Day I, Story I

In the afternoon, after the company had taken a very fine breakfast and gone to Mass, Lady Ouiser said:

‘Come, dear friends: let us attend to our entertainments of the first day. Since our young friends Persiflage and Boulevardier have offered us a charming locale to entertain ourselves, let us repair thither¹.’

So they all accompanied Lady Ouiser to the fountain and took a seat in the round court that surrounded it. It was in a beautiful little garden at the foot of a great forested hill.

When Lady Ouiser sat, she said: ‘I shall commence our first day of stories. They all deal with the deceptions of Man in attaining love, respect, wealth or intelligence. You are all welcome to follow suit for this day, and at the end, we shall determine what the next day’s subject is to be. Since I have suggested the theme, I shall begin myself with a tale.’

And so the wise Lady Ouiser began her tale:

There was, some years ago, a mysterious lady who appeared in my homeland. Nobody knew whence she came. It ultimately made no difference whatsoever, because what distinguished her was the crass, bold and outrageous manner in which she came to accumulate her wealth. And just as she had attained it, it flew out of her hands: it truly was not hers to use, but rather belonged to her wealthy friends and relations.

When this would not work, she went to the Jews, and they gave her money, but insisted on a little security², or at least a reference to verify her credit and her name. But when this happened, she would abandon the cause altogether, and would go to another town. This induced great suspicion among the nobility, and they wrote to one another from Toledo to Canterbury of her. Even the Pope was warned.

All the same, she was advanced a great deal of money, but rather than use it honestly, toward the feeding and clothing of the poor, she used it on every fanciful notion that took her. It was wasted—all of it.

‘A woman possessing great wealth by mere boldness? Was she some distant warrior queen like Boudicca of the English³?’ Persiflage then said.

‘It makes no difference whence she came, my handsome Persiflage. Just about anybody can swindle someone into giving up everything if it means merely looking good, which is precisely what she did.’

Lady Ouiser went on:

This lady called herself Anne of Swabia⁴. The story, as I heard it, was said to have happened in the city of Rheims when it was under the reign of the swine-loving Burgundians⁵.

A foolish young prince who was a relation of the Bishop there had a fine house wherein he lodged a number of merchants and artisans. It was into this house that Anne of Swabia insinuated herself. She came wearing fine garments and displaying a love of hawking⁶ and singing, as well as knowledge usually forbidden to women, such as numbers past twenty. She could also read and write, which was very strange.

Despite all these gifts, practically nobody knew her. She was well known for hosting feasts and diversions at the behest of the young lord whom she said was her friend. At one such feast, held for Saint Domitilla⁷, this woman, of her own accord, had fourteen larks baked into a pie⁸, which flew out when the pie was cut open.

‘What sort of vulgarian bakes songbirds into a pie?’ asked Calamondin.

‘A royal one, apparently, for that is what some people said of Anne of Swabia,’ Lady Ouiser said and continued onward:

That very evening some merchants came to the young prince’s château. The larks had been bought on credit, if you can believe it! And now that they’d flown their entirely inedible and utterly needless coop, the merchant who had sold them to her—and the cook hired to bring such a wonder to fruition—were terribly upset and wanted to be paid.

‘Sirs,’ said she, ‘I simply don’t have it. But tomorrow, my uncle’s messenger arrives from Lille, and he will give you the money you wish.’

In those days it was thought rather vulgar to reprove a young woman for her lack of money. So the men left empty-bellied and empty-hearted. When they returned in the morning, they found that Anne had left in the middle of the night, and left the spoiled offerings of her feast for the young prince’s staff and the creditors to clean up.

The hungover stragglers, who were all lower-ranking nobles, had to put together a collection to pay for the entire thing, and many in town called the whole affair a disgrace.

The lark salesman, a young blade⁹ named François, went to Lille to find Anne’s uncle. The town was recovering from a weeks-long siege¹⁰. After a few days François was not able to find the wealthy uncle or any such man resembling him. Lots of people, however, knew about Anne of Swabia. One of these was a laundress named Colette.

‘That guttersnipe¹¹ owes me a good deal for washing four months of her linens. The last thing anyone heard was that she had squatted in the house of the Prince of Le Mans¹² until she was obliged to leave,’ the laundress told François one evening. ‘She was coaxed out apparently with brocade and told to take the high road west.’

So François returned home. Then, on the Feast of St John, the abbot of Saint-Martial¹³ stopped in Rheims to grant a blessing to a chapterhouse¹⁴, and complained out loud that a young lady was rallying troops to fight against the English scourge¹⁵. At the time, it was thought this woman was Anne of Swabia, but thankfully it was not. Either way, François went to Limousin and found Anne living in a town whose name I cannot remember because it sounds funny.

‘The towns in Limousin are famous for their nooks and crannies,’ Persiflage said.

Lady Ouiser smiled softly.

I’m so glad you mentioned it, dear Persiflage, because François found Anne living in the croft¹⁶ of a very high and fortified tower, which the common people said reminded them of St Barbara¹⁷, but for far better reasons. And guess what? She threw yet another silly party—and had invited their Royal Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of the Condé¹⁸, to attend. The feast fell on the day given to St Gorgonius¹⁹. Everyone was invited to dress as various household items. François found that mostly pedestrian merchants, roués²⁰ and their mistresses were the principal invitees.

The reason I mention this, of course, is because Anne of Swabia oft spoke haughtily and peremptorily²¹ to everyone as if she were a great queen. François dressed up as a wicker basket and saw this with his own eyes.

The feast was a nocturnal one. Everyone had fun. But again the merchants came with open hands. Once again she brought up the uncle from Lille. François thought to say something then, but didn’t know if he would be hurt if he did. It is already embarrassing enough to be told one owes something at a party; even worse if a guest points it out.

‘How did he get in anyway?’ Father Bunion asked.

‘No one was checking the guest list for the reason I have just stated,’ Lady Ouiser said. ‘I must not lose my place now, so allow me to finish.’

A dozen assassins could have stood there poignard²² in hand, but no one could have prevented a murder if the assassins had wished to commit one. Murder, indeed, would have been far preferable to the unutterable second-hand embarrassment François felt for Anne of Swabia, who wept miserably that she, a poor and penniless unmarried girl, had been failed yet again by her awful old uncle.

The men believed her! They cancelled their debt and split a capon, some fruits, nuts, cheese and wine among them, and called the thing good. You may ask why, and I will tell you. In those days, it was thought far more acceptable to pay the merchants this way, since inhospitality was very gauche²³.

‘Did François ever determine whether or not he would be paid?’ asked Lunesta.

The Lord of Coulier, Sieur Dave²⁴, advanced and said to François: ‘I am a victim of this girl. She is a very pretty miscreant. I have followed her from Swabia, where she claims she is from. But she is from domains far east of there. The girl has no uncle, as you now know, and she is craftily taking everyone for a ride.’

Lord Coulier then invited François into his house and said: ‘Another foolish young prince has agreed to host her Michaelmas feast. Let’s try to catch her at the party. I will send her to Swabia and you can take whatever you can get from her ill-gotten gains.’

‘And what sort of finery has she got?’ asked François.

‘Cloth-of-gold, snoods²⁵ of various kinds, brocades, silks and other fineries, and some fancy shoes. She even had a gold ring or two! And a household full of expensive garbage better at resale than on the market,’ replied Lord Dave.

They went to the feast. They found Anne of Swabia at the head of the table with an eastern prince named ‘Josh’. Anne was dressed in a scandalous shade of green—it was the most awful thing you ever saw!

François and Lord Dave eavesdropped on what Anne said to this prince.

‘Sir, a Florentine banker²⁶, whom I know through my attorney, has granted me a great business loan. I will give you oversight of the loan if you will let me stay on here. As you can see, the amount of effort I put into parties necessitates that a man must handle the business.’

‘And what sort of business is that?’ this ‘Josh’ said.

‘Woolens and worsteds²⁷,’ Anne of Swabia replied.

‘That makes absolutely no sense. Woolens? In wartime?’ said Figma.

‘You beat me to the punch, dear shepherdess,’ replied Lady Ouiser.

François estimated the loan could have bought and paid for rations for the whole of the English army, plus the sails on a few ships-of-war, to say nothing of all the fine dresses in the world she surely wished to wear. In a word, dear companions, the money was of such a vast sum that it would have easily paid for all of Christendom to go to Heaven, as Luther has lately alleged²⁸ Holy Mother Church offers to do.

The eastern prince, of course, believed her. Once more the merchants came, but the Prince stupidly paid for everything, believing the money the Florentines would give her would cover the cost. Anne of Swabia and ‘Josh’ retired to their chambers.

Now. Before every one of you objects, I am told that this ‘Josh’ was a Bogomil of the southern Macedonians²⁹, whom Saint John Chrysostom lamented could not be induced to forsake their vile inclinations regarding the personhood of Our Lord.

‘Did this “Josh” person confront this Swabia later?’ asked Arbonne.

‘No. But others did.’

The girl had taken up collections from the various orders and chapter-houses, called on wealthy lords and ladies to either finance or donate to her dubious claims, or host her in their houses or palaces. Some did and some didn’t.

A bad guest quickly wears out their welcome. This not only happened among those I mention, but also among merchants and artisans, and even among the good poor people, who will share even the last of their crust of bread. Her pride was so high and mighty, even they were compelled to put her on the high road.

Eventually François found Anne of Swabia at Martinmas in Limoges, where she was about to be thrown out of an inn. The bailiff had to be called³⁰. The populace believed she was possessed. The béguines³¹ alleged she had pilfered a whole month’s rations from them alone in four days, crying of Anglo-Burgundian mendacity³². But these were all lies. And in spite of her wretchedness she continued to dispense improper largesse³³ to the maids and porters of the inns she lodged in. But business being as it was in those unholy days, these things were overlooked, Anne’s sex aside.

‘Was this Anne of a mannish sort? It sounds as if the girl was rather beautiful—as beautiful as Swabian girls can be, I mean,’ then said Persiflage.

Peace, dear soldier, for I end my story here. France would not have her, and, as it would turn out, neither would the Florentines. Their assassins searched for her high and low. She escaped into Guyenne, with a grand story that she was a wealthy lady on pilgrimage to the tomb of St James³⁴. Still others maintained she was a wealthy mistress of the King of Aragon. François could no longer advance past the Pyrenees and returned home.

In time, she made it to Morocco, and presented herself to the pagan king there³⁵. Even he was disgusted by her chicanery and her distressing formality, and, had he not been persuaded by his wise advisors, would have flung her into the sea for her crimes.

For even there, she had racked up nearly four months’ wages of a drayman³⁶ on food alone, and approached some Jews to subsidize an expedition to recover gold from Prester John³⁷. She convinced the Jews and some Christians there to give her a house that had every amenity worthy of royal assent, and even commissioned artisans to fashion for her finery and clothing worthy of a royal mistress or harem wife.

She invited some empty-headed girls of good and proper families, and made these ladies pay her and attend on her every whim, until these, too, had exhausted their wealth, and exposed themselves to the glances of pagan men. One of these, the charming Zesta of Fourches, even paid for the girl while ensconced in a garden, when a fine dinner had been served them, with the security of a dowry³⁸ proffered by the handsome Lord of Toulon.

Oh, my friends! The second-hand embarrassment I feel embitters my soul to the very last. And the poor girl unwisely believed the uncle in Lille would traverse to Morocco to see after her bills and pay the Moroccan hosts. Both girls had to be rescued by Mercedarians³⁹.

The locals there wisely decided to eject her. When the inn where she was staying objected to her refusal to pay, they sent two assassins after her, and through some artifice, she escaped on a flying machine—some have said it was an enchanted carpet—and returned here.

François was visiting a cousin in Saintes⁴⁰ and found Anne of Swabia in the street, bereft of everything save the same green dress he last saw her in. Some empty-headed monks took her in, where she quickly proved to be more troublesome than the Devil himself in eating up all their hospitality and savaging them for it every chance she could get. They, too, forced her into the wilds.

Lord Dave was by this time dead, and, not wanting either to savor the awful justice that fell upon this greedy soul or to put off more honest work, François returned to his lands and his labor and was eventually recompensed fully for his trouble.

‘Josh’, I am told, returned to his lands, his reputation wrecked by mere association with this girl. When His Majesty the King took the throne of France, she again insinuated herself into his retinue, until he told her quite emphatically that Paris would not have her either, and so she returned to Swabia and was never seen or heard from ever again.

‘Now, my dear companions,’ Ouiser said, ‘who shall respond to this story with one of their own? I should very much enjoy hearing similar stories of persons engaged in frauds so grand they are scarcely believable.’

And, hearing this, Persiflage advanced.