Queen's Own Fool by Jane Yolen Page B

duke’s face what he thought of the idea.
    â€œYour Grace ...” I cried out. “Please ...” But I found I was speaking to his back.
    â€œNicola!” The queen spotted me and called from the carriage window. “Come here.” Before I could get to her, the coachman had started the horses with a crack of his whip, and they were gone, galloping down the road at such speed, I was choked by the dust.
    Was I to be left? In a danger 1 had no name for?
    â€œHere, girl,” a man said from behind me. “Into my wagon.” He put his beefy hands on my waist and lifted me up before I could say a word.
    I grimaced when I saw that Madam Jacqueline was aboard the same open wagon, along with two of the kitchen maids. Madam had made certain that she sat as far from them as possible—which was not actually very far. It was not a very large wagon.
    The man with the big hands climbed up onto the front, picked up the reins, and slapped them against the rumps of the two great geldings. “Walk on!” he cried, and the horses began pulling us through the gate.
    We were bounced along as the cart drove across the cobbles and onto the dirt road with a change of tune, from a racheta-racheta to a softer sound.
    And still no one had told me why we were away.
    Madam Jacqueline said nothing, but brought out a book of devotions, silently turning the pages. The two kitchen maids, though, chattered to one another, full of gossip which held my attention for some way down the road. But I guessed from what they were saying that they knew no reason we were hurrying from Blois.
    I glanced back at the château, where heaps of baggage still sat in the courtyard. We had never been so separated from our belongings before, and it only served to emphasize how quickly the court was moving.
    For what purpose? I wondered. The image of stags being driven by hunters with their dogs would not leave my mind.
    â€œWhy are we leaving?” I asked the driver.
    â€œLa Renaudie,” he said.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œAmboise.” He parceled out his words like a miser his gold.
    Â 
    We were first in the line of wagons that followed the royal carriages along the north bank of the Loire. The river wound green and lazy through the countryside, like an adder in the sun, but our wagoner pushed the horses to their limit.
    As the day went by, my stomach announced the hours as surely as a church bell. Luckily the kitchen maids had wrapped some food in a kerchief before leaving Blois-big hunks of cheese and two small baguettes. Shyly they shared this with me, and with the wagoner, who pulled out a bottle of wine which he likewise passed around. It was not very good wine, being bitter and raw, but I had had much worse with Troupe Brufort. At least it was wet. Madam Jacqueline made a point of being absorbed in her book and did not share our small meal.
    â€œYou should not speak with them, Nicola,” she whispered to me. “They are beneath you.”
    â€œThey are beside me, madam,” I said, pointing.
    She sniffed and turned back to her book, but evidently the maids thought as she, for they did not include me in their conversation.
    Â 
    It was only when the sun was sinking that we came in sight of our destination. The cart rumbled over a bridge to the southern side of the river, crossed a small island, and entered the town.
    â€œAmboise,” the wagoner said, grinning and showing a mouth full of teeth like old gravestones. “We go up there.” He pointed to a castle perched high on a corner of a nearly vertical rock. “The locals call it a château, but it is well fortified.”
    As we wound through the town, I was surprised at the empty streets. But then I began to notice faces appearing furtively at windows. I wondered what the people of Amboise made of this sudden visit by the king and queen. Were they used to such invasions? Or was this as new to them as it was to me?
    The road