by Alan Gordon
We bought some firewood and soaked a piece in a bucket of water. When we applied our preparation to it and stuck one end into the brazier, it caught fire fitfully, spitting and casting off a great deal of smoke.
“Too wet,” I said.
I dipped the next piece in the bucket for a shorter time, then shook off the excess water before applying the combustant. This time, the flames seized hold nicely while still producing enough smoke to attract notice. I flipped it once and caught it.
“Do they still have the game at the Guild where a flaming torch gets tossed from novitiate to novitiate until someone gets burned?” I asked Helga.
“Not since we fled the Guildhall,” said Helga. “With all the novitiates living in that barn and sleeping in the hayloft now, Brother Timothy decided it wasn’t the best idea.”
I tossed it to her. She caught it easily and tossed it back. Claudia stepped forward and grabbed it before it reached me.
“At the risk of sounding like a mother,” she said, waving it at me. “Not inside!”
“Yes, dear,” I said meekly as she doused it in the bucket.
We made up two bags of the treated wood. I slung them over my shoulder along with the bag containing the Benedictine robe. I was in civilian clothes for this little jaunt, with my ordinary face affronting the world without the help of makeup. I went first, knowing that the others would be keeping me in sight. I took a circuitous route to Saint Sernin, coming up to the cemetery just as the bells in the tower in front of me were calling the brethren to Sext. I knew that Claudia was somewhere behind me, and that Helga had moved to the square in front of the church.
I watched the monks pour into Saint Sernin like devoted ants. I waited another few minutes in case there were any latecomers, but they were a punctual group. I squatted between a pair of mausoleums and threw on my robe, then walked, hunched slightly to conceal my height, until I came to the dormitorium entrance.
Once inside, I ran up the steps to the sleeping quarters, dropped one of the bags and untied it so that the wood could breathe. Then I ran down to the kitchen area and dropped the other bag. I took one piece out and lit it at the cooking stove, then touched the flame to the bag. It caught, and began spreading to the treated wood within. I ran back up the steps with the lit piece like I was an emissary from Hell and touched it to the other bag. It caught. I watched it for a minute, and smoke began to fill the room. I ran downstairs, caught my breath, and walked quickly from the dormitorium to the church entrance, trying my best to look like a hurrying latecomer with a guilty conscience. I opened the door silently and slipped inside, standing in the side gallery, watching the backs of the Benedictines, searching among the tonsured heads until I marked Brother Vitalis, deep in a prayer that was about to be interrupted. I hoped he wasn’t praying for anything important.
Then I heard shouts from outside. The main entrance to the church opened, and several people barged in. I heard Helga screaming among them in her best little girl voice, “Senhors! Hurry! The dormitorium is on fire!”
Brother Donatus was the first monk to react, rising to his feet and charging the side door so quickly that I barely had time to duck behind a pillar. He ran past me and burst outside as the rest of the brethren followed in his wake. I brought up the rear, taking care to keep my cowl covering my full and untonsured head of hair, making sure I had Brother Vitalis in view at all times.
The monks for the most part stopped short to gape at the smoke which was now pouring out of the upper and lower windows, but Brother Donatus never hesitated, plunging into the building. He emerged a minute later.
“Two fires!” he shouted. “Looks like it started in the kitchen, but somehow got upstairs. Grab every bucket you can find and get a line going to the well.”
The monks scattered in several directions as Brother Donatus continued to bark out orders like a sergeant. Some headed toward a well by the cemetery, while others ran back into Saint Sernin in search of buckets. Parishioners were emerging from the church behind us to gawk or run home for more buckets. In the general melee I saw Vitalis staring at the smoke in horror. Then he made a sudden dash toward the entrance.
“Wait!” cried Brother Donatus, but Vitalis brushed him off and ran in.
“I’ll get him!” I shouted as I flew by, hoping that he didn’t get a clear glimpse of my face.
Next time, less smoke, I thought to myself as I dove through it. It took me a moment to get my bearings, but the footsteps I heard were above me, so I ran up the steps in that direction. The upstairs fire hadn’t spread to anything yet, I was relieved to see, but it wouldn’t be long before the hardwood floor would start to catch.
Brother Vitalis was not in the sleeping quarters, but I heard coughing from my right. There was a small closet that I had missed in my earlier hasty visits. He was standing on a small stool inside it, reaching for something on the highest shelf.
A book.
Then he turned and saw me and froze.
“Come on!” I shouted. “They need help with the buckets! What are you doing?”
He nodded and put the book into a pouch tucked into the rope around his waist, then headed toward me.
Damn.
I had hoped that I would see his hiding place and then come back later for a spot of surreptitious pilferage. I hadn’t counted on his keeping the book with him, but I should have anticipated it. The question was how to get it from him without his realizing. And there was the little matter of the fire around us, which was my responsibility.
I followed Brother Vitalis back down. We were met by Brother Donatus who had two buckets of water in his hands.
“Get the upstairs one first!” he ordered us, and we each grabbed a bucket and ran back.
Like most fools, I am a proficient pickpocket, and God knows I had provided myself with enough to distract my quarry. But I still had to get away once I had taken the book, and there was a line of monks between me and the outside.
We dumped our buckets on the fire, fortunately getting most of it on the first try. As we started back down, I slipped my dagger from my sleeve and held the handle so that the blade pointed up my wrist, concealing it from view. Two other monks were running up the steps with fresh buckets, and I hurled myself to the side to let them pass, stumbling into Brother Vitalis as I did. He caught me to steady me, and with a single swipe I sliced his pouch from his waist. I caught it before it fell and shoved it inside my robe.
“Thanks,” I muttered, and I ran downstairs ahead of him.
“Out of my way!” I shouted as I hit the door, and monks scattered like pigeons as I ran with the bucket to the well by the cemetery. One of the monks was cranking the windlass as fast as he could while others stood with buckets waiting to be filled.
“Wait!” cried Brother Vitalis from behind me.
“Here,” I said to the monk next to me. I handed him my bucket and took to my heels.
I am certain that anyone watching would have found us a comical sight, one black-robed monk chasing another through the bourg. As the one being chased, however, I was uncharacteristically less concerned with the comedic aspects of my plight, and more with avoiding the beating I anticipated receiving from my pursuer. I had arranged to meet Claudia at an alleyway in the cluster of buildings northeast of the church. As I turned into it, I saw her concealed in a doorway. I took Brother Vitalis’s pouch and tossed it to her without breaking stride. She caught it and vanished inside without a word. I kept running.
As I reached the end, I risked a glance behind me. Brother Vitalis was about halfway down the alley, and looking like he could run all day if he had to. I had better things to do. As I made the turn, I saw a water barrel by the side of the building. I vaulted on top of it and jumped, catching the edge of the rooftop, then used my momentum to swing my body up to the top. I rolled away and lay flat, hoping the roof would support my weight. I heard the monk turn the corner and stop. I held my breath as my heart pounded in my body. I heard him walking around, kicking doors open. Fi
nally, he gave a roar of frustration and walked away.
I took a deep breath. Still lying down, I slid out of my robe and rolled it up, then stuffed it inside my bag. I raised up my head a little, and saw the monk trudging disconsolately back to Saint Sernin. There was no more smoke coming out of the dormitorium, I was glad to see.
The neighborhood was quiet. I guessed that everyone had gone to help. Or to gawk, more likely. I slipped down from the roof, shouldered my bag, and walked away, whistling like I had not a care in the world.
* * *
I cut down to the Portaria and crossed into the city. I was ravenous from the running. Perversely, the smoke had given me a craving for sausages. I bought some hot off an outdoor brazier that an enterprising pair of young men had set up near the Maison Commune. I don’t know if it was the actual sausage, or the relief at getting away with a remarkable number of crimes over a short period of time, but they tasted better than any sausage I had ever eaten.
I swung by Jordan’s house. Martine’s shop was open, and the boys were kicking a ball back and forth in front of it.
“Your father home?” I asked.
“He’s out working,” said the older one. “Some party somewhere.”
“Good for him,” I said. “How about your mother?”
“She’s working, which means in there,” said the boy, pointing to the shop.
I reached into my purse and handed each of them a penny.
“For Christmas,” I said, and they took them gladly and ran off to spend them.
I walked into the shop. Martine was sewing beads onto a gown.
“Stupid ninny decides the day before Christmas she wants beads to wear in Church,” she muttered, a needle between her teeth. “And only Martine must do it, and it must be done before sundown.”
“It’s superb work,” I said. “Have you had any time for my little project?”
She reached behind her to a side table and handed me a large cloth bag. I looked inside.
“Perfect,” I said, and I handed her some coins. “Have you had a chance to eat? I have some sausages.”
“Smells like the ones from those boys by the Maison Commune,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Don’t trust ’em one bit.”
“I wish you had told me that before I ate them,” I said ruefully.
“Ah, well, most survive, so I expect you will, too,” she said. “Any messages for my husband?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “Tell him we’ll meet him after Mass tomorrow at Montaygon Square.”
“Are you really going to do the Feast of Fools on your own?” she asked.
“The Pope banned it from the Church,” I said. “He never said anything about Montaygon Square.”
“The Bishop won’t like it,” she said.
“That’s the basic idea,” I said. “A joyous Christmas to you, Na Martine.”
“And to you,” she said.
Claudia and I had not worked out any secondary meeting place in case the first didn’t work. I berated myself for my sloppiness on that point, and decided to head home and stay there until she and Helga returned.
As I approached the house of Honoret, I suddenly felt uneasy. I glanced around the area, but nothing leapt to my eye to justify the feeling. As I neared the door, however, I heard a birdcall that belonged to no bird. I continued past the building and down the street.
A group of children ran by, chasing a hoop down the street, keeping it rolling with sticks. Helga was one of them. As they passed, I saw her point her thumb to the left. The stables were in that direction. A visit to Zeus would provide me with a reason not to go into my house. I knew I was being followed. The question was what motivation did my follower have, information or assassination?
I purchased a bunch of carrots from a stall and continued on. The cemetery was on my left. An ominous sight, but one that left no good cover in that direction. Which left only the right and rear as possible sources of attack. I slid my dagger from my sleeve and held it nestled against the bunch of carrots.
I nodded to a stableboy who was mucking out the stalls when I came in.
“How’s my horse?” I asked him.
“He’s a holy terror,” he said. “We’ve been having contests to see who can stay on him the longest.”
“Who won?”
“The horse did,” he grinned.
I went over to his stall. He whinnied.
“A joyous Christmas to you, Your Malevolence,” I said.
I held out a carrot, and he snatched it away.
Another birdcall, and my wife was standing by me.
“Where’s Portia?” I asked.
“With the woman who watched her the other day,” she said.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Were you followed?”
“Don’t insult me,” she said.
“Sorry. What’s going on?”
“I didn’t know what happened after you ran by,” she said. “I met up with Helga and came back here, but I didn’t want to go inside in case they had caught you and were on their way to grab us. We dropped off Portia and then watched for you. And guess who came by?”
“Brother Vitalis?”
“Right church, wrong monk,” she said.
“Brother Donatus?”
“Muscles and all. He set himself up where he could keep an eye on Honoret’s house. Luckily, it was in a place where I could see him. And then I saw you coming and became a bird.”
“Good thinking.”
“Thank you. Fortunately, he didn’t follow you.”
“So that was you I sensed breathing down my neck on the way here.”
“I thought you liked it when I did that.”
“I do when I know it’s you,” I said. “He didn’t follow me. We’ve never been face to face, so he doesn’t know me.”
“At least, not without makeup and motley,” she said. “I think he came looking for a jester.”
“I wonder what put him onto us,” I said. “Or who?”
“Could Vitalis have told him about losing the book?”
“My sense was that Donatus is the last person Vitalis would want knowing about that,” I said. “Maybe Donatus figured out that something was up after seeing him chase me away from the fire.”
“Which still leaves the question, why us?”
“Guilabert? Bonet? Maybe even Father Mascaron,” I said. “We better make sure we bar the trapdoor securely tonight.”
“Nothing says Christmas Eve like a menacing monk,” she sighed.
Helga appeared at the stable entrance.
“He’s gone,” she reported. “I made sure he crossed the bridge, then I came back to find you. Hello, Zeus. May I feed him some carrots?”
I tossed her the rest of the bunch. She raised an eyebrow as she noticed my dagger still in my hand.
“Have you looked at the book yet?” I asked Claudia.
“I have,” she said. “See what you make of it.”
She tossed me Vitalis’s pouch. I pulled out the book. It was much as Father Mascaron had described it—bound in black leather, secured with a golden clasp, gold crosses in each corner. Only …
“Borsella’s name,” I said. “It isn’t there.”
“No,” she said. “Nor has it been scraped off the cover, as far as I can tell.”
“Father Mascaron lied to me,” I said sadly. “And who will save the soul of our ghostly confessor?”
“That’s only the beginning,” she said. “You’ve only judged it by the cover. Take a look inside.”
On the first page, written in Latin in a businesslike hand: “By my signature on these pages, I bind myself by oath and all that is holy to the service of A.G.; my lands and my income to be forfeit should I fail in this service; my life to be forfeit if I reveal it.”
“Nothing like Latin for an oath,” I said. “Was your first guess Arnaut Guilabert?”
“Of course,” she said. “He’s the only ‘A.G.’ we’ve encountered.”
I turned the pages. There were about two dozen signatures.
“Peirede Capitedenario, Arnald Ascii,” I read. “They’re both consuls from the bourg. So is Guilhem Cascavelerius, I think. So are a lot of these. New money types—De Las Tors, Del Claustre, Roaix. They all have those big houses near Saint Sernin. Speaking of which, here’s Brother Donatus, surprise, surprise. These names I don’t know, but they don’t sound Toulousan.”
“Mercenaries, I’ll wager,” she said. “Castilians from the sound of them.”
“There are some pages torn out,” I said, holding it open for her to see.
“If Milon had this book, then he might have removed his own name,” she said. “Or Vitalis could have done the same.”
“Why would Guilabert have entrusted this book to Milon?” I wondered. “Why not keep it inside that fortress of his? Unless…”
“Unless Milon stole it,” finished Claudia.
“And his life became forfeit,” I said.
“But why?” asked Helga. “I mean, fine, a bunch of powerful people are working for Guilabert, but what are they doing?”
“If wealthy men conspire, it’s usually about gaining more wealth,” I said. “Everyone involved is from the bourg, and the bourg has been increasing its power in the consulate over the past five years.”
“And the consulate has been waging war on the surrounding towns,” said Claudia. “Conquer the area, conquer the markets, and the rich get richer.”
“But everyone knows they are doing that,” said Helga. “So what’s the big secret of the book? Why was it worth killing for?”
“Oh, you didn’t read the last page,” said Claudia.
“I was getting there,” I said defensively. “I don’t like just jumping to the end without reading everything else.”
I flipped through to the last page.
Raimon de Rabastens. Bishop of Toulouse.
“I don’t think this is just about money,” I said. “We were looking for something that would show the Bishop owes Guilabert. Here it is.”
