Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery by Alan Gordon Page A

on top of hers and staggered up the steep stairway.
    “So hard to get good help these days,” I commented to the room in general, and a mild chuckle went around the crowd.
    I secured enough space for Claudius and myself at the end of one bench, and helped myself to a portion of the jellied calves’ feet and a chunk of brown bread to sop it up. I think it was jellied calves’ feet. Jelly there was, and some species of foot in it. The wine was sweet and thick, almost a syrup. It was delicious.
    “Syrian, is this?” I called to the tapster across the hubbub.
    “Well done!” he shouted. “From the hills of the Krak des Chevaliers, where the brave knights of the Hospitalers protect us from the infidel. Good Christians with fine vineyards. Have you been there?”
    “No, but this wine is ample argument for making the pilgrimage.”
    Claudius rejoined us and went at the dinner with an appetite.
    “You know your wine, Fool,” said a deep voice from across the table. I looked up to see a cowl with shadows inside. Only a sharp chin was visible.
    “I’ve traveled a bit,” I replied. “A fool lives from meal to meal, and from drink to drink. One learns to savor the experiences, because occasionally all one has to dine upon are the memories of previous meals.”
    “And that is what you are? An entertainer?” asked the priest, if that was what he was.
    “I have many talents,” I said. “But being a fool has kept me in my cups for many a year.”
    “Then let me counsel you,” he said. “They call me Father Esaias. I run this neighborhood. I watch my flocks very carefully, especially by night.”
    “When the fleecing is done.”
    “Exactly. I have no interest in entertainment. In fact, I have very little sense of humor, and what amuses me, many find terrifying. The last time I laughed was when an overly ambitious young cutpurse went beyond his assigned territory. He was found hanging by—well, the details aren’t important.”
    “Not at all.”
    “So, as long as I see you doing your little tumbling routines in the markets, I will have no need to bring God’s wrath downupon you. But interfere with any of our activities, or try your luck without our permission or our participation in the proceeds, then I will laugh at your antics myself.”
    “I understand entirely. And if I need further religious instruction, where may I find you in my hour of need?”
    “At the church, my son. Saint Stephen’s, down toward the river.”
    I reached into my purse and handed him a coin.
    “For the orphans, Father.”
    He stood, took it, and glided out of the inn.
    “That was well done,” commented a man to my right. He held out his hand, and I took it. “Peter Kamantares.”
    “Feste, the Fool, at your service. My manservant, Claudius.”
    Claudius nodded politely, her mouth full.
    “Does everyone here end up working for him?” I asked.
    “When times are good, there’s no need. Some of the fellows here prefer the night.”
    “You are not one of them, I take it.”
    He shrugged. “Times have not always been good. But I work in the slaughterhouse. There’s always a demand for fresh meat in this city.”
    He introduced us to some of the other residents of the inn. There was Michael, a huntsman; Asan, a small, lithe fellow who had the look of a pickpocket if ever I saw one; Stephanos, a burly, heavily bearded man who I certainly would want on my side in a fight; and a table full of Russians who kept to themselves. Peter told me they had rowed across the Black Sea in a boat filled with furs, sold them at a huge profit, and then drank, whored, and gambled their way to the Rooster, where they now had too little coin to resupply their way back.
    The fire was down to embers. I stood, stretched, and bade our new companions a good evening. Simon was wiping the cups witha rag that looked far from clean. I leaned on the counter and beckoned to him.
    “If by chance you see another fool by the name of Tiberius, tell him I’m in