[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal

by Alan Gordon

  The Abbess looked at me.

  I held up two flowers. “They are lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She nodded, then stepped back from the door to let me pass.

  As I did, I said softly, “If you are in trouble, I can help.”

  She started, but immediately regained her composure. “I’ve never asked for anyone’s help in my life,” she said.

  “Then you shall never receive any,” I said. “Enjoy a profitable day, Domina.”

  I walked through the house. There were already sounds of beds creaking from upstairs. We passed through the front parlor where Aude and La Navarra waved to Portia. She looked nervously at La Navarra, but waved back.

  Half a day, I thought. They closed shop for half a day to mourn their sister. Did they carry on last night while Sylvie attended to her body? I didn’t want to know.

  Carlos gave a formal salute as we left, then resumed his post, his eyes half-closed. As I walked toward the street, a voice hailed me from the leper house.

  “Lady Fool,’entertain me for a moment,” he cried.

  I recognized the voice from the day before, but he must have been standing back from the window. I could not see him in the shadows.

  “What would you like?” I called. “A song? Some juggling? I do not think that I could persuade Carlos to join me in another tumbling act.”

  Carlos grunted in agreement from the bordel.

  “Or in witty repartee,” I added.

  “Juggle for me, lady,” called the leper.

  Clubs are better than balls when your audience is at a distance. I put Portia down, took five clubs from my pack, balanced one on top of my head and another on my right foot. I lifted my right leg straight out and began juggling the remaining three.

  “Impressive,” called the leper.

  “It’s nothing, really,” I confessed. “Any jester can do three clubs in her sleep. The other two make for a pretty tableau.

  But here’s the real trick. I don’t always get it right, so watch closely.”

  I took a breath, then simultaneously nodded my head and kicked up my outstretched leg. The other two clubs fell into the pattern, and I had five going now.

  “Marvelous!” he cried.

  I caught them and bowed to my unseen spectator.

  “I would applaud, but it is painful,” he said. “No, I will thank you properly.”

  “Good senhor, do not hurt yourself on my account,” I begged him.

  “No. I must pay you tribute.”

  There was a single muffled clap before I could say anything else.

  “Please stop, senhor,” I said. “I am here to bring you pleasure, not pain.”

  “That is the supposed goal of the ladies in the house behind you,” he said. “I daresay you achieve it more often than they do.”

  “You are most gracious, senhor,” I said. “That solitary clap honors me more than the applause of an entire tavern.”

  “If only I could see you perform in a tavern,” he sighed. “I miss taverns—the taste of new beer, the camaraderie of drunks, the flirting of the maids. Especially the maids. Will you come back here?”

  “It seems that I shall, senhor,” I said. “I shall perform for you again. Shall I alert the house when I return?”

  “No need,” he said. “I rarely sleep. The view from this window is my entire world. I will know when you return.”

  “Until then, senhor,” I said, bowing.

  I gathered my clubs, then my daughter, and left. It occurred to me as I passed through the gate that I never learned his name.

  I sorted out my thoughts on my walk home. The Abbess seemed genuinely caught off guard by the news that La Rossa’s last night was with the count’s brother. But she knew something about Baudoin.

  Or was it La Rossa who knew something? If so, that secret was dead and buried with her. Unless …

  Sylvie.

  Never underestimate the servants. I may have been a duchess once, and a duke’s daughter before that, but that was a lesson I knew long before the Fools’ Guild brought it back in my training. The servants who hear all, who see all, who mop up the floors and change the sheets after, will have an intimate knowledge of every stain left behind.

  Sylvie knew about La Rossa. And that garden was big, but it couldn’t supply all the needs of that house. Which meant that someone had to go to the market each day.

  I am a jester, and I am a woman. I like markets. I resolved to encounter Sylvie in the market while she made her purchases. Accidentally, of course.

  I hadn’t arranged with Helga where to meet once we had completed our respective tasks. The usual choices were home and the Yellow Dwarf. I chose the latter. Besides, the ale was good.

  The regulars were there when I arrived, greeting me with the regular comments, which I would have regarded as flattering had they come from sober men. Portia waved to everyone, then screamed, “Papa!” at the top of her lungs. Only one man waved back at that, although several looked momentarily panicked. I put her down, and she ran to Theo, who picked her up and tossed her into the air, her head coming just short of striking the rafter.

  “The only things that keep me from worrying when you do that is she’s getting heavier and you’re getting old and weak,” I said as our child landed safely in his arms, laughing.

  “These are compensating factors,” he agreed. “Look who I ran into. And you’ll never guess where.”

  There was Helga sitting by him, wolfing down some stew. She swallowed hastily.

  “I found out who the man at the church was,” she said. “I followed him through the town. He didn’t look back once, so it was easy. He went all the way through and out the other side.”

  “Which gate?” I asked.

  “The Porte Narbonnais,” she said. “He went into the château. I couldn’t really follow him there.”

  “But how did you find out who he was?” I asked.

  “I watched from outside, and I saw him heading toward the Palace of Justice. And before he goes in, he stops to chat with one of the most disreputable characters in all of Toulouse.”

  “Really?” I exclaimed. “And who would that have been?”

  “That would have been me,” said Theo, bowing modestly. “Your mysterious man was none other than our Parisian visitor, Hue.”

  “Baudoin’s man,” I said. “But why was he at the funeral?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Not yet. How did he behave?”

  “He sat at the rear and tried not to be noticed. That’s why I noticed him.”

  “Did he seem to be in mourning?”

  “At first glance, I would have said so. But now, I am not sure. I wonder if he was investigating in behalf of his master?”

  “Hah! I think that you have found the answer,” said Theo. “It will be interesting to see what he discovers. He’s a stranger here. We, at least, know the territory.”

  “We have been here only six months,” I pointed out.

  “But we are fools,” he said.

  “Well, there is that,” I conceded. “Huzzah for us.”

  “So, how was the bordel?” he asked mischievously. “Make some new friends? Some new money?”

  “I had a better time gossiping with the ladies there than I have on the highest levels of society,” I replied.

  “I myself go to such places only for the conversation,” he said. “Any fresh insights into Baudoin?”

  “They all think he did it,” I said. “And they would happily tear him limb from limb if they had the opportunity.”

  “I know which limb they’ll start with,” chirped Helga.

  I summarized what I had heard. He looked thoughtful when I was done.

  “No struggle, no argument,” he said. “He makes love for as long as he can, waits until she falls asleep, stabs her twice while she lies there, then falls asleep next to her. I have never heard of such a manner of killing. Those times when men have treated women so savagely, there was some rage or madness that came
upon them. Those who were clever enough to kill them quietly would never be so obvious about it or so foolish as to remain at their side after. This smacks of neither rage nor cleverness. Which means either he is innocent, or he’s a mild-mannered, stupid sort of murderer.”

  “And you come down on the side of innocence?” I asked. “Let’s just say that I am not certain of his guilt,” he said. “You saw the gardens out back?”

  “Yes. There was a wall around them, but not one that couldn’t be scaled easily.”

  “So someone could have come in through the rear door,” he mused. “But it was barred from the inside.”

  “Unless someone let the murderer in,” I said. “And then rebarred it after he left.”

  “Or if someone in the house did it,” he said. “Either way, one of those women may have been involved.”

  “A woman who walks barefoot makes the least noise,” I pointed out.

  “The Abbess would be the likeliest,” he agreed. “So, the question becomes, who would want to set up Baudoin like that?”

  “What did you find out about the Count of Foix?”

  He waved Hugo over. Our tapster, beside being one of the treasured brewers of Toulouse, had been one of the Cathar society until a year ago, when he had been bested in a barroom debate by a Castilian priest who was passing through town accompanying the Bishop of Osma. We were not in Toulouse then, but Hugo had recounted the story enough times that we felt we had front row seats to a divine encounter in a coliseum, concluding with the priest being carried aloft by an angelic host upon his victory. Still, despite Hugo’s conversion, he was loyal to his Cathar companions, holding friendship as a cardinal virtue to be valued over dogma.

  “Na Gile, good day to you, and to you, my lovely Portia,” he greeted us, fondly patting my girl on her head. “How is the ale today?”

  “Ambrosia, as always, my good tapster,” I said.

  “Hugo, tell her what you told me about the Count of Foix,” said Theo.

  “Was he one of the Cathars?” I asked.

  “Never openly,” said Hugo. “But he supported them, no question. His wife and his sister are both heavily involved. They received the consolamentum last year in Fanjeaux.”

  “Was he present?”

  “Of course,” said Hugo. “He indulges his wife in everything. He owes her his freedom.”

  “How so?”

  “She intervened when he was imprisoned by King Pedro during some dispute with Aragon over territory. It was kept fairly quiet, but the Cathars were involved in the negotiations.”

  “Did Raimon step into that as well?” asked Theo.

  “Not that I heard,” said Hugo. “But I am only a poor tapster, living off the leavings of the traveling gossip.”

  “What do his wife and sister do with the Cathars now?” I asked.

  “They support them financially, host their meetings, usually just for the women,” replied Hugo.

  “And the count supports that as well?” I asked.

  “He does,” said Hugo.

  “He does have an affinity for houses full of women,” mused Theo dryly. “Thank you, friend Hugo, both for the gossip and the ale.”

  “I enjoy dispensing both,” said Hugo. “Now, if you will excuse me. I see thirsty men in need of my ministrations.”

  He left us to digest his information.

  “The Count of Foix is devoted to his wife,” I said. “Yet he spends his waking hours pursuing other women.”

  “And not just for the thrill of the chase and seduction,” said Theo. “He will take the easy way out and pay for them when he cannot have them otherwise. He is a veritable satyr.”

  “Which is the truth?” asked Helga. “A man cannot be in love with his wife while sleeping with every woman he sees. Can he?”

  “Another paradoxical character,” said Theo.

  “Unless she has willingly released him from his marital duties,” I said.

  “Why would she do that?” asked Theo. “Why would any woman do that?”

  “Because she has become one of the Perfect,” I said. “Even among the Cathars, they are extreme in their devotion. And they regard coition—“

  “As anathema,” he finished. “So, if she has ascended to this higher state of being, leaving him to an unfulfilled marriage bed, then she may have assented to his quenching those fires in other pools.”

  “Perhaps in exchange for his supporting her religious efforts.”

  “A convenient arrangement,” he said.

  “But what does that have to do with Baudoin?” asked Helga.

  “I don’t know,” confessed Theo. “But if Baudoin is innocent, then Foix must be involved. He picked the whore.”

  “Who picked the whorehouse?” I asked.

  He sat up suddenly. “Damn,” he muttered. “Damn, damn, damn. I hadn’t thought it through all the way. It was a long way to go to get what could have been gotten much closer. That particular bordel was suggested by my good friend Sancho, who has since turned out to be much more devious than we knew.”

  “And he’s the count’s man,” I said. “Did this scheme come from Raimon himself? Was he trying to destroy his brother? And if so, why?”

  “If he is, then we should back away quickly and quietly and let things play out,” said Theo. “It isn’t the Guild’s business, and this cat hasn’t enough lives left to risk on mere curiosity.”

  “But what if Sancho is working against the count?” I asked. “What if there is some plot here, one involving both Sancho and the Count of Foix? That means two men in Raimon’s inner circle could be dangers to him. And that makes it Guild business.”

  I watched as Theo took a long, slow swallow of ale, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on the ceiling, his vision somewhere else entirely.

  “Then may the First Fool protect us from harm,” he decided. “We go after Foix.”

  “And Sancho?”

  “I’d like to find out if he is beholden to Foix in some way,” he said. “But not just yet. If we start looking into him now, he’ll be on to us in no time. Dear God, what are we getting ourselves into, I wonder?”

  “What about the bordel?” I asked. “There is more to be discovered there, I’ll warrant.”

  “There was something,” he said. “The Abbess was surprised when you said Baudoin was the count’s brother?”

  “She swore to the others that she didn’t know,” I said. “Raimon Roger greeted Baudoin as the prodigal brother right in front of her,” he said. “And Sancho said something about it as well. She had to have known.”

  “So disillusioning when a whore turns out to be a liar,” sighed Helga. “Who will be left for me to look up to?”

  “There is always Saint Agnes,” I said.

  “What is it with whores and Saint Agnes?” wondered Theo. “There were saints who actually started out as whores, yet every bordel I know worships this girl who died rather than become one. Why choose her for inspiration?”

  “For the daughters,” answered Helga. “It is too late for the mothers, but the daughters can still be saved, so long as they pray to Saint Agnes.”

  “That makes sense,” said Theo. “But why not the sons?”

  “Because they grow up to become the men who want the whores,” said Helga. “Boys are stupid, useless creatures.”

  “Hear, hear,” I said.

  Chapter 7

  It did not come as news to me that the women in my life, at least those capable of expressing themselves, regarded me, being the nearest representative of my sex, as a stupid, useless creature. I could only hope that Portia hadn’t figured that out yet. There would be opportunity enough to disappoint my daughter when she was older. In the meantime, there was a plot to investigate that might exist only in my untrammeled imagination.

  It would not do for us to pursue Raimon Roger right away, I thought. I had seen him at the Château Narbonnais that morning, engaging in the usual braggadocio with the count and the other members of that exclusive little wolf pa
ck. I added my usual witty remarks, then left for the afternoon, only to be intercepted by Helga.

  So, if we were to descend so soon upon the house that the Count of Foix maintained in town, it would no doubt raise his defenses. We had to find a more natural route to his inner life, to learn what lurked beneath the layers of lard and lechery shielding him.

  It would help if he would hold a formal dinner. I knew for a fact that he liked to eat.

  Or I could pursue his other vice and show up at one of his amorous adventures, lute in hand, ready to accompany his seductions with a randy melody. I just had to make sure that my own virtue would not be endangered now that every attempt at making love to my wife could be regarded by her as penance for sins unknown.

  My own virtue. A recent reacquisition. Three years married, and in some respects, I was still getting used to it after so many years of foolery and fooling around. To say no to a prime piece of female flesh like the Abbess would have been astonishing to the old Theo. The Theo who still lay beneath my own motleyed surface, conjuring up visions of her jumping into bed with me.

  Feet first, of course.

  I remonstrated sternly with the old Theo and bade him remember all the disasters that littered the landscape of my lusty travels, and returned to my strategizing. The old Theo muttered something about my manhood being locked in a box in my wife’s possession, then subsided.

  * * *

  The four of us made the rounds of the taverns that afternoon, doing well with the pilgrim traffic that was resting up for the long walk to Compostela. No sign of the Count of Foix. We ran into Pelardit at the Red Crow and joined him for some wine after he had finished performing for several members of the night watch who were getting their last drinks in before starting on their patrolling.

  “Seen the Count of Foix on your tour today?” I asked him.

  He shook his head.

  “Know where he’s likely to be found?”

  He batted his eyes, his mouth pursed, and suddenly became something flirtatious and feminine. Then he swelled up his cheeks and became Raimon Roger, huffing and puffing in pursuit. He switched rapidly between the two, enacting the whole chase and capture while never leaving his seat. Then he did something unmistakably lewd with his fingers.