Queen's Own Fool Read Free Page B

Pierre nudged me. “Toad!” he whispered.
    â€œWart!” I countered.
    â€œLook at the people,” he said. “Not at the ceiling.”
    I looked.
    There were at least fifty fine folk seated at long tables that ran around three sides of the room. Most were adults, but there were five children as well, sitting stiff in formal mourning wear.
    On a dais at the high table sat the queen. Beside her was a young man in dark velvet, a pale, frail figure with a swollen face. He looked nothing like a king. Rather he was a plain—even ugly—boy with the reminders of pox on his cheeks. Frequently he raised a handkerchief to his right ear as if the ear pained him.
    Next to him was an elegant older woman whom I took to be his mother—the old queen—for she was in the deuil blanc, the widow’s dress, and covered with the transparent white veil that all new widows wear.
    Next to the old queen sat a girl perhaps my age. And by the girl’s side, an elderly grandmother who seemed, somehow, the most queenly of them all, with her straight back and raised chin.
    On Queen Mary’s other hand was the cardinal, opulent in crimson, and next to him a man so like the cardinal in looks, I took them to be brothers. But where the cardinal had a softer countenance, the brother’s face was very stern. He sat upright as though on horseback surveying not a troupe of players but a troop of soldiers.
    I could imagine none of these fine folk enjoying our show. I wondered what they would do if they hated us.
    Curse us?
    Beat us?
    Throw us back out in the rain and the cold?
    In front of the high table, at a small table of her own, lounged a dwarf no larger than Annette. She looked as if she were totally uninterested in either our troupe or the fine folk.
    I had only seen a dwarf once before, a little manikin who had been in a tumbler’s troupe. He had winked at me and made me laugh. But this dwarf was female, though dressed in dark velvet with a velvet hood and a cloak worn man-fashion, over the left shoulder. Her humped right shoulder rose up like a mountain on her little back, and the dress did nothing to disguise it. Still, she had the face of a fallen angel.
    â€œDo not stare so,” Pierre whispered.
    â€œYou told me to look.”
    â€œTo look, not to gape.” But he smiled.
    â€œThe dwarf...” I began.
    â€œPlay to the queen, not the dwarf,” Pierre said. “Only the queen matters.”
    Just then the servants began to clear away the remains of the banquet with a minimum of noise. The feasters ate silently as well. One would think that such a feast would be abuzz with conversation and laughter, but everything was oddly quiet, as if no one were allowed to speak above a whisper.
    This was not a happy party.
    Then the queen looked up and, seeing us, nodded her head.
    At us.
    At me.
    Only the queen matters. I heard Pierre’s voice in my head.
    Suddenly Jean—too young to be intimidated by the grand place, the fine company, the silent solemnity of the feast—pointed a finger at one of the high banners. He expounded in his piercing little boy voice. “Look, Maman! Red and green and blue!”
    Nadine quickly grabbed his hand and shushed him while a titter ran through the audience.
    At that very moment, a chamberlain prodded Uncle with his finger. In an instant Uncle returned to the perfect showman. Striding into the center of the room, he made a florid bow. Then he began a speech I had heard a hundred times before. Only now, in the presence of the court, his words took on a borrowed grandeur.
    â€œYour Majesties, honored lords and ladies of France,” he declared, “we present to you the renowned skills of Troupe Brufort, as witnessed in the courts of Italy, Burgundy, and Spain.”
    I did not show on my face what was in my mind. I did what Uncle wanted.
    I smiled.
    He waved us forward and our first—and only—performance before the King and Queen