by Alan Gordon
“Any specific target that you know of?” I asked, laughing.
His arms encompassed the entire world and all the women that lived on it.
“That should narrow it down,” said Claudia.
He raised an eyebrow, his way of asking why we asked. I gave him a brief explanation. He looked at me skeptically, then gripped the ends of an imaginary rope with his hands and pulled them apart, straining with the effort.
“All right, it is a stretch,” I conceded. “But worth investigating.”
He looped the imaginary rope around his neck and lifted it, his head sagging to one side, his tongue lolling out grotesquely.
“Oh, someone will swing for it,” I said. “But it won’t be us, have no fears on that account.”
He wagged his forefinger at all of us.
“We’ll be careful,” promised Claudia.
* * *
The next morning, I appeared bright and early at the château Narbonnais, singing in the hall before I even entered the Grande Chambre to let Count Raimon know that I was there. He was eating his morning meal alone.
“You’re here a lot lately,” he observed.
“You’ve needed me a lot lately,” I said, grabbing a chair and joining him.
“That’s Raimon Roger’s chair,” he said.
“Then it should have no difficulty supporting my weight,” I said, grabbing a muffin. “It may even be grateful for rhe respite.”
“You have empathy even for inanimate objects,” he said. “Except for muffins.”
“To truly know someone, you must get at their essence,” I said, my mouth full. “This is the only way to get at the essence of a muffin. How are you today?”
“Bored.”
“I shall cure you of that.”
“By eating in front of me? I have seen that before. In fact, I see that more than I see you perform.”
“Fuel for the fool,” I said. “Have I told you the tale of the fox who fell in love with the hen?”
“Will this be one of those tiresome fables with a hidden agenda?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” I confessed.
“Then refrain,” he said. “Play me something without words. I grow weary of words.”
I touched a finger to my lips, swallowed the remainder of my muffin, then picked up my lute.
For all his quirks and cruelties, this was a count who had a genuine appreciation for music. I could see the tension slip away, his eyes relax, his ever-present guard drop. He became human once again, alive and vulnerable.
If I ever found it necessary to kill him, it would be while playing my lute. I hoped that day would never come.
I quickly shoved that thought deep into the midden of my mind and played on, my expression smooth and bland. When I reached the end, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I consider myself entertained,” he said, smiling for the first time that morning.
It vanished as he heard his friends down the hall. They entered the room in mid-squabble.
“Well, how was I to know you were going after her?” protested Sabran. “You told me you were going after her Friday night. I assumed that by now you had already tired of her and that she was ripe for the picking by a real man.”
“My plans changed,” growled Foix. “You, of all people, should know that if I had had her Friday, I would have been telling you about it Saturday morning.”
“Perhaps he thought you might have been suffering from a bout of discretion,” laughed Comminges.
“After knowing him for how many years?” scoffed Raimon. “What happened?”
“This interloper, this blunderer, this fool—“
“Excuse me?” I interjected.
“Not you, Fool, the other fool, the real fool,” said Foix. “Excuse me again?”
“Shut up and let’s hear the story,” said Raimon.
“Right,” said Foix. “He knew that I had been on a sacred quest to deflower the daughter of the ostler who lives by the Porte Montgalhart. I had been courting her for days, learning her father’s daily routine, ascertaining the most propitious moment for my foray. And just when I had her half-naked and panting on my knee, in walks this lecherous parasite, and off scampers the wench, screaming to wake the dead.”
“We both had to make haste,” said Sabran. “The father’s a brute, with no respect for one’s rank.”
“And off we ran, stopping only to collect Bernard in case any unjustified accusations came our way.”
“So I am to say that you were with me?” asked Comminges. “Should the ostler come seeking redress, yes,” said Foix. “Just pay him off, you dolt,” said Comminges. “Why raise such a commotion over one cheap slattern of a daughter?”
“Fool, no thoughts on all of this?” asked Raimon.
“I am still trying to master the idea of the Count of Foix running,” I said. “It is beyond even my prodigious powers of imagination.”
“I can run fast enough when there is a pretty maid to be chased,” protested Foix indignantly.
“Or when there is an angry father to elude,” added Sabran. “I am the witness to that. Any less fleet of foot, and he would have had a fresh brand on his buttock.”
“I would not have been able to sit for a month,” said Foix. “Speaking of which, Fool?”
“Senhor?”
“My chair.”
“What about it, senhor?”
“You are in it.”
“Just keeping it warm for you,” I said, standing and holding it for him. “Though to warm it properly would be the work of several men.”
“Or one ostler’s daughter,” he sighed, plopping his bulk onto the seat, which shuddered but held under the onslaught. “That piece will be under lock and key for a goodly time.”
“She wasn’t that good, truth be known,” said Comminges. Foix and Sabran looked at him in astonishment. “When?” asked Foix.
“This morning,” said Comminges smugly. “I saw the ostler pursuing the two of you. I thought, aha, his daughter is alone, unguarded and no doubt disappointed. I consoled her for her loss.”
“You are no friend of mine,” growled Foix.
“Neither is she, anymore,” said Comminges. “But as I said, no great loss.”
“There you have it,” said Foix. “I do all of the hard work, the research, the reconnoitering, and just when I am about to achieve success, in swoop the raveners to pick up my gleanings. You are both parasites.”
He grabbed the last two muffins and popped one into his mouth to assuage his sorrow.
“You usually have more of these, don’t you?” he asked Raimon.
“You were late this morning,” I said. “I was forced not only to occupy your chair, but your role.”
“You let him eat my muffins?” wailed Foix, crumbs spewing from his mouth.
“My château, my muffins,” said Raimon. “One of the benefits of being count around here.”
“By the Holy Mother, Fool, if you come between me and a muffin again, there will be a reckoning,” said Foix.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I shall race you for the last one.”
“No contest there,” said Sabran.
Raimon Roger rose to his feet and placed the muffin on the table.
“I accept your challenge,” he said. “Once around this room, and to the victor belongs the muffin.”
“And the penalty?” asked the count.
“If I lose, I shall perform at your next dinner gratis,” I said. “Hardly a penalty,” said Comminges. “Just try getting him to open his house and purse for the rest of us.”
“That is not so!” protested Foix. “Why, I had a dinner party only—“
He stopped and thought, then looked sheepish.
“It has been some time,” he admitted. “Very well. I shall have you all over, and the fool will entertain.”
“And your penalty, senhor?” I asked.
“What would be the equivalent of a free performance, I wonder?”
&
nbsp; “I have it,” said Raimon. “His penalty will be to run ten more laps around this room in front of all of us.”
“Done,” I said.
We took positions at the head of the table.
“At your command, Dominus,” I said.
“Go!” shouted Raimon.
To my surprise, Foix took off at a fox’s pace. The others might have anticipated me to have an easy victory over the fat man, but no one expected the quick start. And, for all my bravado, running was no longer my forte, since I had injured my leg a few years back.
Foix also knew the terrain. It was a large room, but it was littered with trestles and chairs thrust against the walls. With the lead he had, he was able to grab them as he passed and send them crashing into my path. The sprint for him became a steeplechase for me, and as we passed the last corner, he had increased his margin by a good five steps.
Sabran and Comminges cheered him on, while the count merely watched, a slight smile on his lips. Foix bounded toward the table, one hand outstretched to snatch his prize. But as he was about to reach it, Comminges leaned forward, grabbed the muffin, and popped it into his own mouth. Foix sprawled against the table, howling in chagrin, and I crashed into him a second later.
“You never learn, do you?” said Comminges with his mouth full.
The count and Sabran laughed uproariously, and in moments, we had all joined them, Foix and I collapsing onto the floor in an exhausted embrace.
“I am at your mercy, my good master,” I gasped. “How is tomorrow night?”
“Should be enough time,” he said, still chuckling.
He stood, dusted himself off, and bowed to the others.
“My friends, will you do me the honor of joining me for dinner tomorrow evening?”
“Of course,” said the count, and the other two nodded.
The count clapped his hands, and Anselm appeared immediately. “To the kitchen, and bring up an entire platter of muffins for my friend, Raimon Roger.”
The servant bowed and left.
“With your leave, Dominus,” I said. “I must go lick my wounds.”
“Can’t bear the sight of me eating more muffins, eh?” taunted Foix.
“Oh, I have grown used to that, senhor,” I said. “To truly astonish me, you would have to refuse one.”
“You may go, Fool,” said the count. “Thank you for the diversion.”
I bowed, and left.
I did not leave the grounds of the château immediately, but directed my steps instead to the Palace of Justice.
Baudoin was sitting in a corner of his cell, his hands out in prayer. I waited until he was done.
“Any results?” I asked.
“You are here,” he said.
“Your night with La Rossa,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Tell me more about it.”
“A great deal of it is … intimate,” he said.
“Keep the retelling to the conversation,” I said.
“A great deal of that was obscene.”
I sighed.
“Did she ask you any questions about yourself?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Much of it general. Where are you from, how was your journey, how long did it take, was the weather good?”
“Did she know who you purport to be?”
“I see you have gone from pretend to purport,” he observed. “That’s an improvement.”
“You are a purporter to the throne,” I said. “Answer my question.”
“She said nothing that indicated she knew,” he said. “But she did ask me about my time in Paris.”
“Specifically?”
“What I did, who I knew,” he said. “Goings-on at court, gossip of the high and mighty, that sort of thing.”
“Anything about your being brother to the count?”
“No,” he said. “In fact, nothing at all about my purpose here. Only about Paris.”
I thought about that for a moment.
“If you are the son of Constance, and Constance was the sister of the late King Louis, then that makes you first cousin to King Phillippe Auguste,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “When I was born, I was actually third or fourth in line-for the throne of France, according to my mother.”
“Are you and your cousin close?”
“It has been up and down,” he said. “A great deal of down lately.”
“Which is why you came to Toulouse,” I said. “To try your luck with your other family.”
“So far, it’s worked like a charm,” he sighed.
“Is there anything that you told La Rossa that you should not have told her?” I asked. “Anything, if overheard, that would have made her a threat?”
“All I told her was Parisian court gossip,” he said.
“Was she impressed?”
“She kept asking for more. I had to start inventing things, just to keep the conversation going. Have you discovered anything?”
“Where are you right now?”
“In a dungeon, awaiting the noose.”
“Then you have your answer,” I said. I started down the corridor to the steps.
“Is there any hope?” he called after me.
“If you are truly innocent, then you will go to Heaven when they hang you,” I said. “That’s more than most of us can say.”
I visited with the prisoners on the higher level of dungeons, telling some jokes and singing a few songs. Afterwards, I climbed back into daylight. Hue was coming to the palace.
“Going to see your master?” I asked.
“I am,” he said. “Have you just been to see him?”
“I have,” I replied.
He looked around so ostentatiously to see if anyone was listening to us that he probably drew the attention of the guards on the Grand Tower; then he leaned forward and whispered, “How goes your investigation?”
“Fine,” I said in a normal voice. “How goes yours?”
“Mine?” he said in surprise.
“You were at the funeral of La Rossa yesterday,” I said. “My wife and daughter saw you there.”
“I did not know that they knew me,” he said. “Yes. I was curious to see who else would appear there.”
“Any surprises?”
“No,” he said. “Gawkers and gossips, as far as I could tell.”
“Well, let me know if you turn up anything useful,” I said.
“I will,” he said. “And thank you for your efforts.”
“No effort at all,” I said. “I am a gawker and gossip, too. I’d be asking questions anyway.”
I passed through the gates to the city, then paused. “What do you want, Sancho?”
He emerged from the shadows to my right. “You were visiting the prisoner,” he said accusingly.
“It’s Tuesday,” I said. “I normally visit the prisoners on Tuesdays. Which did you have in mind?”
“Baudoin.”
“Yes,” I said. “So what?”
“You told me you wouldn’t be investigating this incident,” he said.
“There is nothing to investigate,” I said. “How can I investigate something that isn’t there?”
“Because that is precisely the sort of thing you would do,” he said.
“And yet I spent yesterday lounging around my house, as you very well know since you had two of your men watching it, and I spent this morning entertaining the count and visiting prisoners. Hardly an efficient way of pursuing an investigation, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re up to something,” he said. “I am certain of it.”
“If you are certain, then I know that nothing will dissuade you. But why, if I may ask, are you so concerned, good Sancho? Especially if there is nothing to look for?”
“Because you stir things up,” he said. “The water is nice and clear and drinkable, and then you shove your stick into the muck at the bottom and it all becomes murky and confused and tastes of death and decay.”
“Sancho,
you are a poet,” I said in surprise. “I had no idea.”
“I just want things to settle back to the bottom so I can get on with my life,” he said. “It’s wearying worrying about you.”
“I am touched that you care, my friend,” I said. “But do not fret. I assure you that I will do no harm. And as for disturbing the peace, that’s what a jester does for a living. Now,
I am off to have an ale. I will be at the Yellow Dwarf, so tell your men they can have the best view of me through the east window.”
“Since you know they are there, I’ll tell them to have a drink inside the damn place,” he said.
“Hugo will be glad of the business,” I said. “In fact, I should incur more suspicion and demand a commission for each watcher I draw into the place.”
“Go on,” he said. “I am going to have a nap.”
“Dream of anything but me, my friend,” I called as we parted.
My family was already there when I arrived, along with Pelardit, who was demonstrating some sleight of hand involving colored kerchiefs to Helga.
“So that’s how it’s done,” I said as I slid onto the bench next to my wife.
Pelardit indicated to Helga to give it a try. She put her hands under the table for a moment, setting things up, then folded them on top of the table again.
“I am going to cry,” she announced, and sure enough, a single tear trickled down her right cheek. She snuffled loudly, then plucked a blue kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the tear liked she was blotting up the sea. When she brought the kerchief down, it had changed to green. She looked at it in bewilderment, held it up for inspection, then crumpled it up in her right hand. She pulled one green corner out through her fist, then grabbed it with her left and removed it with a flourish. The kerchief was now yellow.
There was applause from Hugo from the other end of the room. Helga bowed grandly.
“Not bad,” I said.
Pelardit sighed and tapped Helga’s sleeve, where the green kerchief was still visible.
“Damn,” she muttered, deflating visibly.
Pelardit looked at her sternly, then directed her to do it again.
“It’s coming along, Apprentice,” I said reassuringly. “It took me weeks to get that one down.”
