Eleanor looked puzzled. She took out all the jewels and spread them on the cushions, then peered into the box again. “I—I cannot lay hands on it,” she said.
"Nonsense. Look again."
"I have looked again.” She turned to the countess, wide-eyed. “It's not here, ma dame," she whispered. “The Golden Fool is gone!"
"Jehane!” cried Dangereuse.
But there was no reply, no sound of soft footfalls in the passage. For the first time in over thirty years, Jehane la Meuniere was nowhere to be found.
* * * *
"You're getting feeble-minded, that's all,” growled Duke William. “If you can't find your baubles, don't come bothering me."
Dangereuse stood a few steps above him at the turn of the stair, leaning heavily on her stick. Her thin arms rattled with golden bracelets, and over her hair she wore a rose-colored wimple suitable for a woman half her age.
"I've got a stomachache,” whispered Petronille.
"You'll have worse in a minute,” Eleanor muttered, “if you don't shut up."
The sisters had hidden themselves behind a tapestry on the landing. They could just see their father's huge bulk through a gap in the seam. The duke was tense and angry, as he usually was when forced into a battle of wits with his stepmother.
"Ventadour and his whelps will have a good laugh tonight,” she taunted him, “when they learn there's a thief in the house and you can't be bothered to catch him."
William turned on her, furious. “Who told you Ventadour was coming?"
"I have my spies, the same as yourself. But there is something more important. Your eldest daughter begins to be of interest to men. She needs watching. That boy of Ventadour's has his eye on her."
"Will they hang Jehane for stealing the Fool?” Petronille whispered. Eleanor punched her in the stomach.
"The child is a rich prize,” Dangereuse told Duke William. “And there are many in Poitou who would not scruple at abduction. She cannot yet conceive, but it will not be long now."
William paced the faded Italian tiles of the stairwell, his boots creaking. “I don't trust you. God knows what plans you have for her. You drove my mother into a nunnery."
"Your mother was a nun from birth."
"You got Father to marry me to your cast-off cow of a daughter. She hated you even more than I do."
"Aenor endured nine years of you and many more years of me, and when she died, she died of endurance. She did not know how to hate. But I do. I have two treasures left in this world, my lord Duke—your eldest daughter and the Golden Fool. I want the jewel back in my keeping. It was my husband's gift and I have paid a high price for it. Make a search. Find it."
"Or else?"
"I shall hand Eleanor to Ventadour's son, that pretty puppy Joscelin. And your precious dukedom will fall, plop, into the lap of your greatest enemy."
"I'll lock you up, you old bawd!"
She smiled. “Go ahead. I have hands and feet in every town from here to Paris."
"Then I'll kill you!"
"You think that will stop me?"
William stood for a moment, shimmering with pure rage, and the girls, still watching from behind the tapestry, thought he would collapse. But without another word to Dangereuse, he turned on his heel and stalked off through the banqueting hall.
"Thierry!” they heard him bellow at his steward. “Call my Guard, Thierry! Find the lady Eleanor and lock her in the keep!"
* * * *
"Be quiet, Petronille,” Eleanor commanded her sister, “and walk tiptoe. If Father locks me away, we shall never find the Golden Fool. Nor Jehane, neither."
"You don't care about her. You won't get to dance with Joscelin, that's all you're worried about."
"She may know where the jewel is. Besides, she's Grandmother's friend."
"Peasants can't be friends."
Eleanor sniffed. “It depends on the peasant. Besides, she was a gentlewoman till she married the miller. He must've been handsome. I think it's romantic."
The corridors of the old central palace had no windows, and there were so many turnings that you could lose yourself completely. “This is stupid,” Petronille whimpered. “We're lost and I'm tired. I've got a pain in my side. I can't go any farther."
"I know where we are. There's a stair down to the stables. If we—"
Suddenly Eleanor pushed her sister flat against the wall. The heavy footsteps of the duke's Guard could be heard coming closer, and in another moment a torch illumined the passageway.
There were two men, both wearing the duke's livery—but unarmed. Eleanor knew at least one of them well. “Baudri,” she said, stepping boldly into the light. “So it's you. What are you looking for?"
He smiled. “You're to be locked in the treasure room, my lady gypsy. You're bound to enjoy that."
"Pfu. I hate locks."
He had a nasty cut on his cheek, only barely scabbed-over. Eleanor considered. Guards were always fighting and wenching and gambling, and they always needed money. She looked from one of the men to the other. Then she took off her gold earrings and tossed one of them high in the air. It clattered down onto the stone floor and lay there, glittering in the torchlight.
She laid the other in Baudri's palm. “Let me go now,” she said. “Tell my lord father I'm safely locked away, and you may have my rings, too."
"It's worth our hides if we let you go and Ventadour gets his hands on you."
"Blast Ventadour. The Golden Fool is missing, and I mean to find it. And your aunt. She's run away. If you know where she's gone, you must tell me."
His aunt was Jehane, of course. It was she who had gotten him a place in the duke's Guard. Baudri bit his lip and hesitated, staring at the gold earring that still lay in his palm. “Try the cookshop by the south gate of the city,” he said at last, his eyes searching the shadows. “Ask for Marie Renart."
* * * *
In ten minutes more, the girls were on horseback, galloping down the hill to the city gate, under the sweet, white-hot sun of Poitou. Eleanor had learned to ride at three years old and Petronille at five, and the sight of them galloping their ponies past vineyards and olive groves and orchards was so familiar that nobody paid much attention.
The convent of Sainte-Croix was just inside the south gate of Poitiers, and beyond it lay a warren of shops—tailors and weavers, and spice merchants and apothecaries, and cookshops like Marie's, where one could buy pasties filled with roast pork and olives, or gingered barley cakes, or cream-and-cinnamon puddings, at any hour of the day or night.
The sisters jumped down from their ponies and began to lead them into the crowded merchant quarter. “Sample my wares, mes demoiselles?" said a huckster, approaching them with a tray of tidbits. “Fresh-cooked this morning by Marie Renart herself. Taste before you buy, miss?"
"I shall have a fig tart,” said Petronille, selecting two and stuffing them into her mouth.
"What's your name, friend?” said Eleanor.
"Odo, my lady. And that little snot-nose over there is my son, Raoul.” He laughed, and motioned to a boy of six or seven playing knucklebones in the dirt. “Marie Renart is my mother. Best cook in Poitiers, she is."
"We must speak to her, Odo. Will you show us the way?"
Odo looked worried, but he did not hesitate. “My mother will be honored,” he said. “Raoul! Come and carry this tray while I lead the horses."
It was slow going through the narrow passageways, but at last the little caravan arrived at a red wooden building whose upper story hung out over the lane. A round-faced woman with pink cheeks had been emptying a slop pail out of the upstairs casement, but when she saw the two girls, she quickly pulled the shutters closed and disappeared inside.
"My lad will watch the horses for you,” Odo said, and the boy took the reins obediently, holding out his hand in the hope of a coin or two.
"The little rogue wants his palm silvered, mes demoiselles," said a lazy voice from somewhere, and a young man of eighteen or nine
teen stepped out from the shadowy doorway of a wineshop nearby.
Joscelin de Ventadour was, as usual, turned out like a peacock—a chainse of cream-colored silk beneath his deep-green cote, cream silk stockings embroidered with oak leaves, and a short velvet cloak of a rich russet color. He bowed very low, the long curls falling around his handsome, high-boned face.
Before she slept, Eleanor often found herself imagining what it would be like to be bedded by Joscelin. It was supposed to hurt the first time you did it, but she couldn't imagine it hurting with someone so handsome. Besides, at her age, if she were not relieved of her maidenhead soon, her wits might turn—all the midwives said so.
"Alors, Joscelin,” she said, fluttering her long lashes. “At the wine already? At this rate, you won't be able to stand up by this evening, let alone dance with me. Is my lord your father not with you?"
He laughed. “Who knows where he's gone? To some woman or other, I wager. He goes at it like a tomcat."
Joscelin put a coin into young Raoul's palm, and Odo, looking more and more ill-at-ease, hurried into the cookshop. Down the lane, three men stood in a huddle outside the door of a goldsmith. Two were Ventadour's men. The third was Baudri.
"Petronille,” Eleanor said. “Go into the cookshop and ask Marie for a fig tart. You haven't had one in ages."
"But I just had—"
"Don't argue, dear. I shall wait for you at the convent. It's almost time for sext. Run along, now."
Eleanor never called her “dear.” Besides, Petronille was not Dangereuse's granddaughter for nothing. She saw the three men by the goldsmithy. Two more had appeared now, across the lane near a shoemaker's shop. She took note of them, looked back at Eleanor for a moment, then ran into the cookshop.
Running was out of the question, however, for Eleanor. Her bliaut had a train, and she had had no time to belt it up out of the way. If she tripped, they would take her, and mounting her pony unassisted would be impossible.
She had fancied herself in love with Joscelin, but it was most strange, for although she might dream of lovemaking with him, she did not wish to be taken, not by anyone. Besides, there was always a faint smirk on Joscelin's face when he addressed her, as though he found women almost as amusing as dancing bears.
"If you are going to Sainte-Croix for the noontide service, my lady,” he said sharply, “you must allow me to escort you."
He gripped her arm with hard, determined fingers. The men down the lane began to close in on them swiftly, and one led Joscelin's horse. Eleanor stopped in her tracks and his fingers pulled her nearer.
He let his free hand travel boldly along her shoulders and down her back to her flat little buttocks, and she shuddered with desire in spite of herself. Suddenly she knew how it was with women like her dutiful mother, how they learned the treachery of their own passions, and grew meek and dull-eyed, and died young.
"Come,” he said, “there's no use making trouble. In three hours, you'll be wedded and bedded. It comes to all little girls, you know. You'll endure."
One wrist still held tight in his grip, she rounded on him with her free hand and slapped his face, leaving a bright red mark on his cheek. Furious and roused, he twisted both her arms behind her and pulled her against him to make her feel his hardness. It would have had most women—the lucky ones with only loins and no brains—more than willing to ride off with him. But Eleanor was not so lucky.
She kicked and scratched and tried to scream, but one of them shoved a rag in her mouth. Joscelin was about to lift her onto the horse when two nuns, one plump and one very thin, came up behind them on the footpath, bound for the cloister.
Others were beginning to crowd the path, too, on their way to service. Joscelin, cursing under his breath, was obliged to step aside and make way, and thus loosen his hold on his prize. Eleanor shook free of him and spat out the filthy rag.
One of the nuns made the sign of the cross over Joscelin and began mumbling a blessing while the other—it was Jehane—took Eleanor's arm. “My lady,” she said, “have you no maids to attend you to service?"
"I came hastily away, ma soeur," said Eleanor. “Perhaps I may walk with you.” She turned to Joscelin with a smile a painter might have envied. “My lord de Ventadour will delay me no longer at present, I think."
* * * *
"He didn't dare to attempt you with so many folk about, my lady,” said the plump nun. She plucked off her veil and wimple and sat fanning herself with them. It was Marie Renart, and they sat in her sweltering little parlor above the cookshop. “I'm a bold sinner for pretending to holiness,” she said, “but sure as sunrise, it was God put them habits to hand when we needed them. I do a bit of mending for Mother Abbess when the good Sisters are too busy with their nursing. So when Odo come in—"
There was a step upon the narrow wooden stair, and Jehane, transformed to a servant again, came in with a pile of folded garments which she put on the table. “It is a shame for young maids to dress in boys’ clothing,” she said. “Your grandmother would beat me."
"It's the best way,” Eleanor said, as Jehane helped her to unlace her gown. “Whoever invented women's clothes was an idiot. Hurry up, Petronille."
"I won't! I don't want to wear boys’ clothes. It can't be good for you."
"Stay here, then,” said Eleanor, “and see how good it is when Father gets his hands on you."
In half an hour, two young Poitevin boys with rough homespun shirts and underdrawers, and strips of homespun wrapped round their legs instead of stockings, stood laughing at one another and eating bread and cheese.
Marie began to gather the scraps into a basket for the poor. “Odo's found you a horse to ride home,” she said, “so Master Heartbreak won't know you by your ponies."
But Eleanor turned to Jehane. “I saw your nephew in the street just now, with Ventadour's men,” she said. “It was Baudri who sent us here to seek for you, and we walked straight into Joscelin's snare. He is in the pay of my father's enemy, that is clear.” Her dark eyes narrowed, looking more and more like those of Dangereuse. “This nephew of yours has betrayed us, and perhaps it is he who took the Golden Fool. Do you know what they do to traitors, Jehane? They cut out their tongues, and that is only the beginning. But perhaps you're in league with them too."
Jehane fell on her knees and could not speak. Marie Renart, however, had no such constraints.
"My lady,” she said, “Baudri's her own boy, not her nephew. ‘Course, he don't know it, for I raised him as my own. Jehane was one of your grandmother's fine ladies when she was your age, but her guardian meant to marry her to a nasty old brute, so she run off. My good brother, he was miller upstream from here at Daunay, and he finds her a-wandering about hungry and he takes her in, and after a bit they was wed. Girart died of the summer fever a year or two after, and she had the boy by that time. So she left him with me and she went to your grandmother and begged to be taken into service."
Eleanor frowned. “Did you not tell her you had borne a child, Jehane?"
"I did not, but there is little one can keep hid from ma dame. She knows, I am sure. But she forgets what she chooses. And I could not have kept him with me. Oh, my lady,” she said, taking Eleanor's hand, “Baudri is a good man, like his father. And to steal such a jewel as le Fou d'Or ... I do not believe it!"
"Then why did you run away?"
"I stayed as long as I dared. Two days ago, when I went to get ma dame's earrings in the morning, I found the box unlocked. I confess, I have once or twice forgotten to lock it when ma dame has chosen what she desires. Sometimes she requires it many times during the day, and sometimes even at night she wakes and wishes to see the Fool, and to hold it. When I found the box unlocked, I looked inside and found le Fou d'Or missing. I knew I was sure to be accused, and because Baudri was my—my nephew, I feared he, too, would be suspect. I thought if I hid myself, they would lay the theft at my door only, and seek no further."
"Did you never lose the keys, Jehane, or lend them to Baudr
i? Can you think of anyone else who might have slipped in when the box was unlocked and taken the Fool?"
Jehane sank down to sit on the floor. “My lady Eleanor, I dare not think at all. I want only a little peace. Your grandmother believes a woman's need to have her own will and decide her own destiny never ceases. But I shall go to Sainte-Croix, now, and take the veil, if it can be arranged, and let the world spin its madness without me."
Eleanor, in her strange boys’ clothes, paced the little room, back and forth, back and forth. “Go, then. But I must talk to Baudri. Marie Renart, will you tell him I shall be in my father's pear orchard at the fall of dark? Near the herbarium. Say I will not betray him."
"But you will, though,” said Petronille, her arms round her sister's waist as Eleanor, in a worn leather jerkin and a close snood cap that hid her long braids, maneuvered Odo's brown gelding toward the homeward road. “You will betray Baudri. Won't you?"
"Before he betrays me?” said Eleanor. “If I must, little sister. With a smile."
* * * *
They had hung lanterns from the boughs of the pear trees, and the candles inside them flickered gently over the misty amethyst shadows of the Clain valley as the distant bells of Sainte-Croix rang compline.
The windows of Duke William's great hall were thrown open to the evening breeze, and laughter drifted out onto the plaisance, mixed with the music of tambourines, rebecs, and drums. Red-lipped ladies in gowns of every color trailed their long sleeves seductively to catch the eager eyes of gentlemen who bowed and swirled in the dance, and slipped a fingertip now and then through the lacing of a bliaut to trifle with the sweet flesh underneath.
Thanks to the other guard she had bribed, the duke had found his elder daughter safely locked in the treasure room of the tower, where she was meant to be. But once his guests began to arrive, he had thought better of hiding her away from any possible marriage prospects.
Now, dressed in peacock-blue silk and velvet mantle, her crown of dark braids woven with crimson ribbons, Eleanor was indeed the object of many gentlemen's interest. But when they asked her to dance, she pled the headache. She pretended instead to watch a knife-juggler and a couple of tumblers at the edge of the dancing floor. From there, it would be much easier to slip away in the confusion when dinner was served, and find Baudri in the orchard.
EQMM, February 2007 Page 14
