by Alan Gordon
“No one is observing us here,” said the Count.
“You have two men hidden in the balcony at this very moment,” I said. “No doubt armed with crossbows.”
“Apart from them, of course,” said the Count. “Alfonse, you’re getting careless.”
“Sorry, Dominus,” called one of the men in the balcony.
“You are a shrewd observer,” said the Count, softly so that his elevated guards could not hear. “What have you discovered about these murders?”
“Why would a fool bother about such things?” I replied.
“Try answering a direct question directly,” said the Count.
“I have not discovered the identity of the murderer, or murderers,” I said. “But I have kept my eyes and ears open. Let’s say I do learn something useful—should I bring it to Calvet, or directly to you?”
“Do you think Armand told the truth about seeing a sandal-shod man?”
“Not for an instant,” I said.
“Then you might as well bring it to me,” he said. “Calvet’s a good man, but he’s obsessed with the Cathars.”
“Very good, Dominus.”
“Tell me something, Senhor Fool.”
“Yes, Dominus?”
“Why is my friend the Bishop so jumpy around you?”
“I cannot say for certain, Dominus,” I said. “But I enjoy seeing it.”
“I know that you are disappointed over losing the Feast of Fools,” he said. “But the Bishop is an ally of mine. Tread carefully.”
“Dominus, I can walk a rope so thin that it could have been made by a spider,” I said.
“Ropes can be cut,” he said. “And spiders can bite. You may go.”
He tossed me a coin. I bowed and left.
* * *
It was past noon. It occurred to me that I had spent the morning performing for the Count without being fed. Shameful. I stopped in a tavern for a quick lunch and a slow drink. I wondered about the whereabouts of my colleagues. They wouldn’t be likely to be working the taverns this early in the day. More likely at the markets or the squares.
I walked up the Grande Rue until I passed through the Portaria into the bourg. I glanced at the courtyard of the Borsella place, but saw no Helga amongst the children playing. I kept going until I reached the plaza in front of Saint Sernin, where I saw a small crowd circled around my wife and our apprentice, who were busy juggling clubs back and forth to each other.
The bells rang for None, and monks began filing toward the church from different directions. I had a sudden inspiration. I ducked into a doorway and pulled out Pelardit’s Benedictine robe. I threw it on and tied it quickly, then plodded toward the church, my head bowed inside the cowl so the whiteface would not be visible to anyone. I trailed the last monk I could see toward the north entrance, but held back at the last second while the doors closed for services. Then I turned and walked to the dormitorium. I listened for a moment at the door, then went inside.
There was a set of stone steps leading up, and another leading down. I went up. An entrance opened up into a long, narrow room. There were twenty-four beds, a dozen on each side, each with a freestanding wooden closet next to it. All identical. I had no way of knowing which belonged to Vitalis, or Donatus, for that matter. Which meant I had to search them all, and be out before the monks resumed their chores.
I started reciting the service for None as I searched quickly through each bed and closet, making sure to replace everything as I had found it. I had gotten through one side of the room by the time I reached the Rerum Deus tenax vigor. I came back down the steps, humming the hymn, and walked toward the cloisters, my hands folded in prayer. No one took any notice. It helped that Claudia by this point was juggling knives instead of clubs, Helga holding Portia a safe distance away. I found some cover, stripped off the robe, and stuffed it inside my pack. I put my cap and bells where they belonged, and was a fool again.
I wandered to the edge of the crowd watching Claudia, and led the applause when she was done. I swooped in on Portia, who was sitting on the ground, playing with some juggling balls, and lifted her high in the air.
“Well met, husband,” murmured Claudia as Helga dashed about with her tambourine to collect a few coins. “How was the dormitorium?”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Should I not know my own husband, even in disguise?” she said, smiling. “Especially when you are taller and leaner than any monk in that abbey. I thought you might show up here.”
“There is no surprising you anymore,” I sighed. “I must remember to slump next time. I have to take another turn tomorrow. I only got halfway through the beds. And there’s a kitchen as well.”
“And you’re still looking for that book?”
“Or whatever Vitalis is hiding there. Thank you for providing a distraction, by the way.”
“I had my own reasons for coming here,” she said.
“We have enough for dinner,” said Helga, coming up with her tambourine.
“Let’s go to one of the taverns by the Bazacle Gate,” I suggested. “And you can tell me about why you’re here while we walk.”
“After you left, I thought I would pay another visit to Béatrix Borsella,” said Claudia. “It’s been a few days, and I didn’t want her to think I had only been there to play mourner for a day. I sent Helga on ahead, because they haven’t connected us yet.”
“I visited the cook,” said Helga. “I told her that I was earning some money helping out at the big Christmas dinners everyone is having, which is why I haven’t been by as much.”
“You could tell her you’re a fool,” I said. “She’s going to see you performing at the markets sooner or later. How fares the widow?”
“Still in mourning, still being comforted by Brother Vitalis,” she said. “She was surprised to see me in makeup and motley, but I explained about Advent. I played for a while, then she asked me to leave because she was planning to visit her husband’s grave.”
“A proper thing for a widow to do,” I said.
“Only she hasn’t,” said Claudia. “I came there straightaway, and she hasn’t been all day.”
“But she did leave after Claudia did,” said Helga.
“And you followed her.”
“I did,” declared Helga proudly. “She left with Vitalis and Evrard, but Vitalis took the road to Saint Sernin.”
“And where did the widow go?”
“To the Château Bazacle,” said Helga. “She was there for an hour, then came home again.”
“That place keeps coming up, doesn’t it?” I said. “Here’s the tavern.”
The Tanners’ Pit had mutton stew, watery but hot. We secured a table and ate. I took some small pieces of bread and sopped them in the stew for Portia, who sucked on them with a quizzical look before deciding she liked them.
“What’s interesting to me about the Château Bazacle is that the defense of the northern part of the city is entrusted to a private citizen rather than the Count,” I said. “That makes him tremendously powerful.”
“Guilabert is powerful because he’s rich,” said Claudia. “He controls Bazacle, which means he controls anyone who makes their living from Bazacle.”
“That would include Bonet Borsella,” I said. “He built that new sawmill. And Milon had been complaining about him throwing all of his money into that venture. It doesn’t sound like he would have lent him any more. I wonder if Bonet had to borrow from Guilabert?”
“But how would that lead to Milon’s murder?” asked Helga.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But with the widow Béatrix choosing to visit Bazacle instead of her husband’s grave…”
“We know that her husband beat her and cheated on her,” said Claudia. “Could she have turned to Guilabert for solace? He wouldn’t be my first choice, but that’s because I don’t like the way he kisses. She might find money and power to be enough to compensate for that failing.”
“Or maybe Milon the mon
eylender owed money to him, and his debt passed to her?” I speculated. “Whatever it is, it’s our first real connection between the dead man and Guilabert.”
“Second,” said Helga. “There’s Evrard and Audrica, the Bazacle maidservant.”
“True enough,” I said. “Then there’s Brother Donatus. Let’s say he was Guilabert’s conduit to Saint Sernin.”
“Why would Guilabert want a man in the abbey?” asked Claudia.
“If he wants to control the bourg, then influence in the abbey would be useful,” I said. “It’s the religious center for all the new money in the bourg, and it controls Saint Pierre, the Taur, Saint Cyprien—everything but the cathedral itself. And even there…”
I stopped as a thought hit me. Hard.
“What is it?” asked my wife.
“The Bishop was elected by a council of local canons,” I said. “Brother Peire said it was a closely contested election between Raimon de Rabastens and the Bishop of Comminges, and that Rabastens wasn’t considered a strong candidate. I wonder if Brother Donatus could have been the deciding vote.”
“You mean Guilabert could have bought the bishopric,” said Claudia. “If that’s true, then he controls the consulate and all of the ecclesiastic power in Toulouse. What does he want to do with all of this?”
“I think we had better find out,” I said.
CHAPTER 11
I went through the beds on the other side of the dormitorium as quickly as I could. In one, I felt a small leather-bound book inside the straw stuffing. I pulled it out with a surge of hope, but it turned out to be a set of erotic illustrations. I was tempted to confiscate the source of this poor monk’s temptation, strictly as a lesson to him, of course, but reluctantly decided to replace it so as not to call any attention to my handiwork.
It was approaching noon, and the monks were in church for the Office of Sext. I was in the middle of the last bed when a shrill whistle echoed through the windows from the square in front of Saint Sernin. I threw the blanket back and flew down the steps and out the door, reaching the cover of a nearby shed just as the doors to the church opened and the monks poured out to resume their chores.
I slipped off my sacred disguise and took the long way around to the square, coming to it from the northwest. Pelardit was wobbling around on a rickety pair of stilts, whistling in panic whenever he seemed about to topple over, which was frequently. The whistles were answered by shrieks from the children watching him, yet he always regained his balance in the nick of time.
Helga was sitting on the steps by the main entrance to the church, where she had been listening to the monks, Portia on her lap. Since I didn’t know the timing of the service for Sext, her job was to signal Pelardit when the final hymn began. Hence the warning whistle.
“You cut it awfully close this time,” commented Claudia, materializing by my side.
“What’s life without risk?” I asked.
“Longer,” she said.
“Any luck?” asked Helga as she came up to us.
“None,” I said. “A little earlier on the signal next time.”
“It’s a short hymn,” she said. “Personally, I thought they sang it too quickly.”
“We’ll have them hire you on as choir mistress,” said Claudia. “And what do you mean by ‘next time’?”
“There’s still the kitchen and a few other rooms to consider.”
“Right now, we should consider lunch,” said Claudia.
Pelardit hopped down from his stilts and beckoned to us, rubbing his stomach.
“You know a good place?” I asked.
He nodded, and walked his fingers in the air.
“Very far?”
He shrugged.
“Is it worth the walk?”
He lifted an invisible cup to his mouth, drank deep, and staggered, smiling cherubically.
“You make a compelling case,” I said. “Lead on.”
It was a long walk, all the way across the city to the Porte Montgalhart, which was the first gate east of the Château Narbonnais. A funeral procession was passing through it. Jews, by their dress and their chanting, going to their cemetery outside the city walls.
The tavern was called the Yellow Dwarf, which gave me a momentary pang of longing for the Scarlet Dwarf, our favorite tavern near the Fools’ Guildhall before our exile, a rambling, raucous place filled with drunken, competitive jocularity. This tavern, on the other hand, was small and quiet. There was an upper floor with rooms for lodgers, although there was no sign that there currently were any. In fact, there was no one there but the innkeeper when we arrived. Our arrival appeared to wake him from a light nap, but he brightened upon seeing not just customers but fools.
“Pelardit, my old friend!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping to see you here today. And these must be the new fools in town. Welcome, welcome all. I’m Hugo, and this is my tavern.”
“I’m Tan Pierre, friend Hugo, and I have never met a tapster I haven’t liked,” I said. “Pelardit tells us you brew a fine ale here. At least, I hope that’s what he meant.”
“Oh, you’ll find he told you true,” said Hugo, filling a pitcher and placing it on our table with a stack of cups. “But confirm it for yourself, Senhor.”
Pelardit poured for all, and we raised our cups to our host and drank.
“I now name my friend Pelardit to forever be my guide in all things,” I said. “This is excellent ale, Senhor Hugo.”
“Now, all I have is bread and cheese for lunch,” said Hugo. “Will that satisfy?”
“It will,” said Claudia. “But you must join us.”
“I will, and thank you, Domina Fool,” he said.
He brought in a tray of bread and cheese, straddled a bench, and began slicing.
“It’s good to see such a lively crew here again,” he said. “Haven’t seen this many jesters at my table since Balthazar passed on, God rest his soul.”
“Was he a frequent visitor?” I asked, helping him pass the food around.
“He lived here,” said Hugo. “Didn’t you know?”
“I did not,” I said.
“Oh, sure, for years,” said Hugo. “He’d be sitting where you are, and Pelardit and Jordan on either side, sometimes a troubadour or two, and they would go on into the evening, one song after another, or stories or tricks or what have you. Those were the days, weren’t they, Pelardit?”
Pelardit nodded, looking wistful.
“Well, now that we know that the ale is fine and the host so convivial, we’ll make sure to bring those days back again,” I said.
“I would enjoy that,” he said. “I do miss the old sod. I can still see him, sitting here while I cleaned up after everyone else had gone home, writing notes by a single candle until there was just a stub left.”
“And up the next day at the crack of noon,” I said.
“Oh, you have the right of it,” he laughed. “Wish I could keep a fool’s hours.”
“This is excellent cheese,” said Claudia. “Won’t you have some, friend Hugo?”
“Oh, I suppose I will at that,” he said, taking a piece. “I’m still not used to eating it after all this time.”
“You don’t like cheese?” I asked.
“Well, I was a Cathar for a long while,” he said. “True believer until I had the darkness pulled from my eyes, so didn’t eat cheese, you know.”
“Nothing that comes of coition may be eaten,” I said. “That’s what they believe.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Thankfully, I was shown the error of my ways, and I get the benefit of the better food as a bonus. Forgot how good roast mutton could be.”
“I always thought it was a cruel trick to separate the sheep and the goats only to eat the sheep,” said Claudia. “So what brought you back to the fold, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, this priest came through back in the spring,” he said. “Traveling with that bishop from Osma who was staying with our bishop, only they couldn’t handle the
entourage, so we got a couple. I always liked picking on the traveling clergy, get them all flustered about theology compared to the Cathar beliefs, ’cause none of ’em were all that good at debating and such. Only this fellow, what was his name? De Guzman?”
He shook his head admiringly.
“I’ve never met a priest like him. Knew everything, had an answer for every argument I had. And he wasn’t just some show-offy type. He really seemed concerned for my soul. He persuaded me, God bless him. I hope he comes back some day. If more priests were like him, I would have come back years ago.”
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“They were off to Denmark on some mission,” he said. “Who knows when they’ll return? Or if? But I’ll pray for them in the meanwhile.”
“Sounds like you could preach the Word yourself now,” I said.
“Naw, I don’t have the gift,” he said. “And I’m not out to bring the others back. Everyone should find his way without being forced into it.”
“I agree with that,” I said.
“Of course, if you die a Cathar, like poor Milon, then it’s straight to Hellfire with you,” he said. “And that’s a sad thing. But he had his chance. You never know when life’s gonna turn on you.”
“Milon? Do you mean Milon Borsella?” I asked.
“Right, the one who got dumped in the tanner’s pit last week,” he replied.
“I had no idea he was a Cathar,” I said.
“Well, it’s not like everyone knew it,” he said. “But he was, for ages. Not ready to take the final step to being one of the Perfect, you know, and it wouldn’t have been good for business if people knew.”
“I am amazed,” I said, glancing at Pelardit, who listened impassively. “Is his wife Cathar as well?”
“Oh, no,” said Hugo. “Just the opposite. Very Christian in her ways. That was kind of a funny thing. He didn’t want her knowing he was going to meet with the Cathars, so when he was out nights, she thought he was seeing other women, and would scream at him like nobody’s business. And he never would tell her the truth, ’cause he figured that would upset her even more than thinking he was cheating on her, can you imagine?”
