CHAPTER
10:
SWEET
MARSEILLES
COPYRIGHT: Thomas Hoskyns Leonard, Edinburgh, October 2017
Duncan,
Bagoas, and Sir Peregrine
begged a ride in the back of a farm wagon, which
carried
them as
far as the market
square
in the centre of French-held Beauvais.
After
presenting the farmer and his two daughters with a silver piece each,
Sir Peregrine marched his two companions
off to
the military
barracks. These
were craftily
hidden in the precincts of the
bishop's
palace,
much
to the pleasure of the
plump
bishop
himself (who,
like a recent forbear of note, also
enjoyed
dressing up women as soldiers and investigating them for heresy).
The
commandant of the local militia was not in a good mood. “Duke Louis
and
his merry men
have
left for Savoy, as
ever
piddling
in their
boots,
and
the
remainder
of
La
Compagnie
de Marseilles
is
preparing to leave for the
Rivière
in the morning, with
their tails between their legs.
Whereupon
you still have time to pack your bags, brave
knight.”
Sir
Peregrine looked startled. “I hope that good King René
will
be
keeping
me more peaceably employed. I narrowly avoided an old-fashioned
blood-eagling in Gournay this morning, and I treasure my heart as
much as my ribs.”
The
commandant chuckled.
“The
indomitable
Count
of Provence is planning to build strong ramparts all around his
very
own city
to
keep out the thieving Aragonese and the rapacious
Ottoman pirates, not
to forget the barbaric Berbers who
trade in white flesh.”
Sir
Peregrine proffered a polite smile. “These two bold
soldiers
rescued me today from my plight in Normandy, M'sier.
Perchance
you might be
agreeable
to
enrolling
them in your militia for their
similar good fortune?”
“English
deserters?” scowled
the commandant, “No chance! They could be spies.”
“I
am a Scotsman through and through, Sir,” protested Duncan, “and
ne'er e'er a spy.”
“A
grizzly Scot deflowered my wife,” growled the commandant, “but
Duke René entertains ugly
Picts, Scots
ravissants, and
dour
Swiss mercenaries. Try sucking up to him.”
“I
will invite Capitaine
Königswarter
to enrol these clean-limbed men in
Le
Compagnie
forthwith,”
concluded Sir Peregrine, “if he is still alive, bien
sûr.”
“That
jolly
Bohemian
is
lucky that he was born in Toulon,”
replied
the commandant, clucking
his teeth.
“King Charles's
crazy father signed an order expelling all Jews from France getting
on for fifty years ago now. But
the Jews of
Provence were allowed to stay by some strange politics
or other.”
Bagoas
smiled to
himself.
“Is Marseilles also in Provence? If so, then that is perhaps why
the good capitaine
is permitted to serve in La
Compagnie de Marseilles.”
“I
never could understand geography,”
replied
Sir
Peregrine, giving Bagoas a puzzled
look.
“They're
independent,” said the commandant, and that caused even more
confusion.
The
three comrades caught up with Captain
Jacques
Königswater later,
while he was filing his records in his office.
“Where
were you born, Duncan Cotter?” the dark-bearded captain inquired,
after various routine preambles. “Not in Novgorod. I would hope.”
“In
Linton in fair Scotland's East-Lothian, mon
capitaine,”
replied Duncan, dipping into his waist pouch, “and I have this
affidavit
to prove it.”
“Your
dialect
is good enough for me,” replied Königswarter,
with
a polite grin.
“Sign
here to be enlisted as a foot soldier
in
La
Compagnie de Marseilles.”
“Thank
you for your willingness and hospitality, kind Sir.”
“You're
most welcome to join our
ranks,
but does this callow youth speak French?”
“Oui
monsieur,”
Bagoas replied, his legs turning to jelly. “Je
parle français
comme un pigeon.”
“I
speak pidgeon
English
myself, ”
chuckled the captain. “And which stone were you born under?”
“À
Lincoln
en Angleterre,”
bleated Bagoas.
“Not
accursed Lincoln!” howled the captain, flying into an
outrageous
rage. “Get out of my sight, foul English twerp, or I'll boil you
for my troops and stick shards into
your
meat!”
Bagoas
Ash stood there stoically, but then began to cry.
“Mais
je suis Juif,”
he blurted.
Tell
me something new,
thought Duncan.
But
the captain could scarcely believe his ears.
“A
Jew from England? Impossible. Show
me!”
“No!!”
“In
that case, tell
me who the aged
Sarai
attracted
by her beauty
before Avram
gave
her
a son.”
“Le
Pharaon d' Egypt lui-même, bien
sûr.”
The
captain quietened
down, and
stared at the picture above the mantelpiece of
King Charles the Sixth peering into a broken
crystal
glass,
for fully two minutes.
“In
these circumstances,
I will
record your birthplace as pretty
Aberdeen,” he conceded,
with
a sigh.
“Sign here.”
The
next morning, the new recruits attended the 'changing of the guard'
outside the Cathedral of Saint Pierre. Bagoas was impressed by the
company
of green-behind-the-ears troopers who
marched
into the cathedral square from Paris, flaunting fleurs-de-lis
on
their magnificently
smart uniforms. They were followed in an open carriage by their
youthful commander-in-chief, the Dauphin Prince Louis of Anjou
himself. The homely
Dauphin
was accompanied by his sickly wife Margaret Stewart, the teenage
sister of King James the Second of Scotland.
Bagoas
knew that the
Dauphin was
renowned for his taste for unnecessary
intrigue.
Louis
had
recently been forgiven by his father King Charles the Seventh for
behaving obnoxiously in Court and rebelling against the crown. Bagoas
thought that he looked like a beluga
sturgeon.
Duncan
thought that while
the Dauphin was
aggressive in appearance, he
might
be
too limp-wristed
to fight a good battle, and that Princess Margaret looked fit to
prattle like a shrew, doubtlessly
in the Scots tongue.
After
a ceremonial exchange of eagle
flags, Captain Jacques Königswater
ordered his
bands of troopers
to march out of town to the tune of Reveillez-vous
Massalians, and
this
they
not
so triumphantly did.
The
titular
commander-in-chief
of
La
Compagnie de Marseilles
was none less than
Duke René
of Anjou, Count of Provence. Sir
Peregrine described him as 'a
man with many crowns but no kingdoms', and
he was said by some to be King of Naples and Jerusalem.
Sir
Peregrine wondered where his commander-in-chief was hiding at that
very moment. The inquisitive Scottish knight would learn later from a
nosey pageboy
that
the
lascivious count was in
flagante
delicto,
over six hundred miles away in Marseilles, with a
semi-trans-sexual
courtesan
who answered to the ridiculous name of
Lady
Sporusia
Nerotica. According
to the tiresome Peeping
Tom,
it
was the poor
count
who was
getting pushed
around the bed while
never quite
managing to
dominate his well-endowed partner.
Duncan
learnt from Sir Peregrine that 'Good King René'
was the younger brother of the
Queen of France and
the son of King Louis of Naples, who preceded René as the Duke of
Anjou. The
adventurous
René's
thirteen year old
daughter
Margaret
of Anjou was
no longer la
petite créature
of her early childhood, but
rather
a tomboy
and a feisty
hell-raiser who enjoyed getting into knife fights with the
multi-faceted Lady
Sporusia.
Sir Peregrine feared that
sassy
Margaret
would terrorise European politics during the years to come.
Duncan
and Bagoas were quite unsure of themselves when they set off
on the long trek to
Marseilles. But
they brightened up during they stay
in
gay
Paris,
where
their battalion relaxed
for a few days
in the comfortable,
two-storey barracks
on Île
de la Cité,
a
sizeable islet
on the Seine.
Duncan
and Bagoas discovered that they were within walking distance of both
the Merovingian royal palace and the Cathedral of Notre Dame. During
their
stay,
they participated in a parade along the Quai
au Fleurs,
and King Charles and Queen Marie reviewed their battalion from a
podium by the Pont
Saint Louis.
Sir
Peregrine Flynn was introduced to the King
and Queen's
pale-hearted daughter-in-law Princess Margaret Stewart, and the two
aristocratic
Scots talked for a full three minutes about fly-fishing on the River
Eden in Fife.
It
took the
troopers of Marseilles
three days to march southwards to Orléans,
whereupon they camped in large, colourful marquees on the banks of
the Loire to the west of the city. Sir Peregrine took Duncan and
Bagoas to see the ruins of the Chatelet
des Tourelles
which had protected the
access
to the bridge, across
the
dangerous river, from
the south. He
explained that this
was
the site of Jeanne D'Arc's great victory some fourteen years earlier
when the French army relieved the
bloodthirsty
Plantagenets'
siege
of Orléans
“Was
crafty Jeanne
a cross-dresser?” asked Bagoas, patting
his tunic.
“She enjoyed wearing men's trousers.”
“That
was to protect her from the attentions of the French officers,”
replied Sir Peregrine, who was always ready for a joke.
“Perhaps
I should wear trousers too,” concluded Bagoas, with a grin.
“Maybe
you should wear a chastity belt if it's your chastity you desire to
keep,” replied Sir Peregrine, with a chuckle.
“I'll
wear a metal plate as well as my chain mail,” said Bagoas, tongue
in cheek. “That will protect my virtue from the likes of you.”
Duncan
found the forest and heathland to the south of the Loire in La
Sologne
to be a welcome relief, and he delighted in the City of Bourges,
where Clovis once reigned and where the half-timbered houses and fine
town-houses reminded him of Edinburgh.
After
a stiff four days march, the sturdy troopers entered the City of
Clairmont where they were billeted in the fortress of Clarus
Mons.
During a visit to Le
Lapin Fou
tavern, Duncan and Bagoas were attacked by a gang of thugs from the
rival, neighbourhood city of Montferrand, and needed to defend
themselves with their daggers.
Bagoas stabbed one of the thugs in his ear, and he and Duncan were
lucky not to have
to spend
the night in the conciergerie.
A
week later, Duncan caught his first sight of the deep
blue Mediterranean
sea, at Montpellier. The
city was noted for its rich Jewish cultural life, and Bagoas ventured
into the Synagogue Mazal
Tov
where the rabbi offered him a free glass of Kosher wine and chatted
to him about the hidden
truths to be discovered in the
version
of
the
Babylonian
Talmud which
had been compiled during the previous century in Munich.
Meanwhile,
Duncan took a stroll from the Tour of Pins, where they were billeted,
to the ancient university, which was so well renowned for its
teaching of medicine. He didn't dare go inside, but instead stood by
the gateway admiring the
'ivory towers'.
On
Saturday morning, Bagaos returned
to the Synagogue Mazal
Tov
for his
first ever Shabbat
service.
He took a kippah
from the basket by the door, and rested it gently on his head. A
young
woman
in a long skirt, with her hair uncovered, gave him a
tallit to
wrap around his shoulders, and he collected a
siddur
prayerbook from
a wooden table, and
also
a
Chumash
since he was interested in the Books
of Moses.
During
the service, Bagoas most appreciated the chazan
prayers
intermingled with the kaddish
poems, and the reading from a Torah
scroll, which
was carefully
selected from the Ark. And after he'd listened to the kiddush,
he was able to tuck into some delicious wine.
This
is the elixir
of life,
he thought.
“Shabbat
Shalom,” said
Bagoas
to the rabbi, as he left.
The
soldiers
spent over a week dawdling along the much
indented coast line of the Rivière, with the peaceful waves of the
Sea of Philistines rolling towards them and splashing over the pebble
beaches somewhere to their right. When
he peered out to sea, Duncan at
times
imagined Phoenician galleys ploughing through the billowing
rollers,
and once he thought he spotted one.
At
Aigues-Mortes, all
the soldiers
rushed out through the city walls onto the sandy beach, stripped off
their shabby uniforms, and dived headlong into the Marette pond.
Bagoas went into a swoon, and had to be rescued by Duncan and Sir
Peregrine, both together, while twenty of the fittest troopers swam
out
along
the Canal Viel towards the sea.
The
town of Saintes-Marie-de-la-Mer was settled insecurely on marshlands
and still suffered from an occasional
raid by white-flesh-loving Saracens. The soldiers
boarded a fleet of rafts in a large lagoon, and were thereby
successfully ferried around the Rhône delta to Salins-de-Giraud.
They
hurried through that place because of the mighty pong, and spent the
night camping outside the castle above the tiny village of
Fos-sur-Mer. The castle controlled the access to the salts of Fos
from its strategic position on a rocky spur called Hauture.
In
the morning, Sir Peregrine climbed to the castle ramparts with Duncan
and Bagoas, and the youthful corporal squealed in delight at the
sight of the seaport
of Marseilles some thirty or more miles around
the coast.
“Duke
René
is beginning to re-fortify the city,” explained Sir Peregrine,
“since he wishes to use
it as a maritime
base
for
reconquering
his
lands in Sicily,
where he was once really the king.”
“The
Queen's
brother
has over twenty fingers in the pie,” replied Duncan. “Why doesn't
he focus on the liberation of Normandy?”
“He's
perennially short of the lucre and needs to restore his vast income
from Sicily. Moreover he's keener on settling his scores with the
Swiss.”
Meanwhile,
Bagoas was staring vacantly across Mare
Nostrum.
“I
hope the tight-pursed
count
pays
me some
wages,” he complained. “I need to purchase a spanking
new tunic.”
“I'll
fit you out like a grand
chevalier
myself,”
replied Sir Peregrine, with a chuckle.
It
was not until the middle of April 1443 that the
soldiers
from Rouen
entered Marseilles. They
marched straight through
the westwards-facing city
to their barracks behind
the Commandry of the
Knights Hospitaller of Saint John, which overlooked the entrance
to the
bustling harbour on
the south side
of the city. As
well as housing two score idle
knights of this heraldic order, that
was steeped in chivalry, the commandry boasted a hospital staffed by
'brothers
infirmaries',
who
treated and healed wounded soldiers and sick citizens alike.
During
the months that
followed,
Duncan and Bagoas patrolled the partly rebuilt sea ramparts along the
low cliffs on
the western edge of the city and, during their spare time,
helped the chivalrous
brothers infirmaries tend the wounded soldiers in the
Hospital of Saint
John. Duncan's vast knowledge of herbal medicines was particular
useful, and he also chatted with the learned scholars of medicine who
came all
the way from
the University of Montpellier to observe.
After
they were both unexpectedly promoted in
the French ranks,
Sergent
Cotter and Corporel
Ash were
also
required to spend several days at a time with their platoon on the
tiny
Île d'If in
the Mediterranean
Isles
of Frioul to the south-west of the city.
Bagoas
was relieved that there no
dark
fortress
on that
secretive
rocky
islet,
but
Duke René
had
built a tolerable
mansion
there, known as Le
Château
de Tiberius. The
Count of Provence
frequently
escaped
there
with his favourite relatives and soul-mates for a timely break.
The
platoon of the
La
Compagnie de Marseilles
was
sent to protect the duke and his merry party, and to serve the
Madeira and cheese. Duncan and Bagoas usually enjoyed the short trip
in the antiquated
ferry
more
than their stay in the château's
west
wing
itself.
When
he arrived for the first time on Île
d'If, Sergeant
Cotter ordered twelve of his troopers to guard the quay. Thereupon,
he, Corporal Bagoas and the twelve
remaining troopers walked westwards
across
the rugged island,
while
the yellow-legged gulls hovered like vultures in
the sky above.
The
Château
of Tiberius, a
four-turreted, rectangular mansion, overlooked
the long,
thin Île
Ratonneau with
its colony of lepers, and
several bare-arsed
girls
were playfully
splashing each other
in a heart-shaped swimming pool in the bleak
gardens.
“We
are the newts of Tiberius,” shouted the one with shoulder-length,
jet black hair.
“We
are the
butterflies of King
René,” giggled the one with the snub nose.
A
greasy-haired footman showed Duncan and Bagoas to
their
modest
bedchamber
high in the north-west turret. The four-poster bed was neatly laid
with fresh linen, and a long bolster had been spread along the middle
of the mattress.
“We
don't need that,” shrieked Bagoas, throwing the bolster into the
air.
“What
an earth do you mean?” asked Duncan, yet again feeling exasperated
by
his corporal's
strange antics.
“Beats
me,”
burbled
Bagoas,
going quiet as a mouse.
But
Duncan did not replace the bolster after Bagoas had moved it.
When
they descended to the Great
Hall for dinner, Duncan and Bagoas were seated, as lowly
officers without commissions, at the end of the long table on the
left. The Count of Provence was ensconced
imperiously
at
the main table with his lusty
daughter Margaret of Anjou and twelve of his fawning knights, with
several platters of osprey and game within easy
reach of his remarkably large hands.
The
homely
count
was of similar height and age to Duncan, but boasted
a plump, clean-shaven face, with
eyebrows like piercing
questions.
Duncan thought that he would have passed muster as a bishop.
Bagoas
was shocked to see Princess Margaret scratching the neck of a knight
in blue with her sharp fingernails, and wondered which brock's burrow
she'd crawled out of.
The
nobles feasted
on the osprey and
game, and sufficient
morsels and scraps were sent down the side tables.
While
a
knight in crimson was
puking
in the corner, the footmen brought in the faux eggs made from almond
milk on a silver platter. While they were dishing them out to
the nobles,
Good King René
took
the opportunity to raise his glass, freshly
filled from his vintage bottle
of Liebfrauenwein.
“A
toast to Bacchus, the god
of the
farmland,
wine and fertility. May the revelries begin!”
At
that, the
highly erotic Lady
Sporusia Nerotica came bounding onto the table in her silver sequin
dress. She was followed by a long-tailed dwarf dressed in red like
Beelzebub himself, who splattered several faux eggs beneath his
frog-like feet.
Thereupon,
the
rough and tough Margaret
of Anjou dived flat
onto the lace
tablecloth
with her serviette twisted around her greasy
neck.
The festivities were in full flow.
Much
later, Duncan was washing himself, tail naked, with the cold
water
from his hand basin, when
Princess Margaret lurched like
a leopardess on heat
into
his room, right
out
of the blue,
wearing, would you countenance, a pink petticoat and a grey pair of
trousers?
“Lift
me to your chest, dear Sergeant,” she begged, “and I will scratch
the tip of your nose.”
Duncan
took
that for
a
euphemism,
and deliberated
carefully.
“That
I cannot, fair princess. Were I to
put
you with child then the blood-line of the Valois would be tainted
beyond
repair.”
“Spoilsport!”
shrieked the princess. “You're no good to anybody!”
“I'm
game for sport if the ladies are not spoilt,” Duncan cryptically
replied.
“Is
that really
so?
But prithee! What
are
that dormouse and that hedgehog doing
tattooed
on your back? Methinks that's
a heraldic coat-of-arms. And
I took
you
for
a peasant!”
I'd
better dream up some cow
and
bull patter,
realised
Duncan,
“They
were engraved there at the behest of my Lord and Master, the Baron of
Yester, when I was but a youth, Your Royal Highness,” he lied,
“as
living testimony that I was his snivelling,
downtrodden
slave,
enslaved against my wishes in his watermill on the River Tyne
in
Scotland's East-Lothian.”
“Good
on him! I hope it hurt.
But
Simplicitate
et
Veritate?
That's too
naive!.
The Baron of Yester must be a peasant too.”
At
that prepostorous suggestion, Bagoas came bounding in from his
lukewarm
bath.
“I
can see what your true penchants are about,” shrieked the princess.
“Perish
the thought,” growled Duncan Cotter. “Now go to your bed,”
What
a performance! thought
Duncan, when he turned
in.
Even
Bagoas is acting especially unusually.
Will
it be this time?
wondered Bagoas, stroking his pillow with his fingers.
“Good
night, evil world,” muttered Duncan, nestling into Bagoas's back
and falling asleep.
The
next morning, Duncan Cotter rose early, walked through the red
beech garden, savouring
the stench of horses' dung,
and through
a
meadow of nettles to the northern cliffs of the islet, where
he
admired the mystical
view
of Marseilles to the north-west as the mist drifted
in from the sea. He was meditating about the Haar coming
in over the Firth of Forth when there was a rustle in the fern, and
none other than plump
René,
Count of Provence, emerged
from the thicket behind the
goat willow tree.
The
fleshy-faced count was dressed in working clothes, and would have
passed for a merchant well
down on his luck. Duncan
took a whiff of him, and felt concerned about his daily
habits.
The
smelly
count
blinked.
“Bon
jour,
Sergent Le Cottier,
if
you will excuse my
intrusive
elaboration
of your name. What a wonderful opportunity this is to become
better acquainted with a man of a cottager's intellect.”
“I
am but a lowly peasant, Sire,” replied
Duncan, deferentially.
“My father was a joiner and my mother a midwife, both of modest
means.”
The
inquisitive count fluttered his remarkably long eyelashes,
“So
I've heard. In that case, could you advise me on a pretty point?”
Duncan
squinted, and scratched his nose.
“It
might be better to ask Sir Peregrine, Sire.”
“Methinks
I'll
try asking you instead. I have it in mind to betroth my wretched
daughter Princess Margaret of Anjou to some noodle
or other. How fares the political situation in Scotland and England
in this respect?”
“The
teenage
Douglas
brothers
were murdered during
their wild
boar supper
in Edinburgh Castle in 1440, Sire, which is a mighty
shame
because the Earls of Douglas are the powers behind the Scottish
throne. The
seventh earl is now
nigh
sixty years old and his self-glorious
son is still
a stripling and
heading for dire misadventure if he doesn't
rein himself in. Take
your pick!”
“If
nobody of fitting rank in Scotland,” replied the snook-ridden
count, with a yawn, “then how about England?”
“King
Henry is too pious and weak in the head and his Crown is under threat
from the slimy
by-blow
of York who abuses even the House of Lancaster with his
tirades.”
Count
René snarled, and bit his lip. “Horned
Richard
would have
been
a
slime-bucket without
a title,
had
his
uncle, the
last well-bred Duke
of
York, not
fallen at Agincourt.”
“Richard's
messy
infant
is
his
wife's love child with a brawny French sailor, and he's
only two,” added
Duncan, with a grimace,
“which is a mite young to be promised in marriage, though the
bawling
little
buggar
does
augur
well for the future since his mother Cecylle Neville is a strong,
forthright, and
occasionally pious
woman.”
“Tell
me, do you think that I should negotiate a peace with England? Each
country would benefit so much from a pact.”
“Either
that or break their heads until they fall into the Trough, Sire.”
“Excellent
advice, and said
with
the passion of a true
Scot.
But prithee! You talk like a knight, and some say you
blither
like a judge. Perchance you are one of us, rather than one of them?”
“I
am but a humble peasant, Sire, and I have a
parchment
signed and sealed by the
Sheriff
of Haddington to prove it.”
“Vraiment?
In that case, why is the name Horatio P. engraved in your skin just
above your blotchy posterior?”
His
foul daughter has bleated on me,
agonised Duncan, but
I must, in all verity, brazen this out.
“That
is but a code, Sire,” he replied, “for the sheriffs to identify
me by my true name should I ever return to Scotland.”
“Two
forms of identification?” replied Count René, with a leery look.
“Well, if you are truly a lowly peasant then could you advise me on
another pretty point? On what political issues do the people of
England and Scotland most differ, and on what basis?”
“That
is surely self-evident, Sire,” said Duncan, growing in confidence.
“The Scottish nobles have given their serfs and peasants more land
rights, and they have not enclosed any of the common land.
Consequently, there has been no revolt of the peasants in Scotland to
rival the revolt in England early during
poor King Richard the
Second's
reign.
Therefore, the people of Scotland are in better unity, even more so
because they unite against their English foe. The English are more
disparate and hence more likely to fight against each other. Take the
dissensions between the royal dukes, for example.”
“An
imaginative piece of rhetoric. How else do the two nations differ?”
“John
Wycliffe of Balliol wrote an English bible, Sire, and others stir
with imaginative thoughts, challenging the infallibility of God,
following the Black Death which scourged previous innocent
generations. But there is no progressive Christian movement in
Scotland. Therefore, the pope controls the Scots even more than he
controls the English.”
“Progressive
Christian?” thundered the Count of Provence, slapping his thigh.
“Take care with your words, heretic, lest you burn at the stake!”
“The
Gnostic
Cathars
lived in poverty like the early Christian bishops and could therefore
have been termed radical or
progressive.
Their
last perfectus
was
executed in the
Province of Languedoc
in 1321.”
“Following
a perfectly fair trial by the Inquisition.”
“That
is veritably veritable, as
the martyr Jan Hus is said to have said.
But the
Jewish liturgists who followed Ariel's New Way during the first
century after Christ were indubitably
the first Christian radicals. The
first
three Gospels
record the word of the living God which
they expressed, and that is radical.”
“Early
Christian bishops? Ariel's New Way? Word
of the Living God?
This merits further thought. Thank you, Duncan Cotter. I have
certainly come to know YOU
better.”
During
February 1444, Duncan Cotter and Bagoas Ash were summoned to the
Palace Augustus on Boulevard de Paris
in the bustling centre of Marseilles to
meet
with Duke René
of
Anjou,
as
he occasionally liked to call himself.
The 'palace' was not so much a palace as a dilapidated
mansion, owing to the duke's supposedly
limited
means, and
René spent more of his time when he was in Provence in his château
in Tarascon
on
the Rhône valley.
When
Duncan and Bagoas were ushered into the duke's
well-scented
parlour,
the ghostly
white
Duchess Isabella of Lorraine faded through a curtain and Princess
Margaret of Anjou traipsed to the half-pane
window and wriggled her
hips
like
a
bull-fighter.
Sir Peregrine Flynn was also in attendance, twiddling
this thumbs and
savouring the exquisite
smell.
“I
have matters of great import to impart,” explained
Duke René,
patting his well-padded
belly.
“France, England and Burgundy have, at my own wise suggestion,
agreed to parley for peace. The
confrontery English autocrat William
de la Pole feels persuaded to come to Tours in April, with
the rest of his unholy
embassy.”
“That
monkey of Suffolk was the loser at Orléans,”
raved
Sir Peregrine, “and he's nicknamed Jackanapes for his pains.”
…...”And
the fool says that he's coming
against his much-expressed will.”
“Gad's
zooks!” exclaimed Duncan. “What diabolical effrontery.”
Count
René rolled his eyes.
“Anyroads,
the
prospect of a betrothal
of
my
dear Margaret to
Henry of England will be discussed and
decided.”
That
vixen is likely to behave like a jackass and stir up trouble in the
English Court, perchance to the
point
of civil war,
mused Duncan. But
maybe
that's what good King René is driving at. He thinks differently in
his head, and has a proneness to spew falsehoods out of the corner of
mouth to confuse the world. Methinks he is an 'unscrupulous man' in
the manner described by Theophrastus
of Eresus.
“What
a perfect match!” exclaimed Sir Peregrine Flynn, “A marriage made
in Heaven.”
“I
refuse
to
marry that cot-quean!”
shrieked Margaret of Anjou, stamping
her foot.
“I
want
to be
deflowered
by
a Prince Adonis with
limbs like succulent
pine
trees.
Though
not by
the
homely Count of Nevers.
He's
a belly-licker,
and
a black wizard of the cult.”
“I
own your
maidenhead if
you still have it,”
Duke René
sternly replied. “You'll do what you're told, my daughter, or I'll
bring out your THREE
whipping girls for twelve cruel
lashes each. And
a couple for your self, perchance!”
“An
excellent choice of husband, Sire,” said Duncan, with a sly grin.
“I do believe that I can perceive what you're driving at.”
The
duke's
face lit up like an archangel.
“Can
you really?” he exclaimed, as
the spoilt princess stomped out of the room in disgust.
“I try to think like Sun Tzu for the betterment and
protection of
France, but only God knows whether my
warped mind will
be successful in
these endeavours.”
“And
also for the protection of Scotland, should the English royal dukes
let fly at each other,” Duncan dryly replied.
“We
think so much in the same terms,” drooled Duke René. “I have
judged you well during our discourses on
Île
d'If.”
Sir
Peregrine
Flynn
gave
Duncan the
once over.
“I didn't know that you were such a cunning
son of a bitch, peasant that you are, but all would appear to be to
good purpose.”
“In
this noble spirit,” continued the duke, sucking
his lips,
“I have decided that Sergeant Cotter and Corporal Ash will ride
with us to Tours to advise us further during our negotiations with
the sneaky
English
and prickly
Burgundians. There will undoubtedly
be numerous complications to consider before our
not so friendly
Jack of Naples
can be persuaded to agree to our terms.”
Where
is that whiff
of scent
coming from?
wondered Duncan. Or
is it simply an odour of the mind?
“Another
wise idea!” exuded Sir Peregrine. “Why don't I equip the
incongruous
pair with courtiers' robes? At my own expense, of course.”
The
miserly duke nodded
in agreement. “That will spare my purse, and
Duncan will be called Le
Cottier,
as befitting a person of that rank. But
why on earth are you called Ash, Corporal Bagoas? You
haven't burned to cinders yet.”
“Because
I am
a proud Ashkenazi,” Bagoas robustly replied, “and many worthy
Jews are called by a similar name.”
“I
admire the
people
of your nation,”
replied
the duke.
“I have it in mind to call you Le
Stripling. But
I have a liking
for
ash trees which wax in the sun.
Therefore
we'll call you Bagoas de
Frêne.”
“Oh
no!”
moaned
Bagoas.
“I'll
arrange for their changes in
name
to be recorded
by the notaries
of
the prefecture,”
affirmed
Sir
Peregrine, whilst
Bagoas glared at
him, askance.
During
the
Ides of March, the
scheming
Count René
visited the Île
d'If
for
a leisurely
break, and
Sergeant Le
Cottier and Corporal de
Frêne accompanied him with their platoon of troopers as per usual.
Duncan
had recently helped to amputate the whole right leg of a wounded
soldier in the Hospital of St. John, who
was
suffering from two
blackened
eyes
and the
dark
green
pox in
his legs after he was caught in an explosion aboard
his troopship.
In
the meantime, Corporal Bagoas and his troopers had
apprehended
three bird-eggs
thieves
from La-Penne-sur-Huveaune
while
they were clambering over the city ramparts from the shore.
The
miscreants
were sentenced to an afternoon in the stocks, where they were pelted
with rotten fruit.
Thereupon,
they
put them on rails, tarred and feathered them, and
ran
them out
of town.
To
Duncan's and Bagoas's shock and horror, the capricious Goddess
of Fortune
rolled her nefarious
die
during the
first night of
Count
René's
stay on
the rocky islet.
While
the
Count's
nobles
were
giving
short shrift
to
a
scraggy,
boiled
pheasant in the great hall of the Château
of Tiberius and
chattering
about the talents and skills of
their love puppets in the corner,
a long-ship of fifty
Berbers
from Tripolitania attacked the carefully guarded quay from
out of the blue.
After making mincemeat
of the twelve troopers on duty there, they scaled the cliffs in
unison
and marched to the château,
led by the gargantuan
Gurgut Agba,
the Bey of Tripoli himself.
When
the horde
of Berbers
came into the great hall brandishing
their scimitars, the remaining troopers of
Marseilles fled
out through les
grandes fenêtres
in fright, with the exception of Sergeant Duncan and Corporal Bagoas,
who stayed
transfixed to
their less
conspicuous seats
like
Latvian
corpses
in
Russian
dungeons.
“Would
you care for some boiled eggs and salty
caviar
before you rob and
humiliate us?”
inquired
Count René,
trying to appear non-plussed.
“Prithee,
we're
here to capture juicy
white slaves and not your wealth,” replied Gurgut Agba,
unfurling his coat of many colours. “A well-rounded
piece
of
ham would
not go amiss. Please
do excuse me while I take
a piss.”
“Do
take your
pick,
Your
Munificence,”
replied Count René,
his heart beating apace, “but please leave the
nubile puppets
with green eyes behind,
since
I would prefer to retain
their sundry
delights for
myself
while
savouring
their
beautiful minds.”
The
Berbers
gave
the ungainly Princess Margaret the
once over
and cocked a snoot, and
instead
chose a short
boy
in
the corner
with a huge,
round
bottom branded
with four
fleurs-de-lis.
While
Bagoas was
squirming
in fright, they
hauled away
a pate-headed
albino
with
flashing
blue
eyes and
tiny
breasts.
The
short
boy's skinny,
fair-haired
brother ran up to protest.
So
they threw him over the
purple couch
and drenched
him with the Liebfrauenwein
to
keep
him
in tow.
Thereupon,
the Bey
eyed up the
deathly white Lady
Sporusia
Neroticus, her very self.
“She's
got all
the bits
and pieces
that would
matter
to
anybody,”
said Gurgut,
with
an uncivilised gurk, “and
so we'll take her off
in
chains in
our long-ship to our triple-horned
tower
on
the Berber
Coast to
take delight in all her
quirks.”
“Mercy,
mercy!” shrieked the Lady Sporusia. “Please save me, kind
knights.”
“It's
good riddance to bad rubbish,” retorted Count René, sticking his
left pinkie up his right nostril. “You get on my wick every night.”
The
Bey of Tripoli danced a merry jig. “I'll dress her like the Great
Whore of Hesperides and make her scrub my harem, and I'll cut her
pretty neck should she give me lip or pout.”
“I'll
shred your guts and extract your bile for this, René, dirty
robe-lifter that you are,” raved Sporusia Nerotica, gnashing her
silver and gold teeth, only to be hit on her head and carried off to
sea.
Minutes
after the Berbers had departed with their ill-gotten spoils, the Bey
of Tripoli returned swinging his scimitar, and hauled the skinny,
fair-haired lad away, scampering on his hands and knees like a
frightened buck, with a halter around his delicate neck.
“Take
him!” shrieked Count René, rapping the table with his knuckles.
“He's a lazy, good-for-nothing layabout! I've spoilt him rotten and
it's time for him to grind millstones and build mines from bricks.”
“Take
a stinky bath, slimy coot of a count,” howled the brave lad, as he
was dragged through the door.
After
they'd seen the back of Gurgut, Count René was heard to scream and
shout. “The English invade France from the north, the heathens and
pirates from the south. But I will reconquer Sicily and hit them all
in the mouth.”
Will
bad King René ever reconquer Sicily or
see his Kingdom of Naples again, the evil,
'unscrupulous man' that he
is? wondered Duncan Le Cottier, when he went up to his bed.
Theophrastus of Eresus would have
sized HIM up.
When
Duncan, yet once again, felt Bagoas de Frêne's fingers nervously
tickling his back, he fell fast asleep and dreamt valiant dreams,
just like that.
BACK TO CONTENTS
CHAPTER 11
BACK TO CONTENTS
CHAPTER 11
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