We Speak No Treason Vol 1 by Rosemary Hawley Jarman Read Free Book Online Page B

the flagon’s lip and trickled on her white bosom. I told her she was fair and she laughed.
    ‘There’s your great lord, Agnes.’ I pointed towards a corpulent squire of sixty. ‘Or him, look!’ turning to a man who, skinny as a thong, contorted his body into horrible shapes before an admiring crowd.
    ‘Nay, sweeting, he’d make too restless a bedfellow.’ She pulled me on. A juggler threw up coloured platters. Two bold-faced women balanced themselves upside down on sword-points, their skirts falling about naked thighs. A group of ’prentices stood over-close, gibing shrilly. ‘Flemish whores,’ Agnes muttered.
    Lovers there were, too. Walking close-twined, sitting lip-to-lip on benches. And from the depths of a scented bush came a rustling and a soft cry. At the entrance to a side street, I saw two soldiers gazing at the Fair. Their stare was a mixture of longing and feigned disinterest.
    We sat down to watch the mummers. First the Green Giant, then Robin! I sat with hands clasped, loving him. In his suit of Kendal Green, he strutted and bragged, showing his prowess in archery. Maid Marian, a pretty boy with long golden hair, piped of her love. She followed him languidly, all over the green. Wherever he went, so did she. Robin sprang into easy attitudes; Marian tripped on her gown. They performed a courtly dance, and one of Marian’s false breasts crept round the back of her waist. She fell prey to the Sheriff; Robin hammered with his broadsword, and the pair were united by Friar Tuck, much the worse for ale. Agnes and I shared a bench with four ’prentices, who leaped to their feet every minute to whistle and shoot peas at Maid Marian. Once, they upset the seat completely and began fighting among themselves. As Robin bore off his bride, the crowd bawled and chanted for more. A troupe of bagpipers who came next were hounded from the green in fury.
    A strange creature capered into view. Clad in sparkling motley, one leg red, the other yellow, he frisked around the hem of the watching circle, tweaking the noses of the men, patting the women’s cheeks. He had a face so comical that even had he not pulled it into hideous grimaces, men would have smiled at him. He rolled his eyes so high that only the whites showed, and pulled down his nose with his tongue.
    ‘Certes! ’Tis the King’s fool!’ said a low voice behind me. ‘Poor Patch. The richest man at court.’
    ‘Edward must be hereabouts.’
    ‘Leicester,’ said the first voice cryptically. ‘Ah, Jesu!’ liquid with laughter. ‘Will you look! He does my soul good!’
    He was not a tall man, this jester; only about a head higher than I, and Agnes would have dwarfed him standing. Neither was he old, he was lithe and supple, but his face was patterned with lines, like a withered fruit. He came skipping, and stood before us, duck-fashion; he pinned the pike of one shoe to the ground with the other, scratching his head; he looked mournfully about, cried: ‘Succour!’ bent bow-legged and, agile as a monkey, seized the offending foot and tossed a backward somersault.
    ‘Ah, bravely done!’ cried Agnes.
    The fool’s head turned. Unerringly, he pranced over to Agnes, and grasped her hand. He pressed a lingering kiss into the palm, gazing into her face, with lifted, mocking brows. I stared at the fretted cheeks, the temples with the heavy painted lines from each eyelid, the curling mouth, still kiss-puckered. The eyes were a clear dove-grey, and shrewd. He took my hand next. I felt his teeth nip my thumb.
    ‘You’re gallant, Sir Fool,’ I said shyly.
    The fool gave a great cry of passion and clasped his breast. ‘Beauty has spoken soft words,’ he declared. Everyone watched, grinning. ‘Madame, my heart is yours. Keep it.’ He delved in his overlarge scrip and drew out the glistening, blood-clotted heart of some animal, sheep or calf, or man! I know not what it was, save that it made me scream. The men roared. I felt sick, as the horrid thing