by Alan Gordon
“It showed fear,” said Bernard.
“Fear—“ The count laughed, “—of that pathetic little cloak-twirler?”
“Yet you treated him as if Satan had forced his way up from the depths of the earth to claim you,” said Bernard.
“If Satan had walked into my tower, I would have invited him to dinner,” said the count. “We could have traded stories over who had the worse upbringing. Fool, you are being far too quiet. It worries me.”
“I find myself agreeing with your cousin, Dominus,” I said.
“That’s a first,” said Bernard. “Maybe I should change my opinion.”
“It worries me, too,” I confessed.
“Your reasons for this unusual convergence of opinions, Fool?” asked the count.
“Well, either Baudoin is an impostor, or he isn’t,” I said. “Either way, I wonder why he is showing up now, what he really wants, and most important, whom he knows in town. You can’t find out any of that if he’s dancing on Hell’s rooftop.”
“We could have him followed every minute of the day, Dominus,” said the viguier. “And in the interim, we could dispatch a messenger to our ambassador in Paris and learn if there is any truth behind these bona fides.”
“I wonder how many capable forgers there are in Paris,” sighed the count.
“I know of seven,” I said. “They are thinking of starting their own guild.”
“I need to think about this,” said the count. “I’m going to my chamber. Fool, I could use some music by my bedside.”
“Certainly, Dominus,” I said, rising and bowing to the other two men.
If they had resented my presence before, I was certain that they truly despised me now. Served them right for not learning how to play a lute properly.
I followed the count up a flight of steps to his rooms above the Grande Chambre. A servant materialized, bowing low.
“No one is to disturb us,” said the count.
“Including your wife?” asked the servant.
“Especially my wife,” said the count. “Where is she, anyway?”
“Riding with the ladies,” said the servant.
“Then don’t tell her what I just said. I’ll be down in a while.”
“Yes, Dominus,” said the servant, backing out of the room and closing the doors behind him.
The count looked dolefully at his marriage bed, which had been made up since its last use.
“Best to dive right back in,” I advised, strumming my lute in fanfare.
He flopped onto the bed, kicking his boots off. “Play me something,” he said.
“Anything in particular?”
“A song in langue d’oi’l for a change,” he said. “Something tells me you know a few in that tongue.”
I summoned up a trouvère song that poked fun at the vanity of the Parisians. He chuckled at the punch lines.
“Your langue d’oïl d’oïl must be quite good,” I said. “They say a man is truly fluent in another language when he gets the jokes.”
“The biggest joke I’ve heard today is that false sibling of mine,” he said. “Idiot doesn’t even speak our language.”
“What are you going to do with him?” I asked.
“Let him out, I suppose,” he said. “Bernard and Peire Roger were right. I can’t panic over every little ambitious fraud who struts into my court.”
“Good,” I said.
“It will take six weeks to send a rider to Paris and back,” he calculated. “Especially if he has to make inquiries. I don’t suppose you know someone in Paris who would be close to the best gossip, do you?”
“In truth, Dominus, I have not been to Paris in many years.”
“But there must be another jester there you could contact.”
“Why a jester, Dominus?” I asked.
“Because jesters always know what’s really going on, don’t they?” he said.
“Quite the contrary, Dominus,” I said. “They call us fools for good reason. Perhaps you should contact one of those forgers, although they generally don’t write letters. Too much like work for them. And you never know whose hand it truly is.”
He stared at the canopy overhead, a damask drape with gold threads running through it, embroidered with a brace of saints looking down from Heaven. No wonder he was having troubles in bed. I would be certainly intimidated with them watching me.
“I remember about thirty or so years ago, there was a great assembly of crowned heads and lords at Limoges,” he said. “My father went to render homage to Henry the Second. He took me with him, introduced me around, pointed out who was likely to help us, who would betray us, and who would out and out attack us the moment Henry died.”
“Quite the lesson in diplomacy,” I said, stopping my playing to tune my low string, which had developed an annoying tendency to go flat on me.
“We took a large contingent with us, of course,” he said. “Including our fool, Balthazar.”
I played a chord. The string was back in line with its fellows.
“One day, I was walking down a hallway, and I saw him duck into a room,” continued the count. “I don’t know what impulse made me do it, but I waited outside the door, listening. All I could hear was murmuring. My curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked in.”
“What did you discover?” I asked, picking up the melody where I had left off.
“There was Balthazar, along with Henry’s fool, the fool to King Louis, and two dozen others. They looked at me for a moment in silence, then Balthazar jumped up and said, ‘Behold! The lost prince, come from an arduous journey through untold perils to bring us his tale. Young Raimon, divert us with your adventures.’ I must have looked like a complete simpleton, standing there with my mouth hanging open. He came to my rescue and regaled them with an improvised account of my fantastical pilgrimage that had us all laughing within seconds.”
“He was a funny man,” I said. “I remember that from my visit here.”
“You weren’t in Limoges, were you?” he asked abruptly.
“Thirty years ago, I was waiting for my voice to break and discovering some wonderful new uses for my hands,” I said. “I take it you saw no such children in that fool-filled room.”
“No,” he said. “But it made me curious about fools. They all seemed to know each other. And to get together secretly like that at a counsel of the great—“
“Nothing strange about that,” I said. “Probably exchanging stories, jokes, songs. Maybe a little friendly competition, who knows?”
“There was none of that happening while I listened at the door,” he said. “And how is it that they were so well acquainted?”
“Why, most of us have received training at the Fools’ Guild,” I said. “It wouldn’t be surprising if some of them—“
“How long do you intend to maintain this charade to my face?” he asked softly. “I know that you are all connected somehow, and that you are more than mere entertainers. Your own conduct since you’ve come to Toulouse, along with that of your remarkable wife, would tell me as much.”
“Just because we stumbled on some useful information—“
“Which is all I want from you now,” he said. “Useful information from Paris, from any source you have. I believe that you enjoy my patronage—“
“Of course, Dominus.”
“And that you wish to see me continue as count.”
“For a long and healthy reign, Dominus.”
“Then do me this favor,” he said. “Please.”
A request. Not an order. A count was asking for my help. And, damn it all, I was curious about it myself, and it would take much longer to learn anything through Guild channels.
“I might know a jester in Paris, Dominus,” I said. “If he still lives, he would be a man who knows much.”
“Thank you, Fool,” he said. “My man leaves in the morning. Be here at daybreak.”
“Up at dawn two days in a row?” I protested. “You are mistaking me for a
working man.”
“You may go have a nap now,” said the count. “Thank you for your advice. On everything.”
I bowed and left.
As I walked into the courtyard, Bernard fell into step by me. “How is he?” he asked.
“Calming down,” I said.
“Well done,” said Bernard. “You’re good for him.”
“It’s what a fool does, senhor.”
“He trusts you an awful lot for such a short acquaintance,” observed Bernard.
“Well…”
“I don’t,” he said.
“I hope that I may become worthy of your trust in time, senhor.”
“Trust with me must be earned, Fool,” he said. “Once earned, it must be constantly renewed.”
“Sounds like hard work for low pay,” I said. “I am averse to working hard. It’s why I became a fool in the first place.”
“I look out for him,” said Bernard. “More than anyone. You cannot betray my trust, because you haven’t earned it yet. But if I find that you have betrayed his, you will not draw another breath on this earth.”
“I understand, senhor.”
We passed through the gate into the city proper.
“Good day to you, Fool,” he said.
I bowed low, and we continued our separate ways.
It was midafternoon. I decided that it was time for ale. I am capable of deciding that any time of day. I turned toward the Porte Montgalhart, which was the next gate up from the château, and walked until I saw a sign showing a tiny man who shone like the sun.
The Yellow Dwarf served good ale, and the tapster, Hugo, was pleasant toward all and particularly tolerant to fools in that he didn’t have us perform as part of the price of our long sessions at his table. Balthazar had kept a room in the inn above the tavern when he lived, and though he had been dead nearly a year, we honored him by making this the center of the Fools’ Guild for Toulouse. Any visiting fool or troubadour would know to turn up here first, so I made a point of checking in several times a week.
Oh, and the ale was good. Did I mention that?
Hugo, who was a hale man in his mid-fifties, was serving a group of soldiers when I came in, but he waved and pointed me toward a table in the corner. Pelardit was already there, a pitcher and several cups in front of him.
“Are those all for you?” I asked him as I sat down.
He looked at them, appeared to think for a moment, then reluctantly slid one over to me.
He was a fool, of course, one who had been in Toulouse for years, but he had accepted the appointment of an outsider like me as Chief Fool with grace. He was an unusual man, even for one of the Fools’ Guild, for he was a silent man. His humor came from the exquisite precision of his gestures and a malleable face whose features could instantly resemble anyone’s. He wore motley of the red-and-blue mesclat cloth that the city was famous for, and could produce from its sleeves and pockets a stunning variety of props without ever letting you see where they came from.
He made a small ring with his right thumb and forefinger, then slid it over the fourth finger of his left hand and looked at me questioningly.
“She and Helga should be joining us shortly,” I said. Right on cue, there was a cheer from the soldiers, and I turned to see my wife enter, now in full makeup and motley, Helga right behind her carrying Portia.
“Look, Mama! Soldiers!” cried Helga. “May I go play with them?”
“Behave, child,” scolded Claudia. “You are much too young. I, on the other hand, am the perfect age to entertain— Oh, damn, my husband’s here!”
There was a good-natured groan of disappointment from the soldiers as my wife sashayed past them, a lewd grin on her face. Helga did an exaggerated imitation of the walk as she followed her, prompting hoots of laughter. Claudia came to our table, leaned over, and kissed me hard, bringing on more hooting. I didn’t care. It was the part of the act that I enjoyed the most.
“Oh, look,” said Claudia, sitting by me. “The saddest sight in the entire world.”
“What is that, my love?”
“An empty cup,” she said. “How very tragic.”
Pelardit dolefully separated another of the cups from his pile and filled it, then passed it to her. Another one went to Helga.
“To Balthazar,” I said, and we knocked cups and drank.
“Well, is it true?” asked Claudia. “Did a long-lost brother descend from an angel’s chariot to claim his inheritance from the Count of Toulouse?”
“Not exactly, and nobody knows for sure,” I said.
I recounted the events of the morning.
Pelardit looked thoughtful.
“Know any of this story?” I asked him.
He shrugged, pointed to himself, and mimed holding a babe in arms, then shrank the imaginary child until it was no more.
“Of course,” I said. “You weren’t born then. But did you ever hear of this unheard-of heir? Gossip, rumors, anything?”
He shook his head.
“It sounds wonderfully romantic,” sighed Helga. “Was he handsome?”
“He had a magnificent cloak,” I said.
“Just the thing for concealment,” said Claudia.
“I wonder if he’s married,” said Helga.
“I will ask him, first chance I get,” I promised.
“Really?” exclaimed the girl.
“Any chance to have you taken off our hands, no matter how small, must be pursued.”
She pouted.
“I don’t know his mother’s story,” said Claudia. “Do either of you?”
“Her name was Constance, she was the sister to King Louis, and was married to Raimon the Fifth for the usual reasons.”
“Peace between France and Toulouse,” said Claudia.
“Not love?” asked Helga.
“The great cannot afford such frivolous emotions,” I said.
“I hope I never become great,” said Helga.
“Another step toward wisdom,” said Claudia, patting the girl’s head. “How did the marriage end?”
“Apparently not well, but I don’t know that part of the story,” I said.
“None of this was in our briefing at the Guild,” she said.
“I suppose they considered it not worth considering,” I said. “It was ancient history. But you can understand the count’s reaction. After all, his mother abandoned him when he was just a child, and—“
Claudia was on her feet in an instant, her ale spilling across the table, the rage forcing its way through her white-face.
“And what?” she shouted. “What happens to children when their mother abandons them at such a tender and impressionable age? Tell me that, husband!”
The soldiers, brave men all, carefully looked down at their trenchers. Hugo watched us from the safety of his place behind the counter.
“Even for me, that was a remarkably stupid thing to say,” I said. “Forgive me.”
Tears started streaking her makeup. She picked up Portia and stormed out of the tavern. Helga turned toward me with a stricken expression.
“Stay with her,” I said. “She’ll calm down eventually, but stay with her.”
Helga fled. Pelardit looked at me with concern.
“She left two children behind when she joined the Guild and came with me to Constantinople,” I explained. “They had already been placed under the control of a regent, so she would not have been— Anyhow, she hasn’t seen her son in over a year, and her daughter in three. Sometimes, she— It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Hugo came over with a cloth to mop the ale from the tabletop.
“You’ll be wanting some food, I think,” he said. “I’m guessing you’ll not be having dinner cooked tonight.”
“Thank you, friend Hugo,” I said.
He came back with a tray holding two slabs of brown bread and ladled some wonderfully aromatic lamb stew over them. Pelardit and I tasted it.
“Delicious,” I said. “For
a man who did not eat meat for so long, you certainly know how to bring forth its magic.”
“Ah, all those years wasted as a Cathar,” he sighed. “If the Church would just open some taverns and serve good food, there would be no heresy. I heard a little of what you were talking about. The count’s long-lost brother showed up, did he?”
“You know about him?”
“Has to be a fraud,” said Hugo. “The countess would have been showing when she left town.”
“You were around then?”
“Helping my mother run this place,” he said. “Don’t know if Constance left the old count, or if he threw her out, but she didn’t go right away. Took the marriage part seriously, I suppose. And she didn’t have any money, was what I heard. Finally got some help from her brother and went back to Paris, and that’s the last anyone heard of her around here. But I knew someone who saw her leaving, and they said nothing about her being with child.”
“Might have been early in the pregnancy,” I said.
“Then how come no one knew anything back here?” he argued. “She whelps one more of the old count’s pups, you’d think he’d be galloping off to Paris to lay claim, especially if it was another boy.”
“Maybe King Louis thought it would be like keeping a hostage,” I said.
“Well, the maneuverings of the high and mighty are beyond me,” he said. “I still think he’s a fraud.”
“Most likely,” I said. “All will be revealed in time.”
“Or not,” he said.
“Or not,” I agreed. “What do you think, Pelardit?”
The fool shrugged without breaking the rhythm of his dining.
I finished and trudged home. When I turned the key in the lock, Helga opened the door and beckoned me in.
My wife was standing by the table, holding Portia. A kettle simmered over the fire.
“I made dinner,” she said. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” I lied.
* * *
After, when Helga had cleared the table, I fetched parchment, ink, and quill and laid them out. Then I sat, thinking.
“What are you going to say to him?” asked Claudia.
“It’s awkward,” I confessed. “I haven’t seen him for so long, nor written. I hear about him only occasionally, when the gossip drifts my way. I suppose it’s the same for him.”
