[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal

by Alan Gordon

  “Of course, and no, I haven’t.”

  “Then you ought to come along. Might be a useful connection for your line of work. And you might see a lady you like.”

  “Got one I like already,” I said. “A regular sweetheart.”

  “Lucky you,” he said. “Good thing you’re not a soldier.” Oh, but I am, I thought.

  “Fine, let us go see this house of shame behind the house of woe,” I said.

  Baudoin paid for the meal, and we resumed our tour of the bourg. I casually sidled up to Sancho.

  “We are being followed,” I muttered so that the Parisians could not hear.

  “Damn well better be,” he said.

  “They’re yours?”

  “Think I would be taking these two around alone?” he asked. “I’m just the visible watchman.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Carry on.”

  The Villeneuve Gate was on the eastern wall of the bourg, not far from where it met up with the original city wall. The leper house was on the outside of the wall, of course. The sun was setting, which meant that the gates were closing, but Sancho had no difficulty talking the guards into letting us through. I imagine that they had a steady secondary income in bribes from wayward patrons returning in the dark.

  There was a small cluster of shops and taverns outside the gate, taking advantage of the lower rents to undercut their city competitors. The road into the gate was not one of the major routes, so the traffic was light, mostly farmers returning home with whatever goods they had been unable to unload at the markets.

  The leper house sat in isolation beyond the shops. At least it must have, but all one could see was the high brick wall surrounding it, keeping the gawkers out and the contagion within. The upper story was visible, as were the red shutters that marked it, but they were all closed. There were five such houses scattered around the outside of the walls of Toulouse. I did not know what charity ran this one.

  Sancho walked past the far corner of the house, then turned left like a man who had done this before. A narrow path ran between the brick wall and the fence of the adjoining farm, leading to the rear of the house.

  The brick wall was lower in back, and the shutters were not so well maintained, but that did not matter. What drew us on was another two-story house, hung with many lanterns that glowed with a welcoming promise even as the sun was setting on the other side of the bourg. There were bursts of laughter, mostly women’s, escaping into the evening, and someone was sawing away passably at a viol.

  “This is the place,” said Sancho.

  “If the women here are as good as the beer in the Tanners’ Pit, then we are in for a rare treat,” said Baudoin.

  “No woman is as good as that beer,” said Sancho. “But they’ll do.”

  He walked up to the door, nodding at the large man who sat by it with a serious-looking club resting against his thigh.

  “I vouch for them,” said Sancho, and the guard looked us over, then opened the door and beckoned us through.

  There was a copper lamp suspended from the center of the room, its leaves hammered and punched into a delicate filigree that cast undulating webs of shadow on the walls. Red cushioned chairs rested against the walls, and in front of them was a low table covered with a cloth embroidered with scenes of Greek maidens in varying states of undress fleeing from satyrs who were not dressed at all. The maidens did not appear to be trying that hard to flee. The viol player must have been playing outside one of the ladies’ workrooms, for the music floated down from somewhere farther into the interior of the place.

  “Is that Sancho?” asked a low, mocking alto of a voice. “Could the dice have given him enough to grace our house with a visit?”

  She appeared from the shadows of the hall opposite the entrance, wearing a dark green damask gown cut so low in front that the missing fabric could have made for a large tablecloth. She glided across the thick rug that I had just noticed contained more scenes of mythological debauchery. I also noticed that her feet were bare. I found myself thinking about what nice feet they were, and what it would be like to—

  “No dice for me tonight, I’m sorry to say,” said Sancho, Lord High Interrupter of Erotic Reveries. “But I’ve brought you some customers, all the way from Paris.”

  “You are most welcome, gentlemen,” she said in perfect langue d’oïl.

  “Does everyone in Toulouse speak our tongue?” wondered Baudoin.

  “Only those of importance,” she said. “And in this house, you’ll find that our tongues are quite talented.”

  “What shall we call you, Domina?” asked Baudoin, bowing.

  “I am the Abbess, senhor,” she replied, returning the courtesy.

  “An abbess? Is this a convent, then?”

  “It is a place of retreat from the harshness of the world,” said the Abbess. “As for its holiness—well, I can only say that we often hear God’s name invoked. Are you on a pilgrimage?”

  “I am hoping to have a religious experience,” said Baudoin.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Then—“

  We were interrupted by a thumping of footsteps, and suddenly, Raimon Roger filled the doorway, blinking in surprise.

  “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal brother,” he said. “Domina Abbess, is there a fatted calf anywhere in the house? Slay it immediately.”

  “Ah, my dear count,” purred the Abbess. “Was everything to your satisfaction?”

  “To mine and, I am happy to say, to hers,” he replied. “I see that you have attracted a pair of wandering Parisians.”

  “Good evening, senhor,” said Baudoin in langue d’oc, bowing as he did.

  “Will you listen to that?” praised Raimon Roger in langue d’oïl. “Fool, you have made excellent progress.”

  “He is an apt and willing student,” I said.

  “I must get you to teach me something,” he said. “I have already hired someone here to instruct me in something new. I do so enjoy broadening my mind.” He turned his attentions back to Baudoin. “Now, senhor, since you are a visitor, you must permit me to make you a recommendation.”

  “I am guided by you in all things, senhor,” said Baudoin. “You are a man whose liberty to enjoy the pleasures of life depends on a count who, although I love him like a brother, is unpredictable in his whims,” said Raimon Roger. “If you should find yourself back in a dungeon tomorrow, it should be with the best possible memory of our fair city. You must have La Rossa.”

  “If she is as remarkable as you say, then you have my gratitude in advance,” said Baudoin.

  “Not at all,” said Raimon Roger. “After all, you’re family now. Almost family, anyway. Well, my sainted Abbess, I must bid you a lucrative evening and be off.”

  He bowed to her, nodded to the rest of us, and heaved his bulk out of the house.

  “It seems that I must have La Rossa,” said Baudoin. “Then have her you will,” said the Abbess. “I shall return with her.”

  She glided out.

  A dancer, I thought. She must have been a dancer. I remembered a sultry Egyptian dancer who had enticed me when I was a young fool in Alexandria. I knew she was untrustworthy from the start, having been warned about her by colleagues I did trust and by my own observations, all of which I promptly ignored when I saw her dance, which ultimately led to a disastrous outcome in that particular mission, but not before it led to—

  “I’ve heard about La Rossa,” commented Sancho. “Never had the chance to have her.”

  The dancer disappeared in a puff of smoke, a taunting smile on her lips.

  “You did it again,” I muttered, snapping back to the present.

  “Did what?” he asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Senhors,” said the Abbess. “May I present—La Rossa!”

  The color red overwhelmed us. A bright red gown, clinging to a body that wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. Red stockings peeped out from the bottom, red talons stabbed menacingly from each finger, glistenin
g red coated a pair of lips curved into a smile that welcomed anything and everything, and a curly torrent of red hair cascaded from her head, floating about a pale white neck that invited, no, demanded to be bitten.

  Baudoin looked at her appraisingly while Hue gawked. Her smile subtly shifted to a smirk as she returned their gazes.

  “Have you come all the way from Paris just for me?” she said, her voice a rippling brook in summer.

  “Had I known what glories awaited me here, I would have made the journey long ago,” said Baudoin, bowing.

  “A gallant,” she said. “You put our local courtesy to shame. But perhaps this is merely a veneer. Are you this gallant all the time?”

  “All the time,” he assured her.

  She glanced at Hue, who was still standing with his jaw somewhere around his navel, then turned back to Baudoin. She reached toward his face and trailed her long sharp nails along his cheek. He winced slightly.

  “I must put your gallantry to trial,” she said. “I find that even the most courteous of men will reveal his coarser, truer nature as the night goes on.” She leaned forward and murmured into his ear, “And that’s what I like the most.”

  “Then we must have the entire night,” he responded. “So that a proper assay may be made.”

  A quick muttered negotiation took place. Money changed hands; then she hooked one nail under the clasp of cloak just below his throat and led him away.

  “All night,” sighed Sancho. “Same job, different place. They must be brothers.”

  He plopped himself onto a chair and made himself comfortable.

  “But what about you, senhor?” the Abbess asked Hue. “Will you not partake?”

  “I—I, no,” he stammered. “I must wait upon my master. This is all too rich for my blood.”

  “Then sit by me, and we’ll pass the night with stories, friend Hue,” said Sancho, patting the cushions next to him. “I know this particular duty all too well.”

  The Abbess was looking at me.

  “And you, Senhor Pierre?” she asked, walking slowly toward where I was sitting.

  “You know my name,” I said.

  “I have seen you perform,” she said. “You made me laugh.” She lifted one exquisite foot and rested it on my knee. “I like a man who can make me laugh.” The foot began to inch forward.

  “Alas, I am a married man,” I said, watching its progress like it wasn’t part of anything.

  “We serve many such,” she said, her foot more than halfway up my thigh.

  I reach down and stopped it. I thought that was what I was doing.

  I was holding her foot.

  “I am a happily married man,” I said, trying to get my breathing under control.

  Still with her foot on my thigh, she bent at the waist until her face was just in front of mine.

  “I can make you a happier married man,” she murmured.

  “You are kind to ask,” I said. “But no.”

  There were giggles from the doorway, and I looked past her to see several other residents of the house watching. The Abbess straightened up and turned to them.

  “Behold, my sisters,” she cried. “That rarest of mythical beasts, the happily married man.”

  I nodded amiably at them, and they giggled some more. The Abbess turned back to me.

  “You are a challenge, Senhor Fool,” she said. “I like a challenge.”

  “I must decline,” I said. “Respectfully. Regretfully.”

  “Then leave here in shame,” she replied. “Oh, and I will need my foot back.”

  I relinquished it reluctantly, and got to my feet.

  “I guess I’ll meet you back here in the morning,” I said to Sancho and Hue.

  “If I’m asleep, wake me,” said Sancho. “If I’m asleep next to a beautiful woman, do not wake me. Ever.”

  “But what if you are only dreaming of a beautiful woman?”

  “Then Brother Hue had better not sit too close,” said Sancho.

  “Sounds like good advice to me,” said Hue.

  “I will leave you to your duties, my friends,” I said. “I must to my wife.”

  “Give her one from me,” called Sancho as I walked outside.

  I nodded at Sancho’s fellow watchmen as I passed by what they thought was protective cover.

  “Going to be there all night,” I informed them.

  “Oh, great,” muttered one.

  I showed my pass at the gate and was allowed back into the bourg. From there, it was a brief walk home.

  I unlocked the door and went in. Claudia was standing there, pointing a crossbow in my direction.

  “If I told you it was me, would you still be pointing it?” I asked her.

  “Can’t be too careful,” she said, lowering it. “How was your day, Senhor Tutor?”

  “Long,” I said. “Yours?”

  “Helga and I worked the flower market,” she said. “We did all right. Oh, and one of the flower-sellers sold us these at a discount.”

  She showed me some slightly wilted geraniums sitting on the table.

  We went upstairs, and I peeked into the girls’ room. Both were asleep. When I came into ours, Claudia was sprawled on the bed. I sat by her feet and pulled off her boots.

  “Thank you, lackey,” she said.

  I placed her feet in my lap. Good solid jester feet, suitable for acrobatics and kicking husbands in the posterior. I started massaging them.

  “That feels wonderful,” she sighed. “You’re a good husband.”

  “I try my best,” I said.

  Chapter 4

  Red. The color red overwhelmed us.

  Red drapes hung by the window, which gave a good view of the leper house. Not that we were looking at the leper house.

  Red damask canopies surrounded the bed, pulled asunder to frame the sleepers.

  The red gown, removed in haste, lay in a puddle of silk near the bed. A red coverlet partially concealed the bed’s occupants, one of whom was snoring away. The other was not.

  Red hair, spilled in wanton profusion across the red pillows.

  A red spray of roses in a vase on a stand by the bed.

  A red spray of blood on the wall.

  Red glistened on a white body, the remnants of a stream trickling down a savaged breast that must once have been as perfect as its unstained companion, both exposed to view. The stream ended in a shallow pool in the slight hollow of her stomach. More coated the underside of the coverlet. The dagger—Baudoin’s dagger—was nestled in the folds.

  “Hell,” muttered Sancho, surveying the scene.

  “I agree,” I said.

  Hue stood in the doorway behind us, his jaw in that all-too-familiar gape.

  “You pulled the cover back?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I wanted to—I wanted to see if she—“

  “Was the dagger still in her?”

  “No,” he managed to gasp, then he made a choking noise, clapped his hands to his mouth, and fled downstairs.

  I held up the coverlet, then pointed out the holes to Sancho.

  “He stabbed her twice through the covers,” I said. “The blood on the wall must have come when he pulled it out the first time.”

  “And he sleeps on!” roared Sancho. He rushed the bed and grabbed Baudoin by the shoulders.

  “Bastard!” he shouted.

  Baudoin snapped awake in confusion as the soldier threw him against the wall. The Parisian reacted quickly, grabbing for his scabbard from the pile of his clothes on the floor, but Sancho’s sword was already out, its point stopping just short of Baudoin’s Adam’s apple, which bobbed rapidly up and down.

  “Give me your sword,” directed Sancho, trying hard to control his breathing.

  “What did he say?” Baudoin asked me in panic.

  “He said—,” I began.

  “I said, ‘Give me your goddamned sword!’” shouted Sancho in langue d’oïl.

  “What is this all about?” squealed the Paris
ian as he handed it over.

  “What is this all about?” echoed Sancho. “What is this all about?”

  He grabbed the Parisian’s chin and angled his head toward the bed. Baudoin took in the gore with deepening shock.

  “How did this—?” He gasped.

  “How did this happen?” said Sancho, driving the man’s head against the wall. “Is that what you were about to ask me? How did your dagger end up piercing one of the most beautiful women this city has ever seen?”

  “My dagger?” gasped Baudoin.

  Sancho grabbed it from the bed. “Your dagger,” he said. “The match of this same sword which you have surrendered to me. La Rossa’s blood still on the blade. Your dagger.”

  “I never did this!” protested Baudoin.

  “I should kill you right here,” said Sancho. “But I’m not sure my initiative would be appreciated. Pierre, go get my men from wherever they’re hiding, and tell one of them to get a squad here. Then track down that useless Hue, and when he’s finished heaving his guts out, bring him back.”

  “Right,” I said, slipping into the hallway.

  “And close the door,” he said.

  I did.

  It was Sunday, just after dawn. I had come with the general idea of getting my pupil out of the bordel before too many people were aware that he was in one. Maybe invite him to attend Mass with us. New sins to confess, and all that. Turned out there were more than I thought possible.

  Sancho and Hue were side by side on a couch, a near-empty wineskin on the table before them. Sancho was awake when I came in, and nudged Hue, who had his head back and his open mouth to the ceiling. The Parisian sat bolt upright and dabbed at a stream of drool with his sleeve. We made the usual lewd, stupid jokes that one makes under such circumstances; then Hue went upstairs to rouse his master.

  And came flying back, choking in terror.

  Sancho’s companions had moved from their post of the night before, no doubt thanks to my ease in finding them.

  I had no time to play hide-and-seek. I stood in front of the bordel and said, “Sancho needs you. Now!”

  I thought I saw a movement from an upper window at the rear of the leper house, but then the two soldiers emerged from behind a woodpile.