Queen's Own Fool

by Jane Yolen

  When the fourth, then fifth, were spinning through the air, one of the women seated closest to me cried out, “Oh, la!”

  For the space of about twenty heartbeats he kept the five moving. They arced a perfect rainbow overhead.

  And then he slipped the sixth club from his belt and threw it into the rainbow.

  It stayed in perfect rotation.

  I whispered under my breath, “Dear Lord, let him add the seventh.”

  The room was silent with anticipation as Pierre pulled the last club from his belt and threw it up in the air.

  I closed my eyes.

  When I did not hear a club drop, I opened my eyes again.

  Pierre had all seven clubs in the air and they moved around in perfect harmony. He made three more passes with them and then gathered them down one at a time, spun around on his toes, and bowed.

  For a long moment the silence lengthened. Then, led by the young queen again, there was sudden, deafening applause.

  Now the king looked as if he were starting to enjoy himself, talking animatedly to Queen Mary on one side, and then to his mother—the old, purse-lipped dowager—on the other.

  As Pierre and Bertrand hurried back to join us, Uncle Armand laid aside his stick. He marched into the center of the room and puffed out his chest.

  “Honored majesties,” he announced grandly, “prepare to be dazzled by feats of magic which have baffled the sages of Venice, Alexandria, and Constantinople.”

  He produced a copper coin from his pocket, holding it between the two middle fingers of his right hand. He made a fist and when he opened his hand again the coin was gone.

  “Ha!” Uncle said, smiling as widely as if he had made the moon itself disappear.

  There were a few murmurs from the children, but no more than that. This company had seen such sleight of hand before.

  Uncle repeated the trick, disappearing two coins, then three, verbally applauding himself each time. Then he passed some little balls from hand to hand, making them vanish as well. Finally he produced three colored handkerchiefs from his sleeve and stuffed them into his clenched fist. When he stretched out his palm, the handkerchiefs were gone.

  “Ha-ha!” Uncle cried, holding up both hands as if awaiting the thunderous applause he was used to in the courtyards and street fairs where we usually performed.

  But as he stood with uplifted hands, the dwarf woman got up ponderously. Turning her back to Uncle, she lifted her dress slightly, bent over, and let out a massively rude sound that was a cross between a horn and a donkey’s bray.

  The entire court broke into explosive laughter.

  Uncle forced a broad grin onto his face, but his neck and chin flushed crimson. Backing away from the high table, he executed a rapid series of bows, his head bobbing like a duck feeding in water. When he neared us, he hissed, “Girls! Step lively!”

  There was to be no more magic.

  Annette and I came forward to begin our dance.

  Let the queen at least like us, I prayed.

  Bertrand began an upbeat tune on his pipe, while Nadine—striking the tambourine with vigor—sang a song from her village in Aquitaine. Her lovely voice with its grave trills filled the hall.

  I saw the queen give the king a gentle nudge, encouraging him to watch. He did so, squinting at us as though his head now hurt. He dabbed at his ear again with his bit of cloth. How odd, I thought. She treats him like I do Pierre or Bertrand, and not like a queen does the king who is her lord.

  Nadine finished singing, then began beating the tambourine faster and faster in time with Bertrand’s piping. The rest of Troupe Brufort began to clap—encouraging the audience as well, though only the children joined in. Then Annette and I whirled each other round and round, till we were on the edge of dizziness.

  I gave Annette our signal with a nod of my head.

  We stopped at once, though the music and clapping continued, and I crouched to let Annette climb up onto my shoulders. I straightened at once, so that our audience would see no break between the dance and the acrobatic climax.

  Gripping Annette firmly by the ankles, I turned slowly to encourage applause. It came only grudgingly, and I knew for certain that this gathering was not impressed by us.

  Perhaps I was thinking too much about pleasing the audience. Perhaps I was worrying about Uncle’s cane. But suddenly I slipped on the polished floor and lost my balance. Desperately I tried to stay upright, but could feel Annette toppling. Luckily I had the sense to let go so that she did not hit the floor face first, but managed to land on her feet and go into a quick forward roll.

  I went right down after her into a similar roll, just as I had been taught to do.

  Then everything went black.

  It took me a moment to realize what had happened. I had rolled completely under one of the tables and was now hidden from view by the linen cloth. I could only dimly make out the legs of the gentlemen and the skirts of the ladies.

  There was laughter and a man’s voice calling out, “Disappearing girl? That’s what I call real magic!” Another, a lady, cried, “Can you conjure her back, Brufort?”

  I scrambled along blindly under the table thinking that if I could reach the far end quickly enough, I might salvage something from this disaster. But scampering on my hands and knees, I soon found myself at a corner where two tables met. I had been going in the wrong direction! I could not turn around in the narrow space without making my presence obvious.

  I could hear footfalls and Annette calling to me. Shuddering, I thought that if Uncle hit me for imagined insults, how much more he would beat me for this!

  A pair of black-clad legs suddenly stretched straight ahead of me. When I tried to maneuver around them, I came rolling out of cover right next to the dwarf’s table. She glared at me with that dark angel face and stuck out her tongue.

  All I could do was to try and make the best of things. Leaping up with my arms outstretched, I executed a few rapid dance steps, as we often did at the end of a particularly difficult routine.

  When I stopped, I was face-to-face with the king and queen. The king was in the middle of a coughing fit, and had a kerchief pressed to his mouth, but he still managed to look amused. The queen was grinning broadly.

  “What were you doing down there?” she said.

  The queen had asked me a direct question. Despite Uncle’s warning, I had to answer. So I thought quickly.

  “In the course of my dance I grew very hungry, Your Majesty,” I replied with a bow. “I thought there would be scraps of food under the table, but found none. So ... the food must be very delicious or your nobles very, very greedy.”

  “And which do you think is true?”

  Another direct question. What could I do? And then Pierre’s voice spoke clearly in my mind: Only the queen matters. I would answer, though Uncle might well murder me later with his cane.

  “I have not tasted the food, but I can see from the shape of your nobles that they never have enough.”

  The queen clapped her hands together. “Quel drôle!”

  “I think she’s referring to you, Uncle Charles,” remarked the king with a laugh that turned immediately into another cough.

  The queen leaned over and patted him on the back.

  “I am sure it befits a nobleman of France to be ... to be grand in every sense,” I said.

  Now there was laughter from all around the room. The dwarf stood again, mimed a big belly, then walked to where the cardinal sat and pointed at him. The cardinal—who was not really all that stout—grabbed up an apple and tossed it to me deftly.

  “Have a care you do not grow too large yourself, girl,” he joked.

  “No fear, your lordship, for I am a peasant,” I said. “We never grow big or we would outgrow the only clothes we own.”

  I bowed once more and backed away from them to scattered applause and laughter. As soon as I came within his reach, Uncle grabbed me by the skirt and dragged me out through the door.

  Once we
were out of sight of the courtiers, he shook me so hard that the apple fell to the floor with a bump. I watched it roll away with dismay, for I had really wanted to eat it.

  “You stupid girl!” he snapped. “Do you think all these nobles came here to witness your clumsiness? Or listen to your peasant mouth? I should have told that priest where to take you the day he brought you to me.” Uncle’s voice was so cold it froze me to the very bones. “The streets are the best place for you, you stupid little witch.”

  Swallowing hard, I kept my eyes on the apple.

  “But they liked her,” Pierre protested. “They liked her jokes.”

  “Liked ... her ... jokes?” Uncle rounded on Pierre. “They enjoyed mocking her, that is all. The court is known for such mockery, which they call wit. Mon Dieu! I spent years building the reputation of this troupe and in a minute this loose-tongued urchin has ruined me.”

  He released my arm and cuffed me across the side of the head. The stars this time were the color of wine—both red and gold.

  “I will peasant you!” he cried, raising his hand for a second blow. “I will show you real wit!”

  Then Uncle struck me again, this time with one of his beefy fists. For the first time I began to weep. Not because of the pain but because of who I was not. Cruel as he was to his own children, he beat me all the harder because I was not one of them.

  Uncle took another swipe at my head, but as he did so, Pierre pushed him from behind. I ducked under his swing and bolted through an open archway, running without thinking down a dim corridor. All the while, I was certain that Uncle would cast me out and I would have to spend the rest of my days begging in the streets.

  5

  THE GARDEN

  The few servants I passed stepped aside to avoid being knocked over, and I continued to run until—more by chance than design—I ound an outside door and burst into the open air.

  I came to an immediate halt and tried to catch my breath. Knuckling the remaining tears from my eyes, I gazed around. To one side of the garden was a knot of kitchen herbs, the plants still green. To the other, a plot of autumn flowers nodded in a small breeze. A half-moon cast a puckish glow over all.

  Had I, like Marie-in-the-Ashes in my mother’s favorite bedtime story, found my way into faerie land?

  Dry-eyed, I began to wander the little winding stone paths where drops of rain, like tears, glistened on petals and leaves.

  “Do not weep,” I whispered to myself. “The king and queen have spoken to you. The court has applauded your performance. And though you are about to be thrown out onto the streets by your wicked uncle, be content to have spent one evening here in faerie.” I spun around and around making myself dizzy.

  Just then I came upon a stone bench and sat down on it, gazing around in continuing wonder as if I had suddenly stepped out of my perilous world into a place of safety.

  I do not know how long I sat there before I heard footsteps and that safe little world suddenly collapsed. It had to be Uncle coming to find me. I could already feel his cane on my head. This time he might actually kill me.

  Then, to my great surprise, I realized that the person coming towards me was not Uncle at all, but a woman. Over the tip-tap of her footsteps, I could hear the shush-shushing of silk.

  I sat still as a stone. Prepared for Uncle, I was not prepared for anyone else.

  As the woman got closer, the half-moon cast her in a pale light so that she looked like a fairy queen. Instead of a crown of jewels, she wore a hood with a heart-shaped curve above the forehead, from which her auburn hair peeked out.

  It was Queen Mary herself, alone and without escort.

  I stood, making a quick and awkward curtsy.

  She nodded and then giggled, as if remembering my earlier boyish bow.

  “I thought I might find you here,” she said. “When I was little and got into trouble, I always used to hide in the garden.”

  “I did not know queens could get into trouble,” I said.

  “Perhaps not queens of France, but a little girl surely can. And more often than you might believe. Are you in trouble, garden girl?”

  I shrugged. “Uncle Armand is very cross.”

  “Well, he should not be. Yours was the only performance that brought a smile to my dear Francis. The king, that is.” She gave another clap, and smiled. “And what shall I call you, pretty child?”

  I blushed, being neither pretty nor—at well past ten—a child. “Nicola, Your Royal Highness. Nicola Ambruzzi.”

  “You are not a Brufort, then?”

  “Only half,” I said, then told her about my father, a poor shoemaker from the plains of Lombardy in Italy. “My mother was French, Madam. Uncle Armand’s little sister.”

  “So, do you speak both languages then?” asked the queen.

  “Si, ” I whispered shyly. It had been a while since I had said a word in my father’s tongue. Uncle would not have it.

  “How interesting,” the queen said slowly. “I speak Latin and some Greek. And French of course. Also some Scots, as I lived in Scotland till I was six.” Suddenly she said, “Parli Italiano?” asking if I spoke the tongue.

  “Si, parlo Italiano.”

  “Ah—I wanted to be certain that you were telling me the truth. I cannot abide being lied to, though all else I can forgive.”

  I blushed furiously. “I have many faults, Your Majesty—as Uncle will surely tell you. But lying is not one of them.”

  She smiled again. “Well said, Nicola. You are direct. I like that. Now tell me how you came to be a performer.”

  “Can you really want to know, Madam?”

  She nodded, so I told her about the very last day I had seen my parents alive. How, returning from a market where Papa had sold many pairs of sandals and boots, we were crossing the Rhone, in bad weather. The boat had capsized.

  “Oh, poor child!” Queen Mary cried.

  I told her how the howling gale churned the river into a froth. How I blindly thrashed about in the water. As I spoke, I threw my arms about showing the motion of the waves. “I made it to shore and waited hours for Maman and Papa to find me. They never did.”

  The queen took out a square of linen from her long sleeve and wiped a tear from her eye. But she did not urge me to stop, so I went on.

  “Eventually,” I said, “some nuns came upon me. They took me to their convent and wrapped me in warm blankets. But I could not stop shivering.” I was suddenly shaking as if wrapped in those blankets again. No one—not even Pierre—had ever had this much of the story out of me.

  “Go on,” the queen whispered.

  “The kind sisters told me the Lord had saved me for some purpose, though they did not know what it might be. They asked if I had other family. I told them only my uncle, the famous entertainer Armand Brufort. So they gave me into the care of a priest who was on his way to Paris. When we reached the city, it was filled with mummers and troubadours, for the dauphin had just been married to the young Queen of Scotland, and ...”

  I stopped suddenly and raised my fingers to my mouth. “Oh, Madam—that queen was you!” I dropped a deep curtsy.

  She laughed, tucked the linen in her sleeve, then put her hands on my shoulders, drawing me up. “So, Nicola, you were at my wedding! ”

  “Not exactly at, Your Majesty. Any more than a flea is at a dog’s nuptials.”

  “Oh, dear girl, what a teller of tales. And a wit as well. Two souls in a single breast. But tell me, how did you and the priest find your uncle in all the crowds?”

  “We asked every mummer and juggler and beggar we could find. There were so many of them! I lost count after a hundred.”

  The queen laughed at that. “But you did find him at last.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. We were directed to a small square on the north bank of the Seine, and there someone pointed out Troupe Brufort. Pierre was performing, with five clubs.”

  “Ah, the handsome dark-eyed rascal. So he has come up in the world since. Seven clubs now. I am wel
l impressed.”

  For a moment I was speechless. That any of us in Troupe Brufort could impress the queen.

  “And your uncle opened his arms to you?”

  “Oh no, Majesty. At first Uncle paid no attention to the priest. You see, clerics rarely have money to give to performers, and for this reason alone Uncle despises them.”

  “Clearly your uncle knows the wrong clerics,” said the queen. “The ones I know are very rich indeed. But do go on, little teller.”

  I needed little urging. A story must come around to its proper end. This my mother had told me often when I was impatient with a tale. Her stories always finished with “Happily ever after,” but my own story did not.

  “The priest,” I continued, “was forced to tug on Uncle’s sleeve to get his attention.” I tugged on my own sleeve to demonstrate. “And when Uncle finally noticed, he did not know me, having seen me last when I was four. He said he already had enough mouths to feed, and we should go away.”

  “So—it always comes down to money,” said the queen.

  “Oh, no, Your Highness. Not with everyone. Papa liked to say: A good heart outlasts a big purse. ”

  “Your papa must have been a very smart man.”

  “He was a cobbler, Your Highness,” I said.

  She sat down on the stone bench and spread her skirts about her like scallop shells. “At least you knew him,” she said. “My own father died in a faraway place six days after I was born.”

  “I am sorry. Oh—may a peasant feel sorry for a queen?”

  She shook her head. “It does not matter. I had a better father in the old King of France, God rest his soul.” For a moment she was quiet, remembering. Then she smiled. “Tell me the rest, child. Your story touches me, here.” She put a hand over her heart.

  “Well, the priest reached deep into his own pocket and pressed some coins into Uncle’s hand. Uncle Armand counted them and then said to me, ‘Can you dance, girl?’ So with a nod of encouragement from the priest, I tried a few steps of the tarantella my papa had taught me.