The Moneylender of Toulouse

by Alan Gordon

  “And your single male cousins!” shouted Helga.

  I smacked her gently on her head, which sent it wobbling back and forth as the children laughed.

  Through the Porte Romaine into the interior courtyard, with the Grand Tower looming over all. The Grande Chambre, where the dinner was to be held, was to our left. Pit fires were already burning, with sides of cattle being roasted in them while men collected the drippings in long-handled pans and poured them back over everything. My stomach began rumbling immediately.

  “They will feed us,” said Jordan confidently.

  “When we have earned it,” I reminded him.

  He sighed.

  We saw the musicians who I had supplemented before trooping into a side door. Bartolomeo was bringing up the rear, pushing a cart full of percussion ahead of him. He looked at me for a moment, then shouted, “Our drummer is a fool! Look!”

  Egidius came out and greeted us.

  “Made it here at last, have you?” he said to Jordan. “About time. You doing the old duet bit with Pelardit?”

  “New and improved,” said Jordan. “It may even be funny now.”

  “Then that would be a Christmas miracle, wouldn’t it?” jibed Egidius.

  “Right up there with you getting through a fanfare without cracking a note,” agreed Jordan.

  “Now, now, let’s be friends,” I said. “If all goes well, we may be finding work for each other.”

  “I hear you’re the new Balthazar,” said Egidius.

  “No one could replace him,” I said modestly. “I merely hope to do his memory justice.”

  We entered the Grande Chambre, which had already been set up for the feast. Tapestries and drapes of escarlati interwoven with silver threads adorned the walls. A single table seating about twenty faced us from the end, while two long tables extended out on either side, leaving the central space available for food to be served and jesters to caper about.

  Oldric came up to us.

  “Timely, and thank you for that,” he said. “You lot up there.”

  He pointed to a balcony, and the musicians groaned and started lugging their instruments up the steps.

  “Now, fools, could there be juggling and quiet amusements until after the main course?” he asked.

  “Of course, Senhor,” I said.

  “Have your wife juggling closest to the Count,” he suggested. “Though not so close as to displease the Countess.”

  “I leave the calculation of that distance to you,” I said to Claudia.

  “A fresh young girl like her versus an old married woman like me?” laughed Claudia. “I could be leaning over his plate and he wouldn’t notice me.”

  “You underestimate your charms, Duchess,” I murmured in her ear. “She wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “This is why I keep you around,” she said, and danced away, four clubs spinning about her.

  “And who will be going first in the fooling?” asked Oldric.

  “Jordan and Pelardit,” I said. “And they’ll introduce us.”

  “Very well,” said Oldric. “Here come the guests.”

  I was not yet acquainted with all of the rich and powerful men and women of Toulouse, but there were many that I had met already. In came some who were clearly consuls by their chains of office, Bonet Borsella among them. He glanced at me and sneered. I gave him my best smile and kept juggling.

  Calvet came in with a group of bailes, and was soon engrossed in conversation with Bonet. The Bishop entered in full regalia, but unaccompanied by any of his priests. Despite the miter bobbing over the assemblage like a cork on a rough sea, he was ignored by most of them.

  A group of ladies were exclaiming over the prodigious talents of Helga, who had retreated into little girl mode again while keeping three balls in the air, a look of innocence on her face. I knew that she could do five just as well, but no point in bringing out your best tricks before the show has even started.

  Pelardit, in the meantime, was doing slight of hand and close-up magic that brought oohs and ahs from the people around him.

  I wandered over to Jordan, who was carrying on a lively conversation with a group while keeping a wooden ball rolling over the varying curves of his body.

  “Hey, fat man,” heckled one of the younger men. “Why aren’t you juggling like that little girl?”

  “If I juggled like her, I would be fending off your attentions for the rest of the evening,” retorted Jordan.

  The man’s companions started laughing and elbowing him. He looked angrily at Jordan.

  “Let’s see you juggle, you tub of lard,” he said.

  I stood back to back with Jordan, still juggling my clubs, and muttered, “Spread your arms.”

  He stood with his hands extended outward, and I turned and slipped my arms under his, the clubs continuing in front of his ample girth. He clasped his hands in back of me, and we became a four-legged, two-headed fool.

  “Behold my mastery!” he chortled as I kept the pattern going, popping my head back and forth over his shoulders. The group, which was growing in size, applauded.

  “But it still isn’t you,” protested the heckler.

  “Will you settle for half of me?” asked Jordan.

  “They should, since half of you is as big as one of them,” I said. “One, two, go!”

  Jordan brought his right hand back to join mine for some three-handed juggling. It actually looked more difficult than it was, since we had three hands going for four clubs, but it was a nice effect, and even the heckler gave up and joined the applause.

  We concluded the routine and bowed.

  “Thanks for lending me a hand,” I said to the groans of the crowd.

  “My pleasure,” replied Jordan.

  We were about to move on when he nudged me. A couple had arrived whose finery stood out even in this gathering. She was wearing silk, bolts of it, gathered, flounced and beaded to an inch of its life, dyed a delicate sea-mist green that marked it as Byzantine in origin, while her hands and throat glittered with jewels. His surcoat was trimmed with ermine of the purest white, with more shiny rocks hanging from thick silver chains. He was a stout man in his late forties. Not fat, but powerful, with legs like tree trunks. He looked like he could have toppled the Grand Tower had he found a spot to brace himself against it.

  “There’s your master of Bazacle,” muttered Jordan. “Arnaut Guilabert, and his wife, Gentille. Those jewels she has on are worth more than the rest of this room put together.”

  “They took care to make their entrance after everyone else,” I said. “Except for the Count, of course.”

  There was a sudden pounding of drums, and people scurried to their places at the side tables. The five of us gathered under the balcony and grabbed instruments. Then Peire Roger entered and took a deep breath.

  “Rise and give homage to Raimon,” he shouted. “Sixth Count of Toulouse…” and there came that list of towns again.

  We added our instruments to the fanfare, and filled the room with music. The Count and Countess entered, her ring-encrusted hand resting on his offered arm. The entourage followed, many of them already holding goblets of wine which they heedlessly let splash about.

  Jordan took advantage of the music to point out some of them to me.

  “The fellow in the escarlati cape is Bernard, Count of Comminges,” he said. “Raimon’s cousin, pretty much his best friend. The woman with him is Indie, Raimon’s sister—well, half-sister—well, illegitimate half-sister.”

  “His father was quite the huntsman, as I recall,” I said.

  “Oh, you have no idea. Balthazar used to say that Raimon was always put off from taking a local mistress because he was probably bedding someone who his father had had first. And he didn’t want them making any comparisons.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” I said. “Who are those two following?”

  “Raimon Roger, Count of Foix, and Rostaing, Baron of Sabran, both in Raimon’s inner circle. They were al
l guarantors of the wedding contract when he finally married Éléonor. The priest is Frére François. He’s with the chapel here at the château, so he’s the Count’s confessor when he’s in town.”

  And so they marched in, taking their places at the center table. The Count held a golden goblet before him.

  “My friends, the season of abstinence is ended,” he pronounced. “The season of joy is upon us. Let prosperity flow like water through a mill-run, and may it spin all of your dreams into gold.”

  He drank, and there was another fanfare.

  The servants swarmed in, carrying platter after platter piled high with food which the guests tore apart like wolves almost before it hit the tables.

  “I so enjoy watching others eat,” sighed Jordan.

  “Oldric’s getting up,” I warned him. “Be ready.”

  Oldric strode to the center of the room, carrying a long oaken staff. As he did, a pair of servants brought in a wooden frame, about fifteen feet in length, from which hung a pair of scarlet drapes. They placed it about ten feet in front of us.

  “A curtain for entrances,” said Claudia. “Very helpful.”

  We heard a thumping noise as Oldric banged his staff on the floor.

  “Dominus and Domina,” he cried, addressing the Count and Countess. “We give thanks to Our Lord for your successful journey and your safe return.”

  Polite applause from the assemblage.

  “Honored guests, I bid you joy and blessings,” he continued. “As Master of Revels, it is my privilege to introduce the evening’s entertainment. But before I do, I wish to take a moment to honor one who brought laughter to so many for so long. A great friend of mine, and a friend to all Toulouse, the fool Balthazar left us to entertain for the courts of Heaven this past summer. I wish to propose a toast to his memory. To Balthazar.”

  Behind the curtain, we had no wine, no goblets. We silently held up our instruments and juggling clubs as the room murmured, “To Balthazar.”

  “But as he himself used to say, as long as there is laughter, there is life,” said Oldric. “I have promised you entertainment, and let no one say that Oldric is not a man of his word. I give you—Jordan and Pelardit!”

  Jordan took a deep breath and swept through the curtains.

  “Domina, Dominus,” he cried. “The season of joy is nigh, and—Pelardit? Where are you, my friend?”

  Pelardit, his arms piled high with instruments and props, tripped through the opening in the curtain. We heard a clattering that lasted for an impressively long time, culminating with a crash of cymbals.

  We stood in readiness, and listened to a performance that was mostly physical comedy. There were laughs where we expected them, which was good, and laughs where we didn’t, which was very good. The only audience we could see were at the ends of the side tables, but to our right and left, the servants stood in the entryways, quaking with merriment, platters of desserts shaking precipitously in their hands.

  Then they reached the climax, and there was applause. I signaled Claudia and Helga, then stepped up to the curtain. Pelardit slipped past me with the instruments, a look of relief mixed with jubilation on his face.

  “My friends,” said Jordan. “It brings me great pleasure, indeed almost as much pleasure as eating, which should tell you how much pleasure is involved, to introduce to you the newest fools in town. Fresh on their triumphant tour of anywhere that would care to have them, and of anyone naive enough to lend them money, from their performances before such notables as Viscount Roncelin of Marseille, Countess Marie of Montpellier, and King Pedro of Aragon, I give you—the Fool Family!”

  And I staggered through the curtain clutching a wineskin, blinking uncertainly until I caught sight of Jordan.

  “What country is this?” I demanded.

  “Why, you are in Toulouse, good fellow,” he said.

  “Toulouse, is it?” I squinted at the opulence of the room. “Not bad, not bad at all. Where’s my room?”

  “Your room, Senhor?” exclaimed Jordan. “Where do you think you are?”

  “At the pilgrims’ hostel, aren’t I?” I said. “I tell you, friend, if the hostels in Toulouse are this fancy, then the Count’s place must be truly magnificent.”

  “My good fellow, I’m afraid…” started Jordan, but then Claudia and Helga burst through the curtain in mid-squabble and we were off and running.

  The first performance after Advent is always strange for a jester. The shock of a live audience after cooling our heels for a month gave our performances an energy that would be flagging come summertime. But here in our Toulousan debut, the timing was sharp, the clubs flew high and fast, as did little Helga, and by the time we had finished our new repertoire with Jordan and Pelardit, the room was weak for laughing. We took our bows moving backwards, and took the frame down with us when we collectively stumbled into it.

  Desserts were served, and Oldric came up to us.

  “Well done,” he said, tossing me a small purse. “I’m told there is food waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  “Our thanks, Senhor,” I said as we bowed. “We are at your disposal.”

  A maid led us to the kitchen, where the servants were scavenging anything not devoured by the Count’s guests. There was enough for even Jordan to pronounce himself sated. He slipped a few extra pieces into his pouch for his family, then looked behind me guiltily.

  I turned to see Oldric standing there.

  “Senhor, what may we do for you?” I asked.

  “You and your wife come with me,” he said.

  I glanced at the others. Jordan looked worried.

  “Helga, finish packing our gear,” I said. “We will be back shortly.”

  “I hope,” muttered Claudia as we followed Oldric. “What do you think this is about?”

  “No idea,” I replied.

  Oldric took us up a flight of steps to a door with guards on either side, and knocked softly. It opened, and he stood back to let us in, then closed it behind us.

  Count Raimon the Sixth sat behind a broad oaken desk.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  CHAPTER 9

  He pointed to a pair of chairs in front of the desk.

  “Sit,” he said.

  We sat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bernard, Count of Comminges, take a seat off to the side. No one else was present.

  Raimon looked at us thoughtfully. His eyes lingered appreciatively for a moment on my wife, then rested at length on me.

  “You’ve been to Toulouse before,” he said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, Dominus,” I replied.

  “But not under the same name.”

  “No, Dominus. I am flattered that you remember me under any name.”

  “With a snip of a boy who fancied himself a king,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “Named Denis. Whatever happened to him?”

  “He died a year later,” I said. “Riding accident.”

  “May his soul rest in Heaven,” he said, crossing himself. “He was on pilgrimage, and you were his entertainment.”

  “I was one part of his entertainment,” I said. “He found many other entertainments while he was here.”

  “As many do,” he agreed. “But he found absolution before his death.”

  “He did, Dominus,” I said. “Twice, if you count the Crusade.”

  “Twice fortunate soul, then,” he said. “Why did you change your name?”

  “People are more interested in seeing a new fool than one they have seen before,” I said. “I change my name every few years or so to take advantage of that.”

  “Interesting,” he commented. “I suspect it also throws any creditors off your scent.”

  “I have left some places in haste,” I confessed with a grin. “Some people don’t appreciate a good joke.”

  “I think that you will find Toulouse quite tolerant of humor,” he said.

  “Apart from the Bishop,” I said.

&nb
sp; “The Bishop?” he said in surprise. “What has my good friend Raimon de Rabastens done to displease you?”

  “He’s banned the Feast of Fools,” I said. “I was hoping to arrive here with a splash, and the Church has taken away my puddle.”

  “That’s Rome’s doing, not Raimon’s,” said the Count. “He’s pliable enough when you get to know him. So. Fresh from a tour of Montpellier and Marseille, correct?”

  Ah. There it was.

  “Correct, Dominus,” I said.

  “And did you truly perform for a viscount, a countess and a king in that journey?”

  “To be precise, Dominus, we both performed before King Pedro and Viscount Roncelin, but only my wife appeared before Countess Marie.”

  “That figures,” muttered Comminges.

  “Of course,” I said, looking directly at him for the first time. “You were Countess Marie’s husband before she married King Pedro. They say she wore you out.”

  He glowered, and the Count chuckled.

  “She would wear any man out,” he said. “Beautiful but quite demanding. We were happy to cede her and Montpellier to Pedro.”

  “More than happy,” agreed Comminges, and Raimon chuckled again.

  “So, you saw Pedro and Marie in Montpellier…” continued Raimon.

  “No, Dominus,” I interrupted. “We saw King Pedro in Marseille, dining with Viscount Roncelin.”

  “Now, that is interesting,” said Raimon, leaning forward. “Tell me about that.”

  “The king sailed into the harbor one sunny day in early October with four ships,” I said. “The Viscount held a welcoming dinner. We performed.”

  “And in the course of this performance, did you happen to hear any of the conversation between these two great lords?” asked Raimon.

  “A fair amount,” I said. “I assume you want the meat, not the appetizers.”

  “You read my desires correctly, Fool.”

  “The king sought financing for a pair of ventures he had in mind,” I said. “The first was to continue on to Rome to be formally anointed as king.”

  “Pompous ass,” said Raimon. “The second?”

  “To raise a fleet to invade the Balearics.”

  “The Balearics,” he repeated, leaning back again. “So he’s still on that. Good. Let him have them. They’ll keep him occupied for a while.”