CHAPTER 10: SWEET MARSEILLES

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.                                                                                                                
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                                                    CHAPTER 11