[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal (12 page)

“My friends, will you do me the honor of joining me for dinner tomorrow evening?”

“Of course,” said the count, and the other two nodded.

The count clapped his hands, and Anselm appeared immediately. “To the kitchen, and bring up an entire platter of muffins for my friend, Raimon Roger.”

The servant bowed and left.

“With your leave, Dominus,” I said. “I must go lick my wounds.”

“Can’t bear the sight of me eating more muffins, eh?” taunted Foix.

“Oh, I have grown used to that, senhor,” I said. “To truly astonish me, you would have to refuse one.”

“You may go, Fool,” said the count. “Thank you for the diversion.”

I bowed, and left.

I did not leave the grounds of the château immediately, but directed my steps instead to the Palace of Justice.

Baudoin was sitting in a corner of his cell, his hands out in prayer. I waited until he was done.

“Any results?” I asked.

“You are here,” he said.

“Your night with La Rossa,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Tell me more about it.”

“A great deal of it is … intimate,” he said.

“Keep the retelling to the conversation,” I said.

“A great deal of that was obscene.”

I sighed.

“Did she ask you any questions about yourself?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Much of it general. Where are you from, how was your journey, how long did it take, was the weather good?”

“Did she know who you purport to be?”

“I see you have gone from pretend to purport,” he observed. “That’s an improvement.”

“You are a purporter to the throne,” I said. “Answer my question.”

“She said nothing that indicated she knew,” he said. “But she did ask me about my time in Paris.”

“Specifically?”

“What I did, who I knew,” he said. “Goings-on at court, gossip of the high and mighty, that sort of thing.”

“Anything about your being brother to the count?”

“No,” he said. “In fact, nothing at all about my purpose here. Only about Paris.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“If you are the son of Constance, and Constance was the sister of the late King Louis, then that makes you first cousin to King Phillippe Auguste,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “When I was born, I was actually third or fourth in line-for the throne of France, according to my mother.”

“Are you and your cousin close?”

“It has been up and down,” he said. “A great deal of down lately.”

“Which is why you came to Toulouse,” I said. “To try your luck with your other family.”

“So far, it’s worked like a charm,” he sighed.

“Is there anything that you told La Rossa that you should not have told her?” I asked. “Anything, if overheard, that would have made her a threat?”

“All I told her was Parisian court gossip,” he said.

“Was she impressed?”

“She kept asking for more. I had to start inventing things, just to keep the conversation going. Have you discovered anything?”

“Where are you right now?”

“In a dungeon, awaiting the noose.”

“Then you have your answer,” I said. I started down the corridor to the steps.

“Is there any hope?” he called after me.

“If you are truly innocent, then you will go to Heaven when they hang you,” I said. “That’s more than most of us can say.”

I visited with the prisoners on the higher level of dungeons, telling some jokes and singing a few songs. Afterwards, I climbed back into daylight. Hue was coming to the palace.

“Going to see your master?” I asked.

“I am,” he said. “Have you just been to see him?”

“I have,” I replied.

He looked around so ostentatiously to see if anyone was listening to us that he probably drew the attention of the guards on the Grand Tower; then he leaned forward and whispered, “How goes your investigation?”

“Fine,” I said in a normal voice. “How goes yours?”

“Mine?” he said in surprise.

“You were at the funeral of La Rossa yesterday,” I said. “My wife and daughter saw you there.”

“I did not know that they knew me,” he said. “Yes. I was curious to see who else would appear there.”

“Any surprises?”

“No,” he said. “Gawkers and gossips, as far as I could tell.”

“Well, let me know if you turn up anything useful,” I said.

“I will,” he said. “And thank you for your efforts.”

“No effort at all,” I said. “I am a gawker and gossip, too. I’d be asking questions anyway.”

I passed through the gates to the city, then paused. “What do you want, Sancho?”

He emerged from the shadows to my right. “You were visiting the prisoner,” he said accusingly.

“It’s Tuesday,” I said. “I normally visit the prisoners on Tuesdays. Which did you have in mind?”

“Baudoin.”

“Yes,” I said. “So what?”

“You told me you wouldn’t be investigating this incident,” he said.

“There is nothing to investigate,” I said. “How can I investigate something that isn’t there?”

“Because that is precisely the sort of thing you would do,” he said.

“And yet I spent yesterday lounging around my house, as you very well know since you had two of your men watching it, and I spent this morning entertaining the count and visiting prisoners. Hardly an efficient way of pursuing an investigation, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re up to something,” he said. “I am certain of it.”

“If you are certain, then I know that nothing will dissuade you. But why, if I may ask, are you so concerned, good Sancho? Especially if there is nothing to look for?”

“Because you stir things up,” he said. “The water is nice and clear and drinkable, and then you shove your stick into the muck at the bottom and it all becomes murky and confused and tastes of death and decay.”

“Sancho, you are a poet,” I said in surprise. “I had no idea.”

“I just want things to settle back to the bottom so I can get on with my life,” he said. “It’s wearying worrying about you.”

“I am touched that you care, my friend,” I said. “But do not fret. I assure you that I will do no harm. And as for disturbing the peace, that’s what a jester does for a living. Now,

I am off to have an ale. I will be at the Yellow Dwarf, so tell your men they can have the best view of me through the east window.”

“Since you know they are there, I’ll tell them to have a drink inside the damn place,” he said.

“Hugo will be glad of the business,” I said. “In fact, I should incur more suspicion and demand a commission for each watcher I draw into the place.”

“Go on,” he said. “I am going to have a nap.”

“Dream of anything but me, my friend,” I called as we parted.

My family was already there when I arrived, along with Pelardit, who was demonstrating some sleight of hand involving colored kerchiefs to Helga.

“So that’s how it’s done,” I said as I slid onto the bench next to my wife.

Pelardit indicated to Helga to give it a try. She put her hands under the table for a moment, setting things up, then folded them on top of the table again.

“I am going to cry,” she announced, and sure enough, a single tear trickled down her right cheek. She snuffled loudly, then plucked a blue kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the tear liked she was blotting up the sea. When she brought the kerchief down, it had changed to green. She looked at it in bewilderment, held it up for inspection, then crumpled it up in her right hand. She pulled one green corner out through her fist, then grabbed it with her left and removed it with a flourish. The kerchief was now yellow.

There was applause from Hugo from the other end of the room. Helga bowed grandly.

“Not bad,” I said.

Pelardit sighed and tapped Helga’s sleeve, where the green kerchief was still visible.

“Damn,” she muttered, deflating visibly.

Pelardit looked at her sternly, then directed her to do it again.

“It’s coming along, Apprentice,” I said reassuringly. “It took me weeks to get that one down.”

“Pelardit makes it look so easy,” she said.

“And you will as well,” said Claudia. “What impresses me is how easily you cry on cue.”

Pelardit suddenly looked grief-stricken, his face in agony. In seconds, tears were rolling down his cheeks. This, of course, aroused our competitive instincts. Moments later, all four of us were a group portrait of woe.

“Will you stop that?” complained Hugo. “People will think it’s my cooking.”

“Tears of joy over the fineness of today’s ale, my good tapster,” I called, wiping my eyes. “Now, to business. We have an engagement tomorrow night.”

“Where?” asked Claudia.

“The house of the Count of Foix. He’s having a dinner, and I am to provide the entertainment.”

“Well, for one whose purse has «been sewn shut with threads of iron, it will be interesting to see how much he pays us,” said Claudia.

“I can tell you that in advance,” I said. “Nothing.”

Pelardit winced.

“You volunteered our services?” exclaimed Claudia.

“I lost a wager,” I said, and I told them of my morning race.

“You lost to him on purpose just to get inside his house,” said Claudia accusingly.

“Yes,” I said.

Pelardit heaved a sigh of exasperation.

“Pelardit, if you would rather perform somewhere for money, that would be fine,” I said. “I would understand entirely. However, we would, at least, be fed, and I suspect that a man of Foix’s stature, or anyway a man of Foix’s circumference, provides a decent table on those occasions when he is forced to fend for himself.”

Pelardit drummed his fingers on the table, then shrugged his acquiescence.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I notice that you are not offering me the same choice,” said Claudia.

“I am not married to Pelardit,” I said.

Pelardit gave a look of relief and offered a quick prayer of gratitude to the Heavens.

“I am a jester in full,” she said. “You should at least do me the courtesy of asking.”

“Want to come?” I asked. “Free food.”

She drummed her fingers on the table, then shrugged her acquiescence in perfect copy of Pelardit.

“Thank you,” I said. “I particularly need you to worm what you can out of his wife. The Perfect woman.”

“There is no such thing,” said Claudia.

“I disagree,” I said, patting her hand.

“Oh, stop,” she muttered. “I am too old to blush.”

“Anything new on your investigation?” I asked.

“I waited to see what market Sylvie frequents,” she said. “Sylvie?”

“The maid at the bordel,” she explained. “I didn’t want to run into her accidentally yet, so I just followed her. I will see if I can get her talking.”

“All right,” I said. “Here’s something. I spoke to Baudoin this morning. I wanted more details about his night with La Rossa.”

“Perverse of you, dear husband. Don’t you hear enough of that bragging from the count’s coterie?”

“Too much,” I said. “But I was intrigued by the nature of La Rossa’s pillow talk.”

“Sweet nothings? Insincere praise and odious comparisons?”

“More like grilling on the goings-on at the Parisian court.”

“Hah!” said Claudia. “Either she’s a romantic, or she’s a spy.”

“Spy,” said Helga. “There are no romantics in bordels.”

“Not necessarily a spy herself,” I said. “But definitely working on Baudoin for information. The question is, for whom was she working? And who is that person working for that she would be working for someone by working on Baudoin? Wait a second before answering, because I think I’ve just confused myself.”

“Let’s say she was working for the Count of Foix,” proposed Claudia. “He wants to know about goings-on at the Parisian court. Why? And if that’s what he wants, why doesn’t he want to know more about Baudoin himself?”

“Because he already knows about Baudoin’s identity, whichever one is true,” I said. “Unless he also suspects Baudoin of being a spy for the French court.”

“But why would Foix be the one to set this up? You would think that would come directly from the count, or if not him, Comminges.”

“Maybe the count doesn’t want to show any direct involvement in someone who may actually be his true brother,” I said. “But he’s willing to let the flunkies take care of it for him. Like Foix and Sancho.”

“And you,” said Helga.

“I am no flunky,” I protested.

“Sometimes you are,” said Helga. “Sometimes a jester has to be. That’s what they taught us at the Guild.”

“Very well. I am a flunky. But that doesn’t mean you should call me one.”

“And jesters tell the truth,” said Helga. “Especially when it’s unpleasant. They taught us that, too.”

“They should have given me an apprentice who was not such a good student,” I said.

“I heard that you asked for me in particular,” she said. “On the contrary,” I said. “You were foisted upon me as penance for my sins.”

“Then I shall be with you for a long time,” she said. “Here is my question: What sin am I being punished for that they should have assigned me to you?”

“Is this because she’s a fool in training, or because she’s a twelve-year-old girl?” I asked Claudia.

“The two are so similar, it’s difficult to know where one ends and the other begins,” said Claudia. “Keep jabbing, girl. You are doing fine.”

“Right,” I said. “Now, I feel like singing something Castilian.”

“What fit brought that on?” asked Claudia.

“The arrival of two of Sancho’s men,” I said, grabbing my lute.

I strolled over to their table, strumming away, and launched into a ballad that would have made the local women blush if they had understood the language. Except for my wife, but she already knew the song. In fact, she had taught it to me.

The two men, clearly soldiers but in civilian garb, pretended to ignore me, which is how I knew they were watching me in the first place, but the song got to them after a verse, and they started chuckling. By the end, they were joining in on the choruses, doing quite passably with the harmonies.

“Go to, you rogue,” said one when we had finished. “We’re supposed to be watching you.”

“Then watch me,” I said. “In fact, I insist. A jester craves attention, so having a full-time audience such as yourselves is a golden opportunity, and I thank you for it. Will you be seeing Sancho soon?”