The Tyrant and the Squire

by Terry Jones

  ‘It’s not what you think!’ said Tom, groaning inwardly at the thought of having to explain the situation all over again. Mercifully he was spared the bother, as Rudolpho, at that precise moment, punched him in the stomach.

  Tom doubled up as Rudolpho span round and glared at Filippa – as well as it is possible to glare in darkness.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he hissed.

  ‘It’s not what you think!’ exclaimed Filippa.

  ‘It’s not her fault!’ Even in this extremity, Tom felt he ought to put the record straight. ‘She thought I was you . . .’ But he might as well have saved his breath, for Rudolpho was not, apparently, in the right mood for listening. Kicking someone or punching them, yes, but certainly not listening to them. What Rudolpho really wanted to do was to hit Tom over the head with the first thing that came to hand. It happened to be the chamber pot.

  ‘Not the pot!’ cried Filippa, who was nothing if not house-proud, though inclined to postpone emptying out the night soil for days on end. But it was too late – the contents of the pot had already been generously distributed around the room.

  ‘Ow!’ exclaimed Tom, momentarily forgetting the need for silence.

  ‘Sh!’ cried Filippa, following suit.

  ‘Fiend!’ screamed Rudolpho, throwing all caution to the wind, as well as the chamber pot, and at the same time getting a stranglehold on Tom’s neck.

  Now Tom had nothing personally against Rudolpho, apart from his knee, but during their short acquaintance he’d not been over-impressed with the fellow’s ability to see the best in human nature. And, indeed, if you could have looked into Rudolpho’s brain at that precise moment, it’s doubtful whether you could have told whether he thought he was wringing Tom’s neck or his lover’s . . . to be honest, either would have done.

  Tom, for the third or even fourth time that night, suddenly found himself struggling to breathe, and he felt a darkness coming down behind his eyes, as he desperately struggled to free his windpipe from the demonic grip of the enraged Rudolpho.

  But it was no use . . . Rudolpho’s hands tightened, and although Filippa cried and tried to pull Rudolpho away, the man seemed possessed with an almost supernatural energy, until suddenly it all changed. Tom realised he could breathe again.

  He opened his eyes to discover that an even more enraged figure had just hurtled through the door. The newcomer was holding a candle and by its light Tom could see his assailant for the first time. He was a handsome enough fellow, even though his face was contorted in rage. Tom could also see Filippa for the first time, and he was surprised to see how plain she was, considering she had two men fighting over her affections, for the bringer of the light, Tom had no doubt, was Filippa’s husband.

  The good gentleman had been harbouring suspicions about his wife’s behaviour for some time, and it was not exactly a surprise to now enter her room and find that his suspicions were fully justified. What he had not bargained for, however, was to find her entertaining not one but two lovers. The effect on his already disturbed mind was terrifying.

  He leapt onto the nearest lover, who happened to be Rudolpho, and proceeded to vent the pain and anger that had built up through the years on the skull of that unhappy man.

  Filippa screamed, Rudolpho roared, and Tom leapt out of the window.

  Plain as she was, he would have liked to have said goodbye to the lady and to apologise once again for intruding, but he decided that this was not the best moment.

  And so it was that Tom landed in the street, struggled into his doublet and shoes and ran as fast as he could, just a second before the nightwatch appeared around the corner.

  Chapter 22

  Saint-Flour 1361

  As Tom, Ann and Emily made their laborious way towards Sir Robert Knolles’ army, Tom found himself struggling with a confusion of feelings.

  On the one hand he was feeling optimistic about the future. Emily had promised to have a word with her brother, Guillaume de Valois, as soon as they’d rescued him from his prison in England.

  ‘He’ll make you his squire – no doubt about it!’ said Emily. ‘If we rescue him, he’ll probably knight you into the bargain – just like that!’

  And yet there was something else that acted as an undertow to this promise of a future tidal wave of happiness. But whatever that undertow was, Tom didn’t want to examine it too closely just now. For the moment it was enough that Emily was happy and being unusually gracious in her dealings with him.

  What’s more the pair of them had found a joint project, which seemed to bring them closer with every mile they travelled . . . and it was all the doing of the good folk of Marvejols . . .

  The townsfolk had been so grateful for their release from the Beast of Gévaudan that they had given Tom, Emily and Ann a present each. Emily was given a new dress, which she said made her look like a peasant and refused to wear. Ann – or rather Alan – was given the very crossbow with which she had shot down the Beast. And Tom was given a citole.

  ‘Well, it’s very nice of them,’ said Tom to Ann as they were making their way out of Marvejols, with the cheering citizens seeing them off, ‘but I haven’t a clue what to do with it.’

  ‘Well, it’s no good looking at me,’ replied Ann. ‘I’m tone-deaf.’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Emily. And she took the musical instrument out of Tom’s hands and started tuning it as they walked along.

  Some time later, Ann and Tom were intrigued to hear genuinely melodious sounds coming from their companion. They turned to see Emily playing the citole as she strolled along, looking for all the world like an angel who had just dropped down from heaven. Well, at least that’s what Tom thought.

  ‘I never knew you could play!’ exclaimed Tom, when she’d caught them up.

  ‘Every young lady plays a citole nowadays,’ said Emily. It was, apparently, a well-known fact.

  ‘Is that what this is?’ asked Tom, taking the instrument back from Emily. It was the shape of a fiddle only smaller, and instead of being played with a bow, Emily had been strumming the strings with a quill that had been tucked through the strings.

  ‘It’s considered the most suitable thing for young ladies,’ said Emily. ‘I’ll teach you to play, if you like.’

  ‘Except I’m not a young lady,’ pointed out Tom.

  ‘It’s not only young ladies who play it,’ she replied. ‘Anyone can play it. I’ll show you as we walk along.’

  And that was how they covered many miles of France, with Ann hurrying on ahead and Emily and Tom dawdling behind, as Emily taught Tom the notes and chords of the citole.

  Tom had always been a quick learner, and pretty soon, Emily was teaching him tunes and songs that she had learned. And by the time they reached the town of Saint-Flour, Tom was able to play and sing: ‘Lady Do Not Look at Me’, and ‘So Sweetly My Senses Are Imprisoned’.

  ‘They are both composed by Guillaume de Machaut,’ said Emily. ‘He is our greatest songwriter in France.’

  As far as Tom was concerned Guillaume de Machaut was the greatest songwriter in the world. His songs so closely expressed what Tom was feeling. Or was it the other way round? Perhaps it was the songs that were suggesting Tom’s current emotional state? Maybe the love-longing of the songs was like a contagious illness and Tom had contracted it.

  Certainly, whenever Emily touched his fingers to show him the right string or help him to the right fret, he felt as hot as if he had a fever.

  Ann was waiting for them on the bridge.

  The town of Saint-Flour was perched above the river Ander on a steep promontory. It was surrounded by a fine city wall and had a look of impregnability that was only partly diminished by the fact that the town had spilled over the wall and down onto the banks of the river.

  These suburbs were draped around the hillside like the necklace around Emily’s neck, thought Tom, who was still feeling poetic as a result of the his exposure to Guillaume de Machaut. This suburb was ringed by its own wall, which ran along
the edge of the river, and yet there were more buildings on the other side of the water which remained unprotected, and most curiously of all, there was an odd little house on the bridge itself.

  Ann was sitting on the parapet of the bridge with her back against the little house.

  ‘What have you two been up to?’ she asked.

  ‘Emily has been teaching me some songs,’ said Tom guiltily – although why he should feel guilty he had no idea.

  ‘He learns quickly,’ said Emily the Great Teacher. ‘Play “So Sweetly My Senses”, Tom.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can remember it all.’

  ‘Just play what you can,’ said Emily.

  ‘I’d like to hear it,’ said Ann.

  So Tom lifted the citole into the playing position, fumbled for the right chords for a moment, and then sang:

  ‘So sweetly my senses are imprisoned

  When love holds me in such a sweet prison.

  I never want to be released

  So sweetly my senses are imprisoned.’

  There was a short silence after he finished, and then an almost inaudible voice murmured: ‘That was beautiful.’

  For a moment, Emily and Ann each imagined they had simply heard their own thoughts, so soft and intangible was the voice – indeed it was hardly a voice, more the shadow of a voice.

  ‘Did you say something?’ whispered Ann, but Emily shook her head.

  ‘Hello?’ said Tom. ‘Is someone there?’

  But there was no one to be seen and there was no reply.

  ‘That’s weird,’ said Ann. ‘I could swear I heard someone say, “that was beautiful” – which, by the way, it was, Tom. How did you learn that so quickly?’

  ‘He’s naturally very musical,’ said Emily, as if it were all her doing.

  ‘Sh!’ said Tom. ‘Listen.’

  The three of them held their breaths and listened . . . and then they could hear it . . . so faint it might not really exist . . . but there it was . . . the ghost of a sound of someone sobbing.

  ‘It’s coming from inside,’ whispered Ann, who had her ear up against the wall of the little house on the bridge.

  ‘It can’t be!’ whispered Emily.

  ‘Listen,’ said Ann. And they all put their ears to the wall of the little house in the middle of the bridge, and they too heard, coming from within, the faint sound of a girl sobbing.

  ‘How could there be anyone in there?’ whispered Tom, for the little house in the middle of the bridge of Saint-Flour over the river Ander was no more than a couple of metres square. Moreover, it had neither door nor window.

  ‘Hello?’ Ann called into a small slit that was the only opening in the wall. But the only reply was silence. The sobbing had stopped.

  ‘Is there anyone there?’

  The silence hung there for some moments until eventually the shadow of a voice said: ‘I am sorry. I should not cry.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Ann.

  There was a slight pause . . . as if whoever it was was a little taken aback by the question.

  Then came the reply: ‘I am the Maid of the Bridge, of course.’

  ‘We are strangers,’ said Tom. ‘We have only just arrived.’

  ‘What are you doing in there?’ this was Emily joining in.

  ‘I am the Maid of the Bridge,’ was the only reply.

  ‘But how do you get in and out?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I don’t.’

  Tom began to feel he wasn’t really following this conversation at all.

  ‘You don’t go in and out?’ asked Ann. ‘What do you mean?’

  There was silence, in which they could hear the girl inside the little house shifting. ‘What are you talking about?’ repeated Ann.

  ‘I am supposed to stay here,’ said the invisible girl.

  ‘Have you done something wrong?’ asked Emily.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you in there?’

  Again there was a silence, as if the girl were trying to decide whether to answer such an obvious question.

  ‘I am the guardian of the bridge.’

  ‘The guardian of the bridge!’ Tom couldn’t help exclaiming. He wanted to go on to say: ‘You’re stuck in that box! How can you guard anything!’ But somehow he felt it was not quite the right thing to say under the circumstances.

  So it was Emily who said it: ‘But you’re stuck in that box!’ she exclaimed. ‘How can you guard anything?’

  ‘I pray,’ said the Maid of the Bridge.

  ‘You pray?’ asked Ann.

  ‘That is my job,’ said the Maid of the Bridge. ‘They say that as long as I am here, praying, the bridge will be safe. The English will never destroy it or sack the town of Saint-Flour.’

  ‘But when do they let you out?’ asked Tom.

  There was yet another silence. Then the voice came again only even quieter, so that it was hardly there at all: ‘I volunteered with the rest. They chose me to be the Maid of the Bridge out of all the other girls in the town,’ said the Maid of the Bridge. ‘I have endured four months since they walled me in . . .’

  ‘They walled you in?’ Tom’s voice was almost hoarse.

  ‘Yes. Of course. It is a sacrifice.’

  ‘You mean they’ll never let you out?’

  ‘I am near the church of St Christine. I can hear the services.’

  The three friends went quiet – partly because none of them could think what to say, and partly because a little old man was shuffling across the bridge towards them. He looked at them hostilely – as if they were intruding on his private bridge.

  ‘Good day to you,’ said Tom.

  The old man glared and mumbled ‘good day’ back at them before shuffling up towards the little house. He put his mouth to the slit in the wall and whispered:

  ‘Giovanna!’

  At the same time he produced a slice of bread from under his cloak. He poked it through the slit, and the friends watched as it was taken in by the anchoress.

  ‘Thank you, Iacobus,’ said the Maid of the Bridge.

  ‘I wish I had more to give,’ said the old man.

  ‘May heaven bless your kindness.’

  The old man looked round at Tom, Ann and Emily, and Tom once again felt they should not be there, especially as the old man kept on looking at them.

  Tom glanced at Ann and Ann glanced at Emily and Emily glanced at Tom, and then, as if on a prearranged signal, the three of them turned and started walking away from the little house on the bridge into the faubourg of the town of Saint-Flour.

  But before they got out of earshot they just heard the old man whispering: ‘Giovanna! Will you bless my knee – it has been hurting again . . .’

  They could not really hear her reply, but each would have sworn that the words that drifted over the bridge in the evening air were: ‘Iacobus! Tell my mother I dreamed of her . . .’

  Chapter 23

  Saint-Flour 1361

  ‘We sacked Auxerre last year,’ said the soldier. Tom and Ann were sitting under the vines drinking wine and eating pieces of preserved duck. The soldier was an Englishman who looked as if he had been created specifically to make barrels out of. His head alone was the size of a firkin and seemed to come straight out of his shoulders without a neck. His chest was a good hogshead and his thighs were kilderkins.

  He also seemed to have personally taken over the function of a barrel, and had spent the best part of the evening filling himself up with gallon after gallon of wine and beer.

  ‘The main army’s still there, but some of us have come further south. Rich pickings down here they say.’

  Ann had found the previous conversation a trifle tedious. It had mainly concerned the various ways in which an Englishman of a certain barrelage could mistreat Frenchmen. But her ears pricked up at this last observation.

  Tom, meanwhile, was dreading having to eat while listening to yet more accounts of what you can do with livers, spleens, bowels and kidneys once they’ve been surgically removed
on the battlefield. But he was absolved from such punishment by Ann interrupting in her best Squire Alan voice:

  ‘Who led the English into Auxerre?’

  ‘That rogue Bob Knolles!’ grinned the human butt. ‘God save him! He’s downed more Frenchies than I’ve downed cups of wine!’

  It seemed such an unlikely claim to Tom that he was about to question it, when the Englishman went on:

  ‘Here’s to the rogue!’

  The Englishman raised his tumbler to his lips just to show how well he did his sort of downing.

  But Ann was frowning. ‘Sir Robert Knolles has not returned to Brittany then?’ she asked.

  The Englishman shook his head. ‘I should think not! He’s doing all right where he is for now,’ he grinned. ‘But some of us have come further south. You’ll meet Bob Knolles’ Englishmen all the way from here to Auxerre. Good luck to ’em!’

  Ann’s face seemed to light up with this news. ‘There are members of his army even as far south as here?’ she asked.

  ‘Look at me! I’m one of ’em – though it’s only a few of us come this far.’ He nodded over to the other table, where a ragged group of Englishmen were currently slumped over their cups of wine in a state of possibly terminal intoxication.

  Tom watched Ann look the men over eagerly, and then turn away. The barrel-man dropped his voice: ‘We’re just scouting this place now, you see. Should make a pretty penny out of Saint-Flour.’

  ‘What’ll you do?’ asked Tom. The Englishman looked at Tom as if he had just fallen out of heaven. Then he threw back his head and – well, I suppose he laughed, but it sounded more like the bubbling of lava in a volcano.

  ‘What’ll we do? Why! We don’t attack the town! That’s what we’ll do!’

  Tom kicked himself. Of course, that’s how most freebooters made their money. A big enough army could charge whatever it liked in return for the favour of not burning somewhere to the ground.

  At that moment, however, Tom forgot all about the economics of mercenary armies, for Emily had appeared, looking like the sun in splendour.

  ‘How does she do it?’ wondered Tom. ‘We walk for mile after mile along the dusty roads and she disappears for a couple of hours and reappears looking as if she were hosting a banquet for the king!’