[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal Page 4

  “If it makes it any easier, keep it to Guild business,” she said. “No point in letting personal feelings get in the way.”

  Something in her voice stung me, although her face was impassive. Helga sat on the stairs, watching us, Portia asleep in her arms.

  “What would you have me do?” I asked. “I told you that we could go back to Orsino once Mark comes of age.”

  “Could go?”

  “Will go. We will go.”

  “Unless there is some crisis that demands our services,” she said.

  “Well…”

  “And there always is a crisis, isn’t there?”

  “There have been some quiet stretches here and there,” I said.

  “Things are quiet only when you don’t listen,” she said. “My children are being raised by my greedy, venal sister-in-law and my weak-willed brother. For all I know, they are being turned into monsters. All because I became a jester.”

  “They were placed under Olivia’s thumb before you decided to change lives,” I said. “That’s the way I remember it.”

  “I ran,” she said. “I fled from my responsibilities.”

  “You say it as if it were an act of cowardice,” I said. “You ran toward danger and war. You’ve fought bravely and well when many lives were at stake. Including yours.”

  “I should have stayed and fought for my children,” she said. “Would you let me go back?”

  “Now?”

  “Now. And speak as my husband, not as the Chief Fool of Toulouse.”

  “Go back without me?”

  “Yes. And don’t you dare mention anything about the dangers of the journey. Right now, I am the most dangerous thing you have ever seen.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “What about Portia?”

  “She’s not dangerous yet.”

  “You asked me to speak as your husband. I am also Portia’s father. I wouldn’t let her make that journey with you.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “No,” I said. “And speaking as one who was a motherless child, I would not have her raised by only me.”

  “Who said anything about—?”

  “If you go without us, who knows if you make it back?” I asked her. “Who knows if you even get to Orsino safely on your own? If anything happened to you, then not only would your older children still be without you, but so would your baby.”

  “And you, husband?” she asked. “What of you?”

  “I think,” I said, “that having waited so long and having been through so much to win your love, that I would die if you left me.”

  She sat down at the table across from me, resting her chin on her hands while she looked at me. I could not read her expression.

  “Well,” she said finally. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  There was a knock on the door. I have never been so grateful for an interruption in my life. Helga, who seemed to have been holding her breath for the entire conversation, exhaled loudly.

  “Who is it?” called Claudia, her hand at her knife.

  “Sancho,” came the response.

  She opened the door a crack, peered outside, then swung it open.

  “Come in, good soldier,” she said. “Would you like a bit of chicken stew? It’s still warm.”

  “I wouldn’t say no, and thanks, Domina,” said Sancho as he came in, eyeing the floor for any trip lines I might have left lying about.

  “What brings you here, friend Sancho?” I asked as he sat at the table and my wife placed a bowl in front of him.

  “My commission is in three parts,” he said, producing a small square of parchment and handing it to me. “The first is to give you this.”

  I took it, noting the count’s seal and shooting a glance at my wife, who stood behind me to look at it over my shoulder.

  “The second is to watch you read it,” continued Sancho, rapidly shoveling stew into his mouth.

  I broke the seal and unfolded it.

  The message inside read, Play the scene with the letter. It was unsigned.

  “The third is to watch you burn it,” said Sancho, upending the rest of the bowl down his gullet.

  I touched one corner to the candle flame, then held it as the edges glowed, before turning to ash. When the flames neared my fingertips, I held it up for inspection.

  “Very good,” pronounced Sancho, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I will be here at sunrise to fetch you.”

  “And I thought you were my friend,” I grumbled.

  “Only on my own time,” said Sancho.

  “When is that, exactly?” asked Claudia.

  “A good question,” replied Sancho. “Thank you for the stew, Domina.”

  He nodded to Helga and left. Helga came down the steps and locked the door behind him.

  “I like him,” she said.

  “A good man,” I agreed. “He knows only what he needs to know, and nothing more. I wish I were like that sometimes.”

  “What scene are you to play?” asked Claudia.

  “An impulsive request, I suppose, so that no one thinks my letter is at the behest of the count. He doesn’t want to be seen as relying upon me.”

  “Then you had better write it,” she said. “You have to get up early. Come upstairs, Helga. Let’s get this child to sleep.” Helga brought Portia over for me to kiss; then all my foolish women abandoned me to my epistolary efforts. Sighing, I dipped the quill in the inkpot.

  “My dear Horace,” I wrote.

  * * *

  I am in Toulouse. Imagine that! This stone that you set rolling all those years ago has finally come to rest, complete with wife and family. When I think of our wild youth together in Paris—well, some things should not be put in writing, lest the stories come back to bite us in the ass.

  Anyhow, a most amusing situation has come up locally. A fellow arrived claiming to be Baudoin, long-lost full brother to the Count of Toulouse. What makes his story possible, if not plausible, is that he says his mother was Constance, sister to the last King Louis. She was discarded by the old count long ago. Did she bear another heir and bring him home to Uncle? I thought that if anyone knew the gossip in a backwater town like Paris, it would be you. Is he the real article, or merely a poseur with ambition? It would make my fortune to know either way, and I would be sure to send a share back to you.

  Regards to our mutual friend.

  Yours in Christ, Tan Pierre.

  * * *

  I read it over a couple of times, then folded the note in a particular way. I tilted the candle to let some wax drip onto the overlapping edges. Both the fold and the unsealed wax would let Horace know that the letter was not coming by a secure route.

  A fool writes one way when going through Guild channels, another when he isn’t. I had faith in Horace’s ability to understand my words, both the ones I used and the ones I left out.

  After all, he was the one who had recruited me to the Fools’ Guild in the first place.

  * * *

  I slept in my motley, knowing that I would be rising early again. When Sancho knocked on our door, I was up in a trice. I opened the shutters and whispered to Sancho to cease, then flew into the girls’ bedchamber to pick up Portia and comfort her before she woke the others. Reassured that the monster had been chased away by her heroic papa, she nestled into my arms and fell back asleep. Reluctantly, I put her back in her bed and kissed her on the nose. Then I grabbed my kit and tiptoed downstairs. This time, I avoided the trip lines.

  Sancho greeted me as if we did this sort of thing every day, and we walked through the city as the first rays of the sun began to bring out the rosiness of the brick towers. “How is your lord and master this morning?” I asked. “Better, I think,” said Sancho. “A successful night, and a well-earned sleep after.”

  “Must be frustrating to hear all that while you’re just standing there,” I said.

  “I’d rather hear that than arguments, shouting, and tears,” said Sancho. “Heard enough of that from my
parents growing up. And I have my own rewards in town. Tell you all about them after a few drinks sometime.”

  “Never tell a married man about your romantic conquests, my friend. It can only arouse envy.”

  Anselm, the chief servant, showed me into the Grande Chambre.

  “He’ll be down shortly,” he informed me. “He said to grab some food while you can.”

  “Sounds like he means to keep me busy,” I said, but I wasted no further breath on conversation, concentrating my efforts on the feast laid out on the sideboard.

  I had a muffin studded with currants jammed into my mouth when the count came in with Bernard. I strummed away, trying to chew and swallow without using my hands or choking. The remainder fell from my mouth. I caught it, tossed it into the air, played a chord, caught the muffin in my mouth, played a chord, bit down, caught the smaller remainder, tossed it in the air, and repeated the process until the muffin was devoured and my hands were free to play uninterrupted.

  “Impressive,” commented the count.

  “Although disgusting,” added Comminges.

  “Two words that neatly sum up my career,” I said. “Good morning, noble folks.”

  “Good morning, Fool,” said the count. “Some music without muffins, if you would.”

  “Easily done, but where’s the challenge?” I asked.

  I played through the arrival of the rest of his coterie. Then came the viguier, a man following him respectfully.

  “Dominus, this is the man I have chosen for your Parisian mission,” he said.

  “Arval Marti, is it not?” asked the count.

  “It is, Dominus,” said the man, bowing.

  “He is fluent in langue d’oïl and is well acquainted with Paris,” said the viguier. “I have full confidence in his ability to learn what we need to know.”

  “Very well, then,” said the count. “You have our commission and our love. God keep you safe on your journey, and fare you well.”

  “Excuse me, Dominus,” I called. “I beg that you grant me a small favor.”

  “Yes, Fool?”

  “I thought, since you were sending a man to Paris, that he might do me the favor of delivering a letter to an old friend of mine who resides there.”

  The count glanced at the viguier, who shrugged.

  “I see no reason why not,” said the count.

  “Good Senhor Marti, he is a fellow jester named Horace,” I said, handing him the letter. “I believe that he lives near Les Halles, but anyone who is anyone in Paris should be able to direct you to him.”

  “I have seen him perform,” said Marti. “I should be able to find him with no difficulty.”

  “My thanks, senhor,” I said.

  Marti turned back to the count, bowed once more, and left.

  “Now, to our Parisian guests,” said the count. “Bring them to me.”

  Shortly thereafter, the two were dragged in, their hands manacled. They looked at the count fearfully.

  He smiled. “My friends, I trust your accommodations were to your liking,” he said in langue d’oïl.

  Baudoin stood mute. Hue simply whimpered.

  “I have been prevailed upon to release you,” continued the count. “You will be placed in quarters more to your liking until I have made up my mind what to do with you. You may not leave Toulouse.”

  “I did not come to Toulouse only to leave it,” declared Baudoin.

  “Well said,” the count applauded. “Now, you may have free range of the city, but I have one requirement.”

  “Anything my brother commands shall be done,” said Baudoin.

  The count bristled at the word brother, but held back from lashing out.

  “My requirement is that you immediately begin learning our language,” he said. “It ill befits an heir to Toulouse to be so ignorant of its tongue.”

  “I shall do as you say,” said Baudoin. “My man Hue shall—“

  “I do not have confidence in your man Hue,” said the count. “I want to be sure you have a teacher whose abilities I can trust.”

  “Very well,” said Baudoin. “Who is your scholar?”

  “Tan Pierre, my fool,” said the count.

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  Chapter 3

  Baudoin and Hue stood in a small anteroom, watching as I paced back and forth, spewing curses. Hue was not translating. I don’t think he needed to.

  “Why me?” I fumed. “A waste of my time, playing pedagogue to a Parisian pretender. What was he thinking?”

  I turned to look at them.

  “What were you thinking?” I yelled at them.

  Hue backed up a step, but Baudoin stood his ground. “What did you ask me?” he replied in langue d’oïl.

  I took a deep breath.

  “I am a fool,” I said in the same language.

  “I know,” he said.

  “No, you don’t. Repeat it. ‘I am a fool.’ “

  “What?”

  “Lesson the first. We start with the basics.”

  “But I assure you, I am not a fool.”

  “Your assurances are noted and hereby ignored. Say it!” He shrugged. “I am a fool.”

  “That is the beginning of wisdom,” I said. “Here is the same phrase in langue d’oe. ‘I am a fool.’ “

  “I am a fool,” he said in langue d’oc with a pronounced Parisian accent.

  “You are a fool,” I said.

  “You are a fool,” he repeated.

  “He is a fool,” I said, pointing to Hue.

  “He is a fool,” he said, more enthusiastically.

  “She is a fool,” I said, pointing to a serving wench who was sweeping the corridor outside our door.

  “She is a fool.”

  The woman shot him a dirty look.

  “We are fools,” I said, my arms sweeping around to indicate all of us.

  “We are fools.”

  “You are fools,” I said, pointing to both of them.

  “You are fools.”

  “They are fools!” I shouted out the door so that everyone in the tower could hear me.

  “They are fools!” he shouted with me.

  “Truer words were never spoken,” said Sancho, appearing at the doorway. He bowed to Baudoin and nodded amiably at Hue. “Good morning, senhors. Your belongings have been assembled. Excuse the disorder, but we had to search them first.”

  Hue translated to Baudoin.

  “What did he just say?” asked Sancho.

  “He just said what you just said,” I said. “That’s what translators do.”

  “Makes sense,” said Sancho. “I might have figured that one out for myself, had I any sleep the past few days.”

  “Do you speak any langue d’oll?” I asked.

  “I picked up a little bit from some of the French lads in my squad,” he said proudly. “Let me try it out.”

  He turned to the two Parisians and uttered a phrase with extreme confidence. Hue’s face became a mask of horror, while Baudoin stared for a moment, then began to roar with laughter. Sancho looked back at me in consternation.

  “What did I just say?” he asked me.

  “ ‘Roll over, whore, so that I can take you from behind,’ “ I said.

  “Oh,” he said, crestfallen. “Not at all what those French boys told me it meant.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Still,” he said brightening. “A useful phrase should I find myself in that part of the world.”

  Hue translated his comment to Baudoin, who laughed again and said something.

  “What did he just say?” asked Sancho.

  “That if you ever go to Paris, he knows just the place where it will come in handy.”

  “Tell him much obliged,” said Sancho. “And, if he will be so good as to follow me, I shall take him to his lodgings.” The count maintained a couple of houses within the city walls: one for visiting dignitaries, one for mistresses and gatherings too debauched to be held in the château. Sancho took us to
the first one, which was not far from the count’s mills on the river Garonne. A pair of servants carried the bags. It made for a very small parade. The Toulousan children bounced around me, begging for a performance, but I had to decline, regretfully. I tossed them some candies I kept in my pouch to console them for my failure, and they vanished, satisfied. If only adult annoyances could be shooed away so easily. I knew of no candy that could get me out my current predicament.

  The house had an arched opening in the center, leading to an interior courtyard. A pair of soldiers opened the iron gates, nodding at Sancho and looking at Baudoin and Hue with mild curiosity. The room was located directly over the stables, and the two Parisians sniffed the air disdainfully when Sancho showed us in. It was bare of decoration, holding only a pair of beds, a small table on which rested a tin basin and a ewer, and a pair of stools. It looked like it had been recently vacated by a pair of servants.

  “Your horses have already been brought here,” Sancho informed them. “The count thought you would want to be close to them, having traveled so far together. You are to continue with your lessons each morning. In the afternoons, I will be here to show you around town, starting tomorrow. Your man may go to the stalls at the square to buy food.”

  “Are we captives, then?” asked Baudoin once Hue had translated the soldier’s speech.

  “Yesterday, you were in a hole deeper than a grave,” I replied. “Today, you have sunlight and air. Count your blessings, and bless your count. And what are you?”

  “I am a fool,” he said in langue d’oe.

  “Well done,” I said. “I will see you in the morning.” Sancho and I walked out together.

  “I didn’t know you gave language lessons,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you gave tours,” I replied. “We have both come down in the world.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “At least I’ll be out in the fresh air and sunshine. Do me more good than standing outside someone’s chambers all night.”

  “I take it the count wants me to report.”

  “Right. I was going to tell you that part next.”