The Moneylender of Toulouse

by Alan Gordon

  “What a lovely family!” he exclaimed, smiling at my wife and chucking the baby under the chin. “And an unusual collection of names. I take it you are not native to this region?”

  “No, but we are hoping to settle and find employment here,” I said.

  “Well, if there is any assistance I can give you, please let me know,” he said. “What is your profession?”

  “We are a family of jesters,” I said. “And, if I may be so bold as to take you up on your offer, we would be more than happy to perform at your Feast of Fools this season. We would offer something lower than our usual rates in return for the introduction to the city.”

  His smile became fixed and odd.

  “The Feast of Fools,” he repeated. “Yes, well, I do not think that I can help you there.”

  “Of course,” I said. “There must be some other person in charge of that. If you could direct me to him, then…”

  “What I mean to say is that there will be no Feast of Fools here,” he said.

  “There won’t?” I said in surprise.

  “No,” he said. “But I am sure that you will find some employment come Christmas. Welcome to Toulouse, my friends.”

  We moved away from the entrance as he turned to the next parishioner.

  “Some welcome,” muttered Claudia. “How on earth can they have Christmas without the Feast of Fools?”

  “There have been rumors that the Pope was going to ban the Feast,” I said. “I never thought he would actually do it.”

  “I do not like this pope,” said Claudia.

  “Maybe the Bishop could hire me as a choirmaster,” I sighed. “They could certainly use one.”

  There was a raising of voices behind us. We turned to see the Bishop, of all people, in heated argument with a man who appeared to be well-to-do based upon the richness of his garments. He stood with his hat in his hand but otherwise showed no deference whatsoever to his Holiness.

  “How dare you approach me on God’s day!” thundered the Bishop.

  “Why, have I not approached you on all the days belonging to the rest of us?” asked the man. “And every time, I was told that you were at prayer. What a religious man you are! What an inspiration to all of us poor sinners!”

  “Be careful, Senhor,” said the Bishop. “There is a price to be paid in Hell for mockery such as yours.”

  “Yes, well, it’s the price to be paid here on Earth that interests me,” said the man. “Especially the interest. There is a note due that has your name on it, and I will not hesitate in showing up at the assizes first thing tomorrow morning with it if I do not receive satisfaction.”

  A priest who had been standing in the shadows behind the cathedral entry sidled out quietly and whispered something to the Bishop. The Bishop took a breath and gathered the remains of his dignity back together.

  “Father Mascaron suggests that you wait in my office,” he said stiffly.

  “The question is, will you be coming there?” asked the man. “I would hate to see you suddenly all prayerful again. It would waste my time, and I have other places to go.”

  “One of them is to the Devil, as far as I am concerned,” snapped the Bishop.

  “Not on God’s day, surely,” sneered the man. “Besides, I have no quarrel with the Devil. He always pays his debts on time. I thought you would know that, being in the business and all.”

  Father Mascaron touched him on the shoulder, and he followed the priest inside. Bishop Raimon looked around to see who had observed this little scene, but we were playing with the baby at the foot of the statue of Saint Paul, oblivious to anything else. He watched us for a moment, his eyes narrow and shrewd, then flicked at his robes and went inside.

  “That might be useful,” commented Claudia.

  “Maybe,” I said. “A bishop owing money is not an uncommon thing these days. I don’t know that it is something that we can use to drive him out.”

  “But it may be a starting point,” argued Claudia.

  “Agreed,” I said. “Helga, take the north side and watch for that man. We’ll take the other side. If he comes out your side, follow him and find out who he is and where he lives. Meet us back home by sunset.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said happily, and she skipped over to a group of children who were kicking a ball around.

  We took Portia between us and walked her over to the cloisters, each holding one tiny hand. She was not quite walking on her own yet, finding the process much more tedious than crawling. She had proven to be a prodigious climber, however, with a sense of balance that made her quite fearless. That, combined with a love of mischief that bordered on the diabolical, left no doubt that she was the daughter of fools.

  We played with her, using the pillars of the cloister arches for hide-and-seek and peekaboo as she shrieked and giggled. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Helga scratch her nose and leave her game.

  “She has him,” I said to Claudia.

  “Good,” she said, picking up our wriggling child. “How much lead are you going to give her?”

  “She already has the width of a cathedral,” I said. “I’ll give her a cloister’s worth more.”

  Claudia kissed me, and I winked at Portia.

  “Kiss Papa on the nose,” I said, and she did. I kissed her nose in return, then ambled past the cemetery, keeping our apprentice in view.

  Apprenticing to a master fool requires that one pass an undetermined number of arcane tests. Following without being seen is one, of course, but that isn’t as hard as it might sound. Those inclined to become jesters become adept at changing appearance at a moment’s notice, and the simple addition of a cloak and hat will erase any memory of motley that the quarry may have retained. When we are in civilian garb to begin with, we become even more invisible.

  But the true test of a jester on the tail of her prey is whether or not she can in turn spot the jester tailing her. Helga was now being put to that test, whether she knew it or not. I thought back to my last apprentice, none other than my wife, who I trailed through the winding streets of Constantinople as she pursued a seller of spurious relics. She spotted me with alacrity, something she reminds me of periodically.

  I could no longer see our man, but Helga was plainly visible as she bobbed through the Toulousans who were out visiting on this cool, sunny Sunday. I paused, keeping her in sight as she crossed the Montaygon Square, then hurried across it as she disappeared into a street on the other side, still heading north. When I reached the Montardy Square, she had increased the distance between us. I had to pick up my own pace without drawing her attention, but she was fixed upon her quarry.

  Our path was taking us from the city to the bourg, I saw. That meant our unknown collector was from the new money part of town. Interesting, I thought. I wondered how far afield the Bishop had to go for his borrowing. It might be that nobody from the old town trusted him enough to loan him money anymore.

  The street fetched up against the Saracen Wall which divided the old from the new. The Maison Commune, built to celebrate the union of city and bourg, was to my right, so the Portaria, the old fort that once guarded the entrance to the city when there was no bourg, had to be on the left. I stopped short of the intersection to glance cautiously around the corner. Sure enough, my apprentice was vanishing through the Portaria into the bourg. It would have been fun to quickly climb to the top of one of the lookout towers to track her, but I didn’t have time to talk my way past the guards who were stationed there. I took a chance and ran to the gate, then peeked through to the other side.

  She wasn’t there. I had lost her.

  I cursed myself under my breath, then slipped through the gate. As soon as I reached the other side, a small hand snaked out to grab my wrist.

  “It took you long enough to get here,” muttered Helga. “I thought you were in better shape than that.”

  “Congratulations, Apprentice,” I said. “You passed. When did you figure out I was following you?”

  “Th
e hairs on the back of my neck were tingling about a block after I left,” she said. “I got a glimpse of you at that first big square we crossed.”

  “The Montaygon,” I said. “Well done.”

  “I was wondering if you were going to try that on me,” she confessed. “Some of the older novitiates talked about it back at the Guildhall. But I would have spotted you anyway. I’ve been watching our backs ever since we left Marseille. You taught me that.”

  “Impressive. Now, impress me some more and tell me where our mysterious man lives.”

  “He went through those gates past the church with the tower,” she said, indicating a cluster of large houses around an interior courtyard. “The center house of that group. I don’t know if that was the master of the house I was following or just one of his men.”

  “It wouldn’t be one of his men on a mission like that,” I said. “No one would send a clerk or a lackey to accost a bishop in a cathedral. That would be adding insult to more insult. If I was threatening a bishop with litigation, I would certainly want to take that task upon myself, if only for the pleasure it would give me.”

  “Let me stay and find out some more,” she said. “There are children playing, and there are bound to be women doing laundry.”

  “All right,” I said, pleased. “We will have dinner waiting for you.”

  “And you should take advantage of my absence,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “It’s so difficult for married people when there are children about.”

  “I will consider your advice,” I said seriously.

  She skipped away, looking all of ten years old. I knew her to be really twelve, verging on thirteen, with all the guile of an adult fool. But there she was, joining a group of girls who were playing tag in front of the courtyard, to all appearances just like them.

  And to think that a month ago, she had killed a man for the first time.

  I sighed and returned home. Claudia was unpacking our gear and inspecting it for any damage it might have sustained during our recent travels.

  “Portia’s asleep,” she whispered, then she gasped as I picked her up and slung her over my shoulder.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked as I carried her into our room.

  “Time to put this new pallet to the test,” I said.

  It was a good day for passing tests, as it turned out.

  * * *

  We were fully dressed by the time Helga returned, her face a mask of studied indifference which dissolved into a grin as Claudia hauled her up from the last of the steps and embraced her.

  Portia was awake and burbled, “El, el, el!”

  Helga went over to her, squatted in front of the cradle, and said, “Hug for Helga?” Portia held out her arms and Helga lifted her into a tight embrace and danced with her around the room as the baby laughed and laughed. I quickly closed the trapdoor before any accidents could happen.

  “Any luck, Apprentice?” asked Claudia.

  “It’s not luck, it’s skill,” the girl replied. “The man we saw is named Milon Borsella. According to the children who play in that courtyard, he is a mean man who lays about him with his stick at the least excuse. He has a wife named Béatrix who almost never comes out. They said she may be ill, but some think that it’s because he beats her, too.”

  “Nice,” I said. “What does he do when he’s not beating women and children? Does he kick puppies?”

  “I met one of his servants,” she said. “She was taking down laundry from the lines, and I offered to help her. She thought I was very mature for such a little girl.”

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “I said, ‘I’m not a little girl, I’m a big girl!’” she said, thrusting her lower lip out like a little girl. “She said she could tell that I wasn’t from Toulouse because of my accent, so I told her all about our pilgrimage to Rome, and that we came here to look for work, and she said there was work to be had for honest, God-fearing folk.”

  “That lets us out,” said Claudia.

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  “Anyhow, she told me that her master was a middle son,” continued Helga.

  “Those are often the ones that cause trouble,” said Claudia.

  “Their father made his fortune in lumber, and left the business to the oldest son, Bonet. He’s on the city council. He was just elected this year. Milon was given the house and enough money to do what he wants, and there’s another son who is a Benedictine at Saint Sernin.”

  “Well-connected family,” I said. “What does he do with the money his father left him?”

  “Tends it, lends it, and spends it,” she said. “They say he likes wine and whores, and he trades with merchants in Narbonne. He also lends money, mostly to old families in the city. She says he likes lending to them so he can lord it over them and their fancy airs. She says she thinks he prefers it when they don’t pay it back, so he can take them to court and humiliate them in public.”

  “Nice fellow for the Bishop to be beholden to,” I said. “A good afternoon’s work, young lady. You have earned yourself my very own, specially prepared—beans and bread!”

  I dumped some into a bowl, tore off a piece of brown bread, and handed them to her.

  “What is so special about the preparation?” she asked, looking at them dubiously.

  “This time, I cooked them,” I said. “I would have spent more time on the meal, but I was busy this afternoon following your sound counsel.”

  “Her what?” sputtered Claudia. “Fie upon both of you! Discussing such personal matters like that. I’m outraged. Oh, and grateful.”

  “Shall I go back there tomorrow?” asked Helga.

  “Might as well,” I said. “Find out what else he does for fun, and if he has any hold over the Bishop besides the money.”

  “I wonder if they paid him today,” said Claudia. “And with what, and if there is anything left.”

  “We need to meet the local fools,” I said. “Jordan first, I think. He’s senior to Pelardit.”

  “How well do you know them?” asked Helga.

  “Not at all,” I replied.

  “Didn’t you meet them when you came through Toulouse before?” asked Claudia.

  “No, unfortunately. I reported in to Balthazar, who was a talented jester, but I was otherwise preoccupied. Young kings on holy pilgrimage require a great deal of entertaining.”

  “In other words, you spent most of your time here drunk,” said Claudia.

  “That is a less charitable way of putting it,” I said. “But my sins were absolved in Compostela.”

  “Have you committed any since then?” asked Helga.

  “Eat your beans and bread, Apprentice.”

  * * *

  In the morning, we rose and walked across the bridge. There was a stream of pilgrims going the other way, and we all waved to them, including the baby.

  “They all look so happy to be going to Compostela,” said Helga.

  “More like they are happy to be leaving Toulouse,” I said. “Pilgrims pay dearly for the privilege of stopping here.”

  We kept going straight until we reached the Grande Rue, then turned north.

  “Jordan has a house on Rue de Agulhers,” I said to Helga. “Come find us there if you need us. Otherwise, we will meet you at home.”

  “Have fun, dear,” said Claudia for the benefit of anyone listening.

  “I will, Maman,” cried the little girl, and she skipped away.

  Rue de Agulhers was where the needle-makers had their shops, and we passed by store after store with displays of needles of various kinds, made of bone, wood, and iron. Women gathered about the stores, spending half their time haggling, half gossiping.

  “An excellent location for a fool,” Claudia observed. “Jordan must get all his information here.”

  “No man is a hero to his seamstress,” I agreed. “That must be Jordan’s house over there.”

  There was a small house with a tailor’s sh
op on the street level and living quarters above and behind it. The shop was shuttered, but there were two small boys playing in the mud in front of it, poking at a frog with a stick. On the door leading to the steps to the upper level, a white mask had been painted, with a grinning red mouth and a cap and bells on top.

  The boys looked up as we approached, and the frog made a leap for freedom. I caught it in mid-hop and handed it back to the larger boy, who appeared to be about nine.

  “Is this the house of Jordan the Jester?” I asked him.

  He nodded solemnly, clutching the frog too tightly.

  “He’s my father,” he said.

  “Mine, too!” added the smaller boy indignantly.

  “Is he at home?” I asked.

  They both nodded.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell him that he has company?” I asked.

  “He’s with Maman,” said the older boy. “He told us to stay out here and play.”

  “I understand entirely,” I said as Claudia suppressed a smile. I looked around and spotted a small tavern. “I’ll tell you what. When he comes out again, tell him that some traveling friends of his are visiting, and that we may be found over there. Can you describe us to him?

  “Tall skinny man, short pretty lady with a baby,” said the boy promptly.

  “That should do,” I said.

  “And thank you for your gallant description,” added my wife, patting him on the head.

  We were halfway through a bowl of mussels when a rotund man entered the tavern, glanced around, then came over to us. Despite his girth, there was a delicacy to his movements, a dancing in his step. The two boys peered in at the doorway.

  “I am Jordan the Jester,” he said, bowing slightly, his fingers interlacing in an intricate wiggle before his chest. “Are you the traveling friends of whom my son spoke?”

  “We are,” I said, rising to my feet.

  I pursed my lips and whistled softly. His eyes widened in surprise, then he smiled broadly and whistled the counter.

  “Jordan, Guildname of Rollo,” he said softly.

  “Tan Pierre, Guildname of Theophilos,” I said. “My wife, Gile, Guildname of Claudia, and our baby, Portia.”

  “You’ve come from the Guild!” he chortled exultantly. “I knew it! I knew this day would come. Boys, quickly.”