[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal

by Alan Gordon

  “Was it his idea to house them over the stables?”

  “Actually, that was mine,” said Sancho. “Thought I might take a little initiative.”

  “You’ll go far,” I said.

  The count and his coterie were still having their luncheon when I walked in. My irritation must have been written across my whiteface, for he took one look at my expression and started to chuckle.

  “I am supposed to be supplying jokes, not becoming one myself,” I said.

  “Forgive me, Fool,” he said. “If it’s any consolation, it amuses me terribly.”

  “You chose me as his instructor as a deliberate insult to him,” I said.

  “Of course,” said the count. “I am not going to waste the talents of one of my men on such as he. It would show that I am taking him too seriously. What better way to show my contempt than to send him my fool to teach him our tongue?”

  “What does it say about Toulouse when its best teacher is a fool?” I replied.

  “When you have calmed down, you will find I have put some thought into this,” he said. “Use your talents for observation and conversation to pierce that cloak and find out what lies underneath.”

  “He lies underneath, so I must go underneath the lies,” I said. “I may have to tunnel deep.”

  “Use something sharp,” said Bernard.

  * * *

  “A language instructor,” snickered Claudia. “You poor thing!”

  “I am tempted to teach him a completely different language and let him try to survive,” I said. “Dalmatian would do nicely.”

  “You should let Pelardit teach him,” said Claudia. “He speaks more eloquently than any of us without saying a word.” Pelardit made an elaborate gesture of thanks.

  “And Baudoin is still a prisoner, despite the luxury of the prison,” she said. “The count did not plan this well. I would leave them unhindered, and have them followed wherever he goes.”

  “It may come to that,” I said. “But until then, I shall be conjugating verbs with a middle-aged simpleton.”

  “I have always enjoyed it when you conjugate,” she whispered in my ear. “Tonight, we should have a conjugal visit.”

  “I heard that,” said Helga. “I know what she means by it, too.”

  “Then you know enough to keep your sharp ears behind a closed door and not bother us,” I said.

  “Don’t I always?”

  “You are the best pretend daughter in the world,” said Claudia.

  * * *

  The next morning, I walked to the lodgings of my new student with a renewed vigor. The conjugation of the night before had been sweet and loving. I hoped that meant I had returned to her good graces, at least for the near future.

  It was the not-so-distant future that concerned me. Mark, her oldest child, would be turning fifteen in August. Although titular Duke of Orsino, his powers were currently vested in the regent, his aunt Olivia. I tried to remember at what age Orsinians reached the age of majority. I hoped it was eighteen. I needed time to figure out some way to get my wife back there once Mark had the power to keep her safe from retribution.

  And me, for that matter. She at least had the protection of being the duke’s mother. I, on the other hand, was the lowly jester who stole her away from him and gave him a lowborn half sister in the process. Mark and I had gotten along fine during our last visit, but that was while passing through in the dead of night, with no subjects to see us, and no Olivia to oversee him. But with a few more years under her tutelage, he might see me as a monster, and she might see me as a threat.

  Hell, they could both be right.

  I picked up some freshly baked rolls as a peace offering to Baudoin. I was being paid a little extra by the count for my shift to pedagogy, and a little more to appease my indignation. It was the indignation that paid for the rolls.

  Baudoin and Hue were in the inner courtyard when I walked through the gates, running through some basic exercises with their swords. I watched from the shadow of the archway. Baudoin’s sword had a magnificently detailed hilt, studded with jewels and a hammered design that looked Saracen in origin. I noticed a matching dagger at his belt. Hue’s sword was plain, but he wielded it like he knew what he was about.

  They faced each other and ran slowly through some practice drills. My arm twitched in sympathy, and I thought back to the fencing lessons of my childhood. I had been fairly proficient once upon a time, but I had not kept up with my swordsmanship over the years. It is not the weapon of choice in the Fools’ Guild. In the amount of time it takes a man to draw one from its scabbard, I can put two daggers in his throat. One from each hand. Claudia, on the other hand, was more than adequate with a sword, having trained with her husband’s fencing master for years.

  Her old husband. Back when she was a duchess.

  The two Parisians picked up the pace, the blades coming dangerously close to actually striking each other. I had the sense that Hue was the better swordsman but was holding back in deference to his master. Made sense to me—you don’t want to slice off the hand that feeds you. Yet Baudoin certainly would be a formidable opponent in a match. I wondered how he would do in a tavern brawl.

  Then he whipped off his cloak with his free hand and whirled it in a blur of red and black. From its midst came his sword thrust, stopping with the point touching Hue’s chest. The servant fell back, holding his hands up in defeat.

  “Well done,” I said, applauding from the archway. “Thank you,” said Baudoin. “I did not hear you arrive.”

  “I did not want to distract you when sharp objects were about,” I said. “It’s very important to keep your concentration. When I’m juggling knives, you could have an elephant come up with a naked slave-girl riding it, and I would never take my eye off the knives. Of course, they don’t have elephants here, so it’s rarely an issue.”

  “Do they have naked slave-girls?” asked Baudoin with interest.

  “Not my department,” I said, hauling Hue to his feet and handing him the rolls. “Consult with friend Sancho later. Now, let us proceed with our course of instruction. Repeat everything you learned yesterday.”

  “I am a fool,” he began, and he ran through the rest of it fairly well.

  “Good,” I said. “Let us name people and professions.” Hue left during this, and returned with some cheese and wine to go with my contribution to the repast. Baudoin proved to be an eager student, although his accent remained. It wasn’t easy to learn a new tongue this late in life. I thought of Helga, our apprentice, who was already fluent and accent-free in five languages and learning Arabic with ease. But she was a fool and a child. I could hardly expect Baudoin to be up to that standard.

  We ended the lessons around noon. Hue had the food and wine set up on a bench on the side of the courtyard farthest from the stables. The three of us sat and ate, enjoying the warmth of the sun overhead.

  “Have you been to Paris?” asked Baudoin.

  “More than once, but not in years,” I said.

  “I think I would have remembered you,” he said.

  “There are many fools there,” I said. “I don’t know that I would have stood out. And I never performed at the court, so you wouldn’t have seen me there, would you?”

  “I suppose not,” he replied.

  There was no hesitation in that response, so the idea of being a regular at the French court did not strike him as anything out of the ordinary. Or he had that part of the lie ready.

  “What fools were popular in Paris when you left?” I asked.

  “There was one called Horace,” he said. “Very funny fellow.”

  Hue nodded in agreement, a smile on his face for the first time since I had met him.

  “I have heard of him,” I said. “Never saw him perform.”

  “Wonderful juggler, and quite a flirtatious fellow,” he said. “The ladies adore him. Do you juggle?”

  I took three rolls and did a quick routine. One-handed.

  “A fool who doe
s not juggle is like a soldier without a sword,” I said. “It is one of the fundamental skills of our trade.”

  “Is it a trade?” asked Baudoin. “I would have thought you would describe it as an art.”

  “Art doesn’t pay,” I said. “I’ll stick to trade, thank you very much.”

  Sancho ambled into the courtyard, squinting in the sunlight like a man who had just gotten up. He saw us and gave us a wave.

  “Good morning, good soldier,” called Baudoin in langue d’oe.

  “Well, good morning to you, senhor, and well done,” returned Sancho. “Although I think it is afternoon now. Unless that was meant to be a sarcastic joke at my expense, in which case, well done again. Sarcasm is very much the coin of the realm around here.”

  Baudoin looked blankly at most of this while Hue murmured the translation in his ear, then nodded.

  “This fellow is a wise one,” he observed in langue d’oïl. “What did he say?” asked Sancho.

  “That you have wisdom,” I said.

  “Most perceptive,” said Sancho. “I am to show you the city today. You fancy churches or the houses of the rich?” Baudoin made a sour face at the mention of churches. “Right, I should have expected that,” said Sancho. “Let’s go look at some towers.”

  I tagged along, just in case there were any pertinent comments in Baudoin’s native tongue. Sancho took him to some of the wealthier neighborhoods in the old city first, where the buildings were so crammed together that the wealthy were squeezed upward in brick towers that competed mostly in height rather than in beauty. Sancho had limited commentary outside of naming who the owners were, and Baudoin had few questions.

  At one point, as we walked through the old wealth near Montardy Square, I saw Hue nudge Baudoin, and the other man nod slightly. We were passing by a house that stood out among the surrounding affluence. Not because it surpassed them—just the opposite, in fact. It must have been grand once upon a time, but the time had long since vanished. Brick rose two stories from the street, with a third floor that had partially collapsed, making a home for a flock of rooks that flew in and out, screeching. The front gate was old with rust, and the padlock securing it looked like it would shatter at the insertion of a key, if key there still existed. Grass had taken root in the cracked and broken stones of the courtyard visible from the street, and the wooden shutters had rotted away, stripped of whatever colors had once protected them from weather’s onslaughts.

  Baudoin whispered something to Hue, who tapped Sancho on the shoulder.

  “Why does this horrible eyesore stand amidst such beauty?” asked Hue.

  “Don’t know,” said Sancho. “I suppose whoever owned it left no heir. Or maybe he went off on Crusade and hasn’t come back yet. Not my business, so I pay it no mind. Now, if you want to see some real fancy houses, we have to go into the bourg.”

  “What is that?” asked Hue.

  “That’s the north part of town built past the old walls,” said Sancho. “New money, new families with the new money, and bigger towers for all of them. I’ve picked out one for myself if God ever sees fit to let the dice roll in my favor about a thousand times in a row.”

  “That would truly be a miracle,” I said. “One that would have the baile taking both you and your dice to jail.”

  “Oh, I expect the Dicemakers’ Guild would be on me long before the baile,” laughed Sancho. “They guard their own.”

  “There is a Dicemakers’ Guild?” asked Hue in amazement. “Well, you wouldn’t want dice made by just anyone, would you?” asked Sancho. “For all my complaints about the dice around here, I can’t say for sure that they have ever rolled untrue. The dice are my vice and my punishment, so I accept how they come up as God’s will.”

  “If that is your only vice, then that is not such a great stain on your character,” commented Baudoin once Hue had translated Sancho’s remarks.

  “Oh, would that were the only one,” sighed Sancho when he had Baudoin’s response.

  “Ah, now I am beginning to be fascinated,” said Baudoin. “What are the others? Wine? Women? Cockfighting?”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever gone in for cockfighting,” said Sancho. “And I prefer beer to wine. But women, there you have me. I’ve got years to go before I can leave service and settle down, you see. And we’re on the march half the year, escorting the count through his holdings, which means I really have no time for a regular sweetheart. So, I spread my love about.”

  “And the women of the Toulousain are grateful for it,” I added.

  “I do my best,” said Sancho modestly.

  “The best possible motto for a soldier,” I said. “Speaking of which—Sancho, tell them the story of why you became a foot soldier.”

  “Because I didn’t have a horse,” said Sancho.

  There was a momentary delay as Hue translated. Then Baudoin broke into laughter and slapped him on the back.

  “I like you, friend Sancho,” he said. “My brother is a fortunate soul to have men like you about him. I had thought at first that he chose you as another means of insulting me, as he did this fool here, but I see now that he could not have made a better choice.”

  “My thanks, I think,” said Sancho.

  “None from me,” I said.

  “Now, show us to an establishment that serves some of that Toulousan beer that you like so much,” said Baudoin. “What do you think?” Sancho asked me.

  “It’s afternoon, so the decision is all yours,” I replied.

  “In that case, where should we take them?”

  “In the bourg? I would go for the Tanners’ Pit.”

  “That sounds disgusting,” said Hue, wrinkling his nose. “They get their beer from a brewery that’s upriver a ways,” I said in langue d’oi’l. “The water is much cleaner than what’s used by the breweries inside the walls, so the beer is better.”

  “You have convinced me,” said Baudoin. “Take us to this blessed spot.”

  I preferred the brew at the Yellow Dwarf to anything in miles, but that was the jesters’ special place. I didn’t want to share it with outsiders.

  Sancho took us the long way, through the gaudy clump of houses near the abbey of Saint Sernin. This had the added benefit of skirting the cluster of actual tanners’ pits that stank up the area north of Saint Pierre des Cuisines. We came to the group of taverns and inns that crowded around the Bazacle Gate at the north end of the bourg by the river.

  It was late afternoon, which meant that the tanners, never shy about cutting their work short, were well into the drinking portion of their day. As we came up to the doorway of the tavern, two of them came flying out, their hands on each other’s necks, and began rolling about in the mud as several of their fellows followed from inside and began cheering them on. No one favored either party as far as I could tell—it was for the spectacle of the fight itself that they offered their support.

  “Looks promising,” commented Baudoin, stepping around the combatants.

  Once inside, we commandeered a table that had been upended by the recent fracas and ordered a pitcher of beer and a bowl of eel stew. We all dug in to both the meal and more conversation. Hue and I alternated as translators, depending upon which of us had his mouth full at any given moment. Considering that someone else was paying for the meal, it was more often me who was prevented from speaking.

  “Not bad at all,” pronounced Baudoin, dipping some bread into the stew. “And the beer is more than satisfactory.”

  “I suppose you’re used to much finer fare than this at the King’s court,” said Sancho.

  “I have had epic meals on tables longer than battlefields, where the servants outnumbered any army I have ever seen,” declared Baudoin. “And I have picked through the leavings of the worst taverns after the diners had collapsed into a drunken stupor.”

  “Quite the range,” I commented. “Which was the more satisfying meal?”

  “The one you get when you need it the most,” he replied.

 
; “Food always tastes better when you are hungry,” I agreed. “Drink, too.”

  The tavern maid came by, replacing our empty pitcher with a full one while planting a quick kiss on the top of Sancho’s head. She scampered away, smiling over her shoulder.

  “I would have enjoyed that more if I wasn’t wearing my cap,” grumbled the soldier.

  “One of your irregular sweethearts?” I asked.

  “A gentleman does not tell,” he said.

  “Gentlemen always tell,” I said. “Gentlemen brag about their conquests at length.”

  “But a soldier doesn’t need to brag,” Sancho said, winking at Baudoin.

  Hue was watching her wistfully as she glided about the room.

  “Do you fancy her?” Baudoin teased Hue. “I could find out her price.”

  “She’s not that pretty,” said Hue. “It would be a waste of money.”

  “Food tastes better when you’re hungry,” said Baudoin, nudging him. “It has been a while since we’ve eaten properly.”

  “What are they going on about now?” asked Sancho.

  “I think he’s about to ask you where the nearest bordel is,” I muttered.

  “Friend Sancho,” slurred Baudoin, the beer starting to take effect. “In exchange for the location of that house of wondrous women I will send you to in Paris, what say you take us to an equivalent establishment here? I need to find my friend Hue someone prettier than this tavern wench.”

  “What do you think?” Sancho asked me.

  “It’s evening, which is an extension of the afternoon and therefore still in your bailiwick,” I said. “I am responsible only for the mornings.”

  “In that case, where to go, where to go?” he pondered. “The Comminges quarter is too public, but there aren’t any good places in the bourg—wait, yes, there is one, right outside. You know the house up past the Villeneuve Gate? With the red shutters?”

  “That’s a leper house.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “You want to take them to a leper house? That’s carrying the initiative a little too far.”

  “The leper house is in front of the bordel,” he said. “You’ve never gone there? In your performing capacity, of course.”