by Zelma Orr
“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.
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* * *
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, h
e 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.
For once, he wished desperately for a drink of whiskey if for nothing else than to deaden his clear thoughts. He preferred them muddled to dealing with that which hurt others. He rounded a corner, trying to remember where the bar was which the merchant, Cormand, recommended.
At first, he did not know what the noise was. He neared an outdoor performance of minstrels and heard laughter and singing. He smiled a little.
By God's eye, at least the peasants had a bit of pleasantry to banish thoughts of high costs of materials and sorry crops because of drought. Mayhap the storm lingering tonight would, at the least, help the farmers.
Stephen stopped at the edge of the crowd to watch a small minstrel dressed in red and black as he knelt before a richly frocked figure who, by the movements of his arms, was about to condemn for some sin, real or imagined.
There was something familiar about the two cavorting jongleurs, and Stephen watched along with the crowd. He stood head and shoulders above most of the audience, hands linked loosely behind his back, uncovered head tilted to the side, thinking of where he might have seen this performance.
The rain started again, and Stephen was about to resume his quest for a drink of whiskey when the small minstrel dropped to kneel in front of the taller one and started to sing. Stephen forgot the drink, ignored the rain, and realized the voice was the one he'd heard in the palace performance for Queen Eleanor.
Entranced, he stood still until the taller figure ran, slid down the pole out of his sight, then he made his way around back to the biggest tent in the middle of the arena set aside for the performers.
A tall woman, her deep red hair wound around her head, freckles across her straight nose and a wide mouth stretched in a smile, stood at the entrance, gazing toward the performing minstrels. She turned at the sound of Stephen's footsteps.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, bowing. “I would speak with the leader of yon minstrels.”
Margaret's deep green eyes went over the richly attired man, the pale blue waistcoat over darker blue pants, blond head bared to the elements. A thick mustache, darker than the hair, did not hide a wide, sensitive mouth softened by the half smile.
“My lord,” Margaret said.
She glanced towards the cavorting figures on the stage and back at the handsome stranger. She hesitated, aware of a reluctance to do as this man bid. She did not know him, had not seen him except this one time, but a question of his intentions caused strong temptation to ask that he be gone.
How could she do that? He might have a part in their pay and, should she be distant to him, make it hard for them to collect their monies.
“Dost know Hugo?”
“I know of Hugo Benet from his performances for the King and Queen of England before I sailed for France.”
Margaret smiled. There was no need to worry if ‘twas Hugo he wished to see on business. She pulled aside the tent flap and bade Stephen enter.
“Hugo is changing his costume if thou wouldst wait.”
“Thank you.”
Stephen was about to speak of the singer when Hugo came through the back entrance of the tent.
“Margaret, I would have the ...” Hugo's voice ceased as he caught sight of Stephen.
Stephen bowed.
“I am Stephen Lambert. Thou art Hugo Benet, leader of this minstrel group?”
Hugo looked from Stephen to Margaret who watched Stephen with a worried look.
“I have seen your group perform before the king and queen, and the same small one sang in London and again today.” He nodded toward the outside. “I would meet the performer whose voice is so beautiful.”
“My lord, the small one is shy and does not wish to meet with strangers.”
Instantly, Stephen's eyes became as the cold blue lakes of the English countryside.
“ ‘Tis not asking that much, Monsieur Benet. I will meet her.” Stephen's appearance bode ill for refusal of his request.
Hugo bowed.
“I will bring her when her performance is complete, my lord.”
* * * *
Rebecca laughed as Gerald helped her through the mud. They would both have to change costumes before the later performance, but the crowd's happiness made them feel good. When the audience enjoyed their antics, their tiring routine came more easily for them.
Rebecca's efforts to stay on her feet went for naught when Gerald stepped on the deep folds of her pants legs and both tumbled into the muddy ruts.
“Oh, Gerald, ‘tis a clumsy one you are,” Rebecca said when she caught her breath.
“Ah, Rebecca, I am a bumbler, I am. Forgive me.” He looked at her from his painted clown's face and laughed. “'Tis a beauty you are even with mud and paint to adorn thee.” He dragged himself up and pulled Rebecca with him. “Let's go to the wagons to wash our faces.”
Gerald's short, sturdy legs steadied them as they made their way to the wagon where a round tub held water for cleaning up such as this. He took a soft cloth and wiped her face, and then she did the same for him. When finished, Rebecca kissed his cheek and smiled when he blushed beneath the coppery freckles.
“Rebecca.”
She turned to see Hugo come from the back entrance to the main tent.
“Didst like our reception, Hugo? It seems to get better with each audience, eh?”
“It is indeed so, Rebecca, and you have a special admirer who would meet you.”
She shook her head.
“Nay, Hugo, thou dost know I do not enjoy meeting strangers. Tell him I am glad he likes my performance, but I cannot grant audience to him.
“It is not a request, but a command,” Hugo said. “Methinks Stephen Lambert is not a gentleman to be ignored.”
Rebecca, in the act of hanging the cloth on the side of the tub, whirled. Her face drained of color, her hands pressed to her breast. She stared in disbelief at her friend.
“What say, Hugo?” she whispered. Her heart pounded and her ears rang. She swayed, and Gerald, standing behind her, placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Stephen Lambert. Dost know him?” Hugo's dark eyes had not missed Rebecca's shock.