by Alan Gordon
and, whoever celebrates your victory day,
let him earnestly pray for forgiveness of guilt
and salvation for himself.
* * *
The singing did not have a forgiving tone. I shivered. I hoped that the count would hang Baudoin, but true justice might better be served by turning him over to these women.
I glanced at Helga. She was looking up at the painting of Saint Agnes standing before the fire that was soon to take her, looking up in her turn at the heavens and salvation. My apprentice, the bordel brat, the rescued daughter, sang the last verses with tears streaming down her cheeks. My own eyes blurred watching her.
I blinked quickly to clear my vision, and glanced around the church. The young idlers had been silenced several times, and were now looking bored. There were some elderly women present who had the look of regulars, kneeling and lost in their own prayers.
Past them all, in the back, a lone man sat, hunched against the wall. He neither spoke nor moved during the service, not even to join in the responses. Our eyes met for a moment, but I continued looking around as if I hadn’t noticed him.
Helga sat next to me, wiping her eyes.
“Blow your nose, girl,” I whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.
She snuffled, but did as I asked. I noticed the Abbess looking at her curiously.
“Now, back to work,” I whispered. “Do you mark the solitary man at the rear of the church?”
She nodded.
“When the service ends, watch him. If he comes to the burial, stay with me. But if he leaves, follow and find out what you can.”
The priest finished the office, then looked down at the coffin. And he spoke. “When Jesus had lifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, ‘Woman, where are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee?’”
He looked directly at the Abbess.
“She said, ‘No man, Lord,’” said the Abbess.
“And Jesus said unto her, ‘Neither do I condemn thee,’ “ continued the priest. “Go and sin no more.”
He looked across at the young wastrels.
“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her,” he said. Then he raised his arms to include all of us. “I am the light of the world; he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”
The Mass ended, and the women gathered around the coffin to take La Rossa—no, Julie—to the graveyard at the rear of the church. The young men actually filed behind them respectfully.
The man at the rear disappeared out the front door. Helga nodded to me, then slipped out the side door. I slung my lute behind me and my baby in front and followed Julie to her final bed.
She was buried in consecrated ground, I was glad to see. As the grave-digger covered her up, the onlookers drifted away, their entertainment over. All who remained gathered at the grave: the ladies, the priest, myself, and one of the old women. When the prayers concluded, the ladies knelt and each placed their right hand on the dirt.
“Rest,” whispered the Abbess. “At long last, rest.”
They stood and began walking back to the bordel. The Abbess came up to me and pressed two coins into my hand.
“One for you, one for your daughter,” she said. “Do not insult me by refusing it.”
“I understand being paid to do what I do,” I said.
“Where is your daughter?” she asked, looking around. “I wanted to thank her.”
“Ran off to play with her friends,” I said. “I am amazed I could get her to sit still in a church for that long.”
“She cried for a woman she never knew,” she said. “I saw her.”
“She is a sympathetic soul, for all the trouble she gives me,” I said. “I worry about that, to tell you the truth. She could be taken advantage of so easily.”
“A dangerous age,” agreed the Abbess. “A dangerous world. When I was her age, I was already working the streets.”
“Not here,” I said.
“No, not here. How did you know that?”
“Something in your way of speaking,” I said. “Langue d’oc is not your first language, no matter how well you speak it.”
“Nor is it yours,” she pointed out.
“No,” I said. “We came to Toulouse last winter.”
“From where?”
“Somewhere else.”
“I am from there as well,” she said. “Small world.”
“Where was La Rossa from?” I asked.
“Here, I think,” she said. “She never told me her story. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity,” I said. “A professional habit. A jester seeks out interesting lives like a prospector for silver, and mines them for stories and songs.”
“To hold them up to ridicule,” said the Abbess.
“Only those who merit ridicule,” I said. “Some to hold up for moral instruction. Some to celebrate. I find myself wondering about La Rossa more and more. Do you think I might ask your ladies about her?”
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“Sometimes I can,” I replied. “And if I don’t preserve her story, who will?”
“A whore’s story preserved,” said the Abbess. “Does the world really want that?”
“I don’t know, but I want that,” I said. “We’ll let the world make up its mind later.”
“We are having a small meal in her honor,” said the Abbess. “Come join us. I’ve become curious about her myself.”
“I would be honored,” I said.
Chapter 6
I walked with them back to the bordel, Portia riding my shoulders and looking at the colorful gowns of the women. “Oooh, pretty,” she said, pointing at them, and several of them turned at the tiny voice and smiled.
What a good little spy you will be, my daughter, I thought. When we arrived, Carlos looked at me, then at the Abbess, a question in his eyes. She shook her head. He shrugged, and resumed his post at the door.
We went in, but rather than sitting in the front parlor, we continued on to the rear, where there was a large homey kitchen, dominated by a table in the center. The ladies took seats around it. The elderly woman who had accompanied us to the gravesite was there as well, and she began to distribute bowls of soup to each of us. I thanked her.
“What’s the fool doing here?” asked the blonde who had provided Julie’s name at the service.
“She’s here at my invitation,” said the Abbess. “She will explain herself.”
“You’re married to that Tan Pierre, aren’t you?” asked another.
“I am,” I said. “I’m Gile, by the way, and this little fool is Portia.”
“Aude,” said the blonde.
“Stéphanie.”
“They call me La Roqua.”
“La Bruna.”
“La Navarra.”
“Marquesia.”
“How many of these names are real?” I asked.
“How real is any name?” asked the Abbess. “How real is yours?”
“As long as I answer to it, it is real enough for everyday purposes,” I said.
“Then ours are as real as yours,” she said. “We have heard them screamed in passion often enough.”
“May I hold the baby?” asked Aude shyly.
I passed Portia over to her. She looked at the woman with interest, then reached for her hair.
“Careful, she’ll pull it,” I warned her.
“It’s been pulled before,” said Aude. “And by much larger people. Once, I was— Ow! Let go! Let go!”
“I warned you,” I said. “Let go of her hair, Portia.”
Portia watched Aude’s reaction with what seemed to be scientific interest, then released her.
“Good grip for such a little one,” muttered Aude, massaging her scalp.
“Give her to me,” said La Navarra. “I know how to handle children.”
Before I could say anything, Portia was in her lap. She reached for her
hair, and La Navarra caught her hand.
“Pull anything on me, little girl, and I will pull something on you,” she said pleasantly. “Do we understand each other?”
Portia looked at her, then withdrew her hand.
“See?” said La Navarra.
“Very maternal,” I said. “My specialty,” said La Navarra, and the other women giggled. “Now, why are you here? Truly?”
“I wanted to know more about your late colleague,” I said. “I would like to learn her story before she becomes completely forgotten.”
“She wanted to be forgotten,” said La Roqua. “Else, she’d have kept her name. She became La Rossa, and nothing but La Rossa.”
“What was she trying to forget?” I asked.
“I can’t remember,” said La Roqua immediately. “Will you be asking us about our lives as well, or must we wait until we’ve all been hacked up like chickens?”
“Stop,” Marquesia shuddered.
“And what will you do with these stories?” asked La Bruna. “Will you write them down? Make them into a book?”
“With illustrations!” giggled Stephanie. “That will get us in good with the Church.”
“What if I did?” I asked. “What if I put all of your stories into a book, and made two copies?”
“Two copies? Who would get the second?” asked the Abbess.
“You would,” I said. “Your own histories, your lives preserved.”
“Our clientele for the most part prefers some anonymity,” said the Abbess.
“I will respect those confidences,” I said. “Although a book like this might become a useful means of protection should you ever find the tides of fortune ebbing.”
“Interesting idea,” said the Abbess. “Ladies, shall we take her up on this proposition?”
“What good will a book do me?” sniffed Aude. “I cannot read.”
“I could teach you,” I said.
“What use is reading to a whore?” scoffed La Bruna.
“It will give you something interesting to do in bed for a change,” I replied.
There was a bray of laughter from all of them except Marquesia, who looked down at the table.
“I would like my story to be written down,” she said softly. “I would like to be remembered after I’m gone.”
The others became quiet, with only the sounds of the servant washing the bowls and knives in a basin behind us.
“Her name was Julie,” said Aude. “I never knew her last name. She grew up in Toulouse. She was already here when I came to this house.”
“She had been a maid in a big maison once,” said Stephanie. “Her master went off on Crusade, but he never came back, so the house closed down and the servants forced to leave.”
“No, he came back,” said the Abbess. “But the house fell into ruin anyway. So she came here. I took one look at that hair and knew she would do well. And she did.”
“Until yesterday,” said Marquesia.
“Did she have anyone on the outside?” I asked. “A relative?”
“She stayed here, and went to Saint Agnes on Sundays,” said La Navarra. “If she had any relatives, she never mentioned them. She may have been fleeing them; she may have been protecting them. Who knows? Not I.”
“Anyone special among her clientele? A secret admirer? A lover on the side?”
“No man was special,” said La Navarra. “She held all of them in contempt, and would do none for free.”
“A true professional,” I said.
“As are we all,” said La Navarra. “It’s the only way to survive. There is no room for love in this world.”
“Yet there are many rooms for love in this house,” I said. “And I doubt the walls are thick enough to keep everything private. Someone must have some idea.”
“Of what?” asked La Roqua.
“Of why she was killed.”
“Ask the man who killed her,” said La Bruna. “That filthy Parisian, stabbing her while she slept and sleeping next to her corpse. Who knows what went on there?”
“Who had the room next to hers?” I asked.
“I did,” said Marquesia.
“And I was on the other side,” said La Roqua.
“And you heard nothing of how it happened?”
“I was occupied,” she said dryly. “And then I fell into a well-earned sleep.”
“I heard the usual sounds,” said Marquesia. “She was a noisy one, full of shrieks and laughs. But there was nothing unusual. I heard them speaking gently to each other after, and then they slept.”
“How did you know they both slept?”
“She snores,” said Marquesia, and La Roqua nodded in agreement. “And I heard him say something in his sleep. But I heard nothing else in the night, and I am a light sleeper.”
“You are not,” protested Stephanie. “You snore louder than any of us. I can hear you from the other side of the house.”
“That isn’t true,” said Marquesia indignantly.
“What about the count’s brother?” I asked. “Did you—?”
“The what?” interrupted the Abbess.
“Baudoin, the count’s brother. What was he saying?”
“Why do you call him that?” she demanded.
“Did you not know? He claims to be the count’s brother, the last child of the same mother, born after she fled Toulouse. Surely you had heard about this?”
They looked at each other, then at the Abbess.
“I swear I did not know this,” she said. She was directing this at the other women. “I was told—“
Then she looked at me.
“Nothing,” she said. “I was told nothing. We are outside the walls here. We do not receive the gossip of the town as readily as you might.”
“If he is truly the count’s brother, then he will never see the end of a rope,” said La Navarra bitterly.
“What proof does he have?” asked the Abbess.
“They have sent a man to Paris to verify his claims,” I said. “It will be several weeks before they know. Meanwhile, he is a guest of the count, locked in the dungeons below the Palace of Justice.”
“A dungeon is one thing,” said La Bruna. “A noose is another. He’ll never hang. Not in Toulouse.”
The servant finished doing the dishes and took the basin outside to empty it. I got a glimpse of a garden in back.
“Tell me more stories about La Rossa,” I said. “Things that happened here.”
They regaled me for the better part of an hour. Tales involving men, of course. Men entertained, men led astray, men besotted, men humiliated. All wanted her; none could stay with her for long.
“She never sought to become a rich man’s mistress?” I asked. “I always thought that would be the ambition of such a woman.”
“I would in a second,” said La Roqua. “But she would not allow herself to be tied down.”
“Not in that way, at least,” said Marquesia, giggling.
“Did she ever bear anyone’s child?”
“No,” said the Abbess. “She saw to that.”
“How old was she?”
“In truth? Older than she looked,” said the Abbess. “I would say in her mid-thirties.”
“No!” exclaimed La Roqua. “How did she manage to look like that? She must have sold her soul to the Devil.”
“He’s collected,” said La Navarra.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Well, it is past noon,” said the Abbess. “Our clientele will be arriving shortly, and no one ever made good money sitting in a kitchen. Come again, and we will tell you tales of the living. And please give our most affectionate regard to your husband.”
“What’s it like being married to a jester?” asked Aude. “Does he make you laugh all the time?”
“We laugh for a living,” I said. “But live a normal life when we aren’t entertaining. Most of the time I love him, and the rest of the time I contemplate braining him with a cooking pot.”
&n
bsp; “The married life,” sighed La Navarra. “Never for me.” They rose and filed out of the kitchen, leaving me with the Abbess.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said. “Especially considering how I barged in earlier.”
“You are not the first wife to try that,” she said. “Although you are the first to put Carlos on his back.”
“You run a good house, from what I can see,” I said. “How long have you been here?”
“Ten years now,” she said. “If all goes well, I will be able to retire in a few more.”
“And do what?” I asked.
“Rest,” she sighed.
“Might we see your garden before I go?” I asked. “I got a glimpse out the back. Portia loves gardens.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Take a flower for her. And one for your other daughter.”
“My thanks, Domina,” I said.
She nodded and left the kitchen. I hoisted Portia onto my shoulders and opened the door.
I was expecting a simple kitchen garden such as we had in town, but we were no longer bound by city walls here. This one extended back a hundred yards, with vegetables, herbs, and flowers in equal proportions. The flowers were in bloom-lilies and pansies, daffodils and peonies. Off to the side, a trio of goats was grazing, fenced off from the rest. Next to them stood a small shed. A brick wall, six feet high, ran around the entire property. Tall enough to frustrate gawkers, but not to keep out a determined killer.
The servant was standing by the goat pen, a bucket in her hand. She turned to see who had come through the door, wiping her eyes with her sleeve as she did so, doing little to conceal that she had been crying.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I did not mean to startle you. The Abbess said that we may pick two flowers.”
She nodded, walking toward us. The bucket sloshed with goat’s milk. She looked at Portia; then the tears began to flow again.
“I am sorry for your loss,” I said. “Was she a favorite of yours?”
“We never should have come here,” she whispered. “I told her so, but she never listened to sense. Not once. She—“
“Sylvie!” said the Abbess sharply from the door. “There are linens to be washed. Inside immediately.”
“Oc, Domina,” said the woman, her head bowed. She hastened inside.
