by Terry Jones
‘Everything I have reported to the Lady Donnina de’ Porri is as I observed it. It is the truth,’ said Tom.
By this time Squire John had gone pale and his tongue was sticking out. Il Medecina nodded to the torturer and the man released the garrotte and threw the squire back onto the floor.
Strange how little noise torture makes, Tom thought. It’s so casual, so ordinary, so painless for those who watch. His eyes ran over his squire, where he lay slumped on the floor, checking for signs of distress. There were plenty . . . but suddenly the youth glanced up at Tom, and for a split second their eyes met. Tom recognised that look in his squire’s eyes: it was a look of defiance. It was a look that said: ‘Ready when you are!’ And in that instant Tom realised that John was not in quite as bad a state as he was pretending to be.
But the man with the grizzled beard was speaking.
‘Sir Thomas Englishman,’ said Il Medecina. ‘To put it quite bluntly, we do not believe you. I shall now apply a little pressure to your squire. You would do well to take pity on him, for what we are about to do next will be extremely unpleasant for him.’
One of the torturers had grabbed Squire John’s hands and was holding them while the second produced a pack of iron pins.
‘There are twenty pins,’ explained Il Medecina. ‘They may not look much, but I can assure you the pain when they are inserted under the fingernail is excruciating.’
Then a most extraordinary thing happened. Tom suddenly felt the Lady Donnina de’ Porri’s fingers caressing the back of his neck. He turned and looked at her. She looked somehow excited, and the awful thought struck him that perhaps all this was just a late-night entertainment as far as she was concerned.
Il Medecina waved a jewel-encrusted finger at the torturer and the man pulled out the first pin. At the same time, Squire John locked eyes with Tom again, and Tom gave an almost imperceptible nod.
And that was it, really.
Tom suddenly span round, and caught the beautiful Lady Donnina in an armlock round her beautiful throat. The next moment he grabbed the hilt of Il Medecina’s short sword, and yanked it out of its scabbard with surprising ease. The Lord of Milan’s chief councillor reacted too slowly and caught the sword by the blade, cutting his hand as he did so. He gave a sort of howl and clutched the wound as blood spurted onto the floor.
Now Squire John had seemed – to everyone who had paid any attention to him recently – to be at death’s door. He had hardly had the strength in his limbs to move. Whenever anyone hit him, it was like hitting a rag doll – there was really no spirit or response in him. In fact hitting him was no longer any fun at all, and they had rather given it up. Indeed his captors had thought so little of whatever life remained in him that they hadn’t even bothered to manacle him when they brought him up to the grand lady’s private chamber.
It therefore came as a considerable surprise when the near-dead John suddenly sprang into life.
He flung himself at the legs of one of his captors, bringing him down to the floor with a crash. At the same time he pulled the man’s dagger from its sheath and span round as the other guard rushed towards him, and the knife slid into his ribs without him even being aware of it.
The guard had grabbed John by the neck and was trying to choke him again, but the force suddenly left him and a look of incomprehension overwhelmed the man’s face. A second later he swayed and tottered forwards with the knife in his ribs. Tom leapt out of his way as he went crashing face forward to the floor – right on top of the other guard, who was trying to scramble to his feet. They both went down again, but the uninjured man rolled out from under his stricken comrade and started to rise to his feet again. Before he had straightened up, however, John had smashed a stool over the man’s head and he sank back to the floor for the third time. And, oddly enough, his past life flashed up before his eyes just as if he were drowning . . . but of course no one was aware of this little miracle and the man had forgotten about it by the time he recovered his senses.
Meanwhile Tom had applied Il Medecina’s short sword to the beautiful golden throat of the Lady Donnina.
‘Do not for a moment imagine I wouldn’t use this!’ he informed Il Medecina, who was standing frozen to the spot looking at the bleeding palm of his hand. The Lady Donnina was gasping for breath as badly as Squire John had been minutes before, and Tom made the mistake of loosening his hold on her neck to allow her to breathe. Whereupon, instead of thanking him politely, the lady immediately started to scream, and Tom was forced to put his hand over her mouth. To show her gratitude the Lady Donnina bit him, and he joined in the screaming.
‘Stop that!’ he cried, and thrust the sword under her nose where she could see it.
And all the time, the grizzle-bearded man stood there as if he had been turned to stone.
The fact is that Il Medecina’s professional life was full of long-term stratagems and the careful assessment of tricky situations, secret information imparted in hushed whispers, short-term policies and good advice. He excelled in espionage and counter-espionage, in covering his tracks, in creating false impressions and in diversionary tactics.
He was a man with a deep understanding of human behaviour and of the political implications of any particular action. He knew the characters of many of the great rulers of Europe with whom his master, Bernabò, would have to deal, and if he did not already know of them, he knew how to find out about them – all about them. His opinions were sound, well thought out and generally impenetrable.
But Il Medecina’s world was that of the observer – the disengaged adviser – the politician – the counsellor. It is true that he wore the latest kind of sword (short and pointed for thrusting rather than slashing), but he wore it merely because it was a badge of status. He would no more think of drawing it than he would of taking his clothes off in public.
Perhaps it was because he was used to such unlimited power that he now seemed unable to comprehend the raw physical challenge that confronted him. It was almost as if it were all too simple for him to understand. It was too crude to be worthy of his attention, and his mind seemed to simply switch off as he stepped back and became once again the observer – watching it all as in the abstract. Violence, although a political tool he had used relentlessly and without pity, was, for Il Medecina, entirely theoretical.
Tom and John, meanwhile, were doing as little theorising as possible. They were just concerned with the immediate problem of getting out of the nearest exit.
Tom dragged the Lady Donnina to the doorway, while John slipped the key out of the lock. Tom then pushed the lady back into the chamber and he and John slid through the door and locked it from the outside.
The moment the key turned all hell seemed to break loose in the room. There was screaming and yelling and the Lady Donnina was hammering on the door like a fury from the netherworld.
As Tom and John reached the stairs, a small gaggle of servants appeared. There was a kitchen maid, a couple of menservants, the butler and a cook, who was wielding a meat cleaver. Tom ran straight up to them.
‘Quick!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s a grey-haired man attacking the Lady Donnina! The door’s locked! Get the steward’s key!’ And one of the menservants ran off to find the steward. The others ran to the chamber door and started banging on it and yelling to the Lady Donnina inside.
‘Are you all right, my lady?’ yelled the butler.
‘Stop those two men!’ yelled Il Medecina, whose senses had returned to him now the immediate danger was passed.
‘Leave the Lady Donnina alone!’ shouted the cook, who was secretly enamoured of the Lady Donnina.
‘What?’ yelled Il Medecina.
‘You’ll pay for it if you harm her – you villain!’ yelled the cook, raising his meat cleaver in anticipation.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ shouted Il Medecina.
‘You monster!’
‘Did you hear what I said? Stop them!’
‘Who?’
But
by this time the steward had appeared, and the key was quickly turned in the lock – whereupon Il Medecina burst out of the door yelling:
‘Where did they . . .’ but before he could say ‘go?’, his grey locks had disappeared under a scrum of household servants, who in a flash had him pinned to the floor. It was only by a miracle that the cook did not finish the old man off with his meat cleaver.
‘What the devil!’ screamed the Lord of Milan’s closest adviser.
‘Oh! Your lordship! I do beg your pardon!’ cried the butler, who was the first to realise the mistake.
‘Where are they?’ yelled the Lady Donnina.
‘Who?’ repeated the butler.
‘The minstrel and the boy!’ screamed Il Medecina. Whereupon the kitchen maid, the cook, the butler and the manservant all span round.
But by then Tom and John had long disappeared.
Chapter 33
Milan 1385
Sir Thomas English and his squire were walking across the main hall of Bernabò Visconti’s palace towards the servants’ quarters.
‘Never run,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘It calls attention to yourself.’
‘Right!’ said Squire John. One of the things he admired so much about his master was the way he knew what to do in any given situation.
‘If you run, you might just as well put up a large sign above your head reading: “This is who you’re looking for!”’ said Tom.
‘There he is!’ cried a guard who had just appeared at the other end of the hall, and Tom and John burst into a run without even giving Squire John time to say: ‘Thanks for the tip, Sir Thomas!’
They crashed through the door that linked the servants’ quarters with the hall and found themselves in the kitchen, where a party was in full swing. A musician was standing on one of the working tables, creating an admirable racket with the bagpipes. Some servants were already drunk enough to be able to make out the tune and were busy attempting to dance to it. Others were still in the process of achieving that enviable state. Still others were playing that well-known game: How Long Does It Take to Eat a Whole Ham in One Go?
Not a single person looked like they were in mourning for the Lady Regina della Scala, even though they were all still wearing black.
‘It’s the cook’s birthday,’ explained one of the serving maids. ‘He doesn’t know how old he is, but he says it’s his birthday.’
‘He says it every week!’ grunted an old ‘necessary woman’, whose duty it was to make sure all the chamber pots were empty and clean.
At this point the pursuing guard burst into the kitchen.
‘Where’s that minstrel?’ he yelled at Tom, who hadn’t been able to elbow his way through the merry throng. ‘Oh! It’s you!’
Tom gave John a nod. It was time for a little more teamwork. John dived for the guard’s legs and had started to topple him over when Tom noticed the man was carrying something.
‘John! Hang on!’ he called out.
As it happened, John was having some difficulty trying to topple the guard in the tightly packed kitchen: there simply wasn’t anywhere to topple. More to the point the guard had grabbed a ladle from the table and was hitting John over the head with it.
Tom grabbed the guard’s wrist to stop him, and pointed to the object in his other hand.
‘Where’d you get that?’ he asked.
‘You left it in the hall,’ said the guard. ‘You won’t get far without your instrument, minstrel,’ and he held up Tom’s citole. At the same time he dropped the ladle and cuffed John round the ear. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked the guard.
‘Sorry,’ said John, scrambling to his feet. ‘I thought you were someone else.’ It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it was the best he could think of at the time.
‘Anyway, thanks, for bringing the citole,’ interrupted Tom.
‘By the way, I liked the song,’ said the guard, and he grabbed Tom’s sleeve.
‘Thanks,’ returned Tom, trying to free his sleeve from the guard’s grasp.
‘I thought you hit just the right balance,’ said the guard, holding on to Tom’s sleeve.
‘Oh good,’ he said.
‘You know, it’s so easy to get all mawkish and sentimental in elegies, but you kept it light and fun. I thought.’
Now all this was doubtless good news for an aspiring minstrel, but at that moment, Sir Thomas English had more pressing things on his mind. So he thanked the guard yet again and turned to go, while trying to disengage his sleeve from the man’s grip.
‘I particularly liked the line about “I’d count myself the Count of All” – very witty. I thought.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tom, who had never been less interested in hearing a favourable critique of his songwriting abilities.
‘And the way you sang it was spot on. I thought,’ continued the guard – his hand still gripping Tom’s sleeve.
‘Sir Thomas!’ exclaimed Squire John. ‘Don’t forget we have to be at my Lord Lodovico’s lodgings before he retires!’
‘Thanks for reminding me, John!’ said Tom, and turning back to the guard, he managed to extract his sleeve from the man’s grip. ‘I really do appreciate your remarks – but I must go!’
‘I thought perhaps you and I could share a flask of wine,’ said the guard, reapplying his hand to Tom’s sleeve. ‘I’ll buy it.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Tom, and yet again he pulled his sleeve away from the man’s grasp. ‘But my Lord Lodovico is waiting for me.’
‘Well, tomorrow evening then?’ said the guard.
‘Yes! Yes! Good idea!’
‘Right, tomorrow it is then.’
‘Right!’ Tom managed to get his sleeve free once again. But yet again the man clutched at it, and leaned forward and whispered:
‘And maybe you could lose your squire? Eh?’
‘Right!’ said Tom, and finally he was free, and elbowing his way through the crowd in pursuit of Squire John.
The guard watched him go for some moments, and then muttered under his breath: ‘A real musician doesn’t leave his instrument behind.’
He was still holding the citole.
Tom and Squire John ran across the vast courtyard of Bernabò’s palace. It was large enough to parade the troops in, and the vast loggias to the side were so big that the great lord often held jousting tournaments there in the shade.
‘What’s happened to the “no running” policy, Sir Thomas?’ asked Squire John. He wasn’t being the least ironic; he really wanted to know.
‘There comes a moment,’ replied Tom in between breaths, ‘when all theories get superseded by events.’
In fact, they didn’t seem to be attracting anyone’s attention; night had fallen some time ago, and their progress through the unlit emptiness of the courtyard went unremarked except by some bats that were startled into wheeling and diving in and out of the loggias. As it happened, the guard at the main entrance also heard their footsteps coming rapidly across the gravel, but as he was expecting some drinking companions, he merely assumed it was them and that they were in a hurry to see him.
Before they reached him, however, Tom and Squire John stopped running. They ducked into a doorway, and began to stroll through a service area and then down a narrow passage that led to a side entrance in the walls that was used only by servants of Bernabò Visconti’s household.
The guard on duty was an affable sort of fellow, who grinned when he saw Tom and said: ‘I’d count myself the Count of All!’
Tom began to wish he’d never thought of the wretched line.
‘Very clever!’ said the guard, nudging Tom in the ribs.
‘We’re just going out for a short time,’ said Tom, trying to steer the conversation to more pressing matters.
‘As a matter of fact, I write a little myself,’ said the guard. ‘Perhaps you’d like to hear some of my verses?’
‘How about when we come back?’ suggested Tom.
‘Really?’ said the guard. It was the f
irst time anyone had showed the slightest bit of interest in his poetry. His companions-in-arms all regarded him as a timid soldier and a man without a single streak of aggression, and therefore the last person to write poetry – at least the sort of poetry that they would be interested in.
As for his mother – her first question whenever he arrived back at the little stone farmhouse in Umbria, where she kept her hens under the same roof as herself, was always: ‘So who have you killed now?’ To which he would reply: ‘No one, Mama, but I have written a whole poem.’ And his mama would turn away to milk the goat. She regarded poetry as a sinful waste of precious resources, especially at a time when what was really needed was for God to send more rain and for the cow to produce more milk.
And so it was that, partly owing to the frustrated literary ambitions of one of Bernabò Visconti’s guards, Sir Thomas English, currently disguised as a minstrel, and his squire John, found themselves at liberty once again in the night-enfolded city of Milan.
A short walk down the street towards the Porta Romana brought them to the corner of the Visconti Palace. Built up against the high walls was a series of low wooden structures that stretched back into the darkness.
‘There’s a shortcut to the stables down here,’ said Sir Tom, who had already turned down the narrow lane between the sheds.
‘The stables, Sir Thomas?’
‘Of course! I’ve got to rescue Bucephalus.’
‘Oh,’ said Squire John, but what he really meant was: ‘Isn’t that a bit risky, sir? You know my Lord of Milan guards his horses closer than his children! And he guards them pretty closely!’ But he felt it was not his place to question his master.
‘Aren’t you going to say: “Isn’t that a bit risky, sir?”’ asked Tom.
‘Well . . . possibly . . .’
‘“You know my Lord of Milan guards his horses closer than his children!”’ continued Tom. ‘“And he guards them pretty closely!”’
‘That’s just what I was going to say!’ exclaimed the squire.
‘Good!’ replied Tom. ‘Never take what I say for granted. Always question everything!’