The Troubadour

An exotic figure walked fastidiously across the straw-strewn floor of the great hall of the castle. His clothes were of scarlet and blue silk; he wore a black velvet cap and boots of the finest soft leather. On his back he bore a lute. His face was unnaturally pallid and his lips bright and shiny, and a close inspection suggested that both had been achieved by the application of makeup. Such an apparition had never been seen in the kingdom before. Some of the men-at-arms gawped; others sniggered or passed crude comments amongst themselves. The stranger ignored the vulgar noises, and addressed the guard at the door to the private rooms.
“Now then, my man, pray inform the King that the troubadour Joscelyn de Melun has arrived from Provence and craves audience with his majesty!”
“Indeed! And is his majesty expecting you?” It was not the most promising response, but when the stranger fingered his purse in a meaningful fashion, the guard passed through to make further enquiries. He felt puzzled. It was part of his job to remember faces, and despite the outlandish garb and the affected accent, he felt certain he had come across this specimen somewhere before. Shortly afterwards he returned to usher Joscelyn into the royal presence, then resumed his post outside the door, still puzzled as he searched his memory.

In the small audience-chamber, the King was seated on a richly-carved chair beneath a brocade canopy. As Joscelyn knelt to kiss the royal hand, he thought; he’s impressive enough when he’s sitting down, and I’m told he looks even better on a horse: it’s only when he’s on his feet that you notice his short bow legs. I’d advise him to keep motionless, like a statue, whenever possible. And he really shouldn’t keep scratching himself: it completely spoils the effect.
“So, Joscelyn!” said the King, “You have come to me from Provence; and I suppose you seek employment at my court.”
“Yes, your majesty. Your kingdom, though very grand, is a little remote, perhaps, from the centres of fashion. The Kings in other parts have lately been employing troubadours like your humble servant here to compose poems that tell of their mighty deeds. I understand that, as yet, no-one has undertaken such a service for your majesty.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s quite true. The peasants sing songs about me, or so I’m told.”
Indeed they do, thought Joscelyn: mostly highly disrespectful songs; sometimes very rude indeed! But what he said was, “I‘m sure that is the case, your majesty; but sadly that kind of traditional verse is now completely out of favour in the most cultivated kingdoms. In Provence nowadays everyone is writing in heroic couplets . And this is what I have come to offer your majesty: a great epic, in the very latest style and the best possible taste, which will cause your name to live forever, not only here in Britain, but throughout Europe!”
“Well, it’s a thought!” said the King. “you will, of course, be well rewarded if it’s good enough. Explain to me how you intend to proceed.”
“The poem would begin, as is usual in these cases, with your majesty’s childhood and early adventures. As yet, unfortunately, I know little about the subject. Could your majesty, perhaps, tell me something concerning your noble father?”
The King looked unhappy. “I remember that he was drunk most of the time. He was a very violent man.”
“I see. And your mother?”
“I don’t remember anything about her. I think he kicked her out when I was a baby.”
This won’t do at all, thought Joscelyn. Oh well, we can always fall back on the traditional biography for a hero.
“Ah, but of course there were rumours that he wasn’t really your father!” he said in a conspiratorial voice, “We all know the story of how, when the Emperor visited this kingdom, he was so smitten by the great beauty of your lady mother that …. Well, need I say more?”
I don’t remember any such story, thought the King. Is this fellow hinting that I’m a bastard? But that would explain all the hostility, wouldn’t it? And then, if I’m really the son of the Emperor himself… now there’s a thought!
All he said was, “Did the Emperor really come here?”
“Of course he did! In disguise, naturally. He always travelled in disguise: he said it was the only way he could really find out what was going on in his domains.”
That’s a clever idea, thought the King: I might try it myself some time. He continued, “I left home when I was still quite young.”
“Of course: heroes always do. No doubt you narrowly escaped some plot to murder you: that’s pretty standard as well. We’ll flesh out some details later. Next, you must have had a famous sword: how did you acquire it? Did you have to undergo some kind of ordeal?”
“You mean my first sword? I pinched it from my father’s armoury when I left home. I’ve still got it somewhere. I didn’t know it was famous.”
“But it surely had a name? Heroes’ swords always have to have names!”
“Oh, you mean like the Vikings? Something like “Skullsplitter” or “Blood-drinker”?”
“No, your majesty! That Viking stuff is hopelessly out-of-date: no longer fit for the best courts! Let’s move with the times! Your sword must have some ringing, poetic name, and there should be a romantic story about how you gained it. Never mind: we’ll work on that as well. Then I suppose you fought a great many battles before you gained your kingdom?”
“Yes, there was a lot of fighting. But it was a long time ago, and it’s all got a bit blurred by now.”
“But I expect you killed the odd dragon. No: that won’t do; no-one around here believes in dragons any more. How about a giant: that sounds more realistic. Did you ever kill any giants?”
“Well…. There was Kevin. He was an Irishman. He was pretty big, as I recall. But I don’t remember any details.”
This job is going to require a great deal of embroidery on my part, thought Joscelyn. “Next,” he said, “how did you win the hand of your true love, the Queen?”
The King winced, “Do you have to bring Agatha into it?” he asked plaintively.
Joscelyn suppressed a smile. He’d heard how Queen Agatha ruled her husband with a rod of iron: wouldn’t let the royal household spend a single groat without her express permission. There was no getting round Queen Aggie, the courtiers said - or at least, it was a very long walk!
The King continued. “She was the daughter of the Lord of Salopia. They sent me a picture of her, but when I met her, I found she didn’t look anything like it. But her father insisted that we go ahead and get married anyway. And then her father died and I inherited all his lands, so really I shouldn’t complain.
“Is that enough to be going on with for the moment? You’ll have to leave now, because I’ve called a conference of all my knights. I’ll see you some time and you can tell me how you’re getting on with the poem.”
Joscelyn knelt to kiss the royal hand again. As he backed respectfully out of the presence-chamber he thought, if I can make a proper epic poem out of this drivel, then I’ll really have earned every penny he pays me! As the guard opened the door for him he took a small foreign coin in his hand, but before he could bestow it, the guard suddenly exclaimed, “I know where I’ve seen you before! You were a local lad, weren’t you? Hogg the baker’s boy, that’s right! Then you disappeared. So you went down to Provence and became a troubadour, and now you’ve come back here, all togged up! Well, good luck to you, I say! But where did you get the Joscelyn?
The troubadour said nothing. He gave the man a long, cold stare and returned the coin back to his purse.