Queen's Own Fool: A Novel of Mary Queen of Scots - Brossura

Yolen, Jane; Harris, Robert

Brossura

ISBN 10: 0698119185 ISBN 13: 9780698119185

Casa editrice: Penguin Young Readers Group, 2001

Riassunto

Fans of historical sagas and the CW show Reign will be swept up by this clever tale by Jane Yolen and Robert Harris 

Once she was a traveling player . . . Now called La Jardinière, a resourceful and clever jester to the queen’s court, Nicola was a most unlikely person to end up “fool” and friend to Mary, Queen of Scots. But Nicola isn’t an ordinary comedian tumbling and clowning before the court; her quick wit and sharp tongue are rare amongst the fawning nobles. As fate takes Mary from France to Scotland, and into confrontations with rebellious lords and devious advisors, Nicola remains deep in the queen’s inner circle. But when the Scots start to turn on Queen Mary, Nicola struggles to find something—anything—that she, just a fool, can do to save her friend.


“Based deeply in fact and full of detail both luscious and sordid. . . . [Yolen and Harris] spin a historical tale of great immediacy and impact.”—Kirkus Reviews

"This rich and involving novel of Mary Queen of Scots and her court will have readers clamoring to know more about this dramatic period in French and Scottish history. Readers are treated to a fascinating look at royal politics."—School Library Journal 

Su questo libro

Informazioni sull'autore

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

By Jane Yolen

Putnam Publishing Group

Copyright ©2001 Jane Yolen
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0698119185

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?" Uncleasked in the oily voice he used when speaking to rich people.

"It is no honor addressing me," Jacques answered, turning away and saying overhis shoulder, "nor privilege neither. You had best save your fine manners forthe new king."

For a moment Uncle froze, his lips silently forming the word "king".

The king. I thought. With the pretty queen who loves pageants.

Then Uncle stirred, bowed and waved at us, his face suddenly exultant, open likea dried flower bed after a good shower. "Come along. Do not just stand there.The king is waiting for us. And," he added, "remember-obey my every word if youwish to make a good impression. Nicola, you especially, do not open your mouth."

Pierre and I hurried to the wooden cart, each taking hold of a handle. Theancient cart creaked and protested, but for the first time ever it sounded likemusic to me.

Bertrand, Annette, and Nadine grabbed their sacks off the ground, slinging theminto the cart, then followed behind us. For once there was no chatter. We weregoing to entertain in a palace. How could anyone complain-even of the rain?Perhaps we had come to Rheims for something after all!

Chapter Two

In the Palace

Marching ahead of the cart, a step behind Jacques, Uncle went proudly. Hisbalding head was tilted at such an angle, he looked as though he were leading aparade rather than following a sullen servant along a rain-soaked backstreet.

Jacques looked as if he had a bean stuck up his nose. He never even glancedaround to see if we followed. Clearly he wanted no one in Rheims to think he hadanything to do with our ragtag troupe.

The rain began to ease at last, but the evening was drawing in. Rheims was stillgrey above, grey below, and grey in the middle, but there was a small, hopeful,golden glow in my belly. Each step I thought: But one more step and one more andone more towards the warmth.

I was so concentrated on getting to where we were going, I had no idea where wewere, and so I was entirely startled when Nadine cried out, "Look, children,there is the king's palace."

Jacques sniffed at her. "No, madam, that is the palace of Charles, Cardinal ofLorraine and Archbishop of Rheims. The king and queen are but guests here. Butit is our destination."

The cardinal's palace was certainly large, but not nearly as large as some wehad seen in our travels. As for that stone wall-we were connoisseurs of walls:cathedral walls, palace walls, the walls of fortresses and castles. They wereoften the backdrops for our performances, though we had never actually beeninvited inside before.

Still-walls meant roofs. Roofs meant shelter. Suddenly I was filled with newenergy. Grabbing my cart handle, I gave it a hard shove which skewed the cart sothat it wobbled on the cobbles.

"Easy," hissed Pierre. "Do not overturn the cart. Not now."

"As if I could!" I countered.

"Amazon!" he said.

"Flea!"

"Fleabite!"

And then we looked at one another and laughed. We were as close as brother andsister. Closer, really, for although we were not the same age, we were of thesame disposition. We had chosen one another as confidante and friend.

"Be quiet, all of you," Uncle said, "and Nicola especially." He raised his caneas a warning, for Jacques was talking to two guards at a small portal.

"Servant's gate," Pierre whispered to me.

"Peasant's bolt-hole," I replied.

The two guards stepped aside, lowering their spears, and Jacques waved usthrough.

After crossing a gravel-strewn courtyard, we parked the squeaking, protestingcart and took from it only those items we would need for our show.

Then we followed Jacques inside. The passages were narrow, whitewashed, butdimly lit. I had expected something grand, I suppose, but it was like a rabbitwarren, with lots of doors along the halls. At last Jacques stopped in front ofone door and pushed it open.

This was no luxurious apartment, but a plain room with a bare stone floor, barewalls, a single long table, and a couple of chairs.

"Not even rushes or hangings to take away the cold!" I complained, for in thefairy stories my mother had told me there were always such things in a palace.How I missed her stories. How I missed her and Papa, almost two years gone.

Jacques glared at me as if to say: What do you know of such things? And Iblushed deeply-for shame, and for anger, too. To treat us so when we had donenothing to him.

Uncle made a quick movement with his hand in my direction, promising a beating.Then he turned and said to Jacques in his deepest voice, smooth as oil, "I thankyou on behalf of our troupe for these excellent accommodations."

Jacques merely grunted in response.

"I am thankful, too," I said, trying to make amends. After all, there were threebasins of water, several towels, and two small cakes of scented soap on thetable. A warm fire crackled in the grate. What were rushes and wall hangingscompared to those?

But Jacques' face got its bean-up-the-nose look again. "Try to make yourselvesrespectable," he ordered curtly. "If that is possible. Someone will come for youin a short while."

As soon as the door shut behind Jacques, Uncle wheeled on me. "Your mouth willget us all in trouble, mademoiselle," he said, with a finger flick at the sideof my head. It stung, of course, but I did not care. We were out of the greyrain, the fire was beginning to dry our clothing, and perhaps there would befood as well.

Bertrand, Annette, and Pierre all made for the fire. As I went to join them,Uncle hauled us back, directing us to the basins.

"Clean yourselves first." He mimicked Jacques' voice exactly. "If that ispossible. Only then dry your clothes."

"But Papa," Annette began, fingering her strings of wet curls.

"There will be no buts," Uncle told her.

So we did as we were instructed while Uncle Armand had the fire all to himself.I swear that if he could have, he would have soaked up all the warmth and leftnone for the rest of us.

After placing the sleeping Jean near the hearth, with a rag under his head,Nadine fussed over Annette and me, trying her best to wipe every spot of mudfrom our faces. Then she turned her attention to Annette's hair, spinning thecurls around her finger and blowing on them.

I was left on my own, first drying my hair with a towel. If we were to performbefore the king and queen, I would have to make myself presentable. Uncle oftentold me that I was the least talented member of Troupe Brufort, adopted and notborn into it, but still I would not disgrace the others with my looks. However,when I tried to comb my plaits out with Nadine's hard brush, every tug hurtenough to make my eyes smart.

"Do not stop brushing," Uncle commanded. "Make something of that bird's nest ofyours."

"It is harder work, Uncle," I said brightly, "tidying what is on top of my headthan keeping straight what is inside it." I thought to make him laugh, but thelook he gave me was so cold, I returned to the brush with a will.

My hair finally in order-though much was left in the brush-I went over to thefire to dry my still-damp skirts and sandals. The smell we made steaming out wasmusky and familiar. Many a time Troupe Brufort had taken refuge-like the HolyFamily-in a farmer's stable, and glad of the shelter.

I closed my eyes and, despite my excitement about performing before the king,fell fast asleep in front of the fire standing up, like a horse.

The door opened creakily and I was startled from my sleep. An elderly woman witha heavily-lined face came in. She was dressed in a black silk mourning dresswithout a hint of ornamentation. Her eyes were the color of stone and her lipsbut two thin lines, one atop another, like folded linens. She glowered at us, asif adding up our virtues and finding us lacking a full measure. Thenreluctantly, she stepped aside to admit a tall, delicately-boned young womaninto the room.

This woman had amber-colored hair, enormous green-gold eyes under heavy lids,and a lovely long neck. Unlike her companion, she wore a dress of white and palegreen. As she moved-spring to her companion's winter-the skirt swelled out withclose-set pleats like a bell that parted to show a smooth green underskirt. Hervelvet overbodice was embroidered with gold leaves and green florets. The ruffat her neck was tinged with green from which jeweled ropes of pearls and beadshung down. She was like the fairy princess in one of Maman's tales, and I drewin my breath in wonder.

The older woman made a downward gesture in our direction with the flat of herhand.

Only Uncle understood. He bowed deeply, motioning us to do likewise.

So I bowed, just like Uncle and the boys, and was embarrassed when Nadine andAnnette each performed a graceful curtsy. I could feel the heat rise in mycheeks as I blushed again.

Uncle scowled at me. I think he would have beaten out his displeasure on my poorhead, but the cane was lying too far away.

The tall girl did not seem disturbed by my bow. In fact, looked positivelyamused to see me act like a man. Perhaps she had made a similar error in notwearing mourning? I felt a sudden compassion for her.

"What pretty young women and what handsome young men," she said brightly toUncle. Then for the first time she looked around the room. "But why is this roomso plain? So . . . empty? I must have rushes and hangings sent down at once towarm it up."

"Rushes and hangings-I asked for such," I blurted out.

All of Troupe Brufort glared at me.

But the tall girl smiled. "So should you all!"

I turned and grinned at the troupe, but no one smiled back.

The tall girl continued. "I am delighted that you have come to us. Pray, do yourvery best to bring some joy into this dark day." She shook her head and a waveof perfume wafted over us, like a wind over a flower garden. "This should havebeen the happiest of times for our new crowned king. But with his papa so newlyand horribly dead, he can take little pleasure in it."

"So the beggar girl said," I put in. Pierre grabbed my skirt and pulled me backand I realized I had gone too far, so I gave a quick curtsy.

But the tall girl nodded, as if she had heard from the very same beggar. "Still,we must have some celebration today, a small token, do you not agree?" Shesmiled again. "So tonight do not hold back, Troupe . . ." She hesitated, lookingfor the name.

"Brufort, Your Highness," put in Uncle, his voice deeply oiled.

"Brufort," she said, dimpling at him.

Having finished her little speech, she turned gracefully and left the room. Hersilk skirts sounded like a rivulet rushing over stones, but softer and moreintimate and much more welcoming.

"Highness? Highness? Who was that?" I whispered to Nadine.

The elderly woman raised her eyebrows at me as though I had just spat upon thefloor. "Stupid girl. That was the new queen, Mary. It is at her insistence thisentertainment has been arranged." The scowl on her face was evidence that shedid not herself approve.

"Queen Mary," I whispered with the kind of passion one reserves for a life'spledge.

Continues...

Excerpted from The Queen's Own Foolby Jane Yolen Copyright ©2001 by Jane Yolen. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell'edizione

• Editore: Penguin Young Readers Group
• Data di pubblicazione: 2001
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 0698119185
• ISBN 13: 9780698119185
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 400
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile
• Persona responsabile: GPSR Kontakt; gpsr@libri.de; ; Friedensallee 273; Hamburg; 22763; Germania