Yearning Heart (20 page)
Merchants struggling to set up stands and tables to show their wares cursed steadily at the peasant workers and animals. Aubin stopped beside an enclosed stall and climbed down to open the carriage for Stephen.
“God's eye, Aubin, get thyself in the carriage or a covered stall. Wilt catch they death of chills and fever. Come for me within the hour.”
“Yea, ‘tis evil, my lord.”
So saying, Aubin climbed back atop the carriage and guided the team towards shelter.
Inside the stall, Stephen went to meet Monsieur Cormand, a man he had traded with in years past. They spoke in French, a language Stephen knew from his journeys as well as through Aubin whom he had plucked off Paris streets where he roamed without family. Stephen thought at the time that Aubin was a boy of ten or twelve, stealing and digging in alleys for his food. He had taken Aubin to Glastonbury where he trained him as his manservant and driver. Aubin would die for Sir Stephen.
“Welcome, my friend,” Monsieur Cormand said, giving Stephen his hand. “It has been long.”
Dark hair lay on his shoulders, but a peak centered his forehead, giving a sense of dividing a round face. Thick beard and mustache hovered over a smiling mouth with white, even teeth. Deep brown eyes surveyed the slim straight figure of the Englishman and he smiled at what he saw.
Monsieur Cormand saw one of the few real smiles he had for anyone these days. “Too long, Monsieur. I trust thee and thy family are well.”
“Yes, yes, thank you.”
The Frenchman reached beneath a shelf and brought forth a decanter of whiskey, good whiskey, Stephen knew because the man did not drink cheap spirits.
“Ah, Stephen, ‘tis good to see thee. Such a miserable day that some good must come of it.”
He poured rich dark liquid into delicate crystal and handed one to Stephen. They touched glasses and sipped as Cormand motioned him to a straight chair and then sat on a square stool in front of him.
They discussed business this way, the Frenchman quoting prices on his wool. Stephen nodded at the price, swiftly calculating what he would need and the cost. His eyes lifted to the shelf behind Monsieur Cormand where bright silks were stacked.
“Ah, Stephen, some lengths for the Lady Rebecca. And, too, I have the necklace just for her lovely throat.” He got up and went around the counter, leaning down to open a safe.
“Do not bother, Monsieur,” Stephen said quietly. “I no longer have a wife.”
The Frenchman jerked upward, eyes wide with shock.
“For truth, Stephen? ‘Tis thought ... where is she?”
Stephen wanted to curse, to shout at the man, to kick the table of expensive goods, but he did none of this.
“She disappeared two summers ago. I have no word on her whereabouts.” He waved his arms when Monsieur Cormand would have spoken. “'Tis a tragedy I do not wish to speak of.”
“Of course, Stephen. I sorrow for you.” The Frenchman turned away from the fierce anger in the Englishman's eyes.
His business with Monsieur Cormand finished, Stephen walked through the market place, down the alleys between foodstuffs, household goods, wool, cotton, linen. Fine jewels, perfumes. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and filled with the smell of people and animals. He stopped near an old woman with a dirty shawl around thin shoulders, a wimple so faded as to be colorless pulled low over a wrinkled forehead.
“A length of satin for thy lady, my lord?” The husky voice was strangely musical. “'Tis a lovely color, is it not?”
Stephen looked down at the cloth the old woman held up for him. It was a pale purple, a color Rebecca favored over all. It softened her young face and reflected in the deep blue of her eyes, giving them a gentle tint of wild violets. The lusty night of love in London that long-ago Christmas, she had worn such a gown.
A violent spasm of pain shook his straight body, and he swallowed the shout of anguish that would have frightened the old woman out of the few years she had left in this world. Stephen shook his head and moved on, then stopped. A thin vial of perfume lay amidst the lace and silk of a filmy scarf. A black butterfly, etched into the bottle, hovered over a violet flower. His hand moved toward the fragrance, hesitated, and dropped to his side.
Wherefore need he purchase such a frivolous gift? For whom?
“ ‘Tis a wonder of a scent, sire,” a quiet voice said, “and costs little.”
Blindly, Stephen searched in his waistcoat and brought out money.
“Take what is needed for all of it,” he said, pointing to the handkerchief and scarf.
The merchant scurried about, murmuring at Stephen's good fortune in finding such a gift for his lover, but Stephen stared at him without speaking. When the man had finished with the wrapping, Stephen took the package and departed in haste.
“Here you are, for royalty and peasant alike, yea, for all who wander the streets. Come to the feast and fun with the likes of that never seen in minstrels. Sweet music and clever jokes, a bonny lass to sing. Follow me to the stage set for your pleasure.”
The clown in front of Stephen walked on tall tree limbs with carved notches for his feet. Dressed in stripes of red, purple and gold, a jongleur's costume with full legs, he dragged the poles along, giving out bits of wisdom and tomfoolery to make the crowds laugh.
It worked. They followed him behind the market stalls and tables to an arena surrounded by carts and wagons that could be used as seats. In the center of the compound a company of minstrels cavorted, tumbling, balancing pieces of wood on fire, a tiny dog jumping a turning rope, and another clown juggling clay pots. They frequently slid in the mud whether on purpose or not, it made the crowds livelier.
Stephen stopped long enough to catch his breath, to admonish himself for being stupid buying trinkets for a woman, a woman he did not have. He found a cart to lean against and watched the show, smiling at the childish antics he had seen so many times. At royal court, before the queen, in the alleys and main roads of country villages. Their performances were outlawed by the church, by Sir Thomas Becket, nonetheless flourished in the kingdom.
It was innocent entertainment. Stephen saw no harm in the glitter, the pretense that pushed troubles out of the way for a time. Poverty and denial were ways of life, but by God's eye, the workers of the kingdom should have a bit of entertainment. ‘Twas only fair. Sir Thomas did not deny himself. Why then, should royal subjects fare worse?
“And, now, that for which you have long waited. The master of minstrels, Hugo, and his companion.”
The clown bowed low, turned a backward flip, and galloped four-legged off the stage.
Stephen turned to go when he frowned and looked back. Queen Eleanor had said, “He is Hugo Benet, late of France.”
Interested now, he watched as the tall minstrel waltzed onto the boards, holding a small figure dressed in red. They moved as one, turning, dipping, swaying and bending, then the tiny dancer sailed through the air to land, cat-like, tumbling end over end, around the edge of the stage back into the tall one's arms.
The crowd cheered.
Stephen's eyes disbelieved the movements as much as any of the audience. It seemed an impossibility that a human body could bend and twist into as many shapes as the small one did. Shaking his head, he turned away. He had promised Alix to return to the royal apartment for dinner and one more talk before he left Troyes the next morning.
* * * *
Aubin settled to wait for his master, but he was remembering the Lady Rebecca. From the first sweet smile she gave him, Aubin was smitten and, in time, had grown to love her mayhap even more than he cared for Sir Stephen. Sir Stephen did not smile, nor tease, nor laugh at silly things. Never had he sat atop the carriage seat, as the Lady Rebecca loved to do when he drove her into the village those times Sir Stephen left her alone.
Aubin would not leave the Lady Rebecca alone had she been his wife. Never would he have let the lovely lady out of his sight. He thought Sir Stephen grieved for Lady Rebecca, but he could not be certain of such because his master did not speak of his departed wife. Aubin's heart ached with their loss.
He huddled in a sheltered corner and waited for Sir Stephen.
Chapter Fourteen
“ ‘Tis good of thee to bring news from the queen,” Alix said. “I want to see mama and papa, but illness keeps me here.” She sighed, and then smiled at Rebecca. “How art my half brothers and sisters? Dost rave and rant at papa as before?”
“In truth, the queen did not say, Your Highness. I am not in her confidence for such things.”
“Aye, but who knows what treachery those vixens plan? ‘Tis the king's own fault, ‘tis true, but loyalty to one's own should be without force.”
Rebecca watched Alix, wondering if she knew all that went on in the British kingdom. Mayhap not. How could one so far away see the many wrongs being committed? But she, Rebecca, could not speak of such things.
Alix should speak with Stephen. He would know what to say to ease her worries. But would he?
Stephen did not talk with Rebecca of government and change, of threats and hypocrisy, of King Henry and Sir Thomas. She knew from gossip and from listening in on conversations she had no business to hear.
“ ‘Tis planned that the younger children will travel with the queen as she visits France, Your Highness. She wished me to convey her best and to give assurance she will be here just past Christmas.”
“Thank you.” Alix frowned at the figure in gold, a sequined mask covering her face, misty black lace hiding her hair. “And who art thou?”
Rebecca curtsied.
“None but a minstrel, Your Highness. I have performed at the royal palace for the queen who enjoys entertainment furnished by our group. She knew we were to Troyes and wished to send the message straightway.”
Rebecca's heart pounded. Alix could well demand she remove the mask and veil, but she did not. She was unhappy and thought only of herself at the moment.
“Thou art a part of Hugo's troupe of minstrels? Mama has naught but praise for your dancing and reciting of poetry. The king has many worries and cares not for such, but if it pleases Mama, he is happy.” Alix looked long at Rebecca, and then said, “I look forward to the evening's entertainment, and I thank you for your news.”
There were no more questions, and Rebecca breathed a sigh as she was dismissed from the room. On trembling legs, she made her way to the tent where Margaret made preparations for their performance before Alix.
“I was fair frightened she would ask me to remove the mask,” Rebecca said.
“Why? Alix hast never seen thee. What matters she should see thy lovely face?”
“ ‘Tis true. There is no worry.” Rebecca frowned.
Why did it seem she should avoid being recognized by Alix? She did not know, but the uneasy feeling lingered.
Mayhap ‘tis only the ugly weather, she mused as she exchanged the gold sequins for a red silk top and black silk pants, legs ballooning to full gathers at her ankles. Black satin slippers, light and useful for running and dancing, adorned her small feet.
Hugo expects the rain to cease, Rebecca thought now, and if it knows its place, it will do as Hugo commands. She stepped outside her tent and faced a small crowd waiting patiently for the clowns to appear. She waved and blew a kiss and curtsied when they applauded. Opposite her, Gerald balanced on a whiskey barrel, waved to the crowd and promptly fell head over heels into the wooden platform, rolling over and over until he came to a stop at Rebecca's feet.
“Ha, knave,” she taunted. “Thou art a clumsy clown. Didst learn thy tumbling from the circus bears?”
“Aye,” Gerald said. “The trained bears are the ones to imitate, eh?”
He pulled himself upright, swayed as though drunk, then reached backward to pull Rebecca with him as he somersaulted end over end. They came to a stop at the edge of the makeshift stage, teetering, arms wrapped around each other, struggling to keep from falling into the mud.
At that moment, Hugo entered, raising long arms to accompany his songs, strolling innocently along the stage. The aria he was singing stopped abruptly as he spied the figures about to fall into the mire surrounding them.
“What say ye? Wouldst let your clumsiness lose the little one in the mud? What knave is this who would do such?”
He backed way to sing his displeasure.
Gerald bent near Rebecca's face, which was hidden by a black satin mask. He spoke in a loud, harsh whisper.
“Ere I let thee go, thou must sing for thy supper.”
He pulled Rebecca away from danger, and she dropped to her knees in a begging position. Her song began softly, telling the story of her troubles, of the loss of her parents, her child, her husband. Then her voice trembled and deepened, rising above the sudden stillness of her audience. So sweetly the words poured, so grave and solemn and true that no one moved.
Gerald stood coldly by, a haughty and proud posture, ignoring her pleas. Then as she sang, her voice beautifully sad, he began to take notice, and big bubbly tears ran down his painted cheeks.
Rebecca stopped singing to stare as Gerald pulled out a white linen handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, waved the handkerchief and it turned to red. Another wave and it became yellow, then green. He stepped close to Rebecca and dabbed at her mask. It turned red and green and yellow.
The crowd cheered and laughed as Gerald left a colorful path all along Rebecca's face, over the red blouse and down the black pants. When she saw what he had done, Rebecca ran after Gerald who grasped a pole behind the stage and slid down it, lost his footing and rolled in the mud.
Rebecca stopped, eyed the messy minstrel, threw back her head and laughed a silken, happy sound that entranced her audience.
Applause rose with calls for more and more.
* * * *
Stephen walked with head bowed, paying little attention to his direction. He had talked to Alix as Eleanor wished. The young woman did, indeed, seem depressed. Stephen didn't how to make her happy without lying about conditions in London. He thought Alix too intelligent to believe untruths he might tell of the king and queen's relationship. So he avoided telling an outright non-truth that had not helped Alix's disposition.
