Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  “Draw your sword, prepare to defend yourself,” Edison said. He ran towards the bridge and leaped onto the wall. Before his feet could connect with the stonework, Anton took hold of Edison’s jerkin and used his forward rush to heave him over the side and send him plunging into the river below.

  Captain Meg hurried to Anton’s side. “Did I miss something?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Anton said. “Mr. Edison has lost a certain thing, and is searching for it on the river bottom.”

  “Really? What has he lost?” Meg asked.

  “His sense of humour,” Anton said.

  They walked on, arm-in-arm.

  Edric Edison broke the surface and spat forth a stream of muddy water, following it with a stream of abuse, which Anton was too far away to hear. Weed trailed from Edison’s head, stirred by the seaward current like bright green hair.

  Edison shuddered and pulled the blanket closer about him, afraid that he was coming down with a chill. The fire had been built up and was burning fiercely and his room was warming nicely, yet still he shivered. He looked down at his plate, trying to keep his thoughts away from the cause of his misery.

  “Hello, Edison.”

  Edison looked up from his dinner, startled by the appearance of Anton Leyander in front of him. “How did you gain entry?”

  “Your door was not secure.”

  “It was locked.”

  “But not secure,” Anton said.

  “Why have you come here? Have you not humiliated me enough?” Edison asked.

  “I came to apologise for my unsporting behaviour this afternoon,” Anton said. “And to bring you this token.” He placed a bottle of wine on the table beside Edison’s plate. “It will go well with that roast beef, I think. It is a very good vintage.”

  “Have you been drinking?” Edison asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You failed to gain entry into the castle then?” Edison asked. He used his knife to cut into the wax around the bottle’s neck. He stopped and looked down at the crest moulded into the glass: Lord Eòghan’s crest coat of arms.

  Anton grinned at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “I must congratulate you,” Edison said coldly.

  “You said it was impossible,” Anton reminded him. He took the bottle and went to the sideboard to uncork it.

  “It would seem that I was wrong,” Edison said. “So you came to gloat, not apologise?”

  Anton poured the wine and passed a glass to Edison. “This will help warm you through.”

  “You had the run of Eòghan’s cellar then?” Edison asked. He sipped the wine, which was very good.

  “Had the run of his whole house, even met his wife. Got a free bath too, and new clothes,” Anton said. He swallowed wine greedily.

  “And you took from him one or two bottles of this excellent wine?”

  “One or two,” Anton admitted.

  “How did you gain entry to Eòghan’s stronghold?” Edison asked, genuinely curious, and hoping to take advantage of Anton’s garrulous mood.

  “Through the front gate, as I said I would,” Anton answered, refilling his glass. “A fool could have done it.” When Edison frowned, Anton began capering about the room in the manner of Eòghan’s fool. “I played the role most convincingly.”

  “I’m sure all concerned had no doubts that you were the imbecile you appeared,” Edison said.

  “As to the matter of the wager...” Anton said, waving a hand dismissively. “We should forget it.”

  “Wager?” Edison said.

  “Had I failed to bring you this wine from Lord Eòghan’s cellar, I would have owed you the content of a money chest,” Anton said.

  Edison’s heart sank. “But if you succeeded, I was to owe you the same.”

  “It was a foolish bet,” Anton said, “I do not expect you to risk your neck to honour it.”

  “You think I need to take to the rooftops again to pay you?” Edison asked.

  “You don’t?”

  “I’m sure I have enough coin lying about the place to cover it,” Edison said. “Give me a moment.”

  Edison rose from his dinner table and disappeared into his bedchamber. After a few moments, Anton heard a muffled cry:

  “Bastard!”

  “Are you all right?” Anton called.

  Edison returned, face flushed.

  “I thought I heard you call out,” Anton said.

  “Trapped my finger in a drawer,” Edison said. He placed five leather purses on the table: the money he had taken from Griselda Grimwade’s chest.

  “You really don’t have to...” Anton said.

  “I insist.”

  Anton hesitated, then picked up the purses and tucked them into the front of his shirt. “Let us drink to your good health,” he said. Anton reached for the wine bottle and accidentally knocked Edison’s glass so that the wine spilled onto his plate. “Don’t waste it, drink the gravy!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Can you keep a secret, little fool?” The voice was Sheldrake’s, but it came from the lips of the fool, the mimicry perfect. “This letter will never reach the capital. Do you think I killed the Captain of the Guard simply so I could see another man brought in over me? Never!”

  Lord Eòghan laughed, leaning forward in his chair.

  “I will not have my plans thwarted at so early a stage,” the Sheldrake-Fool continued, “not when I have so far to go. Captain of the Guard is but a staging post in my quest: I will have all of this!” The fool whirled around, his arms spread dramatically to take in all of his surroundings. “I will have this castle, this county, and the lovely Lady Julianne for my wife. And I’ll have Eòghan dead at my feet: I will watch his life drain away, and then I shall occupy his seat in the Great Hall. Is that not a lordly ambition?”

  Lord Eòghan laughed. “It is indeed a lordly ambition, is it not, Sheldrake?”

  The fool spun round and found Sheldrake standing in the doorway behind him.

  “Indeed, my lord,” Sheldrake said carefully. “The fool has loftier ambitions for me than I have for myself.” He stepped forward, smiling broadly, and patted the fool on the head.

  “What are your ambitions, Sheldrake?” Eòghan asked.

  “I seek only to serve you, my lord.”

  “But it would please you to permanently hold the post of Captain of the Guard?”

  “It would indeed please me, sir, if it would please you also,” Sheldrake said.

  “I am pleased with the work you have done this far, Sheldrake. I will most certainly consider your suitability for the permanent position, though I must confess had it not been for the fool’s performance here, I might never have considered your ambitions. It would seem that we both owe thanks to the little one.”

  “So it would seem, my lord,” Sheldrake said, not taking his eyes off the fool.

  When Eòghan turned to leave, the fool kept close to his master for his own protection, or so Sheldrake believed. The fool had betrayed Sheldrake’s plot only to have it regarded as a joke and an attempt to reveal the man’s ambition. Lord Eòghan was now less likely to perceive Sheldrake a threat than previously, thanks to the little one’s re-enactment. But Sheldrake knew he would do well not to underestimate his skills of mimicry again.

  *

  From a window high in the castle, Gareth Sheldrake looked down into the courtyard: the tax-payers were gone now, and in the early evening light he could make out Eòghan’s fool chasing himself around a tree. The uneven glass further distorted the little figure as he scampered about, unburdened by the concerns of grown men. And yet, not entirely without influence upon them. He watched as the fool lolloped towards the gate. A shadow moved to follow him, like some silent night predator. But the creature moved not like a wolf, but with the stiffened gait of an old man.

  No, it wouldn’t do to underestimate the risk Eòghan’s fool might pose, but nor should his possible value as a player be dismissed. “I might make use of you, little fool,” Sh
eldrake mused. Then smiled as his servant disappeared through the gate after the simpleton. “Set a fool to watch a fool.”

  The old man followed the fool through the dark narrow streets far across Sangreston to its oldest quarter. Here was a virtual wasteland of rubble and half-collapsed buildings. While other parts of the town prospered, this area was shunned by man and beast: perhaps it was the smells – sulphur and urine and worse – or simply the reputation of the place, but the streets around the powder mill had been left to decay by the townsfolk.

  To many of the town’s people, the process of extracting the crystals of nitre from a soup produced from piss and dirt, lime, wood ash and other ingredients normally used in the cleansing of wool was purest alchemy. And the fact that an explosive black powder could be formed by mixing the white substance with crushed sulphur and charcoal was too close to witchcraft.

  To many more, it was the occasional occurrence of explosions that kept them clear of the place.

  But such considerations did not appear to worry the fool, who wove his way through the narrow, unpaved streets, oblivious to the squalor and potential danger around him. The surviving buildings leaned out over the road as though seeking comfort from those opposite. Each window was a gaping hole. Doors were missing and walls had been patched with mismatched timbers and daubs of mud. The black timber frames of the houses were damp and sprouted fungi in shades of grey and green and brown, with occasional pimples of bright orange.

  The old man followed as close as he dared. A dank, narrow alley deposited him in a slightly less dank and narrow street, where he saw the fool duck into the open doorway of one of the ruined buildings close to the factory. He watched from the shadows across the street, waiting for the fool to emerge, but he did not.

  Afraid that he may have lost his quarry by way of another exit, the old man stepped forward, but quickly drew back as a figure emerged from the doorway opposite. But this was no crooked limping idiot, this was a square-shouldered young man with pale complexion and long dark hair, who looked cautiously about him before setting off down the street, back towards the heart of town.

  The old man waited until the young man turned a corner and was out of sight, then he crossed the road. He paused in the doorway which had swallowed a twisted fool and spit out a handsome youth. The darkness within the building revealed little save the darker shadows of fallen roof beams leaning this way and that like wind-toppled trees. The air was heavy, trapped between the walls, and the old man felt his chest tighten. He turned quickly when he felt eyes upon him, but the street outside was silent and deserted.

  He took a step forward into the building, and his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. The floor was littered with unidentifiable debris, and he feared to venture far for fear of tripping or twisting an ankle. He leaned forward. “Fool?” His voice was a stage whisper. He took another step forward, and his foot brushed against something soft. Steeling himself, he knelt slowly and reached down, exploring with blind-man’s fingers. He withdrew quickly when his fingers touched something soft. Inhaling noisily, he reached forward again. A sack, and inside... clothing, still warm; recently discarded.

  The old man picked up the bundle and carried it out for examination in the moonlight. The garments were those that had been provided for Lord Eòghan’s fool, he was sure. He looked down the street towards the heart of town and his brow creased, then he returned the fool’s clothes to their hiding place.

   

   

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A flickering orange glow shone through the windows of the tavern. On a weathered sign hung over the door, the faded shape of a rampant stag was just about recognisable. Voices sang the final chorus of a bawdy song, then broke into loud cheering. Inside, the barroom was filled with men who were using the passing of Lord Eòghan as an excuse to drink more than they might have done otherwise. Most them were locals, clad in rough homespun shirts in various shades of green or brown. Among them were tradesmen and merchants in richer colours. Off to one side, men in the red and black uniform of the King sat around a table loaded with food and jugs of wine.

  The stale smell of ale mingled with the reek of sweat, tobaccos and hemp. A thick cloud of smoke hung between the heavy black beams, swirling as people moved beneath it. Light came mainly from the blazing fire, with candles burning behind the bar and on the open stairs and landing at the far end. Roughhewn tables were filled with mugs and covered in wet rings. Requests for ‘More ale, barman!’ were dealt with by a red-faced man in a damp whitish apron who squeezed his barrel-shaped body between the wooden benches and tables as quickly as he could.

  A cheer went up as a young man staggered up the stairs, supported on the arm of a long-legged, raven-haired beauty in red. She winked at the company below. The twosome disappeared into a room off the landing.

  “More ale, barman!” a fresh-faced youth shouted, waving his arm too vigorously above his head and falling backwards into the sawdust on the floor. His companion helped him up, and both then slumped face down on the table.

  Edric Edison sat alone at a table towards the back, nursing a mug of warm ale. He stared into the brownish fluid, its froth having long since settled.

  “Well, well, my boy! How are you this fine evening?”

  Edison started as a hand slapped him on the back.

  “Sorry we’re late, Edric. Unexpected business cropped up at the last moment.” The hunchback heaved his bulk into the chair opposite and his smile was two crooked lines grave stones.

  Grimwade’s curly-haired bodyguard pushed his way towards the table, setting down a battered tray. He put two mugs down before his master and two before Edison. “Drink up, lad. There’s no hurry to start talking business. We have all night!”

  Grimwade quaffed his first drink, ale streaming down his chin and soaking into his jerkin. He wiped the froth from his lip and bared his teeth again. “Come on, drink up!”

  Edison lifted the mug and began swallowing the warm ale. By the middle of the second mug he felt as though he was drowning. The hunchback called to the barman for more ale, and four more mugs were set on the table, but this time three of them seemed to find their way in front of Edison. Gasping for breath, Edison smiled and picked up another mug. It was obvious that Grimwade intended to get Edison drunk enough to fall victim to some scheme of his devising: whatever fate lay ahead of him, Edison would sooner face it drunk.

  The next drinks were accompanied by small pewter cups of a local grain liquor that burned as it went down. After this a stained green cloth was spread on the table. Edison stared, fascinated as dark rings soaked through the cloth. He looked up as he heard the rattling of dice.

  “A little game, Edric, before we get down to business?” Grimwade dropped the dice in front of Edison.

  This was the second phase of the hunchback’s plan, and one that Edison had anticipated: there would be a game of dice, wagers would be placed, and Edison would fall further in debt to the hunchback, particularly since the dice were weighted in favour of their owner. Edison peered at the small clay cubes with little black holes poked into their sides. He picked one up and examined it closely, squinting at the upward face. Two holes stared up at him; he blinked and rubbed his eyes when one of them seemed to wink at him. He picked up the second dice and balanced it on his palm beside the first. They didn’t seem to be enchanted. Not that it really mattered.

  People began to crowd around the table as word about the game spread. Some struck up bets with their neighbours. Those who had had dealings personally with the hunchback only bet if they could find someone willing to bet that the auburn-haired actor would win.

  “We shall play just the doubles,” the hunchback said. “Threes, fives and sixes to win; ones, twos and fours lose. The best of three throws wins a game. Seven games to be played in all.” He looked up to see that the actor was agreeable, and Edison nodded.

  In the first two games, Grimwade failed to throw doubles of any kind, while Edison made winning doubl
es both times. It seemed that luck was to be on his side. His supporters cheered. Others just smiled to themselves. Anyone looking into Grimwade’s eye under the bushy brows would have seen that he was only toying with the actor, prolonging the agony for the sake of the show.

  In the following game, Grimwade won with a single throw of a double three; in the next Edison managed a double six on his final throw, to the delight of the crowd. Two games then went to the hunchback, leaving the score even.

  The inn was silent now, everyone intent on the last game and its deciding outcome. Grimwade muttered something under his breath and his throw of the dice brought a double five. Smiling, he handed the dice to Edison.

  Edison shook the dice in his hand, blew on them for luck, and let his hands brush lightly against the amulet under his shirt. He loosed the dice. They fell, tumbling over and over, and bounced on the green cloth. They seemed to move slowly as if the air was honey. A cheer went up from the crowd, even from those who had bet against him. His throw too was a double five.

  Grimwade glared across the table, snatched the dice and stared at them, disbelieving. He silently mouthed a brief chant and rolled the dice. Three. A one and a two. Grimwade frowned. Had he spoken the chant incorrectly? Surely not... after so long. He glowered at Edison, watched him scoop the dice off the table. The young man winked at him, grinned. Damn him. The hunchback’s palms were clammy. There was a chance he might lose this.

  Again Edison’s throw good, double three. The hunchback’s face was livid, veins bulged dangerously in his neck. This couldn’t happen. If his next throw wasn’t good, he’d lose the game. This had never happened in all the years he had been using the dice enchantment spell. Grimwade hated to lose, especially when he had so carefully stacked the odds in his favour. He shook the dice in his meaty hands, mumbled the spell. He cast the little cubes onto the stained cloth. They tumbled and halted, and the crowd leaned forward to see the upturned faces.