Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  In the body of the hall sacks were being counted and stacked into various piles; eggs and fowl were examined and their number noted; barrels were opened and wine or beer tasted; dried fruits were weighed on brass scales; numbers were entered in huge ledgers. Here the smell was more confined; the warmth of bodies greater; the sound louder.

  The fool sat on a large cushion at his lord’s feet. Eòghan had sent for food to be brought up from the kitchen. He watched the fool eating hungrily, evaluating, scheming, as only leaders of men know how. To him this imbecile could prove a great asset. Fools were regarded as blessed: any simpleton who managed to survive to adulthood must be favoured by the gods, and men hesitated to harm them, even assassins. A fool could serve as protection, as much as for entertainment. And things were often said within earshot of a fool, things thought to be above his head, but which could be properly interpreted when he repeated them to his master.

  Lord Eòghan tugged at his moustache, smiled. “Fool! Would you grant me your loyalty?” he asked.

  The fool knelt, back straight and seized Eòghan’s hand, touching his lips to the ring. “My lord, I am your man,” the fool spoke in the cultured voice of nobility. “And I await your bidding; I would wear your colours and fight your cause; I would be at your side in battle, and pledge thee my sword, and my life!”

  Eòghan grinned. “Then arise, Sir Fool!”

  The fool raised his head, eyes shining. A huge grin across his face, and he looked as though he had been given the world. He stood suddenly, somersaulted backwards off the platform and back-flipped the length of the hall, scattering the throng. He swaggered back down the hall, head held high, chin inclined, nodding to right and left, acknowledging some of the lesser mortals in the crowd. Lord Eòghan beamed like a proud father as the fool mounted the platform, bowed, and took his place at his master’s shoulder, watching the crowd carefully for any sign of threat.

  The fool was to be seen later practising thrust and parry with a wooden sword, challenging his shadow, stray mongrels at the kitchen door, or any unfortunate serving maid who happened across his path as he patrolled the corridors.

  Eòghan called to one of his men, who hurried to his master’s side.

  “Sir?”

  “I would have this fool fitted out with some suitable clothing.”

  The man looked disdainfully at the fool, who favoured him with a broad grin. “You wish him attired in a jester’s motley, sir?” the man asked.

  Eòghan shook his head. “For the time being, find him something fit to wear around the house, and,” Eòghan lowered his voice, wrinkling his nose, “see if you can get one of the house matrons to bathe him.”

  “Sir.” The man bowed as he walked backwards from his master’s presence. The fool imitated him. Eòghan laughed.

  Lord Eòghan’s wife, Julianne, crossed the main hall, her gaze locked on the handkerchief in her hand. She hitched up her skirts to climb the three steps up to her husband’s side. She was a slim, dark-haired woman who seemed tiny at the side of her husband. Large blue eyes and a freckled nose made her seem much younger than her twenty-eight years. Slender hands always held a lace-edged handkerchief, which she would direct her attention to, pulling at the lace with her fingers, when she felt overwhelmed.

  Eòghan drew her to his side. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, bent to whisper something in her ear. She laughed.

  The fool tipped his head on one side and regarded Eòghan’s man.

  The man smiled and ruffled the lad’s hair. “Come fool, let us go and torment some unsuspecting house maid.”

  The fool grinned and capered on ahead, but when he saw the tub of steaming water, he took off at great speed. Only after a chase which took in most of the castle, was he caught and subjected to the indignities of a bath. The poor matron who bathed him was quickly drenched, the fool thinking it much fun to try and bail out the tub. But he was soon clean.

  His attendant could get no sense from him when she questioned him as to his origins or his name. She towelled him dry and had him into his undergarment. She helped him into his other clothes, fastening buttons and buckles: he was clumsy as a child. Her expression was sad as she left him admiring his rich new outfit in a mirror of polished bronze: he was a handsome, fully grown youth, but with the mind of a child.

  His vulnerability appealed to some instinct in her. Who was he? And what might Lord Eòghan have planned for him?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Edison forced the lock and Griselda Grimwade’s bedroom door swung open. Loud snoring came from within. If anyone had ever told him that he would one day be breaking into this woman’s room, he would have thought them mad. He was dressed entirely in black, with a hooded mask covering his head completely. Should Griselda wake and recognise him from their brief meeting, the game would be up, and his fate worse than arrest by the Guard. He looked around the darkened room, making sure he was the only thief present.

  Mrs. Grimwade kept her wealth in gold coin, contained in a stout oak chest that had brass corners and a huge lock. It was too heavy for half-a-dozen men to carry, even when empty. Edison planned to remove only three or four bags of coin, sufficient to see him out of his current debts. The lock upon the chest was of a cunning design, which Edison might have managed to open given time and patience, but after his recent attempts to break into jewellery boxes, he was short on the latter. There were two other ways to open this lock, Edison knew. One would be to take a large hammer to the lock and smash it off; the other was to use the key to open it.

  “She’s probably got it under her pillow,” Edison thought. He walked around the bed, knelt beside it. He pulled his glove free and flexed his fingers. His face was inches from the sleeping Griselda’s. Her features were barely distinguishable in the darkness, but still Edison shuddered. If she woke, there was no telling what she might do to him – or whether he would survive the experience. Carefully he slid his hand under the pillow. He slid his hand back and forth.

  Griselda’s eyes opened suddenly, and she opened her mouth to scream. Edison had one of her stockings in her mouth before she could make a sound. He held his knife to her throat.

  “Make any sound at all, missy, and I’ll have y’throat cut from ear to ear. All I’m wanting from you is the key to the little chest yonder,” Edison said; attempting to disguise his voice, he’d used the first accent that came to mind.

  Her eyes were wide, but the frown said she wasn’t going to give in so easily.

  “I’ll have the key from you whether y’are alive or dead, I have no preference. Do you?”

  Her gnarled fingers clutched tightly to something at her breast.

  “You’re thinking that I am too much of a gentleman to take it from you if ‘tis between your dugs, eh?” Edison flexed his fingers and moved his hand to the top of her night-dress.

  Her eyes opened wider. She reached between her breasts and pulled out the key on a thong. She handed it to Edison.

  Having tied a gag in place, he used Griselda’s clothing to bind her hands and feet to the bed posts.

  Edison unlocked the chest and transferred six little sacks of gold coin to his leather bag: he felt he’d earned the extra.

  Grimwade sat down to breakfast.

  “Shall I take a tray up to the mistress’s room,” one of the house maids enquired.

  “No, let her sleep on,” Grimwade said, glad of any respite from his wife’s presence.

  “What is that banging?” the hunchback asked, when the maid returned later to clear the table.

  They both strained to listen. They heard nothing.

  “It has stopped.”

  The maid took away the dishes, and returned with a fresh pot of coffee.

  “I can definitely hear banging,” Grimwade said.

  “I thought I heard it too, sir. Coming from a room above,” the maid said.

  “Griselda!” the hunchback said, leaping to his feet and making for the door. He had a horrible vision of his wife abusing one of his own men.


  The maid followed as Grimwade pounded up the stairs.

  Griselda paused to gather her strength again. She breathed deeply and threw her weight sideways on the bed. The legs on the left-hand side lifted slightly. As the bed legs fell back to the ground again, she hurled her weight the other way, using her weight and the bed’s momentum to bounce the legs on the right-hand side slightly higher off the ground. She continued this see-sawing motion, raising the legs higher and higher each time, making louder and louder sounds as the legs hit the floor. Surely someone would hear her soon. Her wrists and ankles were sore from the bindings that tied her to the bed, and the gag in her mouth had dried the moisture from her throat. She fell back again, resting.

  “Griselda!” Grimwade burst through the door. He and the maid rushed to untie Griselda’s legs and arms, and then Grimwade – with some reluctance – removed the gag.

  When she had finally managed to work up enough spit to lubricate her throat, Griselda let them all know what she thought of them.

  “While you were sound asleep dreaming of bronzed gods with oiled muscles, I was up here getting tied up and robbed,” was the gist of what she said. Her choice of words was more imaginative. More colourful.

  Chapter Twenty

  The stage in the courtyard of the Siren’s Head had been built to Doran Jarrett’s own specifications, modelled on theatres he had seen in the capital. It was a raised platform almost twenty feet square. At the back was a wall with doors to left and right. In front of this were two pillars that supported a small balcony: the front of the balcony would be used in performance, while a trio of musicians would sit at the back. There was a pair of hidden trap-doors in the stage, forward of the balcony pillars.

  Doran’s theatre now provided a stable home for his actors and musicians, and came close to giving them professional status, elevating them above the vagabond lifestyle of travelling players.

  Before rehearsals for a new play were begun, Doran held a meeting of all players and backstage staff. The new play had been written down in complete form, following discussions between the leading players and the playwright-director. A small pile of carefully copied editions sat to one side in their leather folios, ready for distribution to those who would read – or have read to them – their parts, in order that they might learn them. But that would come later. For the moment, the assembled cast and backstage work force were going to receive their own special preview of the play.

  Sitting and standing in groups in the area around the stage, they were in a party atmosphere. Food and drink had been set out on trestle tables. Here were the actors, affecting the grandness of minor nobles, and off to one side their understudies, intent on learning how offstage actors acted. Here were the musicians, some of them hollow-eyed having spent most of the night performing in private homes to supplement their incomes. Towards the back of the theatre as Edison entered stood a group of men who were dipping their mugs into a barrel of ale: the stage hands, the scenery builders and prop handlers, and the team who maintained and operated the harness that allowed actors to defy gravity and fly effortlessly on camouflaged ropes.

  By the stage, several women were sorting through crates of dresses and elaborate costumes, donated since the last performance, the result of a particularly lavish masque held recently. Also among the assembled crowd were the make-up artists, who could make young men old, old men younger and, should the need arise, make younger men into women; and the men responsible for the lighting effects, who with their powders could make a torch burn green, blood red or a magical violet, and who could set the stage alight or have it explode into showers of sparks, without damage being caused to stage or audience, and with only occasional damage to actors.   

  Doran would soon take to the stage, where he would perform the play, acting out the whole story, taking all the parts, explaining as he went who was to play what and how. He would already have memorised some of the juicier extracts from the dialogue and would present the fight scene with great gusto. He would be on stage for an hour or longer.

  Doran approached Edison, arm in arm with his daughter. “Edric, there you are. We are almost ready to begin. Our newest recruit will be along shortly.” He winked at Meg, and something passed between them that Edison couldn’t quite read.

  Doran was an immense figure of a man with a florid complexion. What was left of his white hair wildly haloed his head. Large, upwardly sweeping eyebrows made him appear owl-like, and his carefully combed moustaches were equally upswept. His beard was an impressive feature too, shot through with the original fiery red of his hair, it helped proportion his head better to fit the bulk of his velvet-wrapped body. And like many men of his weight his calves were sturdily muscled.

  Before anything more could be said, Captain Meg waved her hand above her head. “There he is. Is he not beautiful?”

  Anton Leyander had entered the theatre by a side entrance.

  “Is something wrong, Edric?” Doran asked, noticing the souring of Edison’s expression.

  “It is nothing,” Edison said. “He is on the skinny side, is he not?”

  “Edric, I do believe that you are jealous!” Meg said.

  “Nonsense!”

  “Hah!” Meg said, and strode away through the crowd towards Anton.

  He was sharing a joke with a young man with pale blue eyes and blond hair, cut short like a soldier’s. Meg did not recognise him as one of Doran’s troupe, and assumed he was a stagehand.

  “... of it if you wanted to,” Anton said, obviously trying to encourage him to do something.

  The blond man shook his head. “I have no wish to be a spear-carrier on a stage – I do that all day at the castle.”

  Following Anton’s audition, many of the other actors had shunned him, evidently envious of his talent. And he had no illusions about Edison welcoming him to the troupe. Anton had urged Varian to join him today so that he would not find himself without a single friend. The handsome blond guardsman had proved very popular with the assembled players.

  “What do you think of it?” Meg asked.

  Anton turned around to face her. “What?” Annoyed at being interrupted.

  Varian excused himself and left the two to talk.

  “My father’s theatre, what do you think of it?”

  “It is – amazing. All of these people engaged to put on one play, and only a dozen of them actually appear on stage.”

  “When this run through is over, we will go to the beach, let the sea breeze blow the smell of the town out of our hair. We shall work up an appetite,” Meg said.

  “For dinner?” Anton asked.

  “For dinner as well, if you like.” She grinned a wolfish grin, and strode off through her crowd towards the back door of the inn.

  Anton walked over to wear Varian was chatting with several of the younger actors. They drifted away as he approached.

  “Did they try and persuade you to join the troupe?” Anton asked.

  “No, they tried to persuade me to join them for dinner,” Varian said. He smiled when Anton adopted a theatrical frown. “Not jealous, are you?”

  “Not at all, you may speak to whoever you like,” Anton said. Then suddenly his dagger was in his hand, and he held it close to Varian’s throat. “As long as you don’t like them enough to kiss them,” he said, mock threatening.

  “I am to kiss no one else, while you are free have your lips all over Meg Jarrett?” Varian asked.

  “I have no intention of putting my lips to any part of her,” Anton said, sheathing the dagger.

  “Does she know that?” Varian asked. “I’m sure when she has you alone on the beach, she will expect more than a kiss on the cheek. It would be better to tell her and be done with it,” Varian said.

  “Possibly, but where would be the fun in that?” Anton grinned. “Besides, she only uses me to make Master Edison jealous.”

  “But to what lengths is she prepared to carry the charade?” Varian asked. “Perhaps she intends
for the pair of you to be found in flagrante in the sand...”

  “I am not sure what I fear most,” Anton said, “the captain’s advances or the sword of her jealous lover at my throat.”

  “Then how will you discourage her?” Varian asked.

  Anton leaned in close and grinned. “Perhaps she will find you and I in flagrante in the sand...”

  Varian pushed him away. “I’m not coming between the two of you. Her sword is bigger than mine.”

  “You are far too modest,” Anton said.

  “I am not getting involved...”

  “Then I must face this terrible ordeal alone,” Anton said, playing the tragic hero. Then his face brightened. “But who knows: I may enjoy the experience. Mayhap I will decide to swear off men forever!”

  Varian leaned forward and kissed him firmly. “You won’t,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Is there a safe path down to the beach from here?” Anton asked. He and Meg, walking arm in arm, had reached the outskirts of town now, and ahead lay a narrow gate in the wall that opened onto a cliff-top path.

  “There are several this close to town, though they tend to be rather steep. Are you up for the adventure of it?” Meg asked. If she saw the lack of enthusiasm on Anton’s face, she chose to ignore it. “Come on,” she urged, “I would like to run barefoot in the sand, feel the waves breaking against my skin.”

  Anton smiled and extended his arm, bowing at the waist. “This way, my lady, to gritty feet, seaweed between the toes and icy cold salt water.”

  They made their way down the steep path. The rocks gave way to shale and finally to the beach proper. They pulled off their boots and walked on the warm sand. When they had walked perhaps half-a-mile, Captain Meg stopped and looked back at the black rocky peninsula on which the town sat, shielding her eyes as she tried to see through the bright afternoon haze.

  “It looks solid, doesn’t it?” she said.