[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal

by Alan Gordon

“Did my best, but Father was busy picking off all the best ones,” he sighed. “Finally, finally, I was able to shed myself of this widow. And then came Bourguigne.”

  “She was your wife when I first met you, was she not?”

  “She was,” he said, refilling his goblet. He stared into it without drinking, swirling it gently as if hoping to conjure her up from its depths. “That was the first time I ever loved a woman. Truly loved—mind, body, and soul. Is that how you love your wife?”

  “In truth, she owes me money,” I said. “The moment I collect—but I’m interrupting.”

  “I’ve seen how you look at each other when you are performing together,” he said. “Unfeigned passion and joy. I envy you.”

  The count envies the fool, I thought. Lord knows I would not want to be a count. I have seen my share, a few kings and emperors, too. Those who lasted did so either through brute force or raw cunning, both of which took their toll. Those who lasted were never happy. Those who were happy were fools, and soon shoved out of their ignorant lives.

  I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it because he wanted me to.

  “Why did you abandon Bourguigne when you loved her so?”

  “Because Richard the Lionheart laid claim to Toulouse,” he said. “I was the count at last, heir to my father’s years of playing all sides from the middle. I could cling to the woman I loved and condemn my subjects to war, or I could repudiate Bourguigne and marry Richard’s sister. I am my father’s son. I married Richard’s sister.”

  “Another widow.”

  “His favorite chess piece,” he said bitterly. “Dragged her everywhere, ready to marry anyone useful to him. Almost matched her with one of Saladin’s cousins if rumor was true, only the bastard turned her down. I married an infidel’s leavings.”

  “I understand that she was a lovely woman, for all that.”

  “There was nothing of her that displeased the eye,” he conceded. “And she did give me a son, died doing it, and I honor her for that. We had quite a few troubadours write songs in her memory. But I never loved her, Fool.”

  “Yet there was peace between Toulouse and England. Still is.”

  He nodded. I shrugged.

  “You like the new wife well enough,” I said.

  “My last chance,” he said. “They started dangling her in front of me when she was twelve. Damn those Aragonese for being better looking than the rest of us. At twelve, she was already a paragon among women. They insisted upon my waiting until she was of age, periodically allowing me visits to see how she was blossoming, like I was having a prize heifer raised on a farm. Agonizing, the wait. Every time I saw her, her beauty had increased. Thought ‘of age’ meant sixteen; turned out they meant eighteen. Six years! Craving her more and more until the merest thought of her drove me mad.”

  I refilled my goblet to cover my discomfort. “You kept celibate during your wait, of course,” I said.

  “I dipped my staff into anything that moved,” he said. “Wanting her every moment, and no mistress could satisfy me as much as the thought of this girl. We finally wed—by proxy, no less, so I had to wait even more for her to be in my bed. Finally, she had her first taste of lovemaking—dear God, Fool, I felt like Zeus incarnate. I wished I had the gift of poetry, to compose an erotic epic account of that first night.” He sighed.

  “And it never was that good again,” he said.

  “How could it possibly be?” I asked. “You have achieved such lofty heights of love that just the idea of scaling them again would exhaust most mortals. I’m exhausted listening to it.”

  “I set the bar too high,” he said ruefully. “She expects it to be like that every time. She doesn’t know any better.”

  “You’ve ruined her for life, this paragon from Aragon.”

  “Oh, God, what have I done?” he moaned, and I started to laugh. He looked at me outraged, then started to chuckle. In moments we were roaring with laughter. It eventually subsided, with him wiping the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve.

  “So, I didn’t hear any advice,” he said.

  “I didn’t hear you ask for any,” I replied. “Is that what you need? Advice from a fool? I cannot prescribe the cure until I have diagnosed the illness. Is it lovesickness that plagues you, or intimations of mortality?”

  “Some of each, I imagine.”

  “Then the remedy is simple,” I said. “I advise you to grow younger.”

  His expression turned dark, then thoughtful. “I dye my hair,” he confessed. “Do you think that unmanly?”

  “You are speaking to a man wearing makeup and powder, Dominus. Who am I to judge?”

  “How old are you, forty?”

  “As far as my wife knows, Dominus.”

  “Hmph. I will not pry any more. And thank you for cheering me up.”

  “All I did was listen, Dominus.”

  “Which is why I value you, Fool.”

  The first rays of sunlight were angling through the high windows.

  “Soon, my friends will be coming in from their nocturnal adventures,” he said. “Boasting of their conquests and their prowess. How shall I respond to them?”

  “By saying nothing,” I said. “The man who shows no need to brag is the one who has done the most.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “That’s very good. Start playing something gentle. I hear my cousin approaching.”

  The doors swung open and Bernard, Count of Comminges, strolled in. About Raimon’s age, with a lazy charm that concealed a quick ruthlessness that I had seen already on one memorable occasion.

  “Heard you were up already, cousin,” he said. “What is happening to us in the middle of our lives? We should be sleeping until noon, then trying to figure out who the lovely maid next to us is.”

  “We have responsibilities now,” said Raimon. “I do, anyhow.”

  “And I do, as well,” said Comminges.

  “What are yours again?” asked Raimon.

  “To be your friend in all matters,” pronounced Comminges grandly. “For a start, I am going to keep you from drinking all of that wine. Pour me a cup, would you?”

  “Seems to me I have servants to do this sort of thing somewhere,” grumbled Raimon as he filled another goblet and passed it to his cousin.

  “Ho, Anselm!” I called. “Your master’s arm grows weary!” Anselm, one of the count’s servants, dashed in. “Dominus?” he inquired.

  “Food,” said Raimon. “And someone to wash me. Time to start the day.”

  “So, let me tell you about the tapster’s daughter at the Blue Wheel,” began Comminges.

  And he was off. Raimon nodded, smiled, and guffawed at all the right places, while a team of servants ran in and out, placing trays of food in front of him, peeling off his tunic, scrubbing him down and shaving him, and throwing a fresh tunic back on. Anselm was busy combing out and replaiting his hair when another pair from the entourage showed up.

  “Food!” bellowed Raimon Roger, the Count of Foix, heaving his bulk through the doors. “But you’ve started without me. How very churlish of you.”

  “Yet we shall forgive you,” said Rostaing, Baron of Sabran. “Bernard has no doubt already regaled you with the tale of the tapster’s daughter?”

  “He has,” said Raimon.

  “As if that were anything to boast about,” said Sabran. “That bloom was plucked long ago. Why, I doubt that I had more than the fifth petal or so, and that was ages since. Does she still make those mewing noises, Bernard?”

  “Well, yes,” said Comminges, looking slightly crestfallen. “But a worthy ride, nonetheless.”

  “If you like them cheap,” said Foix. “Now, I have an exquisite little tale to relate, a conquest long sought after and finally come to fruition: the widow de la Turre.”

  “No!” exclaimed Comminges. “She actually succumbed to your charms? Must have been desperate.”

  “Or destitute,” I suggested.

  Raimon smirked in my direction.
/>
  “Anyhow,” said Foix, ignoring us. “There we were in her bedchamber…”

  It continued on in that vein. Finally, Peire Roger, the count’s viguier, came in to begin the day proper. Various officials arrived to insist on the importance of their bailiwicks at the expense of the other officials in the room, leading to arguments and accusations that were settled with tact and skill by the count, hangover and all. In between, I offered snide commentary, while Comminges, Foix, and Sabran ogled the maidservants as they passed through. Then came merchants with offers and complaints, members of the clergy with requests and complaints, and commoners with petitions and complaints. In the midst of the latter, one of Peire Roger’s underlings came up and whispered something to him. The viguier’s eyebrows rose slightly, and he left the Grande Chambre with the underling. A few minutes later, he came back and cleared his throat. The count looked at him.

  “Dominus, there is a man here from Paris,” said the viguier.

  “What sort of man?” asked Raimon.

  “A nobleman, from his dress and manner,” said the viguier. “More than that, I would not venture to guess on such short acquaintance.”

  “Is he here on the king’s business?”

  “No, Dominus.”

  “Do we know anything about him at all?”

  “No, Dominus. He says he traveled all this way to see you.”

  “Well, in that case, did you have him searched thoroughly?”

  “Of course, Dominus,” said the viguier, looking slightly offended. “He has no more weapons than befit his appearance.”

  “Fine, let’s see what he wants,” said Raimon. He glanced at his guards. “Keep an eye on him.”

  “Right,” said Sancho.

  The underling left, and came back with the Parisian, who had a man of his own. The visitor appeared to be my age, maybe younger, and was shorter than me by a head. His clothes were travel-stained, but he wore a magnificent red cloak lined with black miniver, which he twirled about him as he swept in front of the count and bowed low. He had clearly practiced the cape-twirling.

  “Your Gracious Sovereign of Toulouse,” said his man, stepping forward and offering a bow equal to that of his master. “May I present my lord and master, Baudoin. I am his humble companion, Hue.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Raimon, nodding and gesturing to them to straighten up. “Welcome to Toulouse.”

  The Parisian’s man muttered something to him, and Baudoin held out his arms as if he expected to be embraced.

  “Thank you,” he said with a thick accent, and he continued to stand in that position as the count looked on, amused. “Well?” said Raimon finally. “What is your business here?”

  “But this is Baudoin,” explained Hue, pointing to his master.

  “Yes, I understand that part,” said Raimon. “But I assume he came here from Paris because he wants something. What is it?”

  “This is Baudoin,” insisted Hue. “This is your brother.”

  Chapter 2

  There was silence in the room, the expressions ranging from shock to dismay to a bemused smile on the face of the count.

  I cannot abide silence.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” I cried, stepping forward and shaking my marotte menacingly at them. “I will not have this! Not after I have worked so hard for so long!”

  “What on earth are you going on about?” demanded the count.

  “Why, the threat to my employment,” I said, turning to him. “Tell them, Dominus, that the position of Court Fool has already been taken.”

  “You have my permission to tell them yourself,” he said, nodding toward them.

  “What are they saying?” asked the putative brother in langue d’oïl.

  “I am saying that you are a shabby excuse for a fool,” I answered him in the same language.

  “What did you call me?” he screamed, reaching for his sword. He stopped as the shiny but scary ends of four halberds surrounded him.

  “I haven’t called you anything yet,” I said, standing safely behind the guards. “I am still trying to figure out what you are. A fool would have more wit than to draw steel in a strange castle. A pretender would have enough ambition to learn the language of the realm to which he pretends. An adventurer would have more style. I have it at last! You, senhor, are a puppet.”

  “I wonder who holds your strings,” commented the count in fluent langue d’oïl. “Who are you, truly?”

  “I am Baudoin,” said the man angrily. “Your brother.”

  “Now, as to that,” said the count. “The number of bastards propagated by my illustrious sire could make up a legion. There may be a few in this room, for all I know. I care not whose parentage you claim. It will bring you nothing in this house.”

  “I am no bastard,” said Baudoin haughtily. “I am your father’s son. And your mother’s as well.”

  The count stood, his face turning a deep crimson. “Peire Roger, come here!” he shouted.

  “Yes, Dominus,” answered the viguier, stepping to his side.

  “Take whoever currently occupies our deepest dungeon and move him to the most luxurious accommodations that we have,” said the count. “Then take this arrogant filth and shove him into that dungeon. And while he ponders his sins, I want you to have an even deeper one dug. When it is done, alert me, and I will personally throw him in to rot.”

  “As you command, Dominus,” said the viguier calmly. “What?” whispered Baudoin to his man. “What is he saying?”

  But Hue stood there, gaping in bewilderment.

  “And since you haven’t had enough assistance from this fine translator, I will have him join you to explain,” finished the count.

  “But Dominus, I protest!” squeaked Hue, finding his voice at last. “We protest! We come in honor. We have all the necessary bona fides. Look, I can show you—“

  He reached into a leather pouch at his waist, then paused as another pair of halberds stopped just shy of his sleeve.

  “Why are they still here?” shouted the count.

  The viguier snapped his fingers, and the two were dragged off. The count collapsed back into his seat.

  “If you kill him, could I have his cloak?” asked Foix.

  “On you, it would be useful only as a napkin,” said Sabran.

  “Shut up, the pair of you,” said the count. “It’s been a long day, and it isn’t even noon yet. I need some sleep.”

  “We should talk about this,” said Bernard quietly.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” said the count.

  “Raimon,” said Bernard.

  “It’s done,” snapped the count. “Do not question me on this subject.”

  One of the guards who had transported the two Parisians to the dungeons returned with Hue’s pouch and handed it to the viguier, who shuffled through the documents inside it, then cleared his throat.

  “Dominus,” he said. “May I suggest that you take your cousin’s counsel?”

  The count turned to him, concern creeping into his face. The viguier was his oldest counselor, one of the few remaining from his father’s reign. He was a tall, gaunt man with skin like parchment that had been written on extensively and scraped clean again several times. His expression at the moment was calculatedly blank.

  “Peire Roger and Bernard stay,” said the count. “Everyone else leave.”

  The room cleared quickly. Foix and Sabran were somewhat peeved, the former no doubt because the noon meal was approaching. I stood my ground, playing a little marching song on my lute as they left. The doors closed. The viguier and Bernard looked at me with annoyance.

  “The fool, Dominus?” began the viguier.

  “He stays,” said the count.

  “But you told everyone else to leave,” said Bernard irritably.

  “I am not everyone,” I said. “I am no one, in fact. Barely even here.”

  “The fool stays,” said the count. “I might need to be amused on short notice depending on what you are ab
out to tell me.”

  “I have the Parisian’s bona fides,” said the viguier, handing them to the count. “They appear to be genuine.”

  The count riffled through them, his cousin leaning over his shoulder.

  “Sworn to by the Bishop of Paris himself,” observed Bernard. “Impressive. And one from the court.”

  “Forgeries,” pronounced the count. “Why, I know two men here in town who could produce the like. Isn’t that right, Fool?”

  “I know three,” I said. “But I’ve been here only a few months.”

  “And the bona fides are besides the point,” continued the count. “He claims to be my full brother, not some bastard of my father’s. That’s impossible.”

  “Actually, Dominus,” said Peire Roger hesitantly, “it isn’t.”

  “There is space in that dungeon for one more person,” said the count. “Especially if we tamp you in with something.”

  “There was a rumor at the time your mother left Toulouse,” said the viguier, “that she was with child.”

  “Ridiculous,” said the count. “I would have known.”

  “You were still a young boy at the time.”

  “I remember who I was when my mother abandoned us,” said the count.

  “You were shielded from much,” continued the viguier. “And much that was known about your mother was— suppressed.”

  “Do you know for certain that she bore one last son after leaving for Paris?” asked the count.

  “For certain? I do not,” said the viguier.

  “Then it’s settled,” said the count.

  “But I do not know for certain that she did not,” said the viguier.

  “And therein lies your problem,” said Bernard. “It isn’t settled, and burying the problem in the deepest dungeon won’t settle it. I’m speaking as your advisor, your cousin, your friend, and for all I know as your half brother—thanks for mentioning that, by the way.”

  “I didn’t mean you,” said the count. “What exactly is the problem?”

  “Your overreaction, if I may describe it as such,” said Bernard.

  “I didn’t take his head off on the spot,” said the count. “I consider that remarkable restraint under the circumstances.”