Thirteenth Night (4 page)

“It's brilliant. Unfortunately, I won't be sitting there or anywhere else in the neighborhood. I'm off in the morning.”

Her face fell. “And you'll be missing the Feast! Now, that's a shame, Master Theo. We were all looking forward to your joining us after such a long time away. It's been ages since we've seen you do Father Gerald.”

“Then let the memory of me suffice, dear heart. Rejoice that I am still worthy of a mission at such an advanced age. And I need your needle to prick me on.”

She sighed wearily. “All these costumes to make, and you can't even mend your own motley. Really, Theo.”

“Motley? Not me. I go in the guise of a merchant this time, and require the appropriate wardrobe.”

She shot me a sharp glance. “They're not sending you as a jester?”

“No. Bright colors make a better target. So sayeth the good Father.”

She shook her head and stood up. “It's shameful how they treat you. You're one of the best.”

“Nostalgia, my dear. It takes more makeup than it once did to smooth my flawed visage for public consumption. The cracks, crannies, and crevices run deep.”

“You're talking nonsense,” she scolded as she vanished into her racks of costumes. “But then, that's your job,” she added as she emerged with an armful of dull brown garments. “Stand still.” She held up a pair of breeches and eyed me critically. “I'll have to let these out a bit. There's two pair, one for travel, one for proper. The tunics are cut from German fustian. Could you be a German merchant?”

“As good a choice as any.”

“Good. Here's a new cloak. The lining's sheepskin and the trimming's fox. I've put in a few secret pockets. Do you need a money belt?”

“I have one.”

“How are your boots?”

“In decent enough shape.”

“Then that should hold you. Try the cloak.”

It was black with a large hood. I draped it across my shoulders and took a few steps.

“Not like a soldier,” she said. “Merchants always look tired. They huddle inside themselves and check their purses too many times because that's what they live for.”

I hunched slightly and retreated into the cloak like a tortoise into its shell. She reached around and pulled the hood up, then stepped back and appraised me.

“How long will you be traveling?” she asked.

“Maybe ten days.”

“Stop shaving,” she advised. “You'll have a good enough beard by the time you get there. Looks like it will come in gray.”

“Looks like my life is coming in gray. Promise you'll wait for me, sweet Agatha.”

“I promised myself to another long ago, Theo. But you'll always be second in my heart.”

“Knowing the competition, high praise. Good night, Sister.”

I climbed back down and went to the kitchen to scrounge some late dinner. Word had gotten around, of course, and a few of the older fellows came to wish me luck. Most of them were retired from the game and were now passing their skills on to the new generation. I couldn't tell if they envied me for going out again or thought I was mad.

By the light of a single taper in my cell, I packed two large saddlebags. Optimistically I included my motley and jester's gear; who knows where I would be going after this venture? I reached under my pallet and removed my scabbard and sword. I pulled the weapon out and examined it closely, then swung it experimentally about the room a few times. It felt heavier than I remembered, and long-unused muscles in my arm and shoulder complained about the unusual strain. I was an adequate swordsman at best, but my best was a long time ago. I hoped I wouldn't need to use it.

I closed the bags, pulled them onto the floor, and fell onto the pallet. I turned onto my side and gazed out the window. The moon was out, about three-quarters full, and the sky was filled with stars. I hoped that the weather would stay clear at least until I reached the other side of the Adriatic. Winter crossings were bad enough when the weather was good. I thought briefly about praying, but didn't. I expected that my prayers would be given the consideration that they deserved, and that every day that I lived was just another brief postponement of the fire and brimstone that awaited me. Then I thought of the dead Duke, and of the living Duchess, and of the fat drunk and the skinny scarecrow and the passionate Countess and the lucky twin and the black-bearded, black-hearted steward of their destinies. And of mine, if I wasn't careful. Shivering, I fell asleep.

*   *   *

The cock crew immediately after, or so it seemed to me. My entire body resisted as I dragged myself onto the cold flagstones. My bags awaited me, the sword resting on top. I strapped it on and became a gentleman.

I lugged the bags down to the stable, where Brother Dennis was already up and about, stoking the fire of his smithy. He lifted the bags like they were feathers and threw them across Zeus's rump, startling the sleeping horse into a fury of stamping and neighing. Dennis winked at me, which did nothing to help my confidence.

I climbed the ladder to where Sister Agatha waited in the chill air, basking in the first rays of the sun. She tossed me my traveling clothes. “Go try them on,” she ordered. I went obediently behind the screen and changed. I added the sword and cloak, slipped my dagger into my sleeve and a larger knife into my boot, then became hunched and tired, which took no effort at all.

“Blessings upon this weary traveler,” I intoned, using a German accent.

“God speed you on your journey,” she returned gravely and to my surprise embraced me, then patted me on the cheek. “Come back and tempt me some more, you old scoundrel.” Then she turned quickly so that I wouldn't see the tears.

Timothy looked at me critically when I came out in my new guise. “You look ordinary,” he said. “Not like yourself at all.”

“That's the idea,” I replied. He gave me a leg up, then leapt to seize the reins as Zeus tried to throw me off.

“Don't you just love them when they have this much energy?” he gasped as the horse struggled in his grasp. “He's champing at the bit already.”

“I'm the one he wants champed and bitten,” I yelled, but I managed to get a grip on the reins and yanked them sharply. The horse backed up into the stable door and almost shivered it but finally realized that I had him on short rein and that he had better do what I wanted. “This ride is going to be fun,” I predicted gloomily.

“That's the spirit,” said Timothy. “I'd shake hands, but you'd better keep them both where they are for a while. Good luck, Theo.”

I took the horse at a brisk trot out of the stable yard into the courtyard of the Guildhall. Niccolò was out, leading a group of initiates through early-morning tumbling exercises. He waved to me, then quickly mimed a doddering old man and stumbled over a bucket. I nodded approval and left. I cast a longing glance at the tavern as I passed by, but it was still closed.

Just before I reached the edge of town, I had a curious encounter. I was hailed by a rider headed in the opposite direction.

“Ho, Sir Balaam!” he called, and I looked up to see a young man dressed as a troubadour riding a beautiful chestnut stallion. I say dressed as a troubadour, but his garment was richly colored and would have been half a year's wages for most of our lot. “But you should be riding an ass, not a horse,” he continued, drawing closer.

It was the greeting that led me to him. I had used the name Balaam once, while passing through Umbria. I recognized him at last. Young de Bernadone, son of a well-to-do merchant from that area. I had met him a few years before and encountered him once or twice since.

“Well met, Monsieur Francesco,” I greeted him cordially. “Have you come to join the Guild at last?”

“Alas, no,” he said. “Father won't permit it. But he did let me come to see the Feast of Fools done by the masters. My last indulgence of youthful folly, he said. Tell me you aren't leaving.”

“Unfortunately, I am,” I replied. “A new post. A jester cannot choose his employment and must go when called. But you should find more than adequate entertainment without me.”

He looked sad for a moment, then dismounted and came up to my horse. “But where did this magnificent creature come from? I'm used to seeing you on foot.”

“A gracious gift from a wealthy patron. He's called Zeus, for his lightning speed and capricious temperament. I have yet to see his prowess with the mares.”

Francesco took the horse's head between his hands and examined him critically. The beast submitted to it, to my surprise. The youth looked him directly in the eyes.

“Bear him well,” he instructed him. “He has walked farther in his life than you have and deserves a comfortable journey. Treat him gently, for he is a friend of mine. God grant you both safe passage.” The benediction completed, he reached up and clasped my hand. “Godspeed, good Balaam. Come back to Assisi someday and we will have our conversation.”

He mounted his horse and continued on.

I stopped by the guardhouse at the gate and tapped on the door. The guard peered out sleepily. “You're up early, Theo,” he observed.

“The youthful troubadour who passed a few minutes ago is not one of us,” I told him urgently. “Get word to the Guild. He is probably harmless but should be watched nonetheless.”

“All right, Theo. I'll tell them.”

I thanked him and left. Oddly enough, Zeus had calmed down and was carrying me quite nicely. Maybe it was Francesco's doing, maybe not. All I can say is some people have a way with animals.

T
HREE

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb
like the sun; it shines everywhere.

TWELFTH NIGHT, III,
i

 

A day's brisk travel brought me to Verona, where I was able to find a small convoy of three barges taking a load of larch and pine down the Adige to Venice. They were glad to have me as I represented both a paying fare and an extra sword. Although piracy on the rivers was less frequent now than of old, a harsh winter always brought the wolves down from the mountain, and many of them walked on two legs.

Zeus, to my secret satisfaction, was most unhappy to be traveling by water. He whinnied and shifted nervously as the barge rocked back and forth. I scavenged an old blanket and threw it over him to protect him from the winds whipping across the deck. “Don't worry, old Greek,” I whispered to him. “We'll be going on a real boat next.” This didn't seem to comfort him. I strapped his feed bag on and walked to the bow.

We were going deceptively fast. There must have been a brief thaw, because the river was high and huge chunks of ice swept by us. The bargemen kept a steady pace. I let them. I have a healthy respect for the musculature of others, and these sturdy Lombards looked as if they could have used the logs they were transporting for barge poles.

We tied up at night and made camp on shore. We didn't lack for firewood, of course, having taken a healthy supply of that as well. I took my turn on watch with the others, chatting quietly and occasionally tossing another log on the fire. The smell of burning pine on a clear winter night is wonderfully restorative, and despite the hard ground, I felt more and more limber with each passing night. Perhaps just being on the journey was all that I needed.

By the third day, my beard was starting to thicken into something passable. Protective cover for the winter, as if I were some kind of weasel. We were starting to come into the coast. The river widened, and we began spotting boats and docks more frequently. As we rounded one curve, I heard from a distance a huge gabbling, as if a learned convocation of geese had forsaken their southward migration and had decided to discuss Plato instead.

As we drew closer, I realized that the sound came from a veritable army of washerwomen, squatting by the river and chatting away, oblivious to the combined chills of water and wind. In the distance, I saw a small encampment. I recognized the colors of Flanders, Champagne, Montferrat, and a few others. A handful of men were up, desultorily exercising their horses or practicing their swordplay while their pages huddled by the cooking fires.

“Look there,” said the chief boatman, pointing at another camp situated nearby. I followed his direction and saw another group of women, younger and prettier than the ones beating blankets in front of us.

“The next Holy Crusade?” I asked.

“And their holy whores right behind,” he said. “If you give yourself to Christ, they'll give themselves to you. Well, not give, exactly.”

“And they invade the Holy Land in the spring?”

He laughed. “We'll see. When the Pope pays as well as the infidels, I'm sure we'll all be better Christians.” He spoke no further on the subject.

*   *   *

We made Chioggia by noon and anchored close to shore. A customs official came out to inspect the spike that marked the load line and verify that it was above water. The chief boatman unloaded a small boat and rowed off to find the Master of the Lombards while I bade my companions farewell and led Zeus back to land. I found a stable to take him while I was in the city proper and then traveled by
traghetto
to Venice.

There are many who love Venice, who find the whole idea of the city built on a collection of misshapen mudflats romantic. I hated it. It was dirty, and it stank with the inhuman fumes from boiling pitch, glass furnaces, soap makers, and metal refineries. I had performed in a minor parish there once, and it was all I could do to keep my whiteface white. I was glad for once that it was winter, so that I could at least avoid the miasma of the marshes.

I made straight for the Bacino San Marco, where I discovered that the
Ursula,
a roundship of some one hundred and twenty tons, had been laid up for repairs and would be leaving in the afternoon of the following day, hoping to take advantage of the clear weather to make its way down the Adriatic to winter in Cyprus. I found it aswarm with caulkers, carpenters, and sailors scurrying through last-minute preparations, tying down barrels, lowering cargo into the hold, testing the rigging. I arranged my passage with the ship's scribe, who was, like the bargemen, more than happy to take on a paying passenger during such an unprofitable time of the year. I gave my destination as Zara and paid one of the sailors to transport Zeus on board, a task I was happy to delegate.