[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal (17 page)

“What?”

“A performance.”

“You mean all his whoring is a cover for something else?”

“It’s a thought. But let us put it aside for now. The guests will be arriving soon.”

We finished unpacking our gear and stowed our bags with those of the musicians. We had a hurried consultation with them to coordinate our performances, or at least not step on each other’s toes, then launched into our dinner modes. As the guests entered the room, they were greeted by music, clubs flying through the air, and the usual brilliant patter from my husband and myself. Pelardit somehow managed to leer at the ladies while maintaining the utmost deference to their husbands, all without uttering a solitary word.

It was a small gathering as these affairs go. Eight couples in all—Raimon and Éléonor; Comminges with Indie, Raimon’s half sister; Sabran with his wife; Peire Roger, the viguier, and his wife; and a few of the lesser nobility who hovered around the inner circle like flies, hoping for a chance to feed without being flicked away.

While the ladies did not compete in costume so much as they might at one of the balls at the Château Narbonnais, they still kept enough jewelry on display to finance a small army among them. They had to make a careful calculation as to how much they could wear while stopping short of surpassing Éléonor. It would not do to arouse her jealousy. She had wisely chosen a necklace of bloodred rubies that emphasized the exquisiteness of her unlined neck, her hair plaited behind and up to further expose it. She made every woman there look older, and the smiles they bestowed upon her barely concealed their envy.

Except for Phelipa, still unadorned, still in her plain gown. She should have looked ancient in this company, a hag in Paradise, yet she sat in serenity, chatting cheerfully with the others, and somehow seemed more at home with herself than did any other person in the room.

There was only the one central table, so we played directly to it as the servants scurried around us with their own juggling act, balancing bowls and trays, pouring from ewers with both hands. The Count of Foix for this occasion sat directly by the Count of Toulouse, regaling him with feeble anecdotes that had Raimon smiling wanly. Theo observed the strained amusement and leapt in.

“Lords and ladies,” he cried. “I stand before you in shame, as you very well know. A fat man outran me. I have been searching within my soul for the reasons that this happened, and I think that I have found the answer.”

“It is because I am the faster man,” bellowed Foix.

“No, senhor,” said Theo. “That was not the reason. If you look back at the great stories of footraces in ancient lore, you will find that they are not merely about who won and who lost, for that would merely be a simple matter of fact at a given place and time. No, my noble friends, the stories that are handed down from generation to generation are tales of moral instruction, fables that ferret out the fatal flaw of the fleet-footed favorite. I would be a poor loser indeed if I could not learn from my failure, and pass that learning on to you.”

“School us, then,” commanded Raimon, leaning back in his chair.

“I shall, Dominus,” said Theo, bowing. “Now, for this dramatization, the Count of Foix must be portrayed by one of impeccable character.”

Pelardit stepped forward and bowed.

“He looks nothing like you,” Comminges said to Foix. Pelardit, on hearing this, looked wounded, then thoughtful. He strode over behind Comminges and tapped him on the shoulder. Comminges looked up and Pelardit shoved him forward gently, then seized one of the large cushions from his seat. He came back around to us and held it up for all to see. Then he lifted the tunic of his motley and shoved it underneath. He leaned back, the cushion bulging in front of this stomach, and puffed out his cheeks grotesquely.

“Oh, that’s him, to the life,” said Sabran as the rest of the company laughed. Even Foix joined in, although it seemed forced.

“Very good,” said Theo. “Now, to play me, I have selected a paragon of virtue, a superbly handsome and gifted fellow, to wit, myself.”

He swept forward into a magnificent bow as I applauded madly and cheered from the side. As he straightened up and then bowed again, I increased in volume and enthusiasm until I was whooping with adulation. He straightened again and glanced over at me. I kept it going until he cut it off abruptly with an obvious hand signal.

“May I add that the quality I value most in my wife is her sincerity,” he said.

I started up again at that, and cut off a split second later after an even more obvious signal, accompanied by an irritated glare.

“Now,” he said as Pelardit stood by his side, “we shall depict the race as it actually happened.”

They stood for a moment, then bowed.

“But you did nothing,” said Raimon.

“On the contrary,” said Theo. “The actual race was at such a blinding pace that you could no more see it than you could the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. In the time that you thought that nothing happened, we completed our five circuits of the room and are, as a result, quite exhausted.”

Pelardit mopped his brow and grabbed a goblet of wine from the table to ease his thirst from running so far and so fast.

“So, my lords and ladies, to properly show you how this mound of flesh triumphed over me, we shall have to slow the actual pace down to one that the human eye may perceive. Pelardit?”

Pelardit took one last gulp of wine, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and nodded. The two of them stood ready to run.

“One, two,” Theo counted slowly. There was a long pause. “Threeeee…”

They turned slowly and took an exaggerated step forward, then another. Each moment could have been a study for a painting, a living tableau of a footrace, only moving at a snail’s pace.

Well, snails don’t have feet, but you get the idea.

As they rounded the first corner and started to head my way, Theo was two steps in front of Pelardit. He looked back at him and thumbed his nose. As he did, I held my lute by the neck and swung it slowly into his path. It caught him in the stomach, and he doubled over and went into a somersault that took forever to complete as Pelardit passed him.

Theo got up, glared at me, and took off in leisurely pursuit. He caught Pelardit by the next lap, at which point I grabbed a pair of stools and slid them into his path. He hurdled them both, a smug look on his face that lasted until I retrieved them and sent them across the floor to the other side of the room just in time to collide with him. He ended up plastered against the far wall, then peeled himself away and caught up with Pelardit in a determined effort.

On the third lap, I stuck my leg out. It snagged his outstretched foot, and he went tumbling in a series of complicated rolls that carried him out the door and into the hall as Pelardit, puffing mightily, continued on.

Theo reappeared immediately, churning his legs until he reached the other fool. This time, I stepped in front of him,and we both ended up in a lethargic tangle of limbs on the floor that I rather enjoyed, truth be known. He got up, and I lay there, my face in an expression of lewd bliss as he made his next lap, looking back over his shoulder at me as I slowly got to my feet.

It was the final lap. The entire room looked to where I was standing, waiting to see what I would do this time. As Theo approached, I simply looked at him and smiled.

He stopped, swept me into his arms, and kissed me hard. Pelardit made his turn and crashed slowly into the table right in front of Raimon, then raised his arms in victory.

Theo kept kissing me to the hoots of the guests. Finally, he came up for air and turned to them with a hangdog look.

“So, my lords and ladies,” he said. “I lost the race. But right now, I don’t care.”

And he kissed me again until I swooned in his arms. He picked me up and slung me over his shoulder.

“It looks like you have some serious eating to do,” he said to the table. “We shall leave you to it.”

He carried me over by the musicians and dumped me on the floor, then plopped down next to me. Pelardit joined us a moment later.

“That went well,” murmured Theo.

“Especially considering we never rehearsed it,” I said. “I liked the bit with the cushion, Pelardit.”

Pelardit acknowledged the compliment with a nod, then slapped his forehead. He stood, removed the cushion, and whistled across the room. As the diners looked up, he spun like an athlete throwing a discus and hurled the cushion back to the Duke of Comminges, who caught it and put it back on his seat. Pelardit sat back down.

“Well have to perform this again,” said Theo. “Maybe pass it on to the Fools’ Guild. They could use some new material. What shall we call it?”

“The Fat Man, the Fool, the Footrace, and the Flirt,” I suggested.

He smiled and put his arm around my shoulder. “You know alliteration arouses me,” he growled in my ear.

“I prefer kissing,” I sighed. “And rolling around the floor.”

“In front of everyone like that?”

“At the moment it happened, you were the only one in the room,” I said.

Pelardit let out a long, dying whistle as one of the maidservants passed by. She shot him a momentary smile, then went back to her duties.

“Is she your chosen one for tonight?” asked Theo.

Pelardit shrugged, his eyes never leaving her.

“How he woos and wins them without talking is beyond me,” said Theo.

“A man who doesn’t speak is every woman’s dream,” I said. “It’s when you open your mouths that—“

Phelipa abruptly stood up, looking at the table in horror. “How could you?” she whispered to her husband.

Then, clutching a napkin to her mouth, she ran from the room. The guests looked at Foix in puzzlement.

“My apologies, my friends,” he said. “You know how she is. Please, pay it no mind. I have more of this feast waiting for you.”

There was a pause; then Raimon turned back to his plate. The others followed his lead.

“What just happened?” wondered Theo.

“Chicken,” I said. “They are serving chicken. You entertain them. I am going to see if she is all right.”

“Chicken,” muttered Theo as I left. “Of course.”

With all the household servants in attendance at the dinner, there was no one to stop me from wandering around the
maison
on my own. I sought out the tower and climbed the steps.Two floors up, I heard a low voice sobbing. I tracked it to a room off the stairs. The door was slightly open. I listened for a moment, then knocked. The sobbing continued.

Well, no one told me to go away. I went in.

Phelipa’s room had no more decoration than its mistress. The bed was a plain affair, a simple assembly of pine planks and a thin pallet. It did not look strong enough to support the Count of Foix. Or his marriage.

She was curled up on top of the covers, her face buried in her hands, somehow seeming like a little girl rather than the matriarch that she was. She took no note of my entrance into her chamber.

“Domina, I am here,” I said.

She looked up in surprise at my voice. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Your job is to entertain the guests.”

“The guests are the responsibilities of my husband and Perlardit,” I said, sitting on the bed next to her. “My job is to entertain my hostess. Apparently, you did not enjoy the act.”

“No, it wasn’t that,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “It was the chicken. Nothing consumed that is born of coition. That is your belief, is it not?”

“I have never kept it secret,” she said. “All know that Phelipa is a Cathar.”

“Not just a Cathar,” I said. “You are one of the Perfect, are you not?”

She was silent.

“It was cruel of your husband to serve this meal,” I said. “He could have honored your beliefs and kept it simple.”

“He was entertaining the Count of Toulouse,” she said. “He felt he had to provide an appropriate meal for a corrupt lord.”

“Did you not know that he would do so?”

“I thought we had agreed that he would honor my beliefs,” she said. “He may do as he likes outside this house, but in here, even the Count of Toulouse is only a guest.”

“I hope that the Cathars don’t have anything against jesters,” I said. “As it happens, we, too, are the product of coition.”

“You mock me,” she said, but there was a momentary smile. “I mock everybody,” I said. “It is strange. We have entertained all manner of folk, from the nobility of God and men to the lowest of the low. We have performed for Christians, Jews, and Mohammedans. But we have never performed for Cathars. At least, not specifically. Do they have senses of humor?”

“Of course,” she said indignantly.

“Tell me a joke, Domina,” I said.

“What?”

“You claim to have a sense of humor. Show me.”

“A countess does not tell jokes,” she protested.

“I don’t see why not,” I said.

“And how should I amuse a jester?” she said.

“A paradox,” I said. “Very well, I will let you off the hook this time. But before this life is over, you will tell me a joke. I prophesy it.”

“How did you become a jester?” she asked.

“I fell in love with a jester,” I said. “How did you become a countess?”

“I fell in love with a count,” she said.

“This falling in love is a tricky business,” I said. “One really must be careful about it. You never know where you will end up. How did you become a Cathar?”

“That was a long and thoughtful process,” she said. “The very opposite of marriage.”

“There,” I exclaimed. “That was a joke. How would I go about becoming one?”

“Are you serious?”

“Curious, I would say. I have become increasingly disappointed with the Church, and God knows the bishop here does little to sustain one’s faith. Do you think I could become one of the Perfect?”

“In time,” she said. “Faith is easy. Keeping faith over time— that is the difficult part. There are so many distractions.”

“Dinner parties and such.”

“Wandering husbands with wandering eyes,” she sighed. “He is a good man at heart. And he loves me, I am sure of it.”

“But he serves chicken to the count. Does your husband share your beliefs?”