[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal Read Free Page A

I replied. “Is that what you need? Advice from a fool? I cannot prescribe the cure until I have diagnosed the illness. Is it lovesickness that plagues you, or intimations of mortality?”
    “Some of each, I imagine.”
    “Then the remedy is simple,” I said. “I advise you to grow younger.”
    His expression turned dark, then thoughtful. “I dye my hair,” he confessed. “Do you think that unmanly?”
    “You are speaking to a man wearing makeup and powder, Dominus. Who am I to judge?”
    “How old are you, forty?”
    “As far as my wife knows, Dominus.”
    “Hmph. I will not pry any more. And thank you for cheering me up.”
    “All I did was listen, Dominus.”
    “Which is why I value you, Fool.”
    The first rays of sunlight were angling through the high windows.
    “Soon, my friends will be coming in from their nocturnal adventures,” he said. “Boasting of their conquests and their prowess. How shall I respond to them?”
    “By saying nothing,” I said. “The man who shows no need to brag is the one who has done the most.”
    “That’s good,” he said. “That’s very good. Start playing something gentle. I hear my cousin approaching.”
    The doors swung open and Bernard, Count of Comminges, strolled in. About Raimon’s age, with a lazy charm that concealed a quick ruthlessness that I had seen already on one memorable occasion.
    “Heard you were up already, cousin,” he said. “What is happening to us in the middle of our lives? We should be sleeping until noon, then trying to figure out who the lovely maid next to us is.”
    “We have responsibilities now,” said Raimon. “I do, anyhow.”
    “And I do, as well,” said Comminges.
    “What are yours again?” asked Raimon.
    “To be your friend in all matters,” pronounced Comminges grandly. “For a start, I am going to keep you from drinking all of that wine. Pour me a cup, would you?”
    “Seems to me I have servants to do this sort of thing somewhere,” grumbled Raimon as he filled another goblet and passed it to his cousin.
    “Ho, Anselm!” I called. “Your master’s arm grows weary!” Anselm, one of the count’s servants, dashed in. “Dominus?” he inquired.
    “Food,” said Raimon. “And someone to wash me. Time to start the day.”
    “So, let me tell you about the tapster’s daughter at the Blue Wheel,” began Comminges.
    And he was off. Raimon nodded, smiled, and guffawed at all the right places, while a team of servants ran in and out, placing trays of food in front of him, peeling off his tunic, scrubbing him down and shaving him, and throwing a fresh tunic back on. Anselm was busy combing out and replaiting his hair when another pair from the entourage showed up.
    “Food!” bellowed Raimon Roger, the Count of Foix, heaving his bulk through the doors. “But you’ve started without me. How very churlish of you.”
    “Yet we shall forgive you,” said Rostaing, Baron of Sabran. “Bernard has no doubt already regaled you with the tale of the tapster’s daughter?”
    “He has,” said Raimon.
    “As if that were anything to boast about,” said Sabran. “That bloom was plucked long ago. Why, I doubt that I had more than the fifth petal or so, and that was ages since. Does she still make those mewing noises, Bernard?”
    “Well, yes,” said Comminges, looking slightly crestfallen. “But a worthy ride, nonetheless.”
    “If you like them cheap,” said Foix. “Now, I have an exquisite little tale to relate, a conquest long sought after and finally come to fruition: the widow de la Turre.”
    “No!” exclaimed Comminges. “She actually succumbed to your charms? Must have been desperate.”
    “Or destitute,” I suggested.
    Raimon smirked in my direction.
    “Anyhow,” said Foix, ignoring us. “There we were in her bedchamber…”
    It continued on in that vein. Finally, Peire Roger, the count’s viguier, came in to begin the day proper. Various officials arrived to insist on the importance of their