by Alan Gordon
“Plus he’s a stallion in bed,” concluded my wife, a lewd grin on her face. “What woman could resist?”
“None that I have ever met,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” said Jordan as Helga snickered. “We fall short of you in so many ways, don’t we, Pelardit?”
Pelardit shook his head in disagreement.
“Right, back to work,” I said. “Helga, back to Milon’s house. Find out if Evrard has been seeing anyone on the outside.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, and was off like a shot.
“Wait!” I called.
She skidded to a halt and ran back.
“Find out if anyone had been in Milon’s office that morning before the Bishop arrived,” I said.
“Yes, Papa,” she said, and she took off again.
“Helga?” I called.
She stopped short, and trudged back to us.
“What?” she said.
“See if any of the servants noticed whether or not that desk drawer had been opened before Mascaron was in there.”
“Fine,” she snapped, and stood stock still.
“Well?” I said. “What are you waiting for?”
“Right,” she said, and left at a moderate trot.
“On three,” I said. “One, two…”
And Claudia, Jordan and I all shouted, “HELGA!”
Without turning, she made a gesture that would have been excessive even for Pelardit and continued without breaking stride.
“La Vache used to pull that one all the time when we were apprentices, remember?” Jordan said to Pelardit.
The latter nodded, rolling his eyes.
“You apprenticed with La Vache in Paris?” I asked. “When were you there?”
“’79 to ’81,” he said. “Pelardit came a year later after training at the Guildhall. Why, were you there?”
“Just for a few months at the end of ’75,” I said. “Then things got complicated, and it was a while before I came to the Guildhall. Marvelous juggler, La Vache.”
“The best I’ve ever seen,” agreed Jordan as Pelardit nodded.
“All right, the two of you keep listening around, see what you can find out about anyone who may have owed Milon.”
“What about you?” asked Claudia.
“I should check in with Father Mascaron,” I said. “He’ll be wanting a report on my progress.”
“So do we,” said Claudia. “Let us know if you make any.”
I thumbed my nose at them, and took the next street going east.
Father Mascaron was in his office, reading some correspondence. The door was open, but I knocked respectfully before entering. He waved me in.
“Payment first,” he said, handing over a few pennies. “This will take you through Sunday.”
“I don’t have much worth paying for,” I said, sitting down.
“I am paying for your efforts,” he said. “If you retrieve that book, then I will pay extra for the results.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Tell me about when you were in Milon’s office.”
“How did you know I was in there?”
“I have been making inquiries of the household,” I said.
He sighed.
“While the Bishop was consoling the family, I slipped inside the office,” he began.
“Had you ever been there before?”
“Yes, with the Bishop,” he said. “On church business.”
“But it’s not your parish,” I said.
“The Bishop of Toulouse—” he started in lofty tones.
“Has no say in the bourg,” I said. “The Benedictines are not beholden to him, are they?”
“No, not at all,” he admitted. “They are rather smug about it, too.”
“Nothing like a little Christian competition,” I said. “Milon’s office was unlocked?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And the desk as well?”
“Yes,” he said. “That surprised me. And then to realize that the book was gone—I went through the entire desk, everything on it, looking for it. Then the household descended upon me, and things became—embarrassing.”
“I hear you have scrawny legs,” I said, and was pleased at his look of chagrin. “Why did you think the book would still be there?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asked.
“It could have been on Milon’s body,” I said.
“It wasn’t,” he said with certainty.
“How do you know that?”
“I have my sources within the guard,” he said. “I was waiting at the Palace of Justice when they brought Milon’s body in. I administered the last rites, which was more than…”
He caught himself. It was a brief flash of anger, still sharp even though its target was three days dead.
“More than he deserved?” I said. “Don’t we all deserve the same treatment from God’s house?”
“I ask His forgiveness,” he said. “I have no sympathy for—blackguards like Milon Borsella.”
“Understandable,” I said. “So, under the cover of seeing to his final needs, you searched his body.”
“Yes.”
“Resourceful. You’re in the wrong profession,” I said.
He glared.
“Or maybe the right profession,” I continued. “One that gives you such ready access to the dead. My friends who have gone into grave-robbing would be envious that you can get the same results with so little work. And you didn’t find the key on him, either?”
“None of his keys were there,” he said. “They must have been stolen by the man who killed him.”
“Very like, very like,” I said. “Has anyone attempted to get money from you or the Bishop in exchange for the book?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“He must be waiting for the dust to settle before he makes his next move,” I said. “Tell me, you are familiar with the brothers of Saint Sernin, aren’t you?”
“The monks?” he said in surprise. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”
“The problem with a book of secret debtors is that they are secret,” I said. “But why is a debt something to be concealed? It’s a normal part of doing business in Toulouse or anywhere else. That’s why Milon prospered.”
“But the monks?”
“I am thinking that there must be other men in the same position as your bishop,” I said. “Men who were not supposed to be incurring debts of this nature or size, who perhaps have pledged properties that were entrusted to the church, not for their personal frivolities.”
“That’s not why…” he protested.
I held my hand up.
“I am sure that the Bishop incurred this embarrassing debt for the best of reasons,” I said. “Although…” I paused as if a thought had just struck me. “If there was a particular weakness that he had succumbed to, for which he was forced to borrow these sums, then someone else privy to that information might have had the idea to steal the book from Milon.”
“If that was the case, and I assure you that it is not,” said Mascaron calmly, “then I would have no need of you. Nor do I trust you enough to discuss such matters.”
“But there are none to discuss, so there is no point to discussing my trustworthiness,” I said. “I am wounded, I must say. Have you heard anything of what I know or saw from anyone other than me? I have been the very soul of discretion, and for just a penny a day.”
“You must be waiting for the dust to settle,” he said.
“You know, you really are in the wrong profession,” I said. “You might have made an adequate fool.”
“A lost opportunity,” he said. “I will take that as a compliment. I don’t think that you are particularly suited for the priesthood.”
“And I will take that as a compliment,” I said. “Now, let’s say that I am right about the other debtors being from the religious community. Who among the monks of Saint Sernin would be a likely candidate for secret depravity in your opinion?”
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�It’s a ridiculous idea,” he said.
“Those are frequently the kind I have,” I said. “But I don’t have the same idealistic view of abbeys that you might. What about Vitalis Borsella?”
“Vitalis kill his brother? Absurd,” said Father Mascaron.
“Brothers do kill brothers,” I noted. “The very first murder was a fratricide. But you knew that.”
“Why Vitalis?”
“He has a temper,” I said. “But you knew that as well.”
“His anger at me was justifiable,” said the priest. “I have already forgiven him.”
“But Milon wouldn’t be able to forgive him now, would he?”
“I don’t think this is a profitable direction for you—”
“There is another monk there, a bruiser like Vitalis. Know him?”
“A— Do you mean Brother Donatus?”
“I don’t know anyone’s name. Is the abbey known for its muscular approach to God? As opposed to the scrawny-legged entry requirements of the cathedral?”
“Apart from Vitalis, only Donatus would meet that description,” said Mascaron. “A former soldier who turned to silent contemplation after returning safely from Crusade.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Why do you consider him a suspect?” asked Mascaron.
“I saw him with someone else I don’t trust,” I said. “But it’s still speculative.”
“I know of nothing to tarnish his reputation,” said Mascaron.
“Then his vice must be a great and secret one,” I said, getting to my feet. “Good. Something to look into.”
“It sounds like a fruitless effort to me,” grumbled the priest. “The abbey of Saint Sernin is hardly lacking for funds. All the new money is in the bourg nowadays. As soon as anyone makes their fortune, they grab a large piece of land near the abbey and heave up some new monstrosity of a house. On Sundays, they make a show of who can give the most to the collection while wearing the gaudiest outfit. It’s all done in the worst of taste.”
“And none of it comes to the cathedral,” I said. “Too bad. You come from old money, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said. “But I did not join the priesthood because I was the least-favored son, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why did you join?”
“For the love of Our Savior,” he said. “Why did you become a fool?”
“Because I wasn’t particularly suited for the priesthood,” I said. “My efforts on your behalf continue through the end of Advent, then it’s back to my fooling.”
“It’s hard to distinguish them at times,” muttered the priest.
I waved and walked out of his office. There was no one praying in the cathedral, so I took advantage of the solitude to throw my civilian clothes on over my motley. Then I turned toward the altar and knelt, praying to the First Fool to forgive me for my use of His house as a changing room. I didn’t consider it to be a great sin. After all, was I not His guest?
And on the list of sins in my life, this one would barely raise an angel’s eyebrow.
So, Brother Donatus. He did not seem given to silent contemplation when I saw him with Bonet. I wondered what their connection was. And what it meant.
The sun was nearing the horizon, so I walked quickly to Milon’s house to pick up Helga. Just as I arrived, I saw Bonet Borsella coming through the gate. I stepped into a doorway to let him pass. I did not want him to make the connection between Helga and me just yet, as that would have ended her access to the household.
She emerged a few minutes later with, to my delight, Claudia and Portia. Claudia had her lute slung behind her. She spotted me immediately and smiled.
“Well met, husband,” she said as they came up to me. “Take this.”
Portia reached for me, and I put her up on my shoulders. Tiny hands seized my hair and held on tight.
“How goes your life of crime?” asked my wife.
“With the Church on my side, how can I fail?” I asked.
I recounted my conversation with Father Mascaron as we walked home.
“Do you know what strikes me as odd?” I asked when I was done.
“What?” asked Claudia.
“If he didn’t have Milon’s keys, what made him think he could get into the locked drawer in Milon’s desk? Why would he even try?”
“Desperation,” guessed Claudia.
“Maybe they taught him to pick locks when he trained for the priesthood,” said Helga.
“No, we do that,” I said. “Which reminds me, I have to add that to your studies soon.”
“Oh, good,” she said, brightening.
“What strikes me as odd,” said Claudia, “was that Mascaron was trying to discourage you from looking into the monks of Saint Sernin.”
“Which means that may be the best place to dig up some dirt on the Bishop,” I said. “Now, report, Apprentice.”
“Evrard has been wooing a maidservant from the Château Bazacle named Audrica,” she said. “Cook thinks they’ll be getting married soon. Cook thinks this is because they have to get married soon, or there will be a little boy running about with no official father but who looks a lot like Evrard.”
“Anything about Milon’s office?”
“No one was allowed in there if Milon wasn’t there,” she said. “He was very particular about that. The maid would go in first thing in the morning with him and do a quick dust and sweep while he watched.”
“Was it locked when he wasn’t there?”
“Yes, but Evrard had a key to the door.”
“Which makes him more powerful than Béatrix in the household,” I mused.
“Except that she would have had access to Milon’s keys at night,” said Claudia. “They did share a bed, after all. At least, during those hours of the night after he finally came home from his carousing. She could have made copies of his keys. All it would take is some wax for making an impression and a pliable locksmith.”
“Then that could also be said for any number of prostitutes in this city, if his reputation was deserved,” I said. “I wonder if he went to anyone in particular. What about his business? Who’s taking care of it?”
“Big brother Bonet,” said Claudia. “He came in to pick up the ledgers, and has started collecting the overdue debts. Béatrix wanted to send Evrard as her representative, but Bonet wouldn’t hear of it.”
“What about a will?” I asked.
“There is one,” she said. “I don’t know all of the details, but apparently the bulk of the estate goes to the family, with some going to local hospitals.”
“He took care of the widow at the last,” I said. “Something to be said for that.”
“The funeral is tomorrow,” said Claudia. “At Saint Sernin.”
“I think we should attend,” I said.
* * *
The next morning, we left Helga at the Borsella house where she had promised to help the cook with the funeral meal.
“We shouldn’t let her spend too much time there,” remarked Claudia as we walked to Saint Sernin. “She is supposed to be apprenticing to a jester, not to a cook. We don’t want to lose her to the wrong profession.”
“Gossiping with household cooks is an essential skill for any fool,” I said. “It brings you information and sustenance at the same time. Here we are, my love. Let’s not be seen arriving together.”
I hung back as she went through the front doors, then followed her inside. She was already at the front, paying respects to the widow, who was seated between Bonet and her four children.
I took a moment to glance around. I had forgotten what an enormous place this was, with its brick and stone columns shooting fifty feet or more to the vaulted ceiling. The capitals were sculpted into scenes of demons devouring sinners, while the floors were of intricate traces of black and white tiles. Mosaics of Our Savior looked down at us from above the altar, glittering with gold leaf.
New money had done well for the Benedictines.
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The monks were filing in, a cloud of black-garbed silence, taking their seats on benches on either side of the altar. I spotted Vitalis on the right, and on the left was the man I had mistaken for him, Brother Donatus, his cowl back so that his face was finally visible. A former soldier, Father Mascaron had said, and I could see that in the firm set of his jaw, a muscular hardness in his arms that made him stand out among identically clad men. There was a sense of precision in his movements that suggested absolute control. While Vitalis looked like he could be a brute in a fight, my money would have been on Donatus should they ever be matched. I had the feeling that he would methodically destroy his opponent in a matter of seconds.
Not that monks ever fight, of course.
Most of the household servants were present, seated behind the family with Evrard at the head. Claudia took a seat on the bench just behind them, while I joined the sparse group of people that had come to see the moneylender buried.
“Small crowd,” I remarked to the man sitting next to me.
“Not the most popular of men,” he said. “Most of us are here to make sure they bury him deep enough.”
The abbot stepped forward and led us through the mass most economically. When it was over, Bonet stepped up to the coffin with two other men who wore the chains of office indicating that they were also consuls, while Vitalis, Donatus and another monk came to the opposite side. They lifted the coffin onto their shoulders, and exited through a smaller set of double doors on the right. We followed.
The cemetery was behind the church. Milon was lowered into his grave. Then his family, one by one, shoveled dirt onto the coffin.
The abbot spoke to the family first, patting the heads of the children and speaking softly to them. None of them were crying, I noticed. The consuls followed, particularly attentive to Bonet. Then came the monks, many of whom embraced Vitalis, who was standing by his brother.
When Brother Donatus reached the Borsellas, he too embraced Vitalis, then clasped hands with Bonet. I caught a glimpse of something passing between them in the handshake, then Donatus moved on, his hands disappearing into the sleeves of his robe.
If Bonet was surprised to see me come up, he concealed it well. I merely muttered, “My condolences, Senhors,” and moved on. Perhaps he was more surprised that that was all that I did. But he concealed that as well.
