Revenge of the Rose (19 page)

They neared the western wall. This portal got little direct traffic from the main trade route running up and down the Rhine valley, and was therefore considered the undesirable side of town. Clustered between open garden plots, garbage pits, and a one-room lepers’ hostel were the communities that good Christian society could not survive without but did not want to have to acknowledge: the Jews, the midwives and herbalists, and, of course, the prostitutes. It was strangely lively for so late in the day, and figures of various races and ages were squatting in their open doorways, gossiping about tomorrow’s tournament, listening to the doves’ and cuckoos’ insistent evening lullaby as the loud unmusical swallows finally began to quiet. Without exception the people in the streets and doorways greeted Jouglet with familiar warmth.

“You truly go to the common women?” Erec asked in slight disbelief.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jouglet answered with an unwonted hint of defensiveness, stepping over a pothole filled with rusty-looking water. “I’m young and I’ve got a healthy appetite, but I can’t
really
lay a hand on the ladies of the court.” And adding with a slight swagger: “I’ve built a bit of a reputation for myself with these women.”

Erec snickered playfully. “Have you now? I hope I don’t usurp your throne.”

“You would be hard-pressed to,” Jouglet replied, puffing up. “Watch.”

They had reached the place, a small half-timbered building directly next to the western gatehouse. Like many properties, its narrow end opened to the street, and most of it was only on the ground floor. Like most buildings in this part of town, it was drab and rickety-looking— except for a bright scarlet swath of felt covering the door.

“Excellent dye job,” Erec said with studied insight. “They must have customers from Flanders.”

Willem threw open the door, and the three of them entered.

They found themselves in a small room filled with smoke from a damp central firepit and reeking from the smell of too many unwashed male bodies. There were a lot of young men, some older men, two priests— and a few women of different ages and shapes wearing a variety of worn-looking tunics and kirtles, each sporting a torn strip of scarlet cloth as an armband. A harried-looking silver-haired woman was in charge; she was bustling about the smoky room, selling bread and ale to the waiting men at exorbitant prices. The house was clearly not set up to accommodate this level of business; they had the tournament to thank for that.

“We’re here for the women,” Erec announced brashly and unnecessarily.

The old woman rushed by them without looking. She began to retort, “Well, you’ll just have to wait your— ” But then she noticed Jouglet, and paused at once to smile at the trio. “It’s His Majesty’s fiddler,” she said with friendly warmth, and finally looked at Erec— and then, with rather more attention, at Willem, who was one of the largest, most self-conscious men in the crowd. “We’ll see to you gentlemen right away, then.” Jouglet, feeling Erec’s surprise, grinned at him.

They were shepherded through clusters of men who growled resentfully for their having received instant service. They crossed down through the narrow room to a door in the far wall and out into a narrow yard, delineated by the length of the neighboring building on one side, the high town wall to the other, and a hedgelike structure at the far end, on the other side of which— to judge by sounds and smells— lived swine and poultry. A dozen makeshift canvas structures in two long lines took up most of the space, each no bigger than a soldier’s sleeping tent and each being used, but not for sleeping; at the end near the hedge, farthest from the house wall, was a small willow lean-to with a hole in the roof that anemically hiccuped smoke into the evening air. They were still adjusting their eyes, and Erec was trying not to giggle about the sound effects from the tents, when three cheerful voices called out from the darkness, “Jouglet! Hello duck! Jouglet, over here!”

In response to Erec’s startled expression, the minstrel made a gesture of exaggerated modesty and ushered the two young Burgundians toward the voices. Clustered halfway down the right line of tents, three tired women in colorless loose tunics, red armbands, and loosed hair immediately rose to their bare feet.

“My favorite meretrices! Ladies,” the jongleur announced. “Be good to my friends this evening. This is Erec, he’s young and fresh, he’ll probably take some energy. This is Willem, and he’s such a good man I don’t know what to say about him, but I’m sure he’ll be a handful. Probably two handfuls, no doubt with fingers spread. He’s supposed to be holding vigil for the tourney tomorrow, but he’s practically bursting out of his breeches.” A dramatic pause. “And then there’s me, of course, my ducklings.”

“I’m for you, Jouglet,” said the tallest of the three immediately, elbowing her companions back. She had a trace of a French accent. Her tunic needed mending, and her pretty heart-shaped face could have done with a wash, but she had a lovely smile despite her obvious exhaustion, and she smiled at the cousins long enough to wring a look of acute appreciation from them. Then she brushed past them to put a teasing hand on Jouglet’s arm. “It’s my turn for the hut,” she said in a low voice. “Come with me, my little stallion.”

“The fair Jeannette. Marthe and Constance are also delectable,” Jouglet assured Erec, gently triumphant. “These are the three resident whores of Sudaustat, I’ll have you know; all the rest are just vagabonds here for the tournament. We are getting genuine local craftmanship.” The paired couple stepped around the second row of tents toward the stick lean-to, arm in arm. Jouglet’s attention was entirely on Jeannette as they walked, smoothing her tousled hair with familiar affection, then stealing a kiss on her neck; she gave a sleepy-sounding, comfortable chuckle of pleasure. “Tell me, duckling,” the cousins heard Jouglet begin, “what have you been about since His Majesty’s summer retreat?”

Erec and Willem exchanged astonished looks.

“Don’t tell Lienor,” muttered Willem.

“Great gifts come in small parcels,” said Marthe, the dark-haired one, knowingly. Then, with a wink at Willem, she added at once, “But myself, I like big parcels even more.” She ran a finger along the cragged length of his nose, which sent a violent shiver down his spine. She gestured to the tiny, damp tent before them. “Join me in here.”

When Jouglet and Jeannette were inside, and the canvas flap pulled down, she gave the minstrel a friendly kiss on the cheek and flopped down onto the hard rush mat. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “It’s been a hell of a week, all these crazed fellows in town for the tournament. My fruit can’t stand much more plucking.”

Jouglet squatted on the earth by the small fire pit, reaching toward the weak flames to soak up the warmth. “This smells like new wood.”

Jeannette nodded and poked at the lean-to wall, yawning. “It is. The cardinal made his rounds as the crowds were coming in, and tore us down again. Those canvas things in the yard? They can fold up in less time than it takes to walk through the hall. Clever, that.”

“I’ll get Konrad to trim Paul’s claws. What shall it be, now to dawn?”

“The whole night!” Jeannette’s face lit up. “Can you afford that, duck?”

A jeweled bracelet magically appeared in Jouglet’s hand and quickly passed over the fire pit. Jeannette cooed with appreciation.

“The rest of the night,” Jeannette said, as if it were treasure. “I can actually sleep! Will I have been ravished ferociously or made tender, expert love to?”

“I think we must go for the ravishment this time,” Jouglet said, poking at the smoking embers with a stick that lay nearby. “I stuck my foot in it tonight.”

Jeannette, sprawled comfortably on the mat, and already half-asleep, asked, “What did you do?”

There was a long pause.

“Jouglet, tell me what you did or I will never fall asleep.”

“The bigger of the two fellows I brought in with me,” Jouglet finally began, still staring into the wan fire and sounding aggravated.

“Oh, he’s a looker!” Jeannette grinned. “And he looks like an actual gentleman. When I’m not so exhausted I hope he comes back.”

“I don’t think whoring is a common hobby for him.”

“A pity. What about him?”

Another pause. “There was a confused moment between us that…made him wary.” The tenor voice was peevish.

Jeannette burst into laughter. “Oh, a
confused moment
! How did you survive?” But then she turned serious, and said with sympathy, “Jouglet, you idiot. How did you cover?”

“I brought him here!” Jouglet retorted, with a broad gesture toward the canvas door flap.

“Oh, duck, that’s no solution,” Jeannette said from the mat. “That only distracts him for the nonce— “

“I know that!” Jouglet snapped, scowling at the smoking flames.

“And you’ve got Paul at court now. He must be breathing down your neck.” Jeannette’s attitude was less compassionate than perversely entertained. “What are you going to do?”

An exasperated sigh. “I don’t
know.
”

“Well let me know when you do,” Jeannette said. “I can’t afford to lose my favorite customer to other…inclinations.”

“Take a nap and leave me alone,” Jouglet said in a surly tone.

“I will. Have fun ravishing me.” Jeannette smiled. “If you had let me know you were coming I could have tried to round up someone more to your taste.”

Jouglet scowled at her, looking almost alarmed. “You are
no
help to me with that kind of humor, woman. I’m on very thin ice these days— Nicholas actually propositioned me— “

“Nicholas is very attractive!” Jeannette giggled, punchy from exhaustion and amusement. “You’ve said so yourself.”

“That’s not the point! Paul and Konrad saw us— and that is not funny, Jeannette, don’t laugh! Don’t you know Nicholas was a fledgling courtier until Konrad made him a messenger to keep him away, to hide his lack of discretion? If that’s what he did to a prince’s son, what do you think he’d do to a vagabond minstrel?”

“Poor Jouglet, condemned to be purer than a monk.” Jeannette laughed, not without sympathy, and half a breath later was asleep.

T
he
next morning, Willem and Erec woke before dawn and went down to the taper-lit mass, surrounded by hordes of fellow knights and squires. This church, recently completed, had two grand towers and a magnificently high groin-arched ceiling. It smelled, reassuringly, of religion— even the omnipresent odor of the weekly fish market, which took place directly outside the high double-arched doors four days a week, could not cut through the sharp warmth of the frankincense.

Most unexpectedly, Paul officiated. He was there to preach hotly against the tournament, threatening all of the participants, down to the squires and heralds, with excommunication and worse. Willem was almost ill over this— until Erec returned from gossiping with other squires, and brought the assurance that Paul did this whenever he found himself within twenty miles of a tournament. No knight had actually ever been punished for it. “The consensus is that one of the best things about being in the tourney is a whole day spent away from the cardinal,” Erec concluded, almost shouting it into his cousin’s ear to be heard over the echoing drone of the church’s organistrum.

Willem took time after the service for private reflection, at the back of the church, and begged blessings from the quartet of military saints he liked to imagine watching over him: George, Theodore, Mercurius, and Martin.

Once back in the straw-banked courtyard of the inn, Erec and the page boys reverently strapped Willem into his padding and chain mail. When he was finally mounted, Willem led the way out the gate, his squires on foot to either side of Atlas. Erec had the honor of carrying Willem’s lance and shield. The streets were already so crowded that Konrad’s castle guards came down into town and— to the townspeople’s annoyance— closed the gates to all but the tourney parties. Not to be deprived of the thrill of a parade, all the merchants and artisans with houses giving onto the wider streets and market squares threw open their doors to anyone who wanted a view, and all the windows and roofs were crowded with cheering spectators, hurling flowers and streamers of tied-together colored rags, and banging makeshift percussive inventions that would have made less-seasoned mounts throw their riders.

Even with only tournament traffic the narrow streets were jammed. Willem and Erec moved slowly north to the green market, drawn by the relentless noise of pipe and tabor emanating from the square. They were surprised to find the emperor’s enormous riding party waiting directly opposite them in the marketplace. This was utterly gratuitous of Konrad, who could have more easily and more safely reached the tourney field without going through town at all. He was surrounded by anxious bodyguards, who eyed the gawking, adoring townsfolk as if they might be insurrectionists. The royal heralds held aloft only pennants of the family crest, gold with a black lion rampant; Willem wondered where the imperial pennant was.

Konrad hailed Willem. Surprised, Willem raised his hand to return the greeting from a distance, but Konrad shook his head and beckoned broadly, demonstratively, for him to join them. Little
oooo
‘s of intrigue and respect went up from all the surrounding windows and rooftops. Willem had never felt so absurdly on display.

“Come to me,” Konrad said, with an outstretched arm draped in vermillion and gold. As other riders and their footservants scrambled to get out of the way, the two men rode toward each other and met near the central well, where two dozen village urchins had perched precariously to watch the terrifying knights parading past. Willem, bowing his neck, brought Atlas directly up alongside Konrad’s horse, head to tail; Konrad dropped his reins and threw both arms around the knight, embracing him. A number of horses around the square, responding to their highborn riders’ tensing with envy, whinnied, fidgeted, even bit one another. But the commoners were all delighted and applauded, anticipating some great honor. Willem looked flushed. “You will use this today,” Konrad said, and gestured to Boidon. Boidon handed something made of thick fabric up to Konrad, who unfolded it and held it up for all the gawkers to see.