Lady Gramercy gestures to the far side of the room, where a very tall, wiry man sees her signal, points at his chest as if in surprise, then runs pell-mell across the room to her, limbs flailing every which way. When he's but a dozen yards away, in the empty patch of stones ringed about by the feast tables, he pretends to trip and rolls the rest of the way in a deceptively clumsy series of tumbles. (Watching closely, you know just how much training the man must have to fling his body about so without doing genuine harm.) He finally rolls to a stop right at Lady Gramercy's hot feet and mugs for the audience in a show of dizziness.
"This…is Baggage," says Lady Gramercy. "Say hello, Baggage."
"Hello, Baggage," he says, his nasal voice reaching every set of ears in the hall. "Why am I greeting myself? I did that this morning," he stage-whispers to his liege.
"No, sirrah," she says, gesturing to the crowd, "You greet this august comp'ny."
"'Tis August already?" He leaps to his feet in terror and begins patting his pockets. You notice that his khaki motley has dozens of pockets and pouches sewn on every surface, from his chest to his back and all up and down his legs. "I must get a birthday present for my mother before it's too late!"
Lady Gramercy blinks at him before putting a hand on his shoulder. "Sirrah, dost not recall? Thy mother's passed…."
"Well, I guess it's too late. She probably wouldn't have wanted this anyway…." He pulls a pure-white turtledove out of a pocket and looses it in the room, much to the astonishment of the assembled throng.
This display continues for a few moments more, with Lady Gramercy ably playing straight alongside this lanky buffoon. You watch him closely as the rest of the room leans in for a better look.