Queen's Own Fool Read Free Page A

they acknowledged my greeting with no more than a grunt, as though we were so far below them we deserved little more. Still, a kind word is never amiss. I was about to say so when another girl came in with a tray on which sat a carafe of mulled wine, a lovely baguette, and several cheeses.
    â€œShall we greet the food then?” I said. “Food, meet Troupe Brufort. Troupe—here then, the meal.”
    Annette’s peal of laughter started us all off into giggles. We were soon a great deal jollier than we had been since coming to Rheims.
    Uncle, standing with his back to the crackling fire, raised his hand. Surrounded by a halo of firelight, he looked like some old devil just up out of the pit, for his hair—what was left of it—stood up on two sides like little horns.
    â€œNow, my children,” he began, his voice like a great viol, low and singing, “this will be our finest hour. Troupe Brufort is to perform before the King and Queen of France.”
    The way he glared at us made my stomach hurt.
    â€œPierre, you must not just try, but must do the seven clubs.”
    â€œBut Papa, I have only done the seven in practice, never while anyone was watching,” Pierre reminded him. He rubbed his fingers through his hair.
    â€œI have watched,” I said. “And you did not drop them then.”
    Pierre smiled at me. “Amazon,” he whispered.
    â€œFlea,” I countered.
    Uncle barely glanced at me, but it was enough. I shut my mouth.
    â€œAnd you, Bertrand—you must turn the cartwheels en l’air, no stops,” Uncle said.
    Bertrand nodded and Nadine knelt to massage his ankles.
    â€œAnd my dancing girls ...” Uncle smiled at Annette, not me, which I did not take amiss. I trusted his smile less than his cane. “The faces must beam at the royal couple.” He touched his own face and his fingers shaped a grotesque smile across his lips. “Even if you misstep, the face must never show it. Now you—mademoiselle!” he said, turning at last to me. “You will keep your tongue to yourself. No little adages from Italy. No stories. Just silence. Do you understand ? You are a member of Troupe Brufort by adoption, and I will not have you spoil our finest hour.”
    I nodded. What else could I do?
    Nadine woke up Jean and made him eat something, adding much water to his wine. He is so delicious and charming, his giggles usually earn us an extra coin.
    As for me, I stared out of one of the windows into the cold, grey day. I was warm. I was full of good food. But, to be truthful, I was very frightened. This was not stage fright. I had gotten over that more than a year before. But I knew what Uncle would not admit. We were only ordinary street players, used to rough audiences. Our meager dances and tricks would hardly be fine enough for the king and his court.
    And if we failed to entertain them—as we surely would—Uncle’s humiliation would be beaten into our backs come night-fall.
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    Once again it was Jacques who came for us. His face had not lost its sour expression. That bean was even more firmly up his nose.
    We followed him through the long passages and the hurly of the servants’ halls, past the bustling kitchens, and up a winding stone stairway, till we came into the Great Hall. I was the very last in line. When I arrived, I had to stand on tiptoe to see over Bertrand’s shoulder what the others were already admiring.
    What magnificence! Here were enormous tapestries of kings and queens, and armies of mounted knights and their foot soldiers hurled into a fray. Above us from the high rafters flew the banners of all the great families of France.
    For a moment I could not take it all in. The height of place, the width. Why, a herd of horses could have trampled about in the hall and lost their way. Inside a palace seemed ever so much larger than any outside I had seen. It was almost too much and my mouth hung open.
    Then