The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery (12 page)

“I guess we might as well be on our way,” I said to Pantalan, wiping the tears from my eyes. “We’ve troubled you long enough.”

“Oh, not until morning, my friends,” he replied. “Don’t forget that we are performing at the Green Pilgrim tonight.”

“That’s right. What would you like to do?”

“Oh, some of my stuff, then more of yours, since they haven’t seen you before. And to finish—let’s see, we have two men, one woman, and a plucked chicken—”

“Girl,” protested Helga.

“A plucked girl. How about the Drunken Priest at the Funeral?”

“Perfect,” I said. “Helga, you learned that one, didn’t you?”

“With Father Gerald playing the priest in class,” she said proudly.

“Then you’ve learned from the best,” said Pantalan. “Good. That should be enough to keep them happy, and not so long that they forget that they came to drink.”

We ran through a rehearsal in the courtyard in front of his house, the local children watching with glee; then we loaded up our bags and marched down the hill.

The tavern was located a street in from the harbor. I spotted the two guards from the Hôtel de Barral. To my surprise, Laurent, Roncelin’s seneschal, was sitting with them. The two guards eyed Claudia with a look I decided to dub approval so I wouldn’t have to get into any fights.

“Look over there,” muttered Pantalan, nodding toward the bar. There was a clump of soldiers wearing Aragon’s colors. “You know any Aragonese songs?”

“I sang one by Giraut de Bornelh to Eudiarde just this morning,” I said.

“And she didn’t jump you on the spot?” he laughed. “My God, she must have been drunk. Well, pick something bawdier for those fellows. All right, here I go.”

He jumped onto a table at one end of the room and announced his presence with a mighty chord on his lute. The people closest to him clapped. He bowed, then launched into a comic song about a fearful pilgrim trying to muster up the courage to take to the sea. As he sang, he turned the table into a boat and a bench into a gangplank. Despite his girth, he was remarkably agile in his movements, and soon convinced us all that we were being tossed by a storm in the middle of nowhere. He spun the tale out, improvising verses, or at least giving the appearance of doing so. Claudia, Helga, and I picked up the melody and added our instruments to it while Portia took in everything, her eyes wide in wonderment.

He finished to enthusiastic applause, which he milked shamelessly. Then he held up a hand for silence.

“My friends, although it was a shock to learn this, I find that I am not the only fool in Marseille,” he said. “An entire family of them has come by to visit, and because of my great love for all of you, and I mean that, even though some of you I’ve never seen before in my life and never will again, but because of the deep and, dare I say, abiding love that I hold for you, no matter how ugly, depraved, and diseased you may be, but it is still love, I insist, though now that I am thinking about it, perhaps love from a safe distance would be best, yet even that is love, though it may present the outward face of outright loathing—”

“Get on with it!” someone called.

“Such rudeness!” he said, looking wounded. “You have made me forget my place. I will have to start over again—”

There were howls of mock anguish and protest from his audience.

“Oh, very well. I give you Tan Pierre, Domna Gile, and Little Helga—the Fool Family!”

We had a particular routine, suited to the low ceilings of taverns where acrobatics were less effective. The high point was my portrayal of a drunk, which admittedly is never a stretch, staggering obliviously through the clubs being tossed back and forth between my two partners, pausing at one point to drop and then retrieve a coin from the floor, bending down just in time to miss being struck in the head by a high club from one direction, then straightening to avoid a low club from the other.

We then broke into song. I threw in one particularly dirty ditty from Aragon that had the visiting soldiers guffawing. I was glad for Helga’s sake that she understood no Aragonese yet.

Pantalan rejoined us in clerical garb, and we segued smoothly into the sketch. It went well, and we finished with a mildly pious local musical tribute to those who would soon be traveling the seas on pilgrimage. All in all, a successful performance, and we were rewarded with many drinks and a bucket of oyster stew from the tavern keeper.

The last round came from the table of Aragonese, who spoke passable langue d’oc as it turned out. We let them pour, as they were marginally more sober than we were by then, and lifted our cups in a toast.

“To your king, the magnificent Pedro,” shouted Pantalan.

“To our king!” they bellowed, and one added, “May he go home to his queen tomorrow.”

“Why? Where is the stallion of Saragossa?” asked Pantalan.

“Here, damn it,” he said. “And I had the finest piece in all Montpellier ready to spread her legs for me when he decided to abandon his bride and come to Marseille.”

“He’s tired of the countess already?” laughed Pantalan. “I can’t believe it. She wore out two husbands before she turned twenty, and now the third is fleeing her after only four months of marriage? I thought Pedro was supposed to be a legend in bed.”

“Then he met his match,” said the soldier. “Anyhow, as pretty a wench as she is, he didn’t marry her for her looks. He married her for Montpellier and whatever money he could suck out of it.”

“And now he’s here to borrow more?” I asked.

“We don’t know why he’s here,” said another. “We just know that he has some vast plan that means we have to drag our sorry asses from one place to another. Montpellier, Marseille, Genoa, Rome—”

“Rome? Is he going to see the Pope?”

“That’s what we hear. Don’t know why. It’s not like he can marry Innocent off to a spare sister. Say, I bet I know a song that can make a jester laugh.”

“Ah! A challenge!” cried Pantalan. “Let’s hear it.”

And the game commenced, and continued late into the evening. When we staggered home, Portia was fast asleep in Claudia’s arms, and I had Helga riding my shoulders.

“What do you think King Pedro is up to?” I asked Pantalan.

“Trying to borrow money,” he replied. “Being a king, he owes on a greater scale than ordinary folk.”

“Does Roncelin have any?”

“Not really, but the consulat may funnel some through him just to keep up appearances. After all, he’s kin to Pedro, thanks to Eudiarde. Did you notice his seneschal there?”

“I did,” I said. “I was surprised to see him. You would think he would be busy cleaning the Hôtel de Barral for a royal visit.”

“Was that the graybeard sitting with the two men who kept flirting with me?” asked Claudia.

“There were so many men flirting with you, it’s hard to know which ones you’re talking about,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying not to sound pleased. “There were two soldiers from the Viguerie who said they guard Roncelin, and there was this graybeard with them who never said a word.”

“That was him,” said Pantalan.

“Something about him bothered me,” said Claudia.

“What?”

“He didn’t have a single drink the entire evening,” she said. “Why would a man come to a tavern and not drink or talk?”

“Because we were so good that he didn’t want to miss a word of our performance,” replied Pantalan. “Here we are, my friends. Sleep well, and wake me before you leave tomorrow. Here, let me help you with that.”

He disentangled Helga, who had fallen asleep while I was carrying her, and placed her gently on her pallet. He looked at her for a moment, then yawned mightily and climbed the steps to his room.

Claudia put Portia in the cradle and sighed.

“Montpellier in the morning,” she said. “I’ve never been there. I suppose that you have.”

“Just passing through,” I said. “That’s what most people do in Montpellier.”

A deep snore came from the room above us. We glanced up, then looked at each other.

“Everyone is asleep but us,” said Claudia. “Whatever shall we do?”

“I have an idea,” I said.

“Why, sir, are you flirting with me?” she said as I picked her up and arranged her on the pallet.

“I’ll do that later,” I said.

*   *   *

I woke midmorning to a pounding noise that, for a change, wasn’t in my head.

Helga popped up from her pallet, glanced at the two of us and casually arched an eyebrow, then peeked out the window. “It’s that graybeard from the tavern last night,” she whispered.

“Coming down!” called Pantalan from above. He descended in full motley and makeup and opened the door. There was a murmured conversation outside. Helga listened at the door, then turned to us with a grin.

“We’re going to…,” she began, then she yelped as Pantalan’s hand reached through the doorway and grabbed her by the ear.

“Stay on guard, Apprentice,” he said, coming inside and releasing her. “And this is my news to give, not yours. My friends, I am afraid that you must delay your departure one more day. We have been summoned to give a performance at—well, let’s just say that the frozen conditions in Hell have lasted another day.”

“I’m too hungover for riddles,” moaned Claudia, pulling the blankets over her head.

“Roncelin?” I asked.

“The same,” he replied. “Turns out his seneschal was scouting us for the entertainment. The powers of Marseille are throwing a dinner for the visiting royalty, and they want to impress, so Roncelin will be playing the continuing role of the Viscount of Marseille, and we will be playing fools.”

“We can do that,” I said.

*   *   *

We arrived at the Hôtel de Barral in midafternoon. Instead of the two guards at the gate, a full company in full armor stood at full attention. Their sergeant in full dudgeon directed us to the servants’ entrance.

“Suddenly we’ve come down in the world,” observed Pantalan. “Just because some king drops in for a bite to eat. Now, remember—I left this room yesterday just ahead of a spearpoint, so be careful what you say around Roncelin.”

“What about Pedro?” asked Claudia.

“He likes wine, women, mirth, merriment, and more women,” said Pantalan. “Anything is fair game.”

We climbed a back staircase and went through a narrow corridor that brought us to the Viscount’s ballroom. It had been completely transformed since our visit yesterday. An entire layer of grime had been lifted off, revealing the unknown glories of the patterned wood floors. The tapestries had been cleaned to the point where one could actually see the colors, and the shutters at the end of the hall were wide open. A giant log burned majestically in the great fireplace, and torches brought light to all the places the sun couldn’t reach.

A quintet of musicians was setting up on a low platform in the corner. Pantalan introduced us all around, then conferred with their leader over the division of entertainment while we unpacked. As music was not to be our responsibility, we left our instruments by the wall and concentrated on the juggling gear.

A team of servants lent to the château for the occasion set up the main dining table, then buried it under a huge damask cloth. Side tables were brought in, and then came giant loaves of bread, carried between two servants apiece.

Eudiarde suddenly swept into the hall, barking orders right and left that made no sense and were otherwise ignored by the staff. It seemed to give her satisfaction, nonetheless.

“It’s been a long time since she’s had a chance to play the lady,” whispered Pantalan.

Just then she caught sight of me. She stopped in midsentence, blushed for a moment, then resumed haranguing a poor girl who was not putting the spoons and knives on the table fast enough.

“And what was that all about?” asked Claudia slyly.

“It looked like a woman remembering something that didn’t actually happen,” I said. “Clubs or balls, dearest?”

Laurent came up to Eudiarde and whispered something to her. She squeaked in dismay and ran out of the room. He clapped his hands, and the bustle momentarily ceased.

“Our guests will arrive shortly,” he said. “If anyone asks, you’ve worked here for years. Make it look like it. We want the Lion of Aragon to enjoy himself. Then we want him to leave happy. Soon, but happy. Am I understood?”

There were nods all around.

“And it’s been a long time since he’s had a chance to play the seneschal,” whispered Pantalan. “Here they come. Let’s start juggling.”

“And eavesdropping?” asked Helga.

“Of course,” said Pantalan, winking at her.

“Oh, good,” she said, and she cartwheeled away.

Portia was looking restless, so I picked her up and carried her in my left arm while keeping two clubs going with my right hand. This proved a great draw for the great ladies and merchants’ wives as they arrived. We had her dressed in a tiny little motley tunic with a cap and bells on her head that she kept pulling off and shaking.

“And who is this little fool?” cooed one woman as she chucked her under the chin.

“Don’t underestimate her,” I said. “She’s the smartest of all of us.”

“How so?”

“She gets all the attention, eats for free, yet she is the worst juggler in the group,” I said. “Drops everything.”

The cap and bells jangled to the floor, and the ladies laughed as Portia and I looked down at it in dismay. I stuck my toe under it, kicked it into the air, snatched it with my free hand and stuck it back on the baby’s head. Not much of a trick, but it’s adorable. The ladies applauded and moved on.

I looked at Portia, and she looked back at me with a big smile.

“Why do I get the feeling that you dropped that on cue?” I asked, and we rubbed noses.

Roncelin and Eudiarde made a grand entrance. He was still in a black robe, but this one was actually clean and richly embroidered. We all bowed, and they promenaded to the center of the room opposite the main doors. Laurent appeared carrying a massive silver tray holding a pitcher of wine and three gold goblets. We stood silent for what became an uncomfortably long interval; then there was a blatting of trumpets outside. A moment later, Pedro appeared in the doorway.

Was it coincidence that his entrance coincided with the sun’s rays angling through the windows toward him? Somehow, I doubted it. His pose as he stepped in was designed to dazzle, his golden breastplate reflecting the afternoon light in all directions. He might have been some ancient Roman general returning in triumph from battle, a Mark Antony before his Egyptian depletion, his legs the strongest, his beard the manliest, his voice as he bellowed his greeting the boomiest bass in all Christendom. Every woman in the room buckled slightly and began to sway like a grove in the breeze.