by Alan Gordon
“Hostages?” blurted one of the prisoners.
“Why should I need hostages?” asked the Count, amused. “You are released. Go spend the holidays with your families. We will begin this new arrangement after Twelfth Night. Oh, Bonet, if you would be so good as to remain for a moment.”
The rest of the prisoners were unchained and escorted out. Bonet stood flanked by Calvet and a guard. He could not take his eyes off the book.
“You paid that poor drunk Armand to testify at the inquest for your brother’s death,” said the Count. “Why did you seek to implicate the Cathars?”
Bonet threw himself prostrate before the Count. The guard started forward but was restrained by a curt order from the baile.
“Forgive me, Dominus,” he said, weeping. “I was doing what I was told to do. You’ve seen my name in Guilabert’s book. I had borrowed from him to the point of disaster for the sawmill. I had no choice.”
The Count held the book up.
“Your name isn’t in here,” he said.
“What?” exclaimed Bonet, looking up at him.
“Honorable of you to volunteer that your name had been in here,” said the Count. “Your brother tore a page out and destroyed it. I supposed he loved you enough to protect you, even though you were a traitor. Too bad you didn’t love him more than you loved money. His blood is on your hands, along with everyone else in this book. You have to live with yourself. I don’t. Get out of my sight.”
The guard led him away.
“I was wrong,” said Calvet, kneeling before the Count.
“You were too eager to be fooled,” said the Count. “I know you despise the Cathars, but they harm no one. And there are too many of them for you to kill.”
“Forgive me,” said the baile.
“Of course,” said the Count. “Stay with us for the rest.”
The baile took a seat by the viguier.
“How do you like the play so far, Fools?” called the Count.
“Well-crafted and politic,” I said. “Your mercy is noteworthy.”
“More pragmatism than mercy,” said the Count. “Were I to hang so many Toulousans, then it would be known throughout Christendom, and I will be seen as a weak man. This way, I maintain control over my own city. Is it time for your interpolation now?”
“Depends on what’s coming in Act Three,” I said.
“Arnaut Guilabert,” he said.
“Then I will wait until you are done with him,” I said.
“Bring him in,” commanded the Count.
Guilabert walked in unescorted and unchained. He bowed slightly to the Count.
“I have your book,” said the Count, holding it up.
“Never seen it before in my life,” said Guilabert.
“Your initials appear in it,” said the Count.
“Common enough in this town,” said Guilabert. “I could name you a dozen men with the same.”
“Your mistress, Audrica, has made a statement implicating you,” continued the Count. “As has Bonet Borsella.”
“A drunken slut and a man who owes me money,” retorted Guilabert. “Who would believe them?”
“Perhaps no one other than me,” said the Count. “Then there is your brother.”
“I have no brother,” said Guilabert.
“Half-brother,” the Count corrected himself. “He spoke of your plot against me. He’s very proud of you, you know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Guilabert. “I have no half-brothers, either.”
“Bring him in,” directed the Count.
It took several guards to move the big monk, despite his being chained and gagged. His robes were in tatters, and his leg was wrapped in bandages.
“I can certainly see the resemblance despite the tonsure,” observed the Count. “Do you care to repeat your denial, Guilabert?”
“He’s just a monk,” said Guilabert. “Nothing to do with me.”
“Then if you have no use for him, neither do I,” said the Count. “Bernard, would you mind strangling him for me?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said the Count of Comminges, producing a length of cord from his sleeve. He stood behind the monk, looped the cord around his neck, then pulled it tight. Donatus’s eyes turned desperately toward Guilabert. Then they began to bulge.
“He’s a man of Christ,” commented Raimon. “Want to deny him a third time?”
“Stop it!” shouted Guilabert.
Raimon held up his hand, and the Count of Comminges released the cord.
“I am glad to see that you care about someone,” said Raimon. “It makes it easier to apply pressure. We are going to handle this quietly. You will forfeit your holdings to me. The Château Bazacle will be conveyed to the city of Toulouse for its defenses. You will discharge your soldiers immediately, and mine will occupy their barracks. When all of this has been completed, you, along with your family and your children’s families will be banished from the Toulousain. On that day, I will release your brother to you. That is all. You know the way out.”
Guilabert looked at his brother, then turned and walked out. The guards took Donatus away.
“Your turn, Fool,” said the Count.
We came down to join them.
“By your leave, Dominus, I will take you to your dungeons,” I said. “But please hang back. I wish the prisoner to believe I am alone.”
“I am intrigued already,” said the Count. “Lead on, Fool.”
Out into the courtyard, into the Palace of Justice, and down to the dungeons. The guards on duty started to hail the Count, but he silenced them with a gesture. I walked ahead to a cell and looked inside at its occupant.
“Hello, Martine,” I said.
She didn’t look up.
“How was the sausage?” I asked.
She pointed to the unopened package next to her.
“Oh. Apparently not to your liking. The cheese neither? I’m so sorry. My mistake. I should have realized. Nothing that comes from coition, right?”
She picked up the package and hurled it at me with a shriek.
“Come, come, Martine.” I said. “That’s poor behavior even for a Cathar. Most of the ones I know are very peaceable people.”
“Go away,” she said.
“I should have picked up on it before,” I said, ignoring her. “You refused our wonderful meal because you had a touch of the stomach, yet you ate dried fruit? Odd choice for a woman who ails so. But you turned down some very good sausage, and you didn’t even eat the excellent lamb that you cooked for our arrival.”
“I wish that you had never come here,” she said.
“But that’s all your business,” I said. “I have no problem with Cathars. At least, with those who don’t betray me.”
“What is your meaning?”
“Armand,” I said.
She buried her face in her hands.
“The day he was killed, he was supposed to meet me at the Miller’s Wheel,” I said. “The only person I told about that was Jordan, and he was with me the entire time until we saw Armand floating in the Garonne. But Jordan told you. And then he took me for a nice long tour of the city, while someone killed Armand in the bourg. Who was it, Martine? Who did you warn about our meeting?”
“I can’t tell you,” she sobbed.
“Martine, there are a pair of fine young boys waiting in the courtyard,” I said. “I promised them that I would free their parents. I have cleared Jordan of both murders. But if you don’t tell me who you told, then he will have to raise your boys alone.”
“You wouldn’t leave me here,” she whispered.
“I’m the one who put you here, Martine. You were arrested at my behest. One word from me to the Count and you will either rot here or rejoin your family.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Count and Claudia standing where she couldn’t see them, listening intently.
“Good-bye, Martine,” I said, and I turned to leave.
&
nbsp; “It was the Bishop,” she said.
I turned back.
“Tell me everything,” I said.
“I was his seamstress,” she said. “I repaired his vestments, his miter. Whenever he could scrape the money together, I would make him a new set. Then things began to change. Somehow, he found out that I was a Cathar. And he wanted me to come back to the Church, but I refused. Then he told me that things were going to become much worse for the Cathars soon. That if he denounced me, I would be ruined, maybe even burned as a heretic. And that my children would be burned at my side.”
She started crying again.
“I didn’t know why he cared so much about me. But it wasn’t me that mattered to him.”
“Who was it, Martine?”
“It was Jordan. Jordan and Pelardit and Balthazar, and when you arrived, he wanted to know everything about you. About what you were doing, what you were looking for.”
“So, when you found out I was meeting Armand…”
“I told him. And he was angry at Armand, saying they should have known better than to trust him. Then he told me to leave, and I did. But I stopped to watch the cathedral, and I saw him come out. Only if I hadn’t just seen him, I might never have recognized him.”
“Why?”
“Because he wasn’t dressed as a bishop. He was wearing ordinary clothing, with a cloak and hood that covered his face. But it was him.”
“Did you follow him?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t want to know. I never thought Armand would be killed.”
“One last question, Martine,” I said.
“What?”
“Jordan knew you were informing on us, didn’t he?”
She was silent.
“I was hoping you would say no,” I said.
I walked over to the Count and my wife and motioned for them to go back to the courtyard. As I followed them, I heard another woman sobbing in a nearby cell. I looked inside and saw Audrica sitting there. I tossed the package of food by her feet. She never looked up.
“Not much comedy in the interlude,” I said when we were back outside.
“Did it answer all of your questions?” asked the Count.
“I’m afraid so. Thank you for agreeing to lock them up for me.”
“We have dungeons,” he said. “Might as well use them once in a while. Captain, bring out the fool and his wife. No chains.”
Jordan and Martine soon emerged, blinking in the harsh midmorning light.
“You are no longer prisoners,” said the Count.
“Bless you, Dominus,” said Jordan.
“But you are banished from the Toulousain and your house is confiscated,” said the Count. “You have one week. Bring them their children.”
Peire Roger went to fetch them. The Count turned to Claudia and me.
“Hard work makes me hungry,” he said. “I am going to have a light repast. Then we will conclude our play. I will see you shortly.”
He turned and went into the Grande Chambre.
“You got us out,” said Jordan. “Thank you.”
“He was the one who put us in here,” said Martine bitterly.
“What?” exclaimed Jordan.
“He knows,” she said. “He knows everything, damn him.”
The boys flew into the courtyard, screaming for their parents, Helga and Pelardit following with the baby. Jordan and Martine knelt to embrace their children.
“One more thing,” I said.
“What?” asked Jordan.
“You’re banished.”
“I know. We have one week.”
“No,” I said. “He banished you from the Toulousain. I’m banishing you from the Fools’ Guild.”
“You can’t do that!” he protested.
“I’m the Chief Fool of Toulouse,” I said. “I damn well can. You betrayed us, Jordan. From now on, if any Guildmember catches you performing, your existence will be made miserable.”
“But how will I live?” he asked.
“I don’t care. Good-bye, Jordan. Helga, you and Pelardit wait here. We will be back soon.”
Claudia and I returned to our balcony while the two counts ate.
“Last act,” she whispered.
“Last act,” I said.
The Count wiped his mouth with a napkin, and the servants took away the table.
“Bring them in,” he said.
The Bishop of Toulouse entered in full regalia, followed by Father Mascaron.
“Greetings, Raimon,” said the Count. “Take a seat. Father, you as well.”
A pair of low three-legged stools were brought in. The two sat on them somewhat uncomfortably.
“I have been hearing the most interesting things about you in the last two days, Raimon,” said the Count. He held up the book, opened to the last page. “There’s your signature in this, for instance.”
Father Mascaron leaned forward, scrutinized the signature carefully, then moved his stool a few inches away from the Bishop.
“I have meted out punishments to everyone in here but you,” said the Count. “Slight question of what’s appropriate. I can’t hang you, can’t throw you in a dungeon, can’t seize the cathedral. I don’t want the cathedral, to tell you the truth. It looks like a money-losing operation to me.”
“Is that all?” asked the Bishop.
“I have also found out that your election was, shall we say, tainted? One of the canons was coerced into voting for you by Father Mascaron, and we have since learned that a few more were simply bribed.”
“My election was approved by Rome,” said the Bishop. “It is not for you to challenge it.”
“Then there is the murder of Armand de Quinto,” continued the Count.
Father Mascaron’s mouth fell open.
“I had nothing to do with that,” said the Bishop calmly.
“I have evidence to the contrary,” said the Count. “But I don’t intend to bring you to assizes. More trouble than it’s worth. I am simply going to tell you to step down from the bishopric.”
The Bishop sprang to his feet, the stool bouncing away.
“You do not have the authority!” he thundered.
“I do,” said a voice to the left of us.
The Bishop turned and stared as Peire de Castelnau came into the room.
“I’d like to say I’m disappointed in you, Raimon,” said the legate. “But the truth is I never had great expectations for you in the first place. You will step down, and we will give out that it was for the election. You will keep your stipend and the power to perform the sacraments. The sacraments, Raimon—remember them? What everything was supposed to be about?”
“My stipend?” laughed the Bishop. “My stipend—how could anyone possibly live on that?”
“When you have your soul back in order, come join the Cistercians and we will teach you how to live,” said the legate gently.
“Sounds like a fair offer,” said the Count. “I suggest you accept it.”
“Enough,” said the Bishop. “I am sick of this city. It will be a pleasure to leave.”
He stormed out. Father Mascaron rose uncertainly.
“Father Mascaron,” said the Count.
The priest turned.
“Even the Count of Toulouse must draw the line at killing a bishop,” said the Count. “Of course, anything less is fair game. Remember that.”
“Yes, Dominus,” said the priest, bowing respectfully. Then he followed the Bishop out.
“Come down, Fools,” ordered the Count.
We did. Brother Peire winked at me.
“I thought you were spending Christmas at Fontfroide,” I said.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “Things were too interesting here.”
“I was going to introduce you,” said the Count. “I suppose I needn’t bother.”
“You may introduce this charming lady,” said the legate.
“Then Brother Peire, may I present Domina Gile?” said the Count.
&nb
sp; My wife and the legate bowed to each other.
“Fools, I have just acquired a house in the city,” said the Count. “I am going to install you in it. Saint Cyprien is too far away.”
“Very good, Dominus,” I said.
“Small thanks for quashing a rebellion before it began,” he said. “If there is anything else—”
“There is the matter of the Bishop’s succession,” said Brother Peire.
“Officially, that has nothing to do with me,” said the Count. “Although I’m not sure that I trust anyone selected by the canons in this town anymore.”
“My point exactly,” said the legate. “I have a candidate in mind. A man from outside the Toulousain, and so unaffected by the local influences. A member of my own order.”
“A Cistercian for Bishop,” commented the Count. “Unusual. Who do you have in mind?”
“The Abbot of Le Thoronet,” said the legate. “A pious man. When he joined the order, he put his sons in the Abbey of Grandselves.”
“I have long had a good relationship with Grandselves,” said the Count.
“Your generosity to them has been noted,” said the legate.
“Who is this apolitical abbot?” asked the Count.
“His name is Folc,” said the legate.
The Count stared at him, then me.
“You mean Folquet, the troubadour,” he said flatly.
“He was at one time known for that,” admitted Brother Peire.
“He used to write songs ridiculing my father,” said the Count. “And me.”
“I assure you that he has repented,” said the legate smoothly. “Indeed, he has written no songs of any kind in years.”
“Stop pandering,” said the Count. “Who does he owe?”
“Well, me,” I said.
“You?” exclaimed the Count. “How so?”
“I saved his life,” I said. “Long story.”
“I see,” said the Count. “He’s a former troubadour and a Cistercian abbot. A Cistercian monk has proposed him, and he owes his life to a jester who is somehow in league with this Cistercian monk.”
