Peregrine's Tale
Chapter 1: The King's Favor
The time was probably about dusk, but the only way to tell for sure was the bells of Notre Dame ringing Vespers. The muddy puddles on the cobblestoned streets reflected the mud-colored sky. A cold veil of September rain kept most people from looking upward in the first place, and those who could simply stayed inside. The few who had business outdoors either hurried along to their destination or trudged along, resigned to the effects of the weather.
A king wound his way through the empty streets of Paris, dressed in simple peasant garb, the cowl of his dark brown cloak further disguising his origins. Noone even glanced at him.
His face, if it was visible, would be similar to his cloak: dark, a brown caused by nature and not exposure to the sun. He was a king of beggars, the King of Thunes, a Gypsy, and anonymity was often useful to such a man. Like most Gypsies he was welcome only when entertaining, and then usually at a distance. At other times his existence as an outsider threatened the cozy, stable reality of the common folk and he was considered a danger. As he was the secret leader of the hidden community of Parisian Gypsies, their fears were more or less correct, though they could hardly know that.
The beggar king made his living as a puppeteer and storyteller, entertaining for coins and laughter and staying out of the way of the law. The autumnal weather had driven away his audiences, so he stowed his little cart and headed toward the King's Favor Inn. Reports had reached him that a bard performed there the past two nights, a bard of unusual look but apparently of Romani descent. The Gypsy king had a responsibility to look into the matter and see if the newcomer planned on staying in Paris, if he would cause any trouble, and, if he was an honest Gypsy, whether he would make his home in the Court of Miracles. Anyone could cheat for a living, so those who persuaded people to willingly part with their coin were a valuable and relatively safe addition to the band.
The smallish windows of the King's Favor were shuttered against the cold, but light spilled from the spaces between the slats, hinting at the warmth within. The door opened to his hand and he stepped into the commons of the tavern. It was doubtful that Louis XI, King of France, had ever seen the place that supposedly enjoyed his favor, but from the faded beauty of the painted ceiling it seemed possible that some former king might have visited and been pleased. The large room was mostly filled with tables, chairs and patrons, all engaged with the business of the evening meal. Serving maids threaded through the room to deliver the wares of the bar and kitchen. The air was filled with the aromas of beef and veal and the quiet hubbub of the patrons.
It would have been more noisy had it not been for the man seated on a stool a few feet from the tables at one end of the room. He was a tall man, or would be when he stood, and lanky of limb. His skin appeared somewhat tan, betraying his Romani heritage, though his look, his bone structure, was perhaps German. His dark brown hair hung in ringlets to his shoulders, framing a face neither beautiful nor ugly, but something like handsome. His colorful clothes featured the odd bit of silk and were fashionably cut. He sang a song about springtime in a rich baritone voice, accompanying himself on a lute. The simple melody seemed to soothe the eating guests, and brought to them the hope of winter's end before winter had truly begun.
"...All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled,
The pleasant summer livery wear,
With silver studs on broidered vair;
The world puts off its raiment old,
The year lays down his mantle cold."
The song ended with a gentle flourish and the singer's eyes refocused on the listeners as though he had just remembered their presence. The room, particularly the area closest to the stage, erupted into sound as the patrons voiced their approval and pounded the tabletops with their hands and mugs. The bard smiled thankfully, stood, and bowed to his audience. He left the stage to the small table reserved for his preparations, signalling a break in the performance. The guests returned to their meals and their conversation, and the background noise gradually grew to its usual level.
The cloaked Gypsy approached the singer as he replaced the lute in its case. "You have a marvelous voice, friend bard."
The singer looked up from what he was doing with a vaguely shy expression. "Thank you. And you have an interesting accent."
There was a question in the statement and in his eyes, so the Gypsy decided to answer it. "As do you. You sound more English than French, and there is something else. You are Romani, like me, no?" He raised his head more so that the taller man could see his dark skin and mischievous expression above his black goatee.
The singer gave a lopsided smile. "Yes, though not so obviously as yourself. The Anglican tribes are a bit paler. We can sometimes pass for gadje when we need to." He shrugged. "It comes in handy."
"I'm sure it does. Are you finished with your performance? It seems early in the evening."
"No, I just finished the first set. In a few minutes I'll continue. The audience needs the occasional break as much as I, especially during the evening meal, but you should stay for a while and hear more. The songs change as the evening ages."
"I may do just that. My name is Clopin, and I'm pleased to meet you." The Gypsy king extended his hand.
The singer took it warmly. "I'm called Peregrine. The pleasure is mine. You're the first of my kind I've seen since I arrived three days ago... for a time before that as well, truth be told."
"Peregrine, hmm? The wanderer? Some would say that we are all wanderers."
"It does seem a bit redundant; but someone once started calling me Peregrine, as I was the only Rom they knew, and the name stuck. But it was a fair observation, since we do tend to wander."
"Ah, but not all Gypsies roam the roads."
"No?"
"No."
Peregrine dropped his already lowered voice still further. "Are you saying that there is a group who has a permanent home? Even in a place such as this? Where could they live except outside the city?"
Clopin looked vaguely annoyed. "I'm not saying any such thing, certainly not in a crowded inn. But perhaps we can discuss such... theories later on tonight?"
"I think that could be a very interesting discussion, even if merely theoretical. I'll finish here around midnight, in case you don't want to spend the whole evening here wrapped in your cloak."
"Ah, well, I doubt I'd be as welcome here as a patron as you are as a performer. We must maintain the proper look to things, mustn't we?"
Peregrine's lopsided smile returned. "Except perhaps on Twelfth Night. Very well. I'm going to fetch some ale before I must return to the stage. Please stay around for a while before you go. I love to show off to new friends."
Clopin bowed slightly. "I shall indeed - for a time. Then I must go. Clopin will meet you at the cemetery gates just after midnight."
"Until then," Peregrine said before moving off to the bar. Clopin found a seat by the wall near the door and ordered some mead.
It was about half an hour later that the music began again. A lively tune broke in on the comfortable aftermeal chatter of the patrons. They perked up and turned to the little stage area to see Peregrine bowing a tune on his rebec. The song was English with Gypsy overtones in the playing, and it made one want to dance. The patrons, replete and lazy with their dinner, nonetheless clapped and stomped their feet in time to the music. The barmaids smiled and stepped a bit livelier on their rounds, nearly dancing their way from table to table to bar, drawing the approving glances of the men in the commons.
When the song ended, the audience's accompaniment again broke into a jumble of table pounding. Peregrine laughed and thanked them, setting the rebec and bow on the table and picking up his lute.
"And now," he said, raising his voice to quell the noise, "a song called 'Halfway There,' written by request for the English Royal Guard, whom I entertained a few years ago. Fortunately their commander had a good sense of humor, or I'd not be here before you tonight."
The listeners broke into knowing laughter, understanding what sort of song was to follow, and that the fun of the evening had truly begun. They then fell into a hush, the better to pick up on every joke the singer might say. Peregrine strummed a brief introduction before lustily singing,
"It's a good life, laddie, for the keen of eye,
Strong of arm and the stout of heart.
Promotion waits for the clever and wise;
A wench for the captain is a right good start."
The audience laughed again and kept a light rhythm as the bard continued into the refrain.
"Take a mandillion, join the Guard,
Paid by the Crown to go everywhere.
To be a good guardsman's none too hard:
Find a wench for the captain and you're halfway there."
Clopin smiled at the song, and the crowd. Peregrine began a second verse, lamenting the chancy pay schedule of a guardsman. As the refrain ended and the third verse began, the Gypsy king rose and left, still unnoticed by most of the patronage.
"...To be a good guardsman's none too hard:
Find an ale, dark and bitter, and you're halfway there.
The lords of court are easily tamed:
Genuflect and they treat you well.
The rest are dealt with much the same..."
Clopin pulled his cloak tighter around him as he walked back toward his home. The friendly warmth of the inn made the damp night seem even less pleasant than before. He hurried along, keeping to whatever shelter the lee of the buildings afforded in the nearly windless night. He had preparations to make before midnight.
The city gates were closed before Peregrine began his performance at the King's Favor, so by eleven o'clock or so, when he finished, there was no chance at all of visiting his wagon in the woods outside of town. Instead, he went to the old inn where the half-blind innkeeper had rented him lodging, apparently not noticing that he was Romani. Perhaps the old man was intrigued by the exotic sound of his English accent, still strong despite five years in France.
Peregrine went to his room and carefully hid his instruments and performing clothes behind a loose section of ceiling he had discovered. Garbed in his usual peasant clothes and mottled green vest, he crept out of the inn and into the misting rain.
He had intentionally left his cloak in the room, wrapped around the performance outfit, and not only to protect them from possible leaks in the roof. He loved the feel of the rain and didn't mind the occasional soaking. It was that perfect sort of late night rain as well, which felt like feathers on one's face and somehow didn't chill to the bone. It didn't chill Peregrine, anyway, since the big man generated a fair bit of body heat and so was usually warm unless a wind came up and he was without protection.
On top of this, he was walking into a situation where unencumbrance might mean survival, and he had seen too much to be overly trusting of strangers, even those of his own outcast race. A meeting at a graveyard was something to be suspicious of in any case.
He cautiously approached the open area before the cemetery's iron gates, pausing in the darkness near the buildings and listening to the night. The slight rain was a quiet hiss; otherwise, it was still. He tossed his hair behind his shoulders and leaned out from the building, the better to hear.
After a few minutes he cautiously ventured into the open and crossed to the gates. Just before he reached them a dark figure stepped from behind one of the supporting columns, causing Peregrine to start. He recognized the slight frame of Clopin in his cloak and relaxed a fraction. The gates were not completely closed, and Clopin slipped out between them.
"Pleasant night, no? But most would have brought a cloak."
"I like the rain," Peregrine answered. He paused for an uncomfortable moment. "Shall we continue our admittedly academic conversation?"
"Hmm. It is perhaps not so academic as you might believe. But the trouble is that we must not be discovered in our homes. The Minister of Justice has forbidden us and searches long for our place of hiding. We have -"
Peregrine held up his hand in a halting motion and interrupted Clopin with a short hushing sound, suddenly looking over his right shoulder. Clopin furrowed his brow but kept silent. He followed Peregrine's frozen stare and saw the night watch approaching from along the main street, his lantern fending off the gloom.
Peregrine whispered, "Stay here," and Clopin faded into the shadows around the gate. The bard strolled down the street away from the guard as though it was normal to be out for a walk on a rainy midnight.
A moment later the guard saw him. "You there! Hold!"
Peregrine darted into the alley that was his own approach to the graveyard and looked for a place to hide. Almost immediately a solution presented itself.
The guard put down his lantern to run unhindered but his eyes were still unused to the darkness when he entered the alleyway. He could hear someone well down the passage and redoubled his efforts. A dozen running steps into the alley, as his eyes began to adjust enough to make out dim shapes, his foot struck something large and wooden and he landed heavily on the ground. His drawn sword skittered away from him. Before it came to a halt a thunderous sound rang in his helmet and the dark of the alley was replaced before his eyes with explosions of purple and blue. That's funny, he thought as he glided into unconsciousness, I thought I hit the ground already. I must have bounced.
"Clopin? Are you still there?"
"Peregrine? When the lantern suddenly went out I hid again."
"Oh, that. I looped back around and put it out. No point in attracting any more attention."
"And the guard?"
A secretive, impish smile crossed Peregrine's features. "He, ah, tripped. Hit himself in the head. Very embarrassing, especially since he landed in a pile of road apples. I doubt he'll mention it to anyone."
"No arm coming out of the dark with a big stick?"
Peregrine looked wounded. "Now who would do a mean thing like that? Besides, that would give him reason to pursue the matter. I doubt he saw anything except the ground. And horse droppings."
Clopin smiled. "Not bad, friend bard."
"Does that mean you'll tell your friends to come out of their hiding places now?"
Clopin raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You knew they were there?"
"I figured you would have someone watching before I ever arrived. I know I would have. Before I came to the gates the first time I heard someone shift behind one of the big grave markers somewhere to the left, and I heard rain striking leather close by to the right. It's very loud on a quiet night. Not many gravestones are made of leather."
The Gypsy king made a motion behind himself. Two Gypsies emerged from their hiding places and quietly approached the gates. One was a tough-looking teenage girl in cloth and leather, evidently carrying several daggers on her person. She fingered one irritably. "Loud, indeed. At least I can hold still."
The other was a man in a dark cloak and wide-brimmed hat. Clopin looked severely at him. He, in response, looked sheepish. "I'm sorry, but my spot was on a slope. It's slippery."
Clopin turned from him with obviously exaggerated disgust and introduced the pair. "The clumsy one is Jehan, and this dangerous young lady is called Sovereign Brigand."
Peregrine's eyebrows lifted slightly as he looked at the girl. "You lead this band?"
Sovereign Brigand looked at Clopin, who smiled in amusement. "Ah, no," he said, "but that is a story for another time. Come. It is time to show you something. And this rain is increasing again." Clopin turned and slipped back into the graveyard, followed by the other two Gypsies. Peregrine frowned for a moment before joining them. If they were going to kill him they probably would have by now. On top of that, he seemed to have been accepted by the strange thin man for his expedience in removing the problem of the night watchman. If they were going to trust him, the least he could do was the same.
He followed the trio to a grave on a low rise. A grating noise briefly broke the general silence, and the other Gypsies began to vanish into the grave. The top had opened, revealing a staircase into the hill and apparently leading far below. He hurried to keep up as they entered the complete blackness under the false tomb. The smell was not promising.
As his boot splashed into something shallow and noisome, a torch flared into light a few yards ahead. He saw that he was at the end of a large sewage tunnel that had been lined with skeletons of numerous creatures, mostly human but including various animals as well. He proceeded with the others until they turned from the sewer into a dry passageway that met with other dark tunnels. They passed two sentry points and reached a broad stairway leading from a nexus of three tunnels down into a manmade cavern. Even after midnight a few small fires and lanterns burned in the small city of tents and pavilions, giving the viewers a clear idea of its size. Streamers and canopies, their bright colors muted in the near-dark, decorated the walls and upper reaches of the chamber. Peregrine was awestruck.
Clopin turned to Jehan. "Find a place for our new friend to get some rest. We'll do our introductions in the morning. Good night, Peregrine."
Peregrine managed to wave a reply before Clopin disappeared into the maze of tents. Jehan clapped him on the back. "Come on, let's get some sleep. I'm tired."
Jehan led the way to a temporarily unused supply tent, occupied only by a few rolls of cloth. "Will this do for now?"
"I think so. After this evening, I don't know if I'll be able to sleep at all."
Jehan smiled and blearily nodded.
Peregrine's worries were unfounded: He was asleep less than half an hour after Jehan had left.
It was strange for Peregrine to peer out of the tent and not see daylight. A second later his memory reasserted itself and he remembered that he was well underground, though the huge room in which he found himself was as brightly lit as a good tavern. Clopin had woken him a moment before with an enthusiastic "Hello!" He was to come to the central platform as soon as he could.
The platform had the disconcerting ability to transform into a gallows at need, though it wasn't so outfitted at the moment. Clopin met Peregrine at the base of the structure, where the Gypsies who lived in the underground community were gathering.
"After some discussion, we've decided to accept you into our little band... if, that is, you would like to become part of it. You may live here if you like, but it is up to you. Some stay here and some come and go, but all are part of this secret tribe. The responsibilities are to help each other and protect the secrecy of this place, the Court of Miracles. A small part of your income in Paris will go toward its upkeep, and so forth, but in return you shall have a new place to call home for as long as you wish, and a family with it. What do you say?"
Peregrine was taken aback. He was offered a place in the legendary Court of Miracles. How could he refuse? He told Clopin that he would gladly accept his offer. Clopin said, "Then come with me."
The pair mounted the stairs to the platform, and Clopin held up his hands for attention and silence, both of which were immediately his.
"This brother Gypsy from the north desires to become part of the Court of Miracles, and we are pleased to accept him. Kneel, Peregrine, and swear fealty to Clopin Trouillefou, the King of Thunes."
Peregrine did so, afterward mumbling, "You could have told me, you know."
Clopin smiled wickedly. "Ah, but it is so much more fun this way!"
A general cheer went up as Peregrine stood again, and Clopin introduced him to the rest of the group once they had descended from the platform. There was Coquirie, the thin, partially blind healer with the intense aspect and the streak of white hair; Zora, a quiet woman of artistic talent; Falcon, a man with a strange mask and a friendly manner; Esmeralda, the beautiful and fiery dancer; Jean-Pierre, a short jongleur of expansive personality; red-haired Mirette, the seamstress; and many others.
When the introductions were over, Peregrine wondered how he would ever recall everyone's names. He was unused to meeting more than three or four people at a time. He noticed a group of the women that included Tia Tymyala, whose gaze and smile caused Peregrine's pulse to jump, and Sapphire, whose lovely eyes looked at him with disdain. He indicated them to Clopin.
"How is it that so many of this tribe are so attractive? We are not a beautiful race, as a rule."
Clopin's eyes glittered with hidden mischief. "Pure luck, my friend. The purest of luck."
The wryly disbelieving expression on Peregrine's face made the Gypsy king burst into laughter. "It's time to get to work today," he said. "Let's be off!"
Peregrine said, "I'm not normally up at this time of day." He glanced at the hidden village's stone sky. "...Whatever time of day this is. My work doesn't usually end until midnight." He yawned broadly. "On the other hand, I should get my things from the inn and check on my wagon outside of town. Well, my King, I'll be about my business. Tonight I may entertain my new family instead of a noisy tavern."
Clopin nodded. "You can tell us stories of your past travels - how you got your strange name, perhaps."
"Perhaps."
Clopin vanished into the tents with unlikely speed, and Peregrine began looking for someone who could tell him the best way of returning to the surface.