by Alan Gordon
“And you think that you can persuade him to leave a quiet, God-fearing abbey to take over this noisy, iniquitous town?” asked Jordan.
“I already have,” I said. “That was the first part of my mission from the Guild. This is the second part.”
“And how do you plan to do it?” demanded Jordan. “Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a sitting bishop? They’ve been trying to throw out the Archbishop of Narbonne for years, and he’s still glued to his glory.”
“I don’t know how yet, but that’s why I am following up on this connection to Borsella. It’s a place to start poking around. Anything either of you find on him, I want to know about it.”
“Oh, no, not me,” said Jordan.
“I wasn’t asking,” I said. “As the Chief Fool, I expect your cooperation.”
“You do,” sneered Jordan. “The Guild is cowering in the Black Forest until Rome gets weary of chasing them. If they’re lying low, then why should we stick our necks out?”
“They aren’t lying low,” I said. “They are fighting back.”
“By getting Folquet made a bishop? That’s the great strategy cooked up by Father Gerald?”
“Part of it,” I said. “I am not aware of all the irons he has in the fire. I do what I am supposed to do.”
“And for this, I am supposed to jeopardize all that I have accomplished in Toulouse,” said Jordan.
“If it comes to that, yes,” I said. “That’s what we do.”
“There’s a limit,” he said.
“Not for me,” I said.
“A true believer,” he scoffed. “A Guild fanatic. Would you put your life on the line?”
“I already have,” I said. “Many times. Have you?”
“I have a wife and family,” he said.
“As do I.”
“Would you sacrifice them?” he asked. “Your wife’s a fool, so you’d put her in danger in an instant, but what about your daughters?”
“Helga’s an apprentice, not my daughter,” I said.
“And the baby?” he insisted. “Would you endanger her life? Slit her throat at Aulis for favorable winds to Troy?”
“She may already be condemned, just for being a fool’s daughter,” I said softly. “Do you think, do you truly believe that hiding from danger will make the danger go away? The Church is going after the Fools’ Guild, all of us, whether you lay low or not. They’ve forced us to flee the Guildhall, they’ve banned the Feast of Fools. It’s only a matter of time before they start coming after the individual jesters. Will all you have accomplished and established in Toulouse protect you when that happens? Will it save your family?”
“I told you it would come to this,” muttered Martine. “I told you to get out years ago. You kept clinging to your little ambition to be Chief Fool of Toulouse, and now you don’t even have that.”
“Peace, woman,” he snapped.
“Why all this ambition when you don’t even want to work with the Guild?” I asked.
“Why?” he returned incredulously. “For years, I have been waiting for the golden apple of foolery to come within my grasp. Sucked up the lesser jobs, did what I was told, all for the promise that someday it would be mine.”
“Promised by who?” I asked. “And what is this prized apple?”
“To perform before the Count at the court,” he said, almost in tears. “All these years, and Balthazar kept it to himself. Oh, once in a blue moon, he’d bring us in as stooges, but it was always Balthazar who reaped the glory, and Balthazar who reaped the rewards. And now, with it dangling before me, I am back to the old second-rate jobs, waiting for—”
He stopped abruptly.
“Waiting for the new Chief Fool to die,” I finished for him.
He turned beet red.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” I said. “Well, that was churlish behavior on the part of Balthazar, no question. But you will find me, I hope, to be a different sort of fool. When we were in Constantinople—”
“You were in Constantinople?” exclaimed Jordan.
“I was the Chief Fool there,” I said. “Long story. Many long stories, in fact, and I will happily regale you with them some other time. But there were several of us there, and we all worked the palace, we all performed for the Emperor and the Empress, we all played for the great crowds at the Hippodrome. We all worked together, in other words. I promise that you will play before Count Raimon, as long as you prove yourself a reliable fool.”
“I am a funny man, I assure you,” he said quickly.
“No doubt,” I said. “But a reliable fool is one I can trust in everything.”
“I see,” he said heavily. “Lay my life on the line for you, and if I survive, I might make some money.”
“That’s putting in pessimistically.”
“Why shouldn’t I go to the Master of Revels myself?” he said. “They know me. They don’t know you.”
“Because they will know me very soon,” I said. “All of Toulouse will know Tan Pierre, Domina Gile and the Fool Family, as well as our superior talents. That’s another reason the Guild chose me over you, and I will take any fool’s challenge you have to offer if you want proof. And if you continue to refuse to help me, I will have the Guild send more talented fools who will. You may find the demand for your services to be dwindling.”
Jordan looked over at his wife, but she was busying herself with wiping the faces of her two boys, taking care to avoid meeting his eyes. He looked back at me.
“You can get us a performance before the Count?” he asked.
“If I get in there, we will all be in there,” I said.
“And you’ll keep the life-threatening situations to a minimum?”
“In truth, he’s more likely to risk his own neck before he risks anyone else’s,” said Claudia. “I know that from experience. Sometimes I have to beg him to put me in harm’s way.”
“I didn’t get this far in life by making good choices,” sighed Jordan. “You have my help.”
He thumbed his nose at me. I returned the gesture.
“Good,” I said. “Who in particular might have had it in for Milon Borsella? Someone whose debt was particularly large, or someone who had been ruined by him? Women he’s used, men he’s cuckolded?”
“There’s his brother,” offered Martine.
We all looked at her in surprise. She shrugged.
“Which one, the consul or the monk?” I asked.
“The monk, the younger one,” she said. “Brother Vitalis. I was dropping off a dress I had redone for Domina Garba, who lives in one of those monstrous new houses near Saint Sernin, and I saw Milon and his brother coming out of the cloisters. Milon was laughing and Vitalis was screaming at him.”
“Screaming what?”
“‘I will see you in Hell!’ was the one I heard,” said Martine. “And he stormed away while Milon just laughed his head off. Vitalis is such a religious man, so you can understand my wondering at what got him that way.”
“Add him to the list,” I said wearily. “All of you, keep your ears open, pick up any information you can. Next order of business: When is the count returning to Toulouse?”
“He always comes in the week before Christmas so he can attend Mass at the cathedral,” said Jordan.
“Who is his Master of Revels?”
“His name is Oldric. Decent fellow, as a matter of fact. He and Balthazar were thick as thieves. He actually came to the funeral.”
“How do you get on with him?”
“Why, the last time we spoke, I said, ‘Greetings, Senhor Oldric,’ and he replied in the very height of courtesy, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ and continued on his way.”
“Sounds promising,” I said. “I think we should all meet him together. Could you arrange the interview since you know him so well?”
“Consider it done,” said Jordan, puffing up slightly.
“Very good,” I said. “Domina Martine, we thank you for the splendor o
f your cooking, especially on such short notice. Will you and your family do us the honor of joining us for dinner next Sunday after Mass?”
“Why, yes,” she said, startled and pleased. “Thank you.”
“Then we will bid you farewell. We need to collect our apprentice from her spying.”
We bowed to Martine, thumbed our noses at Jordan, and left.
“Good meal,” I said.
“She’s a good cook,” commented Claudia as we walked down the street. “She barely ate anything herself, though. I hope she wasn’t too upset over Jordan’s not getting the job. You handled that most diplomatically, by the way. I’m more used to seeing you ruffle people’s feathers than smoothing them. I didn’t expect coming in as Chief Fool in Toulouse would be more difficult than it was in Constantinople.”
“That’s because there were no other fools in Constantinople when we came in,” I said. “I only had you to argue with.”
Someone cleared his throat behind us. We turned to see Pelardit standing there. He looked around to make sure no one was close by, then beckoned us toward him. When we did, he pointed at us, then raised each finger in turn and put them to his chest.
“You’re saying that we can count on you,” I guessed.
He nodded.
“Thank you, Brother Fool,” I said.
He bowed, then sauntered away.
“He does speak,” I observed as we resumed walking. “But only when he has something to say.”
“Which makes him unique among fools,” said Claudia. “Unique among men, for that matter.”
* * *
We arrived at the entrance to the courtyard in front of Milon Borsella’s house and waited for Helga to emerge.
“We could pay our respects to the family, I suppose,” I said, watching the stream of the sympathetic, the curious and the freeloaders pouring through the main door. “There might be some food left.”
“We don’t know her, so it would be rude,” said Claudia. “Besides, I am sure Helga saved us a few choice morsels.”
There was a sudden commotion at the door of the house, then the crowd scattered like chickens as two pairs of men bowled through them, shouting at each other.
“Isn’t that the Bishop?” asked Claudia.
“Certainly looks like him,” I said.
The Bishop, with a priest flanking him, was backing fearfully away from a pair of men, one of whom was wearing the black cowl and robe of the Benedictine order. The other, who was older, was wearing a dark red coat trimmed with fur and had some kind of official looking chain dangling from his neck. Despite the tonsure on the monk, the two appeared like enough to be brothers, both in face and build. And the build in each case was impressive—for all the niceties of their costume, they had the burly mien of a pair of tavern brawlers, and the looks on their faces would have been equally at home in that setting.
“Have a care, sinners,” shouted the Bishop. “Show the respect due to my office.”
“Show the respect due to the house of the dead,” the older brother shouted back. “If I catch either of you in here again, miter or no miter, I will horsewhip you out of this courtyard and into the street.”
“And you, my good monk?” snarled the Bishop, looking at the monk. “Do you join in your brother’s perfidy?”
“I won’t bother with the horsewhip,” said the monk, pounding his fist into his palm. “Get out, and take your lackey with you.”
He took a step toward the Bishop, but the priest glided in between them, his hands up, palms outward.
“No need for this,” he said placatingly. “The embarrassment is sufficient for the day. Come, Your Holiness.”
With that, he took the Bishop by the elbow and escorted him from the courtyard. By the time they passed through the gate to the street, the Bishop had regained his composure and assembled his face into the proper expression of ecclesiastic dignity.
As they passed us, the priest glanced for a moment in our direction, then back to his master. He stayed a step behind the Bishop, his hands folded and covered by the voluminous sleeves of his black robes, the very picture of humble obedience. I wondered if he, like me, kept a dagger up his sleeve, just in case.
“If this sort of thing happens often, then we will have quite a lot of competition for entertainment,” observed Claudia.
“They didn’t even collect from the crowd,” I noted. “Amateurs.”
The battling brothers watched their adversaries retreat with smug satisfaction, then turned and went back inside. As they did, Helga emerged from the house, bowing to them as she did.
“Helga, come play with us!” cried a girl with a group of children in the courtyard.
Helga look toward the gate, saw us, and shook her head.
“I can’t,” she replied. “My parents are here.”
There were groans of disappointment from the children, and Helga trudged toward us, her head down.
“She can come back tomorrow,” I called, and the children cheered.
Helga grinned at us as she reached the gate.
“Did you see the fight?” she asked excitedly.
“We saw a great deal of masculine posturing,” said Claudia. “No actual blows.”
“That would have been so funny,” said Helga wistfully. “All those holy costumes getting torn and shredded while they rolled through the dirt.”
“What started it?” I asked as we walked back home.
“I was helping serve the guests,” said Helga. “They put me in an apron and handed me a pitcher of wine, so I walked around and filled every cup I could see. Béatrix, the new widow, was in the main parlor, and the two brothers were standing by her.”
“Those were Milon’s brothers we saw?”
“Right, Vitalis and Bonet. Anyhow, the Bishop was announced, and that surprised the brothers. They actually whispered to each other for a minute before they let the Bishop come in.”
“Why would a condolence call from the Bishop be so surprising?” wondered Claudia.
“It’s not his local parish,” I said. “Everything in the bourg is under the dominion of Saint Sernin. You would expect the parish priest from the Taur, even the abbot from Saint Sernin, but not the Bishop of Toulouse.”
“I think that’s what surprised them,” said Helga. “So, in comes His Holiness, making a very grand benediction that took forever. I had to go refill my pitcher, so I slipped out. Then I saw that priest slip off into another room.”
“Had he come into the parlor with the Bishop?”
“No, and that made me suspicious,” said Helga. “I think he’s the same priest we saw on Sunday when Milon had the argument with the Bishop.”
“Interesting,” I said. “What was this room?”
“I peeked through the door. It looked like it was an office where Milon conducted business. There were a lot of ledger books and papers stacked around. This priest was going through them like a burglar. I thought that since I was now a loyal servant of the household, I had better tell someone. So, I went and told the cook, and she ran and got Evrard, who’s the keykeeper, and he went and told the Borsella brothers, and they came pounding into the office, screaming at the priest.”
“What was he looking for?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Bonet sees that there is a drawer open in the desk, and he looks in and starts yelling, ‘It’s gone! What have you done with the book?’ And the priest starts saying, ‘What book? What are you talking about?’ And the two brothers grab him and flip him over so that his robe falls all around his head.”
She started giggling.
“He has the scrawniest legs,” she said. “Good thing he’s a priest and you don’t have to see them. So, he’s hollering, and the two brothers are searching him and yelling, ‘Where is it?’ and then the Bishop comes in and yells at them to stop, and they drop the priest on his head because they had finished searching him and whatever they were looking for, he didn’t have it. So, the priest gets back up and dusts himself off
, then he looks at the Bishop and shakes his head, and that sets the brothers off again, and they start shoving the priest around, and the Bishop is shouting at them to stop, and that’s when things got out of hand and spilled out of the house.”
“So the Bishop was creating a diversion for his holy burglar,” I mused. “Nice plan, thwarted by a pesky little apprentice fool. Did you get a good look at the drawer where this mysterious book came from?”
“Of course,” she said proudly. “It was a small drawer, and it had a lock on it.”
“But it was open,” I said.
“Yes, and it didn’t look forced,” she said.
“Either someone picked the lock, or someone had a key,” said Claudia. “Would Borsella’s keykeeper have one?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But for a desk drawer in his private office? That sounds like something Borsella would keep to himself.”
“That could be what he was killed for,” said Claudia. “To get the key to get the book.”
“The key for the book, and the book is the key,” I agreed. “But the key to what? And why would the Bishop want to steal the book? If it contained a record of his debt to Borsella, then stealing the book wouldn’t erase the debt. And most debts, while embarrassing, are not worth killing for.”
“Even for a bishop?” asked Helga.
“Especially for a bishop,” I said.
* * *
We got up at the unfoolish dawn so that we could get decent seats at the assizes. For all that, there was a good-sized crowd of the curious and the unoccupied waiting at the gates of the Château Narbonnais. A guard let them in in groups of ten, his lips moving as he counted.
The château was actually a group of connected buildings, holding the courts, the consulate, and the Count’s residence. Three towers dominated the rest of the complex. The Tower of the Eagle and the Round Tower flanked the gate through which we passed, while the Grand Tower, presumably the bastion of last resort, was set back in the interior. Crenelated walls, maybe twenty-five feet in height, enclosed the rest.
“What’s interesting about this place is that it seems intended more to withstand an attack from within the city than it is to defend it from without,” I observed. “That says something for the confidence of the counts over the years.”
