The Moneylender of Toulouse

by Alan Gordon

  “But Helga’s right,” objected Claudia. “We don’t know what it means. And why was Vitalis hiding it?”

  “Maybe we should ask him,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that at all,” she said. “Theo, if Donatus thinks we have it, then Guilabert will think that as well. Someone will come looking for it. Maybe a whole lot of armed someones. We can’t keep it at our place.”

  “I’m thinking we can’t keep us at our place right now,” I said. “Scrub your makeup off, get into civilian garb, pick up Portia and go to the Yellow Dwarf. Tell Hugo we’re taking Balthazar’s old room for the Twelve Days, but we don’t want people knowing about it. By the way, how did your other little errand go?”

  “I searched, found nothing,” she said.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” I said. “All right, better be on your way.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “I need to pick up my gear, then make a few stops,” I said, slipping the book into my pouch. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Remember,” she said, patting the book. “That’s worth killing for.”

  I kissed her.

  “And that’s worth dying for,” I said. “See you soon.”

  * * *

  I was fairly sure that no one was following me this time, and didn’t spot anyone watching Honoret’s place, which only ruled out the less skilled. I climbed the steps, checked the padlock to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with, and went inside our rooms. I quickly gathered my working gear together, and was about to leave when there was pounding on the bottom of the trapdoor.

  I pulled my knife out.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  A birdcall was the reply. I put the knife away, and knelt to remove the bar.

  “What happened?” I asked as I opened the trapdoor. “We were supposed…”

  Careless.

  The door swung up hard into my jaw, knocking me back onto my rear, and in the instant it took for the stars to stop cascading, Pelardit unfolded his lanky frame into the room with a look of fury. I thought in my stupor that was the first unfeigned expression I had ever seen on him. I tried to regain my balance, but he stepped forward and kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. Then he sat down cross-legged in front of me and closed the trapdoor, sliding the bar into place.

  “What on earth…?” I managed to croak as he sat and watched me clutch my stomach.

  He fanned his fingers in front of him, and they shimmered and quivered like flames.

  “The fire?” I asked hoarsely.

  He nodded.

  “Nothing to do with me,” I said.

  He snatched my bag from the floor, opened it and pulled out the Benedictine robe that I had borrowed from him. He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, then shoved it into my face.

  “I told you I was going to have it cleaned,” I said, my voice muffled by the robe. He pulled it away. “All right, it does smell a bit smoky at that.”

  He threw it down, then pounded his fists against his chest. He shaded his eyes with one hand and swept his gaze back and forth across the room, then pounded his chest again, looking at me angrily.

  “The reason I didn’t use you as a lookout this morning was because I didn’t trust you this morning,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He looked at me questioningly, holding his arms out to both sides.

  “Because of this,” I said, pulling from my pouch the scrap of parchment that I had taken from Balthazar’s room. I handed it to him, and he turned it over and over again, bewildered. Then he looked at me.

  “It was in Balthazar’s hiding place in his room,” I said. “There was nothing else there.”

  He drew his knees up and rested his arms and chin on them, deep in thought. Then he sat up and looked at me in alarm.

  “Claudia searched your place this afternoon,” I said. “Sorry. But we had to know.”

  His jaw dropped. Then he pushed it back up with his left hand and held the right one out to me. I took it.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” I said. “Have we sufficiently forgiven each other?”

  He nodded, then stood and hauled me to my feet. I was finally able to straighten up. I rubbed my jaw.

  “Nice move there,” I said. “You’re lucky I didn’t take your head off.”

  He snorted in derision.

  “Fine,” I said. “You can make yourself useful. Be a one-man parade back over the bridge. I’ll follow your distraction. Peel off to the north once you get to town. I don’t want anyone connecting us.”

  He nodded, then opened the trapdoor and dropped out of sight. I gathered my gear, climbed down, and padlocked the place. I opened the front door cautiously and glanced up the road to where the children were clustering around my colleague. I slipped out and followed from a safe distance.

  Everyone waved to the gaily prancing motley character as he capered across the Daurade Bridge. No one paid any attention to the ordinary fellow who trudged along thirty paces behind with a couple of bags slung over his shoulder.

  Once through the gates, I turned south. I made one stop along the way, then got to the Yellow Dwarf as the sun was starting to set. The few patrons drifting in for supper were concentrating on their beer. Hugo nodded as I entered, and jerked his head toward the steps. I nodded back and climbed wearily up.

  Claudia had her arms wrapped around me before I reached the top step. One more burden didn’t matter—I picked her up and carried her into our room.

  Portia was asleep in her cradle. Helga was rocking it and looking unusually cross.

  “We’re all going to be in here together?” she asked.

  “Safety in numbers,” I said. “We’ll take turns standing watch.”

  “I had twelve—no, thirteen nights in my own room,” she said. “That’s thirteen nights of solitary sleep in almost thirteen years. I was just getting used to it.”

  “You could sleep in the hall if you like,” offered Claudia. “Guard the threshold like a faithful dog.”

  “When do I get to be my own fool?” Helga moaned.

  “When the Chief Fool of Toulouse decides that you’re ready,” I said.

  I dumped the bags and my wife on the bed.

  “Save me some dinner,” I said.

  “Where are you going now?” asked Claudia.

  “To church,” I said. “It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

  “Without your family?” asked Claudia.

  “Don’t want your foolish minds polluted by that drivel,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”

  The evening services were actually ending when I entered the cathedral. I stepped into the side chapel as the Bishop and the attendant priests bid the scattered congregants a good night. Then a deacon went around the cathedral, snuffing out the torches and candles.

  I waited until he left, then walked silently through the darkness toward the apse. Off to the left, light flickered from beneath the door to Father Mascaron’s office.

  I drew my knife, took a deep breath, then rushed through the door. He looked up in surprise and started to cry out, but I dove across the desk and drove him back against the wall, my hand clamping down on his mouth and the tip of my blade just below his ear.

  “Forgive me, Father,” I said. “For you have sinned.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I dragged him over to the door, kicked it closed, then patted him down. Sure enough, there was a dagger in his sleeve. I removed it.

  “Any good with this?” I asked him.

  He glared at me.

  “Down on the floor,” I said. “Cross your legs and keep them that way. I see a foot move, I’ll trim your tonsure closer than you’ve ever had it before.”

  “You wouldn’t actually kill me,” he said softly.

  “What’s one more body the way things have been going around here lately?” I scoffed. “It will give your master a new topic for his sermon. What greater sacrifice may a priest make for his bishop?”

  “You ha
ve come to kill me, then,” he said.

  “I’ll hear your confession first,” I said. “Start with the lies you’ve told me, and work your way from there. Any murders you feel like getting off your chest will be held in the strictest confidence until I figure out how to make some money off them.”

  “You won’t make money if I’m dead.”

  “I may not live to spend it if you’re alive,” I said. “You’re a snake in a cassock, my friend. You used me, and I want to know why.”

  “To find Milon’s book—”

  I hit him in the jaw with the haft of my knife. He rocked backwards. I grabbed him by the collar of his cassock to keep him from falling.

  “That’s going to be nasty if you live long enough to bruise,” I said. “I found the book. You described it fairly well. At least the outside. What was inside was quite different.”

  “It was a book of debts owed—” he began.

  I hit him again. Harder this time. I was starting to enjoy this.

  “Next lie, I turn the knife around,” I said. “There were no accounts, no debts. Not monetary ones, anyway. And the master of the book wasn’t Milon Borsella, was it?”

  “You know so much, why bother with me?” he asked, then he flinched as I touched the point of my knife to his tender jaw.

  “Why did you want me to go after it?” I asked him.

  “Because I wanted to know if the Bishop was in it,” he said slowly. “And if so, why.”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “I knew nothing about it at all until it went missing,” he said. “That accusation by the Borsella brothers in Milon’s office was the first I ever heard of it.”

  “Then what were you looking for in his office?” I asked.

  “A will,” he said. “Milon Borsella’s will.”

  “His will? Why?”

  “Because in this last will, he had left the bulk of his estate to the cathedral,” he said.

  “You’re lying,” I said. “Milon Borsella was a Cathar. He would never do anything to help the Church.”

  “He had been a Cathar,” said Father Mascaron. “But I had convinced him to come back to the Church. Or at least, I thought I had.”

  “When was this?”

  “Six weeks ago. It was part of my ministry.”

  “But he didn’t live in your parish,” I said. “Why would he be part of your duties?”

  “Because my principal duty was helping the cathedral stave off financial ruin,” he said. “It’s become desperate here. Bringing in Milon would have been an enormous help.”

  “But why did he want to come here instead of Saint Sernin? His brother was there.”

  “That was why,” said Father Mascaron, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “Explain.”

  “I won’t, and there is nothing you can threaten me with that will make me,” he said calmly.

  “Brave words,” I said. “Or … is it something you learned from a confession?”

  “I couldn’t answer you if that was the case,” he said.

  “So Milon made a will leaving his estate to the cathedral,” I mused. “And now it’s missing. But that’s not what he and the Bishop were arguing about when we first saw them.”

  “No,” he said.

  “And he wasn’t coming after him for a debt,” I said. “That whole conversation was about something else. Was it the book?”

  “That’s what I have been trying to find out, Fool,” said Father Mascaron. “The Bishop was in that book, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said, a suspicion growing within me. “The Bishop didn’t know that you were looking for it, did he? That’s why he looked so confused when I said I was still on the hunt. He didn’t know you had hired me to find it.”

  “No,” said Father Mascaron. “He didn’t.”

  I slid my knife back into my sleeve.

  “Get up,” I said. “Stretch your legs if you need to, then sit in your chair. Bear in mind that I will kill you if you take so much as a deep breath.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He stood up slowly, keeping his breathing shallow, then moved behind his desk and sat.

  “What side are you on in all this?” I asked.

  “I am not sure how many sides there are nowadays,” he said. “But I stand for the Church.”

  “And the Bishop?”

  “As long as he stands for the Church, I stand for him,” he said. “But I don’t know where he stands anymore.”

  “What made you think this book had anything to do with him?” I asked him.

  “When we were walking back after our confrontation with the Borsellas, he asked me what had happened. He knew that I had gone to look for the will, but he came in after the brothers accused me of stealing this book I had never heard of before.”

  He grimaced.

  “When I told him about it, he turned paler than I had ever seen him before, and said, ‘The Book of Names stolen! Then we are doomed.’ I asked him what he meant by that, but he refused to speak further on the subject. I have endeavored to learn what I could since then. I think that Milon Borsella stole that book from someone. Someone powerful. And it was his discovery of my master’s name in it that turned him against the church again.”

  “That would certainly do it,” I agreed. “It’s a pity that you did all that good work converting him, only to have it destroyed by the man you did it for. To think I was helping you protect the good name of your church all this time. I feel much more virtuous now. I even feel mildly remorseful about hitting you so hard. Forgive me.”

  “Forgiveness comes easily to me,” he said. “I have a feeling that you are not quite the ruffian that you first appeared to be, either.”

  “Oh, I am quite the vicious fellow,” I said. “Nor do I feel so warmly toward you that I am ready to trust you entirely. But I think that we may part without killing each other for now.”

  “That’s a start,” he said. “What next?”

  “Depends on what I find out,” I said.

  “Where did you find the book?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I said, shaking my head. “How did you know what it looked like if you had never seen it before?”

  “I had seen it. I just didn’t know what it was,” he said. “When I was in Milon’s office once before, I saw him put it in that drawer and lock it. I didn’t know it was anything significant at the time, but I remembered enough about its appearance to give you a description.”

  “I’ll accept that for now,” I said. “Well, I have abused you enough for one evening. See you at Mass tomorrow. Oh, and a happy Christmas to you.”

  “May we all live peacefully until the next one,” he said.

  “Speaking of which, this is yours,” I said, tossing his dagger onto the desk.

  “Out of curiosity, what would you do if I made a sudden move toward it before you got out that door?” he asked.

  “Normally, I would kill you,” I said. “But now that we’re such good friends, I’d only pin your hand to your desk with my knife.”

  “Good night, then,” he said, putting his hands together in prayer.

  I left the cathedral, trying to sort my thoughts into useful little piles, but they kept toppling over into an incoherent muddle. My instincts were to believe Father Mascaron as far as what he said. But he hadn’t told me everything. He specifically refused to tell me one thing. Something that came between Milon and Vitalis. Yet Vitalis was the one who ended up with the book. Had he stolen it from Milon after Milon stole it from Guilabert? Or had Milon entrusted him with it?

  I thought back to the confrontation in Milon’s office between the surviving Borsella brothers and Father Mascaron. Bonet was the one who accused him of stealing the book. Which meant that Bonet knew about it before then. Was his signature on one of the missing pages?

  And Vitalis had let his brother’s accusation go unchallenged. Indeed, he had encouraged it, helping his brother upend the priest, all the while knowing that the book was safely hidden in
his closet. Which meant that Vitalis didn’t trust Bonet.

  Nice family.

  * * *

  Hugo was cleaning up when I returned to the Yellow Dwarf.

  “You’re out late,” he said. “And without your getup on.”

  I shrugged.

  “Your own business, of course,” he said. “Will you be requiring a drink before bed?”

  “A pint of something to clear my thoughts,” I said.

  “You want them cleared or erased?” he asked.

  “Just cleared,” I said.

  He dipped a cup into a barrel and handed it to me. It went down nicely.

  “Good night, good Hugo,” I said.

  “Good night, Senhor.”

  Claudia was up, nursing the baby, while Helga slept, curled up on a pallet in the corner.

  “You look befuddled,” she said.

  “Then unfuddle me,” I said.

  I recounted my conversation with Father Mascaron, and she shook her head in disbelief.

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “He still has some game we don’t know about.”

  “Agreed. But assuming what he did say was true, what confessed secret do you think could be of such enormity that it caused a rift between Milon and Vitalis? And was it healed before Milon was killed?”

  “The confession had to have come from Vitalis,” she said. “Milon hadn’t fully returned to the church, from what you described, so he wouldn’t have been up to confession yet. And it makes sense that a Saint Sernin monk would go to confession at the cathedral instead of his own abbey to keep things truly private. It must have been an old sin, for him to … I wonder.”

  I waited while she thought.

  “An affair,” she pronounced. “That must be it.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Vitalis and Béatrix,” she said. “It was right in front of me all the time. He was so solicitous toward her. The intimacy between them, it was more than just him comforting a grieving widow. They must have been lovers once.”

  “That would explain his behavior at his brother’s grave,” I said. “Interesting. I wonder if you could winnow it out of the widow.”

  “Theo,” she said, looking unhappy.