The Moneylender of Toulouse

by Alan Gordon

  “Well, when you put it like that…” I said, trailing off.

  Raimon turned to his cousin.

  “What do you think, Bernard?”

  “Couldn’t be any worse than what we have now,” said the Count of Comminges.

  “Wonderful,” said Raimon, turning back to us. “Fine. Send for him. I’ll try to get along with him. Brother Peire, will you be my guest tonight?”

  “I will, thank you,” said Brother Peire. “Senhor Pierre, Domina Gile, I look forward to making your acquaintances again.”

  “And yours, Brother Peire,” I said.

  “For you, Fools,” said the Count, tossing me a purse. “Moving expenses.”

  We bowed to him and left.

  “Up, up, up!” called Portia when we came out.

  I took her from Helga and placed her on my shoulders.

  “Well?” asked Helga.

  “Raimon de Rabastens is out, Abbot Folc is in,” I said. “There’s a great deal more to it than that, but it should be told properly over a good meal. I say we repair to the Yellow Dwarf.”

  “Sounds good,” said Claudia.

  Someone cleared his throat. We turned. There was no one there but us. And Pelardit.

  “Was that you?” I asked him.

  Pelardit looked around to verify that no one was within earshot.

  “I just wanted to tell you how glad I am that they made you Chief Fool,” he said softly. “Working under Jordan would have been miserable.”

  We looked at him dumbfounded.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Oh, and I’m buying.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” I asked. “Let’s go.”

  CODA

  “The world is a dangerous and evil place, Theophilos,” said Abbot Folc.

  “Not all of it,” I said. “Not all the time.”

  “This is what you fight against, isn’t it?”

  “On my good days.”

  “Maybe it’s time for me to take part in it again. Toulouse, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “They already have a bishop, and Count Raimon hates me. Do you really think that you can pull this off?”

  “I won’t know until I try.”

  “When you succeed, send for me. I will be ready.”

  * * *

  Handling things quietly takes time.

  Jordan, Martine, and the boys were gone by Twelfth Night. We remaining fools performed once for the town that day, then again for the Count at the Château Narbonnais. Then the four of us repaired to the Yellow Dwarf to celebrate Portia’s first birthday privately. She was walking with more and more confidence. Indeed, if ever a baby could be said to swagger, it was our daughter.

  The house that the Count had selected for us was near Montaygon Square, a convenient location, although I still was unhappy about living inside the city walls. Pelardit was a frequent guest, occasionally letting his guard down enough to laugh out loud as long as it was only us present.

  One day in February, Claudia came home while I was preparing dinner and said, “Béatrix is gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Gone from Toulouse,” she said. “She collected the last of Milon’s debts, sold the house on the sly, and slipped out in the early morning with her family.”

  “I hope she fares well,” I said.

  “You haven’t heard the best part,” said Claudia. “Looks like Vitalis Borsella went with her.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” she said. “Renounced one set of vows and assumed another. They were married in secret. It only came out after they left.”

  “We never found out why she went to Bazacle that day.”

  “I asked her. Guilabert was trying to find out what she knew about the book. She denied knowing anything.”

  “Think she was telling the truth?”

  “Who knows? She had her suspicions about Vitalis, but she concealed them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she loved him, you dolt,” said my wife. “And because she feared he might have killed Milon for her.”

  “They each thought the other had killed Milon to protect the other,” I said. “I suppose that’s love.”

  The Guilaberts were the next to leave, turning the Château over to the consulate in March and heading north in a grand procession. Word reached us later that they were attacked by bandits on the road. Arnaut Guilabert was killed defending his family.

  I know that the Fools’ Guild had nothing to do with the attack. I cannot be certain about the Count. I prefer not to know.

  The removal of Bishop Raimon de Rabastens required a great deal of bureaucratic shuffling, but Rome eventually made it official with a letter from Innocent III in July. Raimon de Rabastens formally stepped down in September. The canons met with the Count before holding their election, and another papal legate monitored the proceedings. Folc, Abbot of the Cistercian abbey at Le Thoronet, ex-merchant of Marseille and formerly one of the greatest troubadours the Fools’ Guild has ever known, became Bishop-elect of Toulouse.

  He arrived on a Tuesday. I met him inside the cathedral as he inspected it. The Count’s workmen had replastered the walls, but the place otherwise looked just as shabby as it had ever been.

  “Ah, Theophilos, what have you gotten me into?” he sighed when he saw me.

  “It’s Tan Pierre now.”

  “Of course. Forgive me. This place is disgraceful. No wonder people are staying away. There is virtually no income from rents thanks to my predecessors’ debts, and not one of the priests here would last a day working at my old abbey.”

  “Want to go home?” I asked.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “One saving grace is that I saw my sons at Grandselves for the first time in nine years. Awkward all around.”

  “How much did you tell them?”

  “Everything,” he said.

  “That must have been hard,” I said.

  “Enough chitchat,” he said, clapping his hands. “Father Mascaron!”

  The priest entered. Folc gave him the same critical inspection he had given the cathedral.

  “I understand that you are an unscrupulous, untrustworthy, underhanded scoundrel,” said Folc.

  “You may have understated the case slightly,” said Father Mascaron, bowing his head respectfully.

  “I am making you my provost,” said Folc. “I want you where I can see you at all times. I expect absolute obedience. If I hear one whisper of disloyalty, I will kick you into the gutter.”

  “I understand entirely,” murmured the priest.

  “Good. Round up every priest, deacon, lay brother and servant, and have them round up every bucket and brush they can find. Send to the Abbot of Saint Sernin and tell him to lend us all of his spare monks. We are going to scrub every surface in this place until it gleams, then put a new coat of whitewash on the walls. Two coats.”

  “With all due respect,” said Father Mascaron, “the abbot does not take orders from the Bishop.”

  “Then give him my compliments. Tell him that I am merely the Bishop-elect, and that I am appealing to him as one abbot to another,” said Folc.

  “Very well,” said Father Mascaron. He glided silently out.

  “How long before he turns on me, do you suppose?” asked Folc.

  “Keep him on a short leash,” I advised. “He may prove useful.”

  “I can count on your help today?”

  “To whitewash the church? Why not? I like a good metaphor.”

  He grunted and rolled up his sleeves as priests with buckets and mops started to enter.

  * * *

  There was no small irony that the ceremony installing Folc as Bishop proper was presided over by none other than the Archbishop of Narbonne, the same man that the legates had sought unsuccessfully to depose. But ceremony is ceremony, and if it draws a good crowd, it serves its purpose.

  Folc stood on the steps of the cathedral, Father Mascaron at his elbow, the rest of t
he priests and clergy gathered behind them. The Count and his retinue were seated on benches set on the top step, while the Abbot of Saint Sernin and his monks stood on the ground to the right. It was a glorious, sunny day, and it looked like half the town had turned out, the children running around screaming, the women competing in their finery, and the fools juggling in the midst of it all.

  It was strange to see Folc up there, the shabby white robe of the Cistercians replaced by the opulent vestments and miter appropriate to the See of Toulouse. The Archbishop, who had the same handsome, dark complexioned looks of his Aragonese family, held up the ring for all to see.

  “In accordance with the wishes of His Holiness, Pope Innocent the Third,” said the Archbishop, “and with the pleasure and the favor of Emperor Frederic the Second, you have been elected Bishop of the See of Toulouse. Do you consent to this election?”

  “I do,” said Folc.

  There were cheers, and the choir sang the Te Deum. They still needed work.

  “Receive the ring, the sign of faith,” intoned the Archbishop, placing it on Folc’s finger,“so that, adorned with pure faith, you may preserve without harm your bride, the Holy Church of God.”

  Folc held up his arms, and Father Mascaron and another priest wrapped the pallium over his vestments. The Archbishop handed Folc the staff of office, and held his hands out in blessing.

  “It is done!” he cried.

  The crowd cheered as Bishop Folc turned to bless them. I held Portia high over my head so that she could see, while Helga sat on Pelardit’s shoulders. Claudia wrapped her arms around me.

  “We did it, Theo,” she said. “We actually did it.”

  “Yes, we did,” I said. “No time to rest on our laurels. We have a performance.”

  We grabbed our gear and rushed to the Château Narbonnais to set up for the dinner that the Count was having in the Bishop’s honor.

  In light of the occasion, we restrained ourselves, saving the bawdier material for other occasions. But we made sure that there would be one special performance. When dessert was brought in, I stepped forward and bowed to the Count and the Bishop.

  “Dominus and Domina, Your Holiness and Your Other Holiness, ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “In honor of the new Bishop, I would like to sing something from his past, for although he is a man of God, he is a man of Music as well. This was one of his loveliest songs.”

  I sang as my fellow fools accompanied me.

  “Singing will expose my true hidden heart,

  Saving me when words have left me alone.

  Newfound joy confounds all that I have known.

  Song triumphs where falls the orator’s art.

  Who bids me sing? Whence comes my inspiration?

  Love has called, and I must take up her part.

  It pleases Love for me to sing her praise,

  Although I quail before her fearsome gaze.

  But Love commands, and so her slave obeys.”

  And so on, with four more verses that sustained the rhyme scheme throughout as only Folquet of Marseille could do.

  When I was done, the room burst into applause. All except for the Bishop Folc, who sat there modestly accepting it.

  Or so I thought.

  “A beautiful song, Your Holiness,” said Count Raimon.

  “I must apologize, Count,” said Folc, a bitter smile on his lips. “A foolish triviality from a misspent, sinful youth. I must—forgive my departure. Thank you for the excellent dinner.”

  He stood abruptly and walked out of the room, followed by the astonished stares of those left behind.

  “What just happened?” asked Claudia.

  “Let’s find out,” I said, and we followed the Bishop outside.

  He was standing in the courtyard, breathing hard. Then he took off his miter and placed it on the ground. He removed his vestments, folded them carefully, and set them next to the miter. From his pouch he produced a length of knotted cord tied to a short, thick leather handle. He knelt, his lips moving silently for a minute. Then he whipped the cord about so that it smacked against his bare back. He gasped, then repeated the action, each time striking harder.

  “Theo,” said Claudia softly. “I am starting to think that the Guild has made a terrible mistake.”

  I could not reply. I could only watch in horror as the blood began to drip down the Bishop’s back.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  “Sale of the Château Bazacle, with its outbuildings and land adjoining the city gate, made by Arnaut Guilabert and Gentille, his wife, to the consuls of Toulouse, under the consent and guarantee of the two sons of the two vendors…” from a Toulousan charter, March 9, 1205.

  The study of medieval Toulouse must begin with the works of John Hine Mundy, who devoted much of his life to it. It was in his Studies in the Ecclesiastical and Social History of Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (2006) that I learned of a pair of Toulousan jesters named Jordan and Pelardit. Their existence was documented in 1192. Little is known of either, but Pelardit ultimately had a street named after him: Carraria Pilisarditis joculatoris, part of which survives as the present Rue de Filatiers. (The Rue des Sept Troubadours dates from a later period.)

  A portion of the Daurade Bridge has been preserved, jutting out from the west bank of the Garonne, just north of the Old Bridge, which was built later and is still in use today. The Bazacle Dam would continue in existence for centuries, and the mills depending on it led to the creation of one of Europe’s earliest stock companies in the mid-thirteenth century. Saint Sernin, Saint Étienne, and Saint Pierre des Cuisines all stand, the last as a museum. The two châteaux, so crucial to the defense of the city, have long since vanished.

  My principal source for the life of Folc remains N. M. Schulman’s Where Troubadours Were Bishops: The Occitania of Folc of Marseille (1150–1231). The song in the last chapter is my verse adaptation of Folc’s Chantan volgra mon fin cor descobrir, based in part on Ms. Schulman’s literal translation. I have tried to match Folc’s rhyme and rhythmic schemes.

  Of particular use were Terry S. Reynolds’s Stronger Than a Hundred Men: A History of the Vertical Water Wheel (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983) and Robert Benson’s The Bishop-Elect (Princeton University Press, 1968). In addition, I would like to acknowledge the work of Cyril E. Smith, Patrice Georges Rufino, Pierre Gérard, Maurice Prin, Jean Rocacher, Violet Markham, Sister Mary Ambrose Mulhulland, Laurent Macé, Élie Griffe, and M. H. Vicaire.

  Finally, thanks are due to my brother Joshua Gordon, who, during a family brainstorming session, came up with the title. Runner-up was my son Robert, who came up with To Lend Is Toulouse. It is good to know that punning is hereditary.

  ALSO BY ALAN GORDON

  Thirteenth Night

  Jester Leaps In

  A Death in the Venetian Quarter

  The Widow of Jerusalem

  An Antic Disposition

  The Lark’s Lament

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE MONEYLENDER OF TOULOUSE. Copyright © 2008 by Alan Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gordan, Alan (Alan R.)

  The moneylender of Toulouse: a Fools’ Guild mystery / Alan Gordon. —1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-37109-8

  ISBN-10: 0-312-37109-8

  1. Bishops—Fiction. 2. Fools and jesters—Fiction. 3. Toulouse (France)—Fiction. 4. France—History—11th century—Fiction. 5. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.0649M66 2008

  813'.54—dc22r />
  2008003450

  First Edition: May 2008

  eISBN 9781466843257

  First eBook edition: March 2013