by Alan Gordon
“I ran into Pelardit,” said Claudia. “He told me.”
“He told you? How?”
“Well, in his own way,” she said. “Either he was saying that you were at the cathedral speaking to Father Mascaron, or that the city was being attacked by fish.”
“And you came here first?”
“No, I checked the river,” she admitted. “Everything appears safe—for now. But we should be careful crossing the bridge.”
I hoisted Portia onto my shoulders, and we walked toward the Grand Rue as I filled Claudia in.
“He might be right about Armand,” she said when I was done.
“Which is why I am going to look more closely into Saint Sernin,” I said.
A normal wife might have questioned me at this point, but Claudia simply looked thoughtful.
“Let me see if I can follow the twisted path your mind has taken,” she said. “We want to bring down the Bishop. Father Mascaron is the protector of the Bishop. Therefore, since he wants you to concentrate your efforts on Armand and drop your pursuit of the abbey, the abbey must hold something that would present a threat to the Bishop if revealed. So we must do the exact opposite of what Father Mascaron wishes to achieve our goal.”
“Thank you for putting my instincts into a form that almost sounds like they make sense,” I said.
“Years of practice,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Now, say Father Mascaron has been on to us from the start. Maybe he knows of the true purpose of the Fools’ Guild, maybe he butted horns with Balthazar in the past and finds our recent arrival suspicious.”
“All right. Where does that lead you?”
“What if he doesn’t even care about this mysterious book? What if there was something else in Milon’s office that he was searching for?”
“But the whole fight between the Borsella brothers and him was over the missing book.”
“The brothers brought it up, not Mascaron,” she said. “At least according to what Helga heard. He could have then used it as a plausible diversion, and a way of finding out what you were doing.”
“Dear me. Deception on both sides of our arrangement. What is the world coming to?”
“A bad end,” she said. “At least, if those fish have something to say about it. Keep an eye on the river if you value your life.”
“I need one of those Benedictine outfits,” I said. “We don’t have any, do we?”
“Alas, our cassocks only come in brown,” she said. “But I will bet that Pelardit has one.”
“Good thought. I’ll—”
A horseman came galloping down the road, shouting, “Count Raimon approaches. Get yourselves out to greet him! They’ll be throwing gold!”
“Pennies, more the like,” I said. “Shall we?”
“Let’s. Portia should enjoy it immensely. All those magnificent horses.”
There was a gradual flow of people trudging toward the Château Narbonnais including, I noticed, a goodly number of the town prostitutes, vying to show the brightest colors in their wardrobes or the most skin under them.
There was a group of musicians hastily setting up outside the outer walls of the château. I handed Portia to her mother and went over to the leader.
“I’m Tan Pierre, the new fool,” I said.
“I’m Egidius, the old trumpeter,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Could you use an extra player?”
“Depends,” said Egidius as he puffed air through a long trumpet. “What do you play?”
“Lute, flute, and tabor, mostly,” I said.
“First two are useless outside,” he said. “But if you are possessed of any rhythm at all, you’d be more proficient than half of the idiots I’m fielding today. Grab that side drum. Bartolomeo will tell you what to do.”
I picked it up and joined Bartolomeo, a cheerful stripling strapped to a drum as large as he was.
“Right, it’s fanfares, naturally,” he said after I introduced myself. “Trumpets go blat blat ba blatty blat, we go tum tum terrumti tumtitty tum, whole thing repeats twice, then a big long roll when the Count dismounts and if you could just reach over and whack this cymbal at the moment he kisses the ground, that would be terrific. Otherwise, just improvise off my beat.”
“Easy enough,” I said. “How far away is he?”
“About that far,” he said, pointing.
A squad of armed horsemen was coming around the tip of a copse of oaks that swallowed the road as it went south.
“Give them a good marching beat,” directed Egidius.
“Right, that’s a barrump bump bump bumpity bump bump bump and repeat,” said Bartolomeo.
He counted off the beat, and I launched into my barrumps, throwing the occasional roll or flourish just to keep it interesting.
“Good!” shouted Bartolomeo, pounding both sides of his drum energetically.
“Better start cheering,” a guard advised the crowd. “Louder you are, the more you get.”
They got very loud very quickly, driven by hope and greed. I could see Portia perched atop Claudia’s shoulders, bouncing gleefully as she saw the horses approach.
I had met the current Raimon during his younger years and mine. He didn’t make much of an impression, especially since his father, Raimon the Fifth, tended to dominate whatever room he was in. The older man was ill at the time but concealed it by booming heartily at the king who I served, commending him on his holy pilgrimage and his part in the Third Crusade. Raimon the Fifth was a Crusader himself, a warrior and a leader of warriors. The future Sixth was a skinny, unimposing man in his thirties, finally with a wife he liked to all appearances. The two sat off to one side, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes. She was the daughter of the King of Cyprus, so there were political implications to the marriage, but it appeared to be a love match all the same.
It was she that Raimon, as count, would repudiate two years later so he could marry Jeanne, the sister of Richard the Lionhearted, to stave off the latter’s claims to Toulouse. So much for love matches.
And now there was a new wife, Jeanne having departed this earth after producing an heir, which is all she was supposed to do. Raimon the Sixth, combining the instincts of a savvy politician with the rutting desires of a middle-aged goat, negotiated with King Pedro II of Aragon for one of his spare younger sisters, which the latter hoarded and traded with all the shrewdness of a Venetian merchant. Her name was Éléonor, and she had just come of age for marriage earlier in the year.
The Count and his wife rode side by side on matching white stallions. He had filled out since I last saw him, the stoutness of prosperity settling about his midsection. His glances toward his young wife were proud and proprietary, her dark beauty and youth on display, showing all the world that he was still in command of his potency. His hair was suspiciously black, tied into a long braid that bounced behind him. He rode easily, flicking pennies through the air to the crowd with a hand encased in dark red leather, the plumes in his cap dyed to match. The crowd scrambled to grab the coins, trampling and clawing each other in their frenzy while he watched them in amusement like a man at a cockfight.
A tall, gaunt man stood before the outer gates to the Château Narbonnais, wearing dark blue robes trimmed with ermine, a chain of silver coins across his chest. The Bishop joined him in full regalia, solemnly blessing the Count and Countess as they approached.
“Who’s that with the Bishop?” I asked Bartolomeo.
“Peire Roger,” he replied. “He’s the viguier. Manages the Count’s holdings when he’s making the rounds. Here comes the fanfare—get ready!”
The trumpets sounded, more or less together, and we followed with our pounding. This continued until the viguier stepped forward and took the reins of the Count’s stallion. Raimon stepped down, and we launched into a long roll.
“All hail Raimon the Sixth!” shouted the viguier. “Count of Toulouse, Duke of Narbonne, Marquis of Provence, conqueror of Carcassonne…”
The list
went on for a while. My arms were starting to ache from the constant drum roll.
A silk square was placed before the Count. He knelt upon it and kissed the Bishop’s ring, then brought his lips to the ground.
“Now!” cried Bartolomeo, and we struck a pair of cymbals that were suspended from a wooden frame.
The Count stood and plucked his girlish bride down from her mount as she simpered and beamed with all the arrogance of one who thinks she was the first to discover sex and was the sole possessor of its secrets. He took her arm, and they strolled through the gates into the Château, the Bishop and the viguier following, the rest of the entourage behind them.
Oldric, the Master of Revels, came up to Egidius and gave him a small pouch of coins.
“Good show, everyone,” he said. He spotted me among the musicians and waved. “Senhor Fool, I see that you have other talents.”
“Since I cannot pay tribute to the Count in my own fashion until Monday, I must do what I can to laud him in the meantime,” I said.
“Well spoken,” said Oldric. “We will see you at noon on Monday.”
I bowed.
Egidius tossed me a penny.
“Next time we’re shorthanded, we’ll send for you,” he said.
“I enjoyed it,” I said, shaking my arms to get them loose again.
The crowd, its enthusiasm abating, trudged back into the city to resume their lives. Claudia came over with Portia, and I introduced them to the musicians.
“How did you do?” she asked.
I held up my penny. She held up three.
“The Count threw them quite hard,” she said. “I really had to move to keep them from hitting Portia.”
“All my hard work, and you made three times as much just standing there,” I grumbled.
“Where to now, good husband?”
“To find Pelardit,” I said. “I want to borrow his Benedictine outfit. It’s time I paid a more thorough visit to Saint Sernin.”
CHAPTER 8
Pelardit opened his door and stared at us in surprise. Portia pointed to him and said, “Ba!” He looked for a moment as if he was considering what she had just said very deeply, his brow furrowed, his hand on his chin. Then he looked back at her, opened his mouth as if he was about to reply. Then he shrugged, thought better of it, and waved us in.
“I guess ‘Ba’ is the password,” I said.
He nodded seriously.
“You should change it,” advised Claudia. “If Portia knows it, she’ll be telling everybody.”
He nodded again, then turned to me, a question in his eyes.
“I was wondering if you have something in a black cassock, size tall,” I said.
He turned to his shelves of props and costumes, studied them for a moment, then snapped his fingers and swept his hand across until it came to rest on something black. He held it up. It was a Cluniac robe, complete with cowl.
“A loan for a few days, and I promise to wash it before I return it,” I said.
He tossed it to me.
I practiced getting it on and off quickly. The rope at the waist presented a problem, but I figured out a way of knotting it that would pass quick muster while still able to come undone in a moment.
“You’re a little taller than him, so your boots can be seen,” observed Claudia. “I think some of them wore boots, so that isn’t necessarily a problem.”
“Unless someone is using my boots to identify me,” I said. “I’ll have to get my own robe in the future. Did you make this one yourself?”
Pelardit shook his head, swelled up and held out his arms to indicate a fat man, then shifted to a feminine demeanor and mimed sewing frantically.
“Martine,” I said.
He nodded.
“When there’s time, I shall commission her,” I said. “Now, I’m off to join some monks.”
I folded the costume up neatly and placed it in my pack. There was ample space, as my juggling clubs were back in our rooms. One more day of Advent, then I could be a jester again. I couldn’t wait. Prancing about as a normal person for so long was getting on my nerves.
“What exactly is your plan?” asked my wife as we walked to Saint Sernin.
“Plan is too exalted a word for what I am doing,” I said. “I want to get a closer look at a pair of burly monks when they are not on public display.”
“Do you expect them to speak to you?”
“People speak to you when you poke them with sticks,” I said. “Even if it’s only to tell you to stop.”
“This is why I never let you play with hornets’ nests,” she sighed.
* * *
The monks were performing the Office of None as I slipped into Saint Sernin. I had the black robe in my pack, but I doubted that I could safely mingle with them in mid-song. Nor could I fake my way through the entire service, although I have always liked the 127th Psalm, especially the part that says, “It is vain for you to rise up early.” Any sacred admonition to sleep in is fine by me.
They sang the Kyrie in two parts, the harmonies echoing off the gilded mosaics and the intricate stone carvings, soaring to the vaulted ceilings high above us, though still far below God’s Heaven. I waited patiently for the concluding hymn, Rerum Deus tenax vigor, and joined my voice with theirs. It felt good to sing at full throat, letting all my cares and troubles slip away in a moment of pure music offered to Our Savior.
But the hymn ended, and I was back to my earthly pursuits, scanning the crowd of monks for Vitalis and Donatus. Here inside the church the monks kept their heads uncovered, so I would not make the same error of confusing the two. The question was which one to approach, and how to do it.
I was about to flip a coin when they made the choice for me. It was time for afternoon chores. Donatus headed toward the dormitorium with most of the brothers, but Vitalis separated from the pack and went out the south entrance. I followed him.
He went to the cemetery behind the church and stood before the grave of his brother, his hands clasped before him, his lips moving rapidly. Suddenly, he threw himself prostrate on the grave, his hands clawing at the dirt, crying.
I came up to the grave and knelt beside him.
“Is there anything I may do, Senhor?” I asked softly.
“Go away,” he moaned, his sobs muffled by the newly turned earth.
“I am sorry for your loss, Senhor,” I said. “But this display is unseemly. Your brother is in Heaven now, as you should know better than anyone.”
“I know better than anyone that he is not,” he said, the tears subsiding somewhat. “And I shall follow him to Hell.”
“That is no talk for a man of God,” I scolded him. “I am not the one to tell you that, being a layman, but if you suffer for the loss of a brother, surely you have this entire community of brothers to sustain you.”
He looked at me, and a bleaker expression I have not seen on a man in many a year.
“There is no comfort for the damned,” he whispered.
“If I cannot console you, let me at least get you to your feet,” I said, holding my hand out.
He took it, and let me pull him up. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe.
“I must look an idiot,” he said.
“You looked like a man struck down by grief,” I said. “No one seeing you would condemn you for that.”
“Do I know you, Senhor?” he asked. “I think that I have seen you before.”
“I happened by chance to be at the funeral service,” I said. “I am a recent arrival to Toulouse, and wanted to see Saint Sernin, and be in the presence of the holy relics. I heard you have most of Saint George and a decent chunk of Saint James.”
“A pilgrim, then?”
“No, I have come to stay, I hope. My family and I have taken up rooms in Saint Cyprien, but we may move into town someday. I have been going to services at different churches just to compare.”
“You came to my brother’s funeral,” he said, an odd expression appearing on his f
ace. “You stood in line with the others. I remember now.”
“Yes, you were standing with your other brother, of course,” I said. “It’s easy to see the kinship despite the different professions. Why, when I saw the two of you in the cloisters the other day…”
“The cloisters?” he interrupted. “When was this?”
“Oh, three or four days ago, just before midday,” I said carelessly. “I happened to be passing by and saw the two of you walking together.”
“You are mistaken,” he said.
“Well, I don’t know why I would be,” I said. “How many monks can there be with your build? I have seen wrestlers who seem scrawny by comparison.”
“Donatus,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“It must have been Brother Donatus,” he said. “But why was he with my brother?”
“I’m confused, Senhor. Are you saying that there is another such muscular monk?”
“Yes,” he said. “His name is Donatus.”
“My word, two giants in black robes,” I said. “You should consider putting on wrestling exhibitions and charging admission. You could raise a considerable sum for the order.”
“But why would he and my brother … well, it’s of no importance,” he said.
“So which of you did I see going into that big fortress of a château after the funeral?”
Large men tend to be florid, so when they turn pale, it is quite a dramatic effect.
“Donatus went to Bazacle?” he whispered, the fear written across his face. “What was he doing there? What could he possibly want?”
“Senhor, what has caused this distress?” I asked. “It was not my intention to bring you bad news, yet I cannot see how this counts as news at all. What would you have me do to ease your troubled mind?”
He shook me off.
“My apologies,” he said. “This is none of your concern, and you are blameless. In fact, it is good that you have told me. You must excuse me, Senhor … I don’t even know your name.”
“Tan Pierre, Brother Vitalis,” I said. “You see? I already knew your name.”
“Then, Senhor Pierre, go with God,” he said, crossing himself.
He left me standing by his brother’s grave and rushed away.
