The Grote Markt was thronged, banners snapping from every gable, the air thick with frying fish, hot wine, and damp wool pressed close. Drums pounded from one end of the square, pipes trilled from the other, until the whole city seemed to move to a single rhythm.
The troupe staked their claim at the edge of the marketplace, where the crush of stalls left just enough room for Rik to tune his fiddle and Joos to loose a few opening jests. Sander spread his scrap of paper across the wagon's sideboard, scratching out verses to fit the mood, while Joseph coaxed Pietje onto his shoulder, steadying the bird as it flapped and shrieked at the crowd.
'This'll do,' Isabelle said, scanning the throng. 'Keep them laughing, keep them spending.' She tugged her cloak close and slipped into the bodies pressing past.
Not far off, she was at work. She lingered near a stall where bright lengths of lace spilled like water, her smile sweet as spring wine. A wealthy man with a fur collar fingered a scrap of fabric, already half-convinced of its worth.
'Too coarse for a lady's wrist,' Isabelle murmured, light as a feather. The man looked up, startled.
She plucked a finer piece, brushing it against his sleeve. 'This — ah, this would do. A gift fit for Carnival. Any woman would thank you for it.'
His chest swelled; he pictured himself gallant. By the time the stall holder returned, Isabelle had coaxed two silvers from his purse, twice the lace's worth. She laughed, pressed the fabric into his hand, and vanished before he thought to count his change.
His purse lighter, his pride intact — Isabelle's apron heavier when she rejoined the troupe.
Meanwhile Joseph had clambered onto a barrel, Pietje perched proud on his shoulder. 'Good people of Antwerp!' he cried, arms thrown wide. 'Here is wisdom on two wings — sharper than your aldermen, kinder than your priests!'
'Pretty fool! Pretty fool!' Pietje squawked, bobbing furiously. The crowd roared. Children shrieked with laughter as Rik's bow leapt into a jig, Joos stumbled like a drunkard, and Sander flung rhymes over the racket.
Coins rained into the cap, ringing like music. Joseph bowed low, Pietje shrieked louder, and the crowd pressed closer still.
Then Sander came pelting back through the press, charcoal still smudged across his fingers, a grin splitting his face. Rolled scraps of paper stuck from his satchel like bedraggled feathers.
'They're up!' he panted, half collapsing against the wagon. 'Every tavern door on the Meir, the bridge by Saint Paul's, even the baker's wall where the queues never end. Antwerp will not be able to piss without seeing our parrot!'
Joos crowed with laughter. 'And here I thought you'd been flirting with the baker's daughter instead of pasting birds to walls.'
'Both,' Sander admitted with a sheepish shrug. 'She liked the parrot. Said she'll come tonight.'
Rik struck a few bright notes on his fiddle. 'If she brings her friends, I'll play them sweeter than any Venetian.'
'Bah,' Joos said, wagging his red nose. 'They'll come for Pietje, not for your catgut squealing.'
As if on cue, Pietje flapped and shrieked, 'Pretty fool! Pretty fool!' Children pointed and clapped, shouting back the words until the whole corner of the market echoed with it.
Isabelle reappeared at Joseph's side, her apron a little heavier than before, and arched a brow. 'Well done, poet. Posters and promises — let's see if they put coins in our hands by nightfall.'
Two halves of the same trade: Isabelle's cunning, Joseph's showmanship. By dusk their purses would be heavy, and for the first time in years, hope seemed theirs to spend.
'Fools pay best when they think they've had the better of you,' Isabelle murmured, dropping her winnings into her apron.
Joseph only grinned, still warm with applause. Pietje flapped, demanding more, and the crowd gave it.
Hour by hour their purse grew heavier. Ale tonight, meat perhaps, and no talk of stale crusts or sour wine. Yet even in triumph, the crowd pressed close, carrying its edge: a jostle too rough, a mask unreadable, a laugh turning jeer. Carnival promised plenty, but Joseph felt, as Isabelle warned, that it could take as quick as it gave.
Still, coins clinked, voices rose, and for a while hope burned bright as the banners overhead. They played until the crowd thinned and the sun slipped lower across the rooftops. Their throats were raw, their limbs leaden, but their purses jingled heavier than they had in months.
Sander clambered onto the wagon's edge, cupping his hands. 'Friends of Antwerp!' he cried, voice cracking but strong enough to carry. 'If you've laughed at our jests today, come back at dusk! We'll bring you fools and saints, songs and rhymes, laughter enough to chase the frost from your bones!'
Rik struck a flourish, Joos bowed so low his nose nearly grazed the mud, and Joseph swept Pietje high above his head.
'Eat! Eat! Fool! Fool!' the bird shrieked, and the square shook with laughter.
'At the Markt! Tonight!' Isabelle called, voice bright as a bell. 'Bring your friends, bring your purses — and see Antwerp laugh until the bells ring!'
The crowd clapped, whistled, some tossing last coins before moving on. A promise hung in the air, bigger and bolder than the day's tricks.
At last Isabelle clapped her hands, sharp as a whip. 'Enough. Save your breath for tonight.' With Pietje squawking protest, they shouldered through the throng and steered the wagon back to the inn.
The troupe settled in Willem's courtyard, their battered wagon pressed into service as a table, coins and crusts scattered across its boards. Afternoon light slanted low, gilding the walls, while from the Grote Markt drifted the faint clatter of scaffolding for the night's spectacle. Only a few hours remained before their turn upon the stage. The laughter of the streets still rang in their ears, but now it carried a sharper edge — excitement tangled with unease, the hush before the curtain rose. Rest would have to wait; there was planning to be done.
Joseph leaned against the wagon wheel, wiping sweat from his brow, his heart still racing. The coins in Isabelle's lap looked like promise, but he knew how quickly Carnival's fortune could turn. Crowds were fickle — roaring one day, restless the next. Tonight would be different, though. Tonight was no passing jest in the street but a stage in the heart of Antwerp, with half the city watching. For the first time, the thrill of it warred with doubt.
Rik plucked a string. 'We could do The Fool as Judge. Always gets a laugh when Joos trips over the scales.'
'Aye, but last time,' Joos groaned, 'the scales broke. And who carried the fool's stool all the way to Haarlem? Me!'
Laughter rippled. Even Sander grinned, charcoal poised. 'Better not repeat that. Carnival and Lent — the crowd will expect it. A tradition.'
'Tradition won't fill the purse,' Isabelle cut in, brisk. 'But Carnival will, if we play it right. Not a sermon, not a lesson. Laughter — sharp and quick, like a knife between ribs.'
Joseph leaned back, Pietje shifting on his shoulder. 'And who leads this noble army of sausages and pies? I suppose it must be me.'
'A sober one,' Isabelle shot back. 'Last time you nearly choked on the goose leg. I won't drag you off stage while the crowd thinks it's part of the act.'
Rik snorted. 'Best laugh of the night, if you ask me.'
'Then it's settled,' Sander said, scribbling. 'Lent sharper, Carnival boastful, the bird for interruption.'
'Pretty fool! Pretty fool!' Pietje shrieked.
'And keep it tight,' Isabelle warned. 'No rambling. Joos, fall when I say. Rik, keep it short. Joseph—' her gaze cut sharp—'eyes on the crowd, not the balcony.'
Joseph raised his hands in mock surrender, grin unshaken. 'Understood, general. Antwerp will feast tonight — and we'll give them reason to remember us.'
Coins clinked as Isabelle swept them into her apron. 'Good. Then we are agreed. Carnival and Lent. We'll sharpen it before dusk.'
The others cheered, mugs lifted, even as the evening chill crept in. For all their laughter, there was hunger in their eyes — the kind that had nothing to do with food. Tonight's show was more than jest. It was a chance.
A chance to step beyond barns and back streets, to claim the city's heart for their own. The Grote Markt was no tavern corner; it was where guilds paraded, where proclamations were read, where fortunes were made beneath the cathedral's shadow. To stand there, with half of Antwerp watching, was to prove they were more than beggars in motley.
Even Joos had grown quiet, polishing his painted nose. Rik plucked short, sharp phrases from his fiddle, Sander's charcoal raced across scraps of paper. Isabelle alone seemed steady, though Joseph caught the tightness in her jaw as she knotted her apron closed.
Above the courtyard the sky bruised toward dusk, smoke and frost on the air. From the Grote Markt came the faint thump of scaffolding, the calls of men raising torches high. The city itself seemed to hold its breath.
Joseph leaned back against the wagon, Pietje shifting on his shoulder. For a heartbeat his thoughts strayed — to a girl's bright eyes among silks, laughter that had cut through the roar of Carnival as though meant for him alone.
He shook it off, muttering under his breath. Foolishness. She belonged to chandeliers and gilded halls, not to players and parrots.
They would laugh tonight, he told himself. They must.
For better or worse, Antwerp would remember them.