Minstrels normally performed behind a screen, or up in a gallery . . . somewhere separated from the important people in the hall. That way they did not interfere with the conversation and, more crucially, they couldn’t eavesdrop on any secret matters of state that might be being discussed. Minstrels, you see, were frequently employed as spies.
Bernabò Visconti, however, showed contempt for most things. He showed contempt for most people, and he showed contempt for most customs – including the positioning of minstrels. Which is how Sir Thomas English, currently in the guise of the minstrel Robin of Arundel, found himself being brought forward into the centre of the hall to sing an elegy in memory of the late Regina della Scala, the deceased wife of the Lord of Milan.
And there, sitting next to the great Lord of Milan, sat the woman who had – in all probability – poisoned his wife. How could he sing something which would console the one without antagonising the other?
Tom’s nerves were wound up as tight as the strings of his citole. He had only had a few hours to cobble together a musical tribute. Even a professional musician would have found it taxing, and Sir Thomas was not a professional musician. Of course not! A professional musician was a paid entertainer – the lowest of the low. Mere riff-raff. Sir Thomas could, of course, play and sing – after all, he was an accomplished knight – but he would never have demeaned himself by receiving money for his artistic endeavours. His playing and singing was strictly for the boudoir or the private chamber. Public performance on the scale on which he was about to embark was not in his remit.
Besides, it also didn’t help knowing that he was a wanted man. The Lord of Milan had had his picture put up all over town, alongside a text accusing him of treason and of attempting to seduce his favourite mistress. Perhaps singing to the court was not the best method of keeping out of the tyrant’s way. Even though he’d shaved off his red hair, he could still be recognisable, and every eye was now turned on him as he stood there before the ruthless and unpredictable Lord of Milan.
‘You’ve got a song about my wife?’ barked Bernabò.
‘I have an elegy, my liege,’ said Sir Thomas, and he bowed deeply.
‘Then let’s have it! If it’s good, I’ll give you this!’ Bernabò pulled a brooch off his coat and flung it down on the table. ‘If it stinks, you’ll spend the night in the kennels!’
And then he barked again with that humourless laugh of his, and, of course, the whole court joined in.
Tom knew only too well what spending a night in the kennels might mean. If he were to be locked up with the Great Danes, he would not see the light of another day. Tom suddenly knew what a jelly felt like sitting on a hot plate.
And, talking of heat, Tom had just noticed that the temperature in the stuffy hall had pulled one of the strings on his citole out of tune.
‘My lord,’ said Tom, quickly fiddling with the wayward string, ‘the Lady Regina della Scala shines in all our minds like the evening star – beautiful amidst the darkness of her loss.’
There was an automatic smattering of applause. There always was nowadays whenever anyone said anything about the Lady Regina della Scala. Tom bowed, still retuning his string. Bernabò, however, was getting impatient. He signalled to him to start, muttering at the same time: ‘And don’t make it too long!’
Tom finally got the string to the right pitch and launched into his elegy, which began, roughly speaking, on the following lines:
‘When I see her empty place
I remember how her grace
Lit the room and filled the hall.
Now the clothes I wear are black,
Could I have my lady back
I’d count myself the Count of All.’
He went on like this for a dozen more verses, each one ending with the refrain ‘I’d count myself the Count of All’. The tune was an English one, which he knew would be fresh to Italian ears. A lot of the content was borrowed, but he hoped no one would recognise it. Looking round the faces of the court, it was hard to tell how anybody was reacting.
It was even harder to tell how the great Bernabò was reacting. He was just sitting there with his eyes shut, nodding in time to the music. Tom was rather pleased with the refrain ‘I’d count myself the Count of All’, which worked just as well, he thought, in Italian as in English. And paying a compliment to the Count of Milan was probably more important, Tom calculated, than paying one to his deceased wife.
At last, Tom reached the end of his elegy. He played the final flourish and bowed low. There was total silence.
‘Well, that’s it,’ said Tom to himself. ‘My career as a minstrel lasted precisely one number. Pity, really. I actually rather enjoyed the performance.’
Tom kept his head down in the bow. He could already hear the Great Danes snarling and snapping around his ankles.
He finally felt he couldn’t stay bowing any longer, and straightened up. Glancing round the faces of the court, he instantly realised that whether they liked it or not was totally irrelevant. Every courtier’s eyes were fixed on the great Bernabò. Of course! Nobody could possibly have an opinion until the great man had expressed his.
Bernabò, however, was at that moment particularly inscrutable. He was sitting there, eyes shut, head nodding, just as if he were still listening to the song. The Lady Donnina was equally inscrutable. She sat there beside her lord simply staring at Tom. Before her gaze, Tom felt quite naked . . . exposed . . . as if every secret in him was written all over his body for all to read.
‘That is it, my lord,’ said Tom, making another elaborate bow. ‘There is no more.’
His heart was beating like a drum as he waited to hear his fate. A dog sniffed his crotch. Actually it was a real dog that had been prowling around the hall, but Tom couldn’t help reacting as if it had been the first of the Great Danes come to tear him to pieces. He gave a great yell. A ripple of amusement went round the hall.
But still the Lord of Milan simply sat there, eyes closed, nodding. Every eye in the place swivelled back from Tom to the lord, waiting for the word.
Eventually the chief steward, who was standing just behind the count, jogged him discretely, and the great man woke up. Bernabò looked around in some surprise, saw Tom still holding his citole, and – perhaps to cover up the fact that he had fallen into an alcohol-induced stupor, or else out of relief that yet another tedious elegy was already over – immediately clapped and shouted: ‘Bravo! Robin of Arundel! Well done!’
And with that the entire hall burst into polite applause and Tom bowed again, and felt the sweat trickling down under his armpits. At the same time he brushed away the dog that had been sniffing around him.
The steward bent down again and whispered something to Bernabò, who obediently picked up the brooch and flung it at Tom.
‘Here! Buy yourself a new horse with that!’
The thought flashed through Tom’s mind: ‘He knows I’ve lost my horse! He must know who I am! The game’s up!’ and the returning image of the kennels made him miss the brooch. It fell with a clatter onto the tiled floor.
‘You minstrels always let your money slip through your fingers!’ roared the Lord of Milan. The entire court naturally joined in roaring with laughter and this made Bernabò roar again with mirth – at which point Tom realised that the great Lord of Milan had far better things to do than remember the face of an Englishman who’d left his court some weeks before.
He gratefully snatched up the brooch and retreated back into the safety of the musicians’ enclosure, where the others had already struck up a pleasing dance melody that was setting everyone’s feet tapping.
There would soon be dancing and flirting and merrymaking in the black-draped court of the Lord of Milan. Bernabò himself was already caressing the Lady Donnina de’ Porri’s cheek with his hand. Soon, no doubt, he would be leading her off to bed, and leaving the court to its unbounded pleasures.
Yet it would be wrong to think that Bernabò himself did not regret his wife’s death. He had always valued her highly for her common sense and her good advice. Indeed she was the one person in the whole state who ever dared oppose his whims or moderated his behaviour. Moreover her financial advice was always impeccable.
Bernabò already missed her guiding hand and – who knows? – perhaps her death had left him feeling just that little bit vulnerable, despite his power and arrogance. He may even have had an inkling of the disaster that was soon to engulf him, and which would be entirely the result of his overweening pride. For a wretched fate was soon to overtake the Lord of Milan, and it is possible that Regina della Scala would have prevented it.
But all that was in the future.
For now, Bernabò Visconti was drunk. His head was turning slightly and he rose, leaning on his mistress’s shoulder. He did not see the look that the Lady Donnina de’ Porri shot towards the musicians’ enclosure. Nor did he hear her whisper to the steward to fetch the minstrel who had just sung of Regina della Scala and bring him to her chamber.