There was nothing on God's green earth that Froella detested (next to drink stains on the kitchen table) any more than the Feast of Fools. Just the name itself sounded anything less than dignified. That penny-skinned girl flitting about the town, shouting in people's ears with that high voice of hers was grating on her nerves.
She bounded onto the stage with that God forsaken puppet on her hand. "And now, ladies and gentlemen! Here it is, the moment you've been waiting for! Here it is, you know exactly what's in store! Now's the time we laugh until our sides get sore…"
(If God permitted, Froella would have her strung up on a tree at that very moment, but patience. Patience was a virtue.)
"Okay, folks, you've waited long enough. And now for the Feast of Foooooooooools!"
Froella sat back in her seat, immediately regretting not feigning sick to the guards.
The show was exactly what Froella expected it would be; a masterpiece of misery and woe. Hordes of them, cartwheeling all over that stage. Breathing fire. Blasting that horn, "dancing," doing the splits. A girl was shaking a tambourine and the women were shaking more than that. Froella pulled her habit closer to her chest. What a disgusting display.
The men basically did the same and were not that memorable… except for one. Just one that stuck out in her mind.
She had never seen this man before, and she had attended the Feast of Fools as a special guest for over thirty years. He was an acrobat; one of those contortionist freaks that unholy troupe paraded into town every year.
But when he bended it didn't look painful. And at least he wasn't ugly like the rest of them. No… he was not like the rest of them at all.
Froella straightened up. He had dark skin, green eyes like that of an earth-bound emerald. The boy had an air of confidence about him as he made art with his body, creating shapes no French acrobat Froella had seen in her life could ever dream of. His feet went from being behind him to on the ground right in front of his face. His feet-the beautifully, gracefully pointed ones.
On the tightrope, he did not waver once. The flips he did on the stage, the handstands… The mental concentration that must have taken was astounding. She could not believe he had yet to screw up given his young age-what was he twenty-four? Twenty-five? Who was this boy?
What did it matter?
Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort. The sweat stood out on his brow. Thick, ropy muscles gleamed in the sunlight. The boy's legs extended, seeming to go on forever. He could take care of her easily, she thought. She imagined herself in his arms. What would happen if she slid herself between…
Good God in Heaven. Froella snatched a pamphlet from one of her nearby soldiers to fan herself. What on Earth was she thinking? Who was this man who thought he could simply waltz up onto the stage and introduce these impure thoughts into her righteous mind?
This was against everything the cathedral of Our Lady held dear. Froella was a nun. She had taken a vow of chastity and encouraged her followers to refrain from such pleasures. Her life was about helping those in need, not slobbering over men in the circus. Gypsy men in the circus at that. No, not today. Not today, Satan.