Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jane Yolen (janeyolen.com) needs no introduction! She has been called the "Hans Christian Andersen of children's literature" (Time) and has won countless awards for her wide-ranging body of work—picture books, poetry, nonfiction, middle-grade fiction, YA novels, and novels and poetry for adults. She was also the editor of her own imprints at Harcourt (Jane Yolen Books and the reprint line Magic Carpet Books), where she published best-selling authors Patricia C. Wrede, Bruce Coville, and Anne McCaffrey, among many others.


Robert Harris (robert-harris.com) is the author of nine bestselling novels: Fatherland, Enigma, Archangel, Pompeii, Imperium, The Ghost Writer, Conspirata, The Fear Index,and An Officer and a Spy. Several of his books have been adapted to film, most recently The Ghost Writer, directed by Roman Polanski. His work has been translated into thirty-seven languages. He lives in the village of Kintbury, England, with his wife, Gill Hornby.

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The Queen's Own Fool

Putnam Publishing Group

Chapter One

Rheims

The rain poured down throughout the day, hard and grey as cathedral stone. Oneby one, we dragged to a halt. I stopped dancing first, then Annette, our skirtshanging in damp folds, tangling in our legs.

"It is like walking with dead fish," I said. "Slip-slap."

Annette giggled. But then she found everything amusing. Even in the rain.

Taking the tin whistle from his lips, Bertrand flicked it several times, tryingto rid it of water. Nadine's tambourine went still, and she shifted little Jeanto her other hip.

Now Pierre alone kept going, flinging the clubs into the air. One and two, threeand four, five . . . I wondered if he were going to try seven at once, here onthe drowned streets of Rheims where no one would see him fail.

"What are you doing?" Uncle Armand cried out, and began hitting the rest of usfor stopping. "Troupe Brufort does not stop for mere rain!" His hand was likesome small, fierce, whey-colored animal nipping and pinching where it could.

Pierre dropped one of his rain-slicked clubs. It landed with a loud splash in apuddle at his feet. He stooped to pick it up.

Uncle Armand turned and slammed Pierre on the head with the gold-topped cane."Clumsy fool! Did I tell you to stop?"

Stepping to Pierre's side, I began, "But Uncle, there is no one on the street.Even the beggars have left the road to seek shelter. We have come to the holycity for nothing, and . . ."

Whap! This time the cane fell on my head, and I saw stars. Pierre had beensmarter, going right back to his juggling. Would I never learn? One day Unclewould kill me with his cane.

"Mademoiselle La Bouche du Sud," Uncle said, meaning Miss Mouth from the South,"says we have come to Rheims for nothing. But she is the nothing, not we."

This time I bit my lip to keep from answering back. One day, I swore, I wouldbreak Uncle's cane over my knee.

Uncle was not finished speaking, though. His nose wrinkled as if he had smelledsomething foul. "We have come to Rheims for the young king's crowning. Fortuneswill be made here. The new queen loves pageantry, songs, dances, mummery. All ofwhich Troupe Brufort can supply."

"But Uncle . . ." I began, wanting to remind him that the city was draped inblack for the old king's death-"A lance in his eye while jousting," a walleyedbeggar girl had said. "The new king insists on a long mourning." So none of thegrand folk racing to the coronation had heart or coins for street players.

"Dance!" Uncle commanded. "Now! Good will come of it."

"Wet will come of it," I mumbled. But not so he could hear.

Bertrand began to play a three-step on the pipe, and Nadine beat the tambourineagainst her sodden skirt once more. Annette and I shuffled our feet obedientlyin time and Pierre tossed up three clubs in a rotation he could do even in apouring rain.

"Bon!" sang out Uncle, a rare compliment.

Just then a well-dressed merchant and his three dark-clad daughters hurried pastus, holding cloaks over their heads. The girls squealed in their distress.

"Papa! My boots!" cried both the eldest and the youngest.

"The rain is ruining my skirts," the middle one added.

"Talk less," their papa responded. "Run faster."

Uncle insinuated himself into their way, smiling. He is like a serpent when hesmiles-all lips, no teeth. "Pause for a moment, good sir. Witness the wondrousskills of Troupe Brufort, only recently returned from the courts of Padua,Venice, Rome."

Of course, Troupe Brufort had never been to any of those places. Only I, born inmy papa's beloved Italy, had traveled beyond France. But Uncle always droppedgreat names like a horse with too much grass in its mouth letting fall the extrabits.

The merchant spun around Uncle and hastened his whining daughters homeward, thebacks of the girls' tufted dresses looking like a dark rolling ocean.

"This is stupid, Papa," Pierre muttered, wiping his clubs one at a time on hisshirt, a useless action, as his shirt was as wet as the clubs. "We will all comedown with a fever, and for nothing."

Ignoring Pierre, Uncle strode over to Bertrand and snatched the pipe from hismouth. "Enough tiddly-piddly, boy! Do your tumbling. Nadine strike up a beat."

Annette and I clapped in time to the tambourine, making soft smacking noises.One and two and one-two. On Nadine's hip, little Jean awoke and tried to catchthe raindrops.

All at once, a clatter of hooves on the cobbles to our left, and a dark carriageapproached, drawn by two dappled horses, their backs so wet, the hair lookedblack. On the carriage door was a coat of arms and a motto, but as I could notread, I did not know what it said. I glimpsed a red uniform under the driver'scloak, the only bit of color I had seen in the city so far. Then the driver drewthe cloak more firmly around his shoulders and that brief flame was quenched.

Beside the driver was another man shaking as with an ague.

Uncle nodded. "Ha!" he cried, as if the appearance of the carriage vindicatedall the beatings.

The carriage pulled up close to us, so close that Bertrand hesitated in histumbling for fear of frightening the horses. A gentleman peeked out of thewindow. He seemed very short for someone who carried himself so proudly. Toyingwith his thin mustache, he watched us for quite some time.

"Do not stop!" hissed Uncle.

Bertrand leaped up again, doing first a double twist, then a series of no-handedcartwheels.

Annette and I added some shuffling steps to our hand claps, and Pierre loftedfive clubs.

"Climb," I whispered to Annette.

"But my skirts . . ." she began.

"To the devil with your skirts," I said, locking my fingers together and holdingmy hands down low.

Annette was so shocked at my swearing, she climbed without further comment,scrambling to my shoulders and leaving muddy footprints on my bodice. I grippedher ankles. Luckily she was only six years old and very light.

"Smile," Uncle hissed.

We smiled.

The shaking man climbed down from his station on the carriage and stood atattention by the carriage door. He had a disgruntled air, as if he dearly wantedto be in a warm, dry spot.

The gentleman in the carriage just sat there, rubbing his mustache, while hisservants got soaked, and all for the sake of our poor show. If he were to throwus a good-sized purse, Uncle might let us stop and find someplace dry. I smiledagain, what Pierre calls my "winning smile" and Uncle calls "Nicola's grimace."

Finished with his routine, Pierre gathered in the five clubs. But Uncle pinchedhis ear to get him started again.

"Enough!" the gentleman announced abruptly. "You will do."

Gratefully I lowered Annette to the ground. Her little golden curls were nowhanging in long, wet strands. Pierre tucked the clubs under his arms andBertrand-at the long end of a tumbling run-came back unhurriedly.

"Do?" Uncle brightened.

The gentleman pursed his lips. "As I have seen no other troupe on this forsakenstreet, you will have to do. Jacques, show them the way to the palais." Then hebanged his cane against the carriage roof and called, "Get me home before Icatch my death."

The servant Jacques jumped aside in time to avoid a splash of water from thecarriage's wheels as it pulled away, though Bertrand had no such luck and wasdrenched to the knee.

As soon as his master was gone, Jacques let his shoulders droop. Glancing sourlyat us, he rubbed his nose with the flat of his hand. "Follow me, and try to keepup. I do not want to dawdle in this weather."

"Whom have I the extreme honor and privilege to be addressing, monsieur?"...