Queen's Own Fool

by Jane Yolen

  “Servant’s gate,” Pierre whispered to me.

  “Peasant’s bolt-hole,” I replied.

  The two guards stepped aside, lowering their spears, and Jacques waved us through.

  After crossing a gravel-strewn courtyard, we parked the squeaking, protesting cart and took from it only those items we would need for our show.

  Then we followed Jacques inside. The passages were narrow, whitewashed, but dimly lit. I had expected something grand, I suppose, but it was like a rabbit warren, with lots of doors along the halls. At last Jacques stopped in front of one door and pushed it open.

  This was no luxurious apartment, but a plain room with a bare stone floor, bare walls, a single long table, and a couple of chairs.

  “Not even rushes or hangings to take away the cold!” I complained, for in the fairy stories my mother had told me there were always such things in a palace. How I missed her stories. How I missed her and Papa, almost two years gone.

  Jacques glared at me as if to say: What do you know of such things? And I blushed deeply—for shame, and for anger, too. To treat us so when we had done nothing to him.

  Uncle made a quick movement with his hand in my direction, promising a beating. Then he turned and said to Jacques in his deepest voice, smooth as oil, “I thank you on behalf of our troupe for these excellent accommodations.”

  Jacques merely grunted in response.

  “I am thankful, too,” I said, trying to make amends. After all, there were three basins of water, several towels, and two small cakes of scented soap on the table. A warm fire crackled in the grate. What were rushes and wall hangings compared to those?

  But Jacques’ face got its bean-up-the-nose look again. “Try to make yourselves respectable,” he ordered curtly. “If that is possible. Someone will come for you in a short while.”

  As soon as the door shut behind Jacques, Uncle wheeled on me. “Your mouth will get us all in trouble, mademoiselle,” he said, with a finger flick at the side of my head. It stung, of course, but I did not care. We were out of the grey rain, the fire was beginning to dry our clothing, and perhaps there would be food as well.

  Bertrand, Annette, and Pierre all made for the fire. As I went to join them, Uncle hauled us back, directing us to the basins.

  “Clean yourselves first.” He mimicked Jacques’ voice exactly. “If that is possible. Only then dry your clothes.”

  “But Papa,” Annette began, fingering her strings of wet curls.

  “There will be no buts, ” Uncle told her.

  So we did as we were instructed while Uncle Armand had the fire all to himself. I swear that if he could have, he would have soaked up all the warmth and left none for the rest of us.

  After placing the sleeping Jean near the hearth, with a rag under his head, Nadine fussed over Annette and me, trying her best to wipe every spot of mud from our faces. Then she turned her attention to Annette’s hair, spinning the curls around her finger and blowing on them.

  I was left on my own, first drying my hair with a towel. If we were to perform before the king and queen, I would have to make myself presentable. Uncle often told me that I was the least talented member of Troupe Brufort, adopted and not born into it, but still I would not disgrace the others with my looks. However, when I tried to comb my plaits out with Nadine’s hard brush, every tug hurt enough to make my eyes smart.

  “Do not stop brushing,” Uncle commanded. “Make something of that bird’s nest of yours.”

  “It is harder work, Uncle,” I said brightly, “tidying what is on top of my head than keeping straight what is inside it.” I thought to make him laugh, but the look he gave me was so cold, I returned to the brush with a will.

  My hair finally in order—though much was left in the brush—I went over to the fire to dry my still-damp skirts and sandals. The smell we made steaming out was musky and familiar. Many a time Troupe Brufort had taken refuge—like the Holy Family—in a farmer’s stable, and glad of the shelter.

  I closed my eyes and, despite my excitement about performing before the king, fell fast asleep in front of the fire standing up, like a horse.

  The door opened creakily and I was startled from my sleep. An elderly woman with a heavily-lined face came in. She was dressed in a black silk mourning dress without a hint of ornamentation. Her eyes were the color of stone and her lips but two thin lines, one atop another, like folded linens. She glowered at us, as if adding up our virtues and finding us lacking a full measure. Then reluctantly, she stepped aside to admit a tall, delicately-boned young woman into the room.

  This woman had amber-colored hair, enormous green-gold eyes under heavy lids, and a lovely long neck. Unlike her companion, she wore a dress of white and pale green. As she moved—spring to her companion’s winter—the skirt swelled out with close-set pleats like a bell that parted to show a smooth green underskirt. Her velvet overbodice was embroidered with gold leaves and green florets. The ruff at her neck was tinged with green from which jeweled ropes of pearls and beads hung down. She was like the fairy princess in one of Maman’s tales, and I drew in my breath in wonder.

  The older woman made a downward gesture in our direction with the flat of her hand.

  Only Uncle understood. He bowed deeply, motioning us to do likewise.

  So I bowed, just like Uncle and the boys, and was embarrassed when Nadine and Annette each performed a graceful curtsy. I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks as I blushed again.

  Uncle scowled at me. I think he would have beaten out his displeasure on my poor head, but the cane was lying too far away.

  The tall girl did not seem disturbed by my bow. In fact, she looked positively amused to see me act like a man. Perhaps she had made a similar error in not wearing mourning? I felt a sudden compassion for her.

  “What pretty young women and what handsome young men,” she said brightly to Uncle. Then for the first time she looked around the room. “But why is this room so plain? So ... empty? I must have rushes and hangings sent down at once to warm it up.”

  “Rushes and hangings—I asked for such,” I blurted out.

  All of Troupe Brufort glared at me.

  But the tall girl smiled. “So should you all!”

  I turned and grinned at the troupe, but no one smiled back.

  The tall girl continued. “I am delighted that you have come to us. Pray, do your very best to bring some joy into this dark day.” She shook her head and a wave of perfume wafted over us, like a wind over a flower garden. “This should have been the happiest of times for our new crowned king. But with his papa so newly and horribly dead, he can take little pleasure in it.”

  “So the beggar girl said,” I put in. Pierre grabbed my skirt and pulled me back and I realized I had gone too far, so I gave a quick curtsy.

  But the tall girl nodded, as if she had heard from the very same beggar. “Still, we must have some celebration today, a small token, do you not agree?” She smiled again. “So tonight do not hold back, Troupe ...” She hesitated, looking for the name.

  “Brufort, Your Highness,” put in Uncle, his voice deeply oiled.

  “Brufort,” she said, dimpling at him.

  Having finished her little speech, she turned gracefully and left the room. Her silk skirts sounded like a rivulet rushing over stones, but softer and more intimate and much more welcoming.

  “Highness? Highness? Who was that?” I whispered to Nadine.

  The elderly woman raised her eyebrows at me as though I had just spat upon the floor. “Stupid girl. That was the new queen, Mary. It is at her insistence this entertainment has been arranged.” The scowl on her face was evidence that she did not herself approve.

  “Queen Mary,” I whispered with the kind of passion one reserves for a life’s pledge.

  3

  GREAT HALL

  We had barely gotten dry when two serving girls entered carrying baskets of sweet rushes and herbs which they scattered over the floor. Within minutes the sour odor was gone and in its
place a fresh garden smell.

  It was even better than the fairy tales had made it sound, and I clapped my hands together. “La! We are quite the upper crust now.”

  The servants giggled and left, but right behind them came three men with tapestries which they hastily hung on the bare walls.

  When I tried to say something to them as well, they acknowledged my greeting with no more than a grunt, as though we were so far below them we deserved little more. Still, a kind word is never amiss. I was about to say so when another girl came in with a tray on which sat a carafe of mulled wine, a lovely baguette, and several cheeses.

  “Shall we greet the food then?” I said. “Food, meet Troupe Brufort. Troupe—here then, the meal.”

  Annette’s peal of laughter started us all off into giggles. We were soon a great deal jollier than we had been since coming to Rheims.

  Uncle, standing with his back to the crackling fire, raised his hand. Surrounded by a halo of firelight, he looked like some old devil just up out of the pit, for his hair—what was left of it—stood up on two sides like little horns.

  “Now, my children,” he began, his voice like a great viol, low and singing, “this will be our finest hour. Troupe Brufort is to perform before the King and Queen of France.”

  The way he glared at us made my stomach hurt.

  “Pierre, you must not just try, but must do the seven clubs.”

  “But Papa, I have only done the seven in practice, never while anyone was watching,” Pierre reminded him. He rubbed his fingers through his hair.

  “I have watched,” I said. “And you did not drop them then.”

  Pierre smiled at me. “Amazon,” he whispered.

  “Flea,” I countered.

  Uncle barely glanced at me, but it was enough. I shut my mouth.

  “And you, Bertrand—you must turn the cartwheels en l’air, no stops,” Uncle said.

  Bertrand nodded and Nadine knelt to massage his ankles.

  “And my dancing girls ...” Uncle smiled at Annette, not me, which I did not take amiss. I trusted his smile less than his cane. “The faces must beam at the royal couple.” He touched his own face and his fingers shaped a grotesque smile across his lips. “Even if you misstep, the face must never show it. Now you—mademoiselle!” he said, turning at last to me. “You will keep your tongue to yourself. No little adages from Italy. No stories. Just silence. Do you understand ? You are a member of Troupe Brufort by adoption, and I will not have you spoil our finest hour.”

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  Nadine woke up Jean and made him eat something, adding much water to his wine. He is so delicious and charming, his giggles usually earn us an extra coin.

  As for me, I stared out of one of the windows into the cold, grey day. I was warm. I was full of good food. But, to be truthful, I was very frightened. This was not stage fright. I had gotten over that more than a year before. But I knew what Uncle would not admit. We were only ordinary street players, used to rough audiences. Our meager dances and tricks would hardly be fine enough for the king and his court.

  And if we failed to entertain them—as we surely would—Uncle’s humiliation would be beaten into our backs come night-fall.

  Once again it was Jacques who came for us. His face had not lost its sour expression. That bean was even more firmly up his nose.

  We followed him through the long passages and the hurly of the servants’ halls, past the bustling kitchens, and up a winding stone stairway, till we came into the Great Hall. I was the very last in line. When I arrived, I had to stand on tiptoe to see over Bertrand’s shoulder what the others were already admiring.

  What magnificence! Here were enormous tapestries of kings and queens, and armies of mounted knights and their foot soldiers hurled into a fray. Above us from the high rafters flew the banners of all the great families of France.

  For a moment I could not take it all in. The height of place, the width. Why, a herd of horses could have trampled about in the hall and lost their way. Inside a palace seemed ever so much larger than any outside I had seen. It was almost too much and my mouth hung open.

  Then Pierre nudged me. “Toad!” he whispered.

  “Wart!” I countered.

  “Look at the people,” he said. “Not at the ceiling.”

  I looked.

  There were at least fifty fine folk seated at long tables that ran around three sides of the room. Most were adults, but there were five children as well, sitting stiff in formal mourning wear.

  On a dais at the high table sat the queen. Beside her was a young man in dark velvet, a pale, frail figure with a swollen face. He looked nothing like a king. Rather he was a plain—even ugly—boy with the reminders of pox on his cheeks. Frequently he raised a handkerchief to his right ear as if the ear pained him.

  Next to him was an elegant older woman whom I took to be his mother—the old queen—for she was in the deuil blanc, the widow’s dress, and covered with the transparent white veil that all new widows wear.

  Next to the old queen sat a girl perhaps my age. And by the girl’s side, an elderly grandmother who seemed, somehow, the most queenly of them all, with her straight back and raised chin.

  On Queen Mary’s other hand was the cardinal, opulent in crimson, and next to him a man so like the cardinal in looks, I took them to be brothers. But where the cardinal had a softer countenance, the brother’s face was very stern. He sat upright as though on horseback surveying not a troupe of players but a troop of soldiers.

  I could imagine none of these fine folk enjoying our show. I wondered what they would do if they hated us.

  Curse us?

  Beat us?

  Throw us back out in the rain and the cold?

  In front of the high table, at a small table of her own, lounged a dwarf no larger than Annette. She looked as if she were totally uninterested in either our troupe or the fine folk.

  I had only seen a dwarf once before, a little manikin who had been in a tumbler’s troupe. He had winked at me and made me laugh. But this dwarf was female, though dressed in dark velvet with a velvet hood and a cloak worn man-fashion, over the left shoulder. Her humped right shoulder rose up like a mountain on her little back, and the dress did nothing to disguise it. Still, she had the face of a fallen angel.

  “Do not stare so,” Pierre whispered.

  “You told me to look.”

  “To look, not to gape.” But he smiled.

  “The dwarf...” I began.

  “Play to the queen, not the dwarf,” Pierre said. “Only the queen matters.”

  Just then the servants began to clear away the remains of the banquet with a minimum of noise. The feasters ate silently as well. One would think that such a feast would be abuzz with conversation and laughter, but everything was oddly quiet, as if no one were allowed to speak above a whisper.

  This was not a happy party.

  Then the queen looked up and, seeing us, nodded her head.

  At us.

  At me.

  Only the queen matters. I heard Pierre’s voice in my head.

  Suddenly Jean—too young to be intimidated by the grand place, the fine company, the silent solemnity of the feast—pointed a finger at one of the high banners. He expounded in his piercing little boy voice. “Look, Maman! Red and green and blue!”

  Nadine quickly grabbed his hand and shushed him while a titter ran through the audience.

  At that very moment, a chamberlain prodded Uncle with his finger. In an instant Uncle returned to the perfect showman. Striding into the center of the room, he made a florid bow. Then he began a speech I had heard a hundred times before. Only now, in the presence of the court, his words took on a borrowed grandeur.

  “Your Majesties, honored lords and ladies of France,” he declared, “we present to you the renowned skills of Troupe Brufort, as witnessed in the courts of Italy, Burgundy, and Spain.”

  I did not show on my face what was in my mind. I did what Uncle wanted.
<
br />   I smiled.

  He waved us forward and our first—and only—performance before the King and Queen of France began.

  4

  PERFORMANCE

  Bertrand made a series of tumbles the length of the room. He kept his toes pointed and we in the troupe cried out, “Hop-la!” an applauded.

  Then Bertrand turned cartwheels and in-the-air somersaults, his legs like pinwheels, all the way up to the table where the king and the queen were seated.

  The king was not paying attention to Bertrand, but leaning over to speak to his lovely young queen. She never took her eyes off Bertrand, but seemed also attentive to the king, for she laid a reassuring hand on his arm.

  Taking a step forward—out of curiosity more than anything else—I saw that the young king’s eyes were puffy, as if he had been weeping. And perhaps he had been. I certainly had wept enough for runnels to form down my cheeks when my parents had died. However, the king did not look as if his father’s death had caused his puffiness. Rather he seemed like someone who had never known good health.

  I was puzzled. How could anyone so sickly rule France? It was like expecting an infant to handle the reins of a warhorse. On the other hand, both the cardinal and his brother looked as if handling horse and infant would not trouble them at all.

  But my woolgathering was soon stopped as Bertrand came to a halt in front of the high table, arms raised, always a signal for applause. He certainly deserved it. His tumbles had been perfect—numerous, elegant, and high.

  At first there was an awful stillness, as if everyone were holding their breath at the same time. Then the queen began to clap enthusiastically, followed by the king. Soon the entire company was applauding loudly, except for the dowager queen, who kept her hands in her lap, her lips pursed in a disapproving frown.

  Bertrand blushed and bowed, then blushed again.

  Uncle motioned Pierre to step forward. Flinging the first two clubs into the air, Pierre started walking up and down the room as he juggled. He plucked a third club from his belt and soon had all three of them flying through his hands with dizzying speed.