by Terry Jones
The English barrel-man gave a low whistle.
‘Now there’s some pretty plumage and no mistake,’ he muttered. ‘She’d be worth a penny or two for the plucking.’
He was suddenly looking around the other tables, craning what would have been his neck if he’d had one, in order to see better.
‘A princess like that must have a fair-sized escort with her, but I don’t see none.’ There was a rising excitement in his voice. ‘Now listen, here, my fine friends, we can line our pockets tonight if you stick with me . . . let’s see who this elegant lady is with . . .’
It was at that moment that Emily reached their table and sat down.
‘You started without me!’ she pointed out.
She looked so beautiful that Tom could neither speak nor think for a few moments. But Ann could.
‘Emily!’ she snorted. ‘You can’t expect us to wait around forever while you dress up in that fancy costume as if you were a lady!’
‘Where is my food?’ asked Emily, going straight to the point.
The English soldier, meanwhile, was looking from Emily to Tom to Ann. Tom knew exactly what was going through the man’s mind. Perhaps if the fellow had poured slightly less wine into his barrel chest, his thoughts would have been slightly less transparent. As it was Tom could almost hear the gold coins already jingling in the man’s head.
‘You’re too late to eat!’ It was Squire Alan speaking. ‘We’ve got to report at the guardhouse, remember? Sir William and his men are expecting us before sunset.’
‘What are you talki—’ began Emily, but Tom cut her off.
‘You’re right!’ he exclaimed, having suddenly realised that Ann was reading the English soldier’s mind in exactly the same way as he was. ‘There are thirty men-at-arms waiting for us – and we’re sitting here stuffing our faces!’
‘You may have been stuffing your faces, but mine has not been stuffed for some time,’ replied Emily. ‘And I intend to stuff it now.’ Whenever Emily was hungry she had no time for the subtleties of conversation.
‘I’m having the goose,’ she announced.
‘No . . . you’re not! You’re coming with us to find your escort!’
Tom and Squire Alan both had a hand under Emily’s arms and were trying to lift her off her seat.
‘Wait up there!’ The English soldier had leaned across and grabbed Emily’s wrist. ‘It seems to me like this fine lady don’t want to go nowhere,’ he said.
‘Take your filthy hand off me! You oaf!’
Emily was finally beginning to come round into the conversational frame.
‘That’s why we’ve got to go,’ hissed Ann in Emily’s ear. ‘He means trouble!’
‘Now seems to me you wouldn’t be so unfriendly as to leave before we’ve taken a drink or two together,’ leered the vat-like Englishman. ‘Ow!’
This last remark was addressed to Emily, who had just freed her wrist from his grip and slapped him across the face.
‘How dare you lay hands on me! You scum!’ she said, and suddenly and unexpectedly she punched the man extremely hard on the end of his nose.
‘Owwwwwww!’ he yelled. Tom sympathised. He knew what Emily’s punches were like.
‘Let’s get out of here!’ whispered Ann, and she and Tom started to make for the door.
But Emily was sitting down again on the bench, and was signalling to the serving girl with the tray of food.
The barrel-like Englishman was too astonished to move. He was just sitting there holding his nose and – oddly enough – crying.
‘Well! Don’t sit there snivelling,’ Emily said. ‘I have no intention of eating my meal at the same table as pigs’ droppings like you. Make yourself scarce!’
She waved him away with her delicate white hand, and without another word the tun of English soldiery grabbed his wine jug and obediently staggered over to join his soporific companions, where he too slumped over the table with his head in his hands.
Ann and Tom looked at each other.
‘Damn! They’ve already given her some goose,’ muttered Tom. ‘We’ll never get her away until she’s eaten it.’
‘Why does she have to come down looking like that?’ growled Ann. ‘Has she no idea how to look inconspicuous?’
‘No. She hasn’t,’ said Tom. It was a matter of fact.
But then how could Emily – the beautiful Emily – ever look ‘inconspicuous’, thought Tom. Even if she dressed in rags from head to foot, she’d still be as lovely as the sun coming up out of the sea, as beautiful as . . .
‘That drunken slob of an Englishman,’ it was Ann puncturing Tom’s romantic reverie, ‘is not going to give over just because she punched him. We can’t stay here.’
‘But we can’t walk around the streets with Emily dressed like that!’ said Tom. ‘She’ll attract all the robbers in town.’
‘And not just the robbers,’ retorted Ann.
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Tom, but Ann was looking at him with such a mocking smile that he thought maybe he wouldn’t bother to find out.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Ann, and she suddenly became Squire Alan again, and was striding over to the bench where the English barrel-man was still sitting and snivelling.
Squire Alan sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen!’ he whispered. ‘If you want to make some real money tonight, I know where they keep the town treasure.’
The English soldier stopped snivelling and looked at Squire Alan. ‘What are you saying?’
‘We need some strong hands. There’s gold and plenty of silver florins involved. We just need someone big like you. But for goodness sake don’t tell your mates. We can just divide it up between ourselves.’
The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Where’s this treasure?’
Ann glanced round the other tables, conspiratorially. ‘I can’t tell you here . . . but meet us outside the inn when night falls and if you come with us, you’ll find out.’
‘I can’t trust you,’ said the Englishman. It was probably the only accurate thought he’d had all evening.
‘That’s up to you,’ whispered Alan. ‘If you don’t want to join us, don’t. One thing is for sure – there’s more than enough treasure for each of us. But we need some brute force.’
The English soldier turned this over in his mind. Brute force was the sort of thing he was good at.
‘All right. Maybe. I’ll see,’ he said and downed his wine.
‘But we can’t do that!’ exclaimed Tom ‘It’s totally and completely and utterly crazy to even consider it!’
‘It makes my blood boil,’ said Ann, ‘to think of these fine, upstanding burghers all buying into that superstitious rubbish!’
‘How d’you know it isn’t true?’ asked Emily.
‘It’s worse than stupid! It’s barbaric!’ snapped Ann. ‘How is walling up that poor girl in that dreadful place going to keep their precious bridge safe?’
‘But should we be interfering in the town’s business?’ began Tom.
‘Should they be making a human sacrifice? Because that’s what it is!’ Ann was more passionate than Tom had ever seen her.
‘We’ve got to get to Auxerre . . . it’s only a few days north of here . . .’ said Tom.
‘We’ll get there,’ replied Ann. ‘But I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try to help that poor girl.’
‘Don’t you want to see Peter de Bury?’
‘I’ll see him soon enough,’ said Ann, and at that point Tom realised there was no arguing with her.
Emily had been persuaded to change into something less eye-catching, and the three of them were now waiting for the English barrel-man to appear.
‘Why is he coming?’ Emily was scowling.
‘The best way of neutralising an enemy is to get them on your side,’ explained Ann. ‘It’s an old technique. Besides we’re going to need him. It’s not easy to demolish a wall, you know.’
‘But what happens when he finds out there
isn’t any treasure on the bridge?’ Tom thought it was such an obvious question he couldn’t believe Ann hadn’t thought of it.
‘How d’you know there isn’t?’ asked Ann.
‘Er . . .’ said Tom. It was an equally obvious point.
‘Sh!’ said Emily. ‘He’s coming.’
The English soldier-cum-barrel was rolling down the street towards them, and came to a rest beside the trio.
‘Right!’ he whispered – clearly relishing the cloak-and-dagger scenario. ‘Let’s go and open this treasure chest up!’ He was carrying a couple of iron bars.
‘Look out for the nightwatch,’ whispered Tom.
And the little party crept down the hill from the sleeping town of Saint-Flour, to release the Maid of the Bridge.
Chapter 24
Milan 1385
Sir Thomas couldn’t think of a single decent disguise shop in the whole of Milan.
‘Typical, isn’t it?’ he said to himself. ‘Just when you need one, you can’t find one.’ Actually he couldn’t think of a single decent disguise shop in the whole of Italy. In fact, come to think of it, he couldn’t think of a single decent disguise shop in the whole world. Such things just didn’t exist back in the fourteenth century, any more than they do today.
‘But wouldn’t it be great?’ thought Tom. ‘If I could just walk in off the street and say: give me a beard and a new set of clothes. Oh! And some new papers please?’
However, in view of the dearth of disguise shops, he would have to fend for himself. One thing he was quite certain about was that he couldn’t walk around Milan as he was. He’d seen yet another pittura infamante featuring himself and a gallows. This one had been in the square outside the Basilica Nova.
It was all very well to walk around with his hood up, but as the day began to get hotter that in itself would start to look suspicious.
He decided there was only one thing he could do.
The girl who brought up the water looked at him curiously. He was sitting in an upstairs room of an inn, looking out of the window. He still had his hood over his head.
‘It’s warm,’ she said, nodding to the jug she’d just put beside him.
‘Thanks,’ said Tom, and then waited for her to go, but the girl stood by the doorway, leaning up against the wall with her arms folded.
‘Thank you,’ said Tom again.
‘It must be cold,’ she said.
‘What must be?’
‘Where you come from . . . Norway . . .’
‘I come from England,’ said Tom.
‘Is that further than Norway?’ she asked.
‘Well . . . no . . . it’s not . . .’
‘But it’s cold,’ she insisted.
‘Not always,’ replied Tom. ‘Sometimes it’s almost as warm as it is here.’
‘Huh! This place . . .’ she snorted.
‘Aren’t you proud of your city?’ asked Tom, for most Milanese were.
‘We have the best water in the world,’ she replied.
‘So I’ve been told,’ said Tom.
‘Would you like to take me to England?’ asked the girl suddenly.
Tom narrowed his eyes and looked at her. ‘I haven’t been there for some years,’ he said.
The girl merely sighed and said: ‘You can take me there if you want.’
Tom began to feel that this was not at all the conversation that he needed right now.
‘I would very much enjoy showing you my country and my home . . . but I’m not sure I have either any more . . .’ and it was Tom’s turn to sigh as he remembered a little cottage amongst the bindweed and dandelions, where old Molly Christmas looked after him and his sister, Katie, after their parents had died in the great plague.
Ah! Katie . . . what had become of her? He wondered. She would be a wife and mother now, and even her children might well be grown up . . . but it was all another life . . . someone else’s life . . . not Tom’s . . . he had run away when the abbot wanted to put him in his school . . . he had run away to find the deserts of Arabia, the court of Prester John, the land of Saladin, the plains of Asia, the glittering streets of Constantinople and the frozen wastes of Russia . . .
‘Aren’t you going to wash then?’ The serving girl’s voice suddenly brought him back to the present.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I would rather do it alone, if you don’t mind.’
The girl gave him another queer look and said: ‘I wouldn’t mind going to England . . . anywhere . . .’
‘Well, if I decide to go back to my country, I’ll let you know,’ said Tom.
‘I’ll be here,’ she said, and for the first time she smiled and then was gone.
But her questions hung around him like interfering flies around a compost heap – buzzing in his ears and provoking into life old memories that he thought he had long ago discarded. And the thoughts that now leaked from that mulch of old feelings and desires made him restive and oddly dissatisfied with the present.
Tom poured the water into the bowl and threw off his hood and doublet. He wet his hair, took up his razor and without more ado began to scrape at his scalp.
Tom had never been bald before. He felt the smooth surface of his skull and looked at his distorted reflection in the pewter jug. The whole operation was an unqualified success, for he found himself looking at the bright pink scalp of someone he’d never seen before.
A surprising relief swept over him, and for the first time since he’d discovered the pittura infamante, he was able to think straight about the situation.
Regina della Scala had warned him that Bernabò suspected him of treason. It seemed most likely that the Lord of Milan would have ordered the pictures when Tom had disappeared. Or, there again, could it perhaps be the work of Donnina de’ Porri? Could she have accused him of making advances to her after all? And would that mean that Squire John was in grave danger . . . or worse?
Whatever the explanation, his mission was going to be even harder than he had anticipated.
The next day, Tom presented himself at the kitchen gates of the palace of Bernabò Visconti, wearing a bright red tunic, only slightly frayed at the cuffs, and brandishing a citole – both of which he’d picked up for a bargain price in the market.
‘I can do “The Squire of Low Degree”,’ he told the steward. ‘“Sir Orfeo” and a novelty number called “King Edward and the Shepherd”. They are all English tales but, of course, I can render them into Italian for your guests.’
‘Can’t you do any good plain Italian tales?’ replied the steward. ‘My lord is out of sorts with the English, since one of those sons of perdition not only plotted against him but even tried to make love to the Lady Donnina.’
Ah! So he was guilty on both counts, but on the other hand the steward didn’t seem to recognise him as the son of perdition in question.
‘It is painful to hear of the evil deeds of one’s own countrymen,’ said Tom, bowing his head in collective shame. ‘But yes, I have by heart several tales of Signor Bocaccio and several other notable songs of Lombardy and Tuscany.’
The steward nodded Tom into the servants’ quarters.
‘You will be required to play at supper with the other musicians. You may sing something while the dishes are being cleared.’
Tom had counted on the steward needing some new blood amongst the musicians, and had rightly guessed that even Bernabò Visconti’s steward wouldn’t let the lack of identity papers get in the way of employing fresh entertainment.
He was back in the court of Bernabò Visconti, and the only identification he needed was his citole. The snag was that instead of being an honoured guest, he was now a minstrel, and that meant he was a menial – hardly someone who would be allowed to mix with the likes of Regina della Scala.
‘Oh, and you . . . what’s your name?’
Tom turned – the steward was calling after him.
‘Robin of Arundel,’ said Tom.
‘Robin. Right,’ nodded the steward. ‘My lord will e
xpect you to sing a tribute to the memory of Regina della Scala.’
Tom’s jaw hit his citole. ‘Is the Lady Regina della Scala dead?’
‘Why do you think there’s so much black around town?’ asked the steward.
‘The townsfolk must have been very fond of her,’ said Tom.
‘The townsfolk are very fond of their money.’ The steward had lowered his voice. ‘Anyone not wearing mourning is fined. I hope you’ve got a suitable elegy you can adapt.’
‘How did she die?’ asked Tom innocently.
The steward looked around carefully. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of them. He narrowed his eyes, looking shrewdly at Tom, and then in an almost inaudible voice, he whispered carefully and slowly: ‘She died of . . . natural . . . causes.’
‘Oh!’ said Tom.
The steward kept looking at Tom, as if he were trying to work out how Tom’s head stayed on his shoulders.
‘Don’t believe them as says she was poisoned . . .’ whispered the steward.
‘Of course not,’ said Tom.
‘The Lady Donnina loved Regina della Scala well enough,’ breathed the steward.
‘I know that to be true,’ said Tom, ‘from my own experience.’ He bowed to the steward and made his way inside.
So that was it! The Lady Donnina had seemed to get on well enough with Regina della Scala, but clearly not well enough to prevent her from poisoning her.
Tom found a place in the servant’s loft with a sinking heart. If Regina della Scala was dead, so too was any hope he had of extracting information about Bernabò’s plans. What’s more, if he had feared the Lady Donnina before, now he was petrified of her . . . how could he ever hope to extract information out of such a woman? He knew it was simply beyond his powers.
He might just as well pack up and go home . . . except that he had to find Squire John.
The town of Milan may have been in mourning for the wife of its lord, Bernabò Visconti, but Bernabò Visconti himself didn’t appear to be. It’s true he was wearing black from head to foot, but then he’d always thought he looked rather good in black. And it’s true that all the lords and ladies of the court and all the servants even down to the least menials were suitably fitted out in black. But the overall effect was one of elegant chic rather than mourning.