The crowd cackled. “Your story errs there,” said Baldwin, laughing, “if it’s brains you want.”
“So I’ve heard.” I bowed to the duke. “But for the purpose of the tale, he’ll do.”
Norcross’s amusement began to sour and he glared at me, red faced.
“So the peasants came to this very wise knight and they told him of their problem with the cow. They moaned, ‘What must we do?’
“The wise knight replied, ‘You say if the bull tries to mount it this way, it wiggles left? And from this direction, it wiggles right?’
“‘Yes!’ they cried.
“The knight thought it over. ‘I do not know if I can solve your dilemma,’ he said, ‘but I know one thing. Your cow is from Amiens, is it not?’
“‘Yes, yes,’ the peasants shouted. ‘It is indeed from Amiens. How could you possibly know?’”
I turned back to Norcross. I perched on the table next to him. “‘Because my wife,’ the knight muttered, ‘she is from Amiens as well.’”
The hall burst into laughter. The knights, the duke, the ladies. All except Norcross. Then the vast room echoed with applause.
Baldwin came up and slapped me on the back. “You are indeed funny, fool. You have other jokes like this?”
“Many,” I replied. To punctuate the point, I sprang into a forward flip, then one backward. The crowd oohed.
“They must laugh well in Borée. You may stay, my new companion. You are hired.”
I raised my arms in triumph. The large room echoed with applause. But inside, I knew I stood inches from the very men I had sworn to kill.
“Palimpost, as of this day you are retired,” Baldwin declared. “Show the new fool your spot.”
“Retired? But I have no desire, my liege. Haven’t I served you with all my wit?”
“With what little you have. So you are unretired, then. I grant you a new job. In the graveyard. See if you can cheer up the audience there.”
Chapter 45
TWO DAYS AFTER MY ARRIVAL, Baldwin announced a great feast at court, with counts, knights, and other noble-born invited from all over the region. The duke knew how to waste what had been earned by his poor serfs.
I was instructed by the lord’s chamberlain that I would be a main act at the festivities. Baldwin’s wife, the lady Heloise, had heard of my audition and was eager to see my act.
This would be my first real test!
The day of the gathering, the entire castle bustled with activity. An endless army of servants wearing their finest uniforms, tunics of the same purple and white, marched dishware and elaborate candelabras into the great hall. Minstrels practiced on the lawn. Giant logs were loaded into the hearths. The luscious aroma of roasting goose, pig, and sheep permeated the castle.
I spent the day polishing my routine. This was my coming out, my first real performance. I had to shine, to remain in Baldwin’s good graces. I juggled, twirled my staff, practiced my flips back and forth, went over my tales and jokes.
Finally, the evening of the feast was at hand. Nervous as a groom, I made my way to the banquet hall. Four long tables filled the room, each covered in the finest linen cloth and set with candelabras engraved with the duke’s lion shield.
Arriving guests were greeted with a flourish of horns. I sauntered up to each, announcing them with playful epithets. “His bawdiness, the duke of Loire, and his lovely niece, er . . . wife, the lady Kate.” It was all meant to trump the husband and praise his wife, no matter how plain she might be. Everyone played along.
Only when the room filled did Baldwin and his lady, Heloise, make their entrance. One glance made it obvious to me that Baldwin had not married for looks. The couple waded through the room, Baldwin hugging and joking with the men, Heloise curtsying and receiving lavish praise. They took seats at the head of the largest table.
When their guests were all seated, Baldwin stood and raised a goblet. “Welcome, everyone. Tonight we have much to cheer. The court has been enriched by a new flock. And the arrival of a fool from Borée. Hugh will make us laugh, or else.”
“I have heard my husband’s new pet is quite the rage,” Lady Heloise announced. “Perhaps he will set the tone with a few jests.”
I took a deep breath, then I hopped around to the head table. “I’ll do my best, my lady.”
I scampered toward her but then threw myself into the lap of a fat old man seated down the row. I grinned, stroking his beard. “I would be honored to perform for you, Your Grace. I . . .”
“Here, fool,” Lady Heloise called. “I am over here.”
“Gads.” I shot out of the man’s lap. “Of course, my lady. I must’ve been blinded by your beauty. So much so, I could not see.”
There was a trickle of laughter.
“Surely, fool,” Lady Heloise called, “you did not have the crowd shouting your name the other day with such mild flattery. Perhaps it is I who am blinded. Is that Hugh I see there or Palimpost?”
The room chuckled at the hostess’s wit. Even I bowed, warming to the challenge.
At the end of the table, a potbellied priest was sucking down a mug of ale. I hopped onto the table in front of him, plates and mugs clattering. “There’s this one, then. . . . A man went to a priest to confess his many sins. He said he had much to share.”
The priest looked up. “To me?”
“We’ll see, Father, how you feel about it at the end. First, the man confessed he had stolen from a friend, but added that this friend had stolen something back of equal value. ‘One thing cancels out another,’ the priest replied. ‘You are absolved.’”
“It is true.” The priest nodded.
“Next,” I went on, “the fellow said he had beaten the man with a stick, but had received equal blows in return. ‘Again, these both cancel each other out,’ the priest replied. ‘You owe God nothing.’
“Now this penitent sensed he could get away with anything. He said there was something else to confess, one more sin, but he was too ashamed. When the priest encouraged him, he said. ‘Once, Father, I had your sister.’
“‘My sister!’ the priest bellowed. The man was sure he was about to feel a holy wrath. ‘And I have had your mother on several occasions,’ the priest said. ‘Again, they cancel each other out. So we are both absolved.’”
The guests clapped and laughed. The embarrassed priest looked around the room and clapped as well.
“More, fool,” Lady Heloise shouted, “in the same temper.” She turned to Baldwin. “Where have you been hiding this treasure?”
The room bubbled with good cheer. Food was served — swan and goose and pig. Goblets and mugs were filled by servants scurrying about.
I leaped up to a server carrying a roast on a tray. I took a whiff of the meat. “Superb.” I sighed. “Who knows the difference between medium and rare?”
Diners at the tables looked around and shrugged.
I went up to a blushing lady. “Six inches is medium, my lady. But eight is rare.”
Again, they roared. I had it going. I spotted Baldwin taking congratulations, seeming delighted with the performance.
To much fanfare, a train of servers marched in from the kitchen carrying prepared plates. Baldwin stood. “Lamb, guests, from our new flock.”
Baldwin stuck a knife into a slice of lamb and chewed off a piece in front of his server. “Delicious, server, wouldn’t you say?”
“It is, my lord.” The server bowed stiffly.
To my horror, I realized that the dejected servant was the same farmer from whom Baldwin had chiseled the flock just two days before. Suddenly my blood stirred in rage.
“Please, jester, do continue,” Baldwin said with a mouthful of meat.
“I will, my lord.” I bowed.
I spotted Norcross at the end of Baldwin’s table, stabbing his meat among a row of other knights. “Is that my lord Norcross I see stuffing his face over there?”
Norcross looked up, then his eyes narrowed on me.
“Te
ll me,” I asked the crowd, “who is a greater hero to our lord than the brave Norcross? Who among us could be more forgiven for conceit? In fact, I have heard this good knight is so conceited, that during climax he calls out his own name.”
Norcross put his knife down. He stared at me, juice running through his beard. Laughter ensued, but as the knight’s face tightened, it trickled away.
“And there are those who ask,” I continued, “what do a holiday decoration and my lord Norcross have in common?”
This time there were no amused mutterings. A tense silence hung in the air.
“You will find,” I said, “that their balls are just for decoration.”
With that, the knight shot up, drawing his sword. He lunged around the crowded table toward me.
I pretended to flee. “Help me, help me, my lord. I have no sword, yet I fear I have struck too deep.”
I did a flip and ran around the table toward Baldwin. Norcross pursued, weighed down and slightly drunk.
I easily avoided him, circling the table to the merriment of the crowd, who almost seemed to be making bets as to whether the knight would catch me and cut my throat. Finally, I threw myself in the protection of Baldwin’s lap. “He will kill me, my lord.”
“He will not,” Baldwin replied. “Relax, Norcross. Our new fool has managed to get under your skin. A good laugh, not a killing, should soothe the wound.”
“He insults me, my lord. I stand for that from no man.”
“This is no man.” Baldwin cackled. “He is but a fool. And he provides us much entertainment.”
“I have served you well.” The red-faced knight seethed. “I demand to fight the fool.”
“You will not.” Lady Heloise rose. “The fool has acted on my bidding. If anything untimely happens to him, I will know the author. You may feel safe, Hugh.”
Norcross exhaled a deep, frustrated breath, the object of all eyes in the room. Slowly he let his massive sword slip back into its sheath.
“Next time, fool,” he said, “the laugh will be mine.” He went back to his seat, never once removing his stare from me.
“You have picked an adversary who is not one to anger.” Baldwin chuckled as he ate his lamb. He tossed some bits of fat off his plate to the floor. “Here. Help yourself.”
I looked across the room at Norcross. I knew I had made an enemy for life.
But so had he.
Chapter 46
I HAD NO TIME TO WASTE. I set out to find Sophie. She was alive. I knew it.
My confrontation with Norcross had given me instant status among the castle staff. I was given a name, Hugh the Brave, or, I was told, with respect to Norcross’s wrath, Hugh the Brief. People who I sensed served the duke only out of fear or obligation came and whispered their support. I was able to make a few useful friends.
There was Bette the cook, a chubby, red-faced woman with a sharp tongue who kept the kitchen running like a spotless ship. And Jacques, the upstairs valet du chambre, who took meals next to me in the kitchen. Even a cheerful sergeant at arms at the court, Henri, who chuckled at my jokes.
I questioned all of them, asking if they had heard of a fair, blond woman held captive in the castle, keeping my reasons close to the vest. No one had. “Checked the brothels?” The sergeant winked. “Once the nobles have no use for ’em, they’d be sent there.” So I did. I made the rounds, pretending to be a choosy customer. But, thank God, no one fitting Sophie’s description was among the poor whores at Treille.
“You look a little drawn in the face, for a jester,” Bette, the cook, observed one morning as she pounded out her dough. “Your lost sweetheart again?”
I wished I could take her into my confidence. “Not mine, Bette, but a friend’s,” I lied. “Someone asked me to inquire.”
“A friend’s, you say.” The cook eyed me skeptically. She seemed to play with me. “Is she highborn or common?”
I looked up from my bowl. “How would a rogue like me know anyone highborn?” I grinned. “Except you, perhaps. . . .”
“Oh yes, me . . .” Bette cackled. “I’m the duke’s own blood. That’s why I slave in this hearth until dark every day.”
She laughed and went about her chores. But when she returned lugging a pot, she crept behind me and said confidingly, “Perhaps it’s the Tavern you want, love.”
I looked up. “The Tavern?”
She reached on her tiptoes for a bowl of garlic heads high on a shelf. “The dungeons,” she said under her breath. “They’re always filled with mouths to feed. At least for a short while. We call them la Taverne. Everyone goes in on their own two feet, but usually it takes a team of four to carry them out.”
I looked to thank her, but Bette quickly breezed to the other side of the kitchen, peeling the garlic for her soup.
The Tavern. For days afterward, I spied on it in the courtyard while taking my daily stroll. A heavy iron door, always guarded by at least two soldiers from Baldwin’s reserve. Once or twice, I sauntered over, trying to warm up the guards. I did a little magic trick, tossed some balls in the air, twirled my staff. I never got as much as a snicker.
“Bug off, fool,” one guard barked at me. “No one here even remembers how to laugh.”
“You want a peek,” another barked, “I’m sure Norcross’ll find you a room.”
I hurried away, pretending his very name had sent me trembling. But I continued plotting. How to get in? Who could help me? I tried the chamberlain. I even tried to play my liege, Baldwin. One day, after court, I sidled up to him. “Time for a drink, my lord. How about I buy you one . . . in la Taverne?”
Baldwin laughed and said to his coterie, “Fool wants a drink so bad, he’s willing to risk the pox to get it.”
One night, as I took my meal in the kitchen, Bette sat down with me. “You are a strange sort, Hugh. All day you’re smiles and tricks. But at night you sulk and brood like a lost lover. Why do I think this loss you feel is not a friend’s?”
I could no longer hide my sadness. I had to trust someone. “You are right, Bette. It’s my wife I seek. She was taken from my village. By raiding knights. I know she is here. I can feel it in my blood.”
Bette did not show surprise. She only smiled. “I knew you were no fool,” she said. “And I can be a friend,” she added, “if you need one.”
“I need one more than you can know,” I said, desperate. “But why?”
“Be sure, not for your silly tricks, Hugh, or your flattery.” Bette’s expression changed, grew warmer. “Geoffrey and Isabel, Hugh . . . They are my cousins. Why do you think I always saved you the best scraps of meat? You don’t think you’re that funny, do you? I owe you their lives, Hugh.”
I grasped her hands. “La Taverne, Bette. I have to get in. I’ve tried everything, but there’s no way.”
“No way?” The cook stared at me a long time, searching my intentions. “For a fool, maybe. Only a fool would want to get into la Taverne. But there’s a saying here. The best way to end up in the soup is to ask the cook!”
Chapter 47
IT WAS CHILLY for a summer night in Borée. A breeze blew over the gardens. The lady Emilie huddled in her cloak. At her side was the jester, Norbert.
Emilie had tried to read her book of chansons de geste that night, but the pages turned emptily, her thoughts drifting into space like wisps of smoke. The rhymes of poets and the tales of imaginary heroes no longer captivated her. Her heart ached with a confusion she had never known before. It always came back to one thing. One face.
What is happening to me? she wondered. I feel I am going mad.
Norbert had noticed it. The jester had knocked on her door earlier that night. “I know laughter, my lady, and to know that, I must know melancholy too.”
“So you are a jester and now a physician too?” She pretended to scold him.
“It takes no physician to see what ails you, lady. You miss the lad, don’t you?”
With anyone else, she would have bitten her tongue. “I do miss
him, jester. I cannot lie.”
The jester sat across from her. “You’re not alone. I miss him too.”
This was something new for Emilie. She was used to feeling that men were like flies, nuisances, always buzzing around her, too concerned with their boasting and their deeds to be taken seriously. But this was different. How had it happened? She had only known Hugh for weeks. His life was a world apart from hers, yet she knew everything about him. Most likely, she would never see him again.
“I feel I have sent him on this quest,” she told Norbert. “And now I wish I could bring him back.”
“You did not send him, lady. And with all respect, he is not yours to bring back.”
No, Norbert was right. Hugh was not hers. She had only stumbled upon him.
So she huddled in the garden that night. She needed to feel the air on her face. Somehow, out here, under the same moon, she felt closer to him. I don’t know if I will ever see you again, Hugh De Luc. But I pray I do. Somehow, some way.
“You risk a lot to have such feelings,” Norbert said.
“They are not planned. They just . . . are.”
He took her hand. There was a moment between them, not as lady and servant but as friends. Emilie blushed, then smiled. “It seems my heart is owned by jesters from all around.”
“Do not worry, my lady. Our Red is canny and resourceful. I taught him, you know. A chip off the old block. I’m sure he’s fine. He’ll find his wife.”
“A jester and a physician and now a seer too?” She hugged the jester. “Thank you, Norbert.” Then she watched him go back inside.
It was late. The garden was still. She had promised the priest she would wake early for morning prayers. “Be safe, Hugh De Luc,” she whispered, then turned back toward the castle.
She headed along the loggia above the gardens to the living quarters. Then, out of the night, voices came to her from below.
Who could be out here at this hour? Emilie hid behind a column and peered into the deep shadows below.
A man and a woman. Voices raised.
She strained to hear. “This is not it, knight,” the woman said. “This is not the treasure.”