a hand grabbing his ankle.
‘What is it?’ he yelled. But there was no reply. Just another tug at his foot. ‘Emily? Are you all right?’ But still there was no reply.
Tom reached the end of the tunnel, and found himself in a larger chamber than the first. He was still trying to make out the dimensions of the new cave by the feeble light of the candle when Emily emerged. She was speechless and white as a sheet.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Sh!’ said Emily, and she beckoned Tom back to the opening of the tunnel. ‘Listen!’ she managed to whisper.
And Tom knelt, and heard the wind whining through the narrow passageway. Then he heard a crash! Then another. Then what sounded like claws on rock. And then – very faintly – the heavy breathing of a large creature – a large creature returning to its lair . . .
‘The Beast!’ whispered Emily.
Tom instinctively shaded the light of his candle.
‘What do we do?’ hissed Emily.
But before Tom could think of a halfway reasonable reply, something else made both of them spin around so fast the candle almost went out altogether.
‘Ann?’ whispered Tom, and the next second he was running towards a pile of rubble, from the other side of which he could hear muffled groans.
‘It’s coming!’ cried Emily, who was now peering down the tunnel. ‘The Beast! It’s coming through!’
‘It’s us! Ann! It’s us!’ cried Tom as he tripped over an inconsiderately positioned rock. The candle flew out of his hand and was extinguished as he fell heavily onto the ground.
In the silence that followed, the only thing they could hear was the shuffling and grunting of the Beast as it forced its way towards them through the narrow passage. Emily screamed. Tom screamed in sympathy and began scrabbling around in the pitch black, trying to find the tiny stub of candle.
Emily kept screaming. Maybe she was trying to drown out the sound of the approaching creature as it reached the end of the tunnel. The shuffling and the grunting had stopped. The creature must have emerged from the hole, and must now have been standing waiting for its eyes to get used to the dark. Any moment now, they knew, it would leap through the blackness and be upon them.
At this moment, however, by sheer luck Tom found his hand upon the candle stub. The next second he was striking sparks onto his char – desperately hoping to make the quickest fire in the history of fire-making. Fortunately the tinder was still warm, and it exploded into flame, lighting up the cave.
In the same instant, he saw Ann lying in a corner bound and gagged. Emily screamed again and this time her scream was accompanied by a strange guttural growl. Tom span round to see the Beast leap upon Emily . . . except that it wasn’t the Beast. It was a man.
Chapter 16
Pavia 1385
‘I know you have been sent as a spy, Sir Thomas Englishman.’
The words, though spoken quietly and calmly, sent a shudder through Tom’s frame. His head swam slightly and even though his blood had more or less frozen in his veins, he broke out in a sweat.
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Tom was sitting in the library of Gian Galeazzo, in the corner tower of the castello of Pavia that overlooked the park. He had decided to try and catalogue the books, but was fast coming to the conclusion that the task was a bit beyond him.
The library contained books by Frenchmen, by Germans, by Bohemians, by Englishmen, by Castilians, by Aragonese and Flemish writers, by Poles, by Hungarians and, of course, by Italians. Yet they were all as readable as each other because they were all written in the same language. And Sir Thomas English, with his facility for languages, had been able to read Latin ever since the priest in his home village back in England had taught him the language of the Church.
So here he was in the great Lord of Pavia’s library, making a note of as many of the books as he could. He had thought of listing them in different categories: poetry, geography, philosophy, devotion, Bibles and so on. He’d never heard of such an arrangement, but it suddenly seemed a good way of helping you find your way around a large number of books such as this.
The only trouble was that the books of those days were not so easily categorised. A single volume would often cover many different subjects, and each book was more often like a collection of different books, rather than being devoted to a single subject.
Nor was it possible to categorise the books under their authors, since writers tended not to put their names to their works. In the past they never did, and it was only in the case of a great man, like Thomas Aquinas, that one would be in the slightest aware of who the author was. But that was changing, for the modern writers, like Dante Alighieri, Francesco Petrarca and Giovanni Boccaccio, were for the first time signing their names to their own works. These writers had become notable men, celebrated figures . . . heroes, in fact.
But the majority of the books were old and anonymous, so Tom decided the best thing he could do was simply make a list of them, giving the volumes names if they didn’t already have them, and then, at a later date, he could decide what sort of order to put them into.
He must have been working away for most of the morning and a large part of the afternoon . . . certainly he had no idea of what hour the day had reached. The sun, which had been slanting in at the window behind him when he started, would soon be struggling in with its evening rays through the window opposite.