Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  Sheldrake sat, still smiling. “You need have no fear, captain. The it will not flow long.”

  Torrance looked up at him and frowned. “What?”

  “You will not see the sun rise. The wine contained a poison. Even now it courses through your veins, eating away at your entrails. Do you not feel its heat in your blood? Do you not feel it swelling the flesh beneath your skin? Your guts will boil, your organs blister and burst, until they can sustain your life no longer. It will not take long. In a few minutes from now, you shall be dead!”

  “Why?”

  “For all of this.” Sheldrake swept his arm in a broad gesture which took in the whole room, perhaps the whole town.

  Torrance fell forward from his chair.

  The eyes were open wide with the pain of the spasms that had wracked the body. A trickle of blood slowed and trickled over the edge of a hollow in the stone floor; the depression filled to overflow, and the trickle continued on its way. When the corpse finally lay still, a black-gloved hand closed the sightless eyes.

  *

  “Take the body out of here.” Sheldrake gestured impatiently to the Guardsmen who waited by the door.

  The two men struggled with the shrouded corpse, man-handling it out of the chamber. They almost tripped over a draggletailed, one-eyed ginger tom which haunted the rooms of its master, perhaps aware in its own way of his death.

  Sheldrake stared down out of the window. The undertaker waited with the hearse in the castle courtyard below. Two horses with black plumes on their heads snorted impatient clouds of mist into the pre-dawn air. Sheldrake couldn’t see the undertaker’s face, but knew he’d be wearing his usual predatory half-smile. Patiently waiting, rubbing his marble-white hands in anticipation. Or perhaps it was the early morning chill. Sheldrake yawned: it had been a long night.

  “We believe the murderer gained entry through a window on the floor below, it can be reached from the outside via a tree.” Lieutenant Wolcott, ever efficient. “The window shows signs of having been forced. This is the only room in the Guard House that appears to have been touched.” Sheldrake turned to face him, and the lieutenant’s face flushed.

  Sheldrake could not call up the usual confident arrogance of a military officer; instead, he had to dominate by sheer force of will. Men disliked him, he knew, but at the same time they were afraid of him, and he would use their unease to his advantage.

  The housekeeper entered carrying a dish of milk.

  “Ah, thank you,” Sheldrake said.

  She handed him the dish, never taking her eyes off his face; she did a nervous curtsey and scurried out.

  “Has anything been taken?” Sheldrake asked. He looked around the room for anything he might have missed earlier.

  “We don’t believe so,” Walcott said. “But we have yet to question the housekeeper.”

  “The motive was not robbery, then, it was murder,” Sheldrake said. “A professional assassin, do you think?”

  “There were no wounds on the body, so it was not a blade that killed him.”

  “What then?” Sheldrake asked.

  The lieutenant spent some moments in silent thought. “Magic?” He suggested finally, though his tone said he thought it unlikely.

  “Possibly,” Sheldrake said. “But there is, perhaps, a more mundane solution.” He took the jug from the side table and poured a splash of wine into the milk. He bent and placed the dish on the floor.

  The ginger tom eyed Sheldrake suspiciously, then began to lap up the milk. The cat gave a hoarse scream and fell face-first into the dish.

  Sheldrake picked up the dead creature by its tail.

  “Poison?” the lieutenant asked.

  “That or a particularly bad vintage.” Sheldrake turned to a Guardsman who stood just outside the door. “Take this down to the undertaker.”

  The Guardsman reluctantly took the cat.

  “Why would anyone want to poison the Captain of the Guard?” Lieutenant Walcott asked.

  “It is we who enforce the King’s law, lieutenant,” Sheldrake said. “We make enemies of all those who would seek to operate outside of it.”

  “It is bad, sir, when our captain is murdered in his own quarters.”

  “It is, lieutenant, indeed it is.”

  Lieutenant Walcott squared his shoulders. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you... That is, will you be Captain of the Guard now, sir?”

  “As second in command, I will be acting in that capacity, until Lord Eòghan appoints a new captain,” Sheldrake said.

  “Oh.”

  “I will, of course, need you to act as my lieutenant during that time.”

  “Yes, sir!” The lieutenant’s face flushed again and he could barely suppress his grin.

  “The housekeeper will need to be questioned, I would like you to see to that personally,” Sheldrake said. “I would like a moment alone here to reflect on this dreadful business.”

  “I’ll see to it that you aren’t disturbed, sir.” Lieutenant Walcott exited, closing the door behind him.

  Sheldrake permitted himself a brief smile, and almost made the mistake of pouring himself a glass of wine. Instead, he sat in Captain Torrance’s chair and made himself comfortable.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was the time of year when taxes were due. The procession of heavily-laden carts had been toiling up to the castle since before daybreak. Some had travelled from farms as many as twenty miles away, and the main road to town was now churned and rutted by the iron-banded wheels; animal dung and cereal stalks trampled into the soft red dirt. The town streets leading to the castle were stained with the same mud.

  A small, hollow-chested man was unloading sacks from his cart, which was leaning badly, the axle splintered. He struggled to heave the sacks onto the back of a slat-ribbed mule: his wife was crouched beside the wrecked cart, picking up grains from a split sack and storing them in her apron. No one stopped to aid the unfortunate couple, all were wrapped up in their own troubles, worrying whether their produce was adequate to pay what they owed Lord Eòghan for use of the farmland he owned.

  The cobbled yard that was the castle’s bailey was in chaos. A cacophony of animal cries, mixed with the voices of Lord Eòghan’s men who shouted instruction and abuse at the sombre-faced taxpayers. Empty carts were ranged along the wall to either side of the main gate. Impatient bullocks and half-starved mules were tended by blank-eyed wives. The menfolk stood in lines that snaked across the courtyard, waiting to have their sacks weighed and counted, or clutching cages of fowl and baskets of produce ready for evaluation. Livestock was led towards an area where makeshift pens had been erected. Harried scribes scuttled after uniformed officials, noting down the names of tenants and the nature and value of their payments; others stood beside the scales where sacks of grain were weighed.

  “Bede of the Grange: one milking cow, lame in the left foreleg; two piglets...”

  “Owen of the Acre: one half-dozen laying hens... Ho, there!” As one of the poorly bound cages twisted out of true and the hens made a bid for freedom.

  “Stanley the Cooper: one score iron-bound barrels for wine – empty.”

  “Any with the King’s coin to leave the queue and enter this way,” one of the uniformed guards bellowed periodically. None had gold or silver, his Lordship would have to make do with produce.

  The Guard was making itself conspicuous: ranged around the courtyard were pairs of pike-armed sentries whose presence further dampened the already cheerless proceedings. Throughout the castle, at every door and window, patrolling every corridor, and periodically checking into every room, more of the red and black garbed figures could be seen.

   The smells of the animals and their droppings, the smells of sweat, of vegetables and fruits both fresh and spoiled, of a split barrel of ale, all were mingled and hung heavy in the growing heat of the courtyard. Unobserved, a fresh-pink piglet snuffled through a pile of discarded bruised fruit and yellowed leaves. A go
ose writhed in the arms of a down-bearded youth, feet scrabbling and neck snaking to hiss at the men who were trying to keep people in line and shuffling towards the great hall.

  There was little or no conversation between each roughly garbed peasant and his neighbour. Each kept his eyes on his basket or sack, fearful of losing it to the casual thief before it was officially taken by their landlord. Pained, desperate faces of those who knew that their offering was insufficient, which was the majority. Veiled anger of younger men who knew this payment would mean hungry days ahead. Blank faces of the old and sick who knew it was unlikely they’d be there in another year.

  A dark pink and black sow turned suddenly, losing patience with the two youths who were trying to man-handle her into the narrow pen. Snorting at the indignity of it all she broke into the exquisite trot of an overweight lady, scattering the line of tax-payers. A snort, a change of direction, and she bowled over a red-faced man in the castle uniform. The man fell heavily, bouncing on his buttocks on the cobbled yard, his breath knocked from him.

  “You there! I do not pay you a wage to sit on your broad backside all day! Get this rabble in line, and be swift at it!” Lord Eòghan’s voice boomed across the yard, silencing the conversation and laughter that this misfortune had brought about.

  Flustered, the man tried to scramble to his feet, but his hand slipped in a yellowish turd, and he fell back onto his bruised buttocks with a pained oof.

  “So, you disobey me, eh?” Lord Eòghan bellowed.

  The unfortunate man hid his face in his hands, resigning himself to a thrashing as he heard his master moving through the crowd towards him.

  “Take that for your troubles, dog!” Lord Eòghan spat.

  The man covered his head with laced fingers to protect himself from the expected beating. He flinched as the first blow swished through the air.

  Slap!

  Slap!

  The man took his hands away from his head. Another blow swished down.

  Slap!

  A few chuckles from the onlooking crowd.

  Raising his head slightly, the man could see the feet of his assailant. Not the gleaming black leather of a Lord, but the ragged bindings of a peasant. Layers and layers of rough hessian around foot and calf, until the feet were swollen to inhuman proportion. One more so than the other, unless the fellow was club footed. Patched breeches that might once have been richly red, now threadbare. A loose shirt, many times too large for its present occupant, whose pale, bruised body seemed stick-thin in its ragged folds. The unshaven face leant close to him now, one eye squinting, almost shut, the other glaring. The mouth twisted, lop-sided, one cheek swollen grotesquely. The face of a young man. The expression of a simpleton.

  “And let that be a lesson to you, you laggardly cur!” Wagging a bony finger in the face of the startled man, brandishing a bunch of limp burdocks and threatening another sound thrashing. But the voice. The voice was a perfect imitation of Lord Eòghan’s.

  The man struggled to his feet, puffing, ignoring the hand the young idiot proffered in help. The man brushed his clothes down, after wiping his fingers on a handful of straw. Then he turned his attention to the stoop-shouldered youth who was staring up at him with childlike rapture. He cuffed the youth round the head with his open palm. The youth staggered.

  “And let that be a lesson to you!” The uniformed man sneered. There were several hisses of disapproval from the crowd. The man blushed, knowing that it was wrong to abuse one blessed by the gods with the innocence of a child, one untainted by the sins of the adult mind. “You are exempt from taxes, fool!” He spoke more kindly. “Get away from here and let those with work to do get on with it.” He turned his back on the youth and began urging the crowd back into line.

  The youth stuck out his lower lip, looking hurt by this rebuff. Several of those with soft hearts murmured ‘aah’s’ of pity, others moving forward to touch the youth’s head, for luck. The youth’s face brightened suddenly, he grinned broadly and pointed a finger skyward, as though struck by divine inspiration. He picked up three of the least rotten apples from the pile of discards and began to juggle them, slowly, falteringly at first, but with increasing speed.

  “You’ll make no profit here, fool. These wretches have to hand over more than they can afford to their Lord,” the uniformed man said quietly.

  Distracted, the fool missed his rhythm and a rotten apple splattered on his head. He licked the juice which trickled down his face. There were several hesitant smiles among the faces in the crowd.

  “If he can raise a laugh among this lot he will do well,” another of the uniformed men joined the first. “But if he does, he will be well remembered later when it is time to eat, or find a bed.”

  “Ho, you two there!” The Lord’s voice again came from the fool’s lips. “You’re not paid to stand yacking like women; these fine people are in a desperate hurry to give away all they own! Get you over here and spread a little misery among them!”

  “The likeness of voice is remarkable,” the second man grinned to his fellow.

  The fool moved further into the courtyard, his lordly imitation booming out. “Out of my way – make way, you dogs!” Some of the more fun-loving bowed deferentially and moved aside. More smiles. Several men turned and struck up a conversation with their neighbours. The fool swaggered towards the well in the centre of the courtyard and sat on its stone wall, legs spread wide like Lord Eòghan on his seat in the great hall. “Wine! Bring me more wine, confound you! – Who is next to pay tax to his Lord?” The fool boomed, belching and scratching his testicles, imitating the self-important attitude all knew of the nobility.

  Suddenly the fool leapt from the wall and fell to his knees, cringing, looking up to where his master had been moments ago. “My lord,” the fool spoke in the respectful tone of a poor peasant. “I have nothing to offer you this year. Last year you took all my grain. I had none to re-plant my field; and none to feed my family. During the winter, I lost my wife...”

  The fool jumped back onto the well wall, and tugged at an imaginary beard. “Lost her?” He feigned lordly incredulity. “She couldn’t have gone far. Did you not see her footsteps in the snow, and so follow her?”

  Several in the crowd laughed at this.

  “M’lord misunderstands me,” said the fool, again on his knees. “My wife was taken from me by the winter sickness.”

  “Ah!” he said, back on the wall, as if a puzzle had suddenly resolved itself. “You say you have no cereal to deliver. Is there no other way for you to pay your debts? Do you have a – daughter, perchance?” The fool leaned forward, lasciviously licking his lips.

  More sniggers from crowd members.

  “My lord, my short marriage was not blessed with children. I have only my own body, which I offer you freely...” The fool turned, pulling down his britches to display his offering to Lord Eòghan.

  More laughter from the crowd, some of it embarrassed.

  “Put away your body,” the fool feigned disgust, turning his face away and leaning back, almost toppling into the well. “Since you are so poor as to have nothing,” his lordship turned back to the peasant. “It would seem to us only right that we should give you something – Leonard!”

  The peasant turned eagerly to where the lord had shouted to his man. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you, so generous.”

  “Leonard, take this man out and give him a dozen of our best lashes!”

  “No, no... my Lord, mercy, I beg...” The fool kissed imaginary feet, grovelling in the dirt.

  The courtyard was silent. The fool stood, turning to face the crowd, expecting laughter, not quiet. Lord Eòghan stood in the doorway to the great hall, investigating the laughter uncharacteristic of taxation day. The crowd melted back as he stepped out into the courtyard. Fear crossed the fool’s face. He dashed forward, falling to his knees and pressing his face to Lord Eòghan’s hand, begging forgiveness, swearing loyalty.

   

  Chapter Eighteen
/>   The crowd waited, breath held, as Lord Eòghan looked down at the simpleton at his feet.

  Eòghan laughed. Others in the crowd laughed nervously, relieved. The youth looked up, grinning, tears in his eyes.

  Eòghan was a tall, broad-shouldered man who carried himself with confidence. He was aware of his responsibilities, and was comfortable with them. Blond haired, his neatly trimmed beard was showing its first flecks of white. But his tanned face, with its strong cheekbones, was still unlined. Eòghan’s father had been a miller turned soldier who had earned his status and wealth in the service of the King, and there was still something of the commoner’s son about Lord Eòghan. He seemed occasionally uncomfortable in the presence of other nobles; but this meant he also had an easy familiarity when it came to dealing with the problems of the farmers and the traders. Few men left Eòghan’s presence feeling that their cause had been unfairly considered, even when the decision had gone against them, for their lord always explained his judgement, rather than stating it as the final word.

  Lord Eòghan ruffled the fool’s hair, as though he was a mischievous puppy. “Come inside, fool, and sit by my side. You shall entertain me when all of this becomes tedious.” Lord Eòghan strode back into the hall, the fool scampering happily behind him, looking important.

  The uniformed men ushered the tax-payers back into line, and the counting began again.

  The main hall of the castle was long, with a high ceiling supported by dark oak beams. At the farthest end from the main doors, Lord Eòghan sat on his heavy throne-like chair raised on a platform. This dais was where his table would be set during a banquet. On the wall behind him was a representation of a shield, displaying his family colours, and below it the ceremonial axe had been returned to its rightful place. Colourful tapestries depicting hunting scenes and mythological creatures and heroes covered the walls. Fresh-cut rushes had been laid to protect the floor.