The same day that Sir Thomas English had first encountered the Lady Caterina Visconti, he found himself being entertained by her husband. The great man had invited him to take supper in his private apartments. There were just the two of them, but, even so, Tom couldn’t help feeling there was more than one conversation going on.
‘You are welcome to use the library as much as you wish,’ said Gian Galeazzo, but Tom couldn’t shake off the feeling that what he was actually saying was: ‘I’d rather have you in the library than prowling around the palace, poking your nose into things that don’t concern you.’
And when Gian Galeazzo made the generous offer that ‘Tom was welcome to use his messengers whenever he had letters to send,’ Tom was certain the duke was warning him that all his correspondence would be scrutinised.
In a way it didn’t matter whether or not the Lady Caterina had told her husband of her suspicions about their English guest; the more Tom thought about it, the more likely it seemed that if the Lady Caterina could see through his guise, so could her lord.
And, even though Gian Galeazzo was as polite as the Pope on Sunday, everything he said took on an ominous ring. ‘Won’t you try a little minced quail?’ sounded more like a threat than an invitation. And once, when Gian Galeazzo happened to say: ‘This fish was caught this morning, Sir Thomas,’ Tom nearly choked.
Then – quite suddenly – the great man lurched forward, peered into Tom’s face and murmured: ‘My uncle Bernabò is a cruel and vicious man, is he not?’
It was the sort of trick question that Tom had been dreading. He gazed at his host, as if trying to gauge the exact degree of cruelty and viciousness that Gian Galeazzo had in mind. Meanwhile his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, while his mind raced through every possible combination of cruelty and viciousness that could be applied to the Lord of Milan without sounding like criticism. Eventually the words stumbled out almost of their own accord:
‘He is a formidable man.’
There. That should do it. But Gian Galeazzo was not to be fobbed off so easily.
‘You know he intends to kill me?’ he whispered conspiratorially.
‘I . . . I . . . know nothing of such matters . . .’ stuttered Tom.
‘I am so scared,’ whispered the great man. ‘I expect my every waking hour to be my last. You see how I dare not leave my palace with less than three hundred men-at-arms. I do not sleep soundly in my bed and you can see I have no appetite . . .’ He pushed his plate away from him at this point. ‘My life is wretched, Sir Thomas Englishman. All I do – every day – is pray to God to shield me from the malevolence of my uncle.’
Tom didn’t know where to look. But Gian Galeazzo kept peering into his eyes as if trying to read the solution to his life’s problems there and Tom didn’t dare look elsewhere. He had to offer his eyes up to Gian Galeazzo for inspection, as a small child might offer up its hands to show they are clean.
At this point-blank range, Tom could see that Gian Galeazzo’s irises were grey-green with little flecks of brown. He could also see how those brown-flecked, grey-green eyes flicked this way and that . . . probing . . . searching . . . doubting . . .
To be faced, at these close quarters, with the private anxieties of such a great and powerful lord was unnerving, terrifying and almost terminally embarrassing.
‘My lord,’ said Tom after a prolonged and disconcerting silence compounded by the intimate eye-scrutiny, ‘I am only too aware of my inadequacies, but if by chance I may be of any service whatsoever to your lordship, you have only to ask.’
Gian Galeazzo sat back and relaxed. It was as if a torturer had extracted the information he wanted from his victim and was now able to put his feet up for the rest of the day. The spell was broken for Tom too, and he took the opportunity to glance around the chamber.
It was fairly dark, since the Lord of Pavia did not like extravagance and would only allow a couple of candles to illuminate the table. When servants came and went with the dishes, they did so either in the dimness of the outer edges of the room or else carrying a small oil lamp in one hand.
‘He claims it’s to avoid unnecessary expense,’ Tom found himself pondering, ‘but perhaps the darkness suits him too?’
Several servants stood by, almost lost in the shadows, ready to do the great lord’s bidding the moment he lifted his finger. Gian Galeazzo may have had a reputation for frugality, but it didn’t quite add up, thought Tom. The food was excellent, the wine was choice, and there were servants to spare . . . if this was frugality, Tom wished he could be as poor. There again, it was true that Gian Galeazzo himself ate very sparingly.
But the great man was addressing him once more: ‘Sir Thomas Englishman, you are reputed to be an honest man, and I feel that I can trust you. You know I have no taste for war. Nor do I have ambitions that would move me against my uncle. All I desire is peace in which to worship the Almighty.’
‘Your piety is renowned,’ murmured Tom. The great lord bowed his head in acknowledgement. Then he went on:
‘You will return to my uncle’s court in Milan very soon. When you go perhaps you could ask certain questions on my behalf – without of course revealing that it is I who have asked you make such inquiries. All I would need to know is if and when my uncle plans to move against me. For move against me I am convinced he will. And when that happens, if I am far away from Pavia I can come to no harm. All I shall need is a little warning which, perhaps, Sir Thomas Englishman, you are in a position to give me?’
Tom laughed and laughed and laughed. In fact he was hysterical. Except of course that he kept a perfectly straight face and nodded very seriously at Gian Galeazzo’s proposal. But inwardly he wanted to roll on the floor and howl. The whole thing was a joke! Here he was – already employed by Regina della Scala, wife of Bernabò Visconti, and the Lady Donnina, mistress of Bernabò Visconti, to spy upon Gian Galeazzo – now being recruited by Gian Galeazzo to spy upon Bernabò Visconti.
‘My lord,’ said Tom. ‘I have no immediate plans for a return to Milan . . .’
‘I have some messages I would like you to deliver,’ replied Gian Galeazzo, adding under his breath: ‘Stay three or four days – or however long it takes to find out what it is necessary to know – and then come back and report direct to me . . .’
It seemed as if Tom had no choice. He was being commanded by the Lord of Pavia. He was not in a position to say no.