[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal

by Alan Gordon

  Sancho and I looked at each other. He shrugged.

  “The nearest tavern?” I asked.

  “Right over there,” he said, pointing to the end of the street.

  “I’m buying,” said Claudia. “Let’s go.”

  You search your entire life for a woman who will say that.

  Chapter 16

  First order of business is to share what we each know,” said Theo once we had commandeered a table.

  “No, the first order of business is to order the first order of drinks,” I said, summoning the barmaid. “This is my party, so I call the tunes.”

  “I cannot believe you didn’t put drinks first,” commented Sancho to Theo. “Especially with someone else buying. This business really has thrown you off your rhythm. You’ll be dropping clubs next.”

  “By the way,” I said as I filled everyone’s cup, “are we trusting Sancho today?”

  “Good point,” said Theo, turning to the soldier. “Are we?”

  “You are,” said Sancho.

  “He says that we are,” said Theo.

  “Why?” I asked, handing cups to Sancho’s men, who were watching the whole interchange with bewilderment.

  “You are looking for the murderer of La Rossa,” he said. “Right.”

  “So am I,” he said. “As of today.”

  “What changed your mind?” asked Theo.

  “Because I would like to know the truth,” said Sancho. “I don’t want an innocent man’s death on my conscience unless I’m getting paid much more than I am right now.”

  “What about the man you work for?” asked Theo.

  “If by that you mean the Count of Foix, then you will find that he supports your quest,” said Sancho. “His best earner and possibly the only real redhead in Toulouse was murdered. He wants to see her avenged, both as a personal matter and because it’s good for business. If, on the other hand, you mean the Count of Toulouse, then I have his full support as well.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because if Baudoin is his brother, he would like him exonerated,” said Sancho. “But he couldn’t do it officially for appearances’ sake. So he used me to encourage you.”

  “Encourage me?” laughed Theo. “You’ve done nothing but discourage me from the first day.”

  “When we had that drink after you came out of the dungeon,” said Sancho.

  “Right.”

  “Which was after we both talked to the count.”

  “Right.”

  “Who told me to get you to investigate so it would be done without any connection to him.”

  Theo stared at him.

  “But you specifically told me not to investigate it,” he said. “I distinctly remember that.”

  “How else would I get you to do something?” asked Sancho.

  “Oh, he’s got you figured out,” said Helga.

  “You know, for a man who cannot tail someone without alerting the entire city that he’s doing it, you can be pretty subtle,” said Theo, knocking his cup against Sancho’s in tribute.

  “Thank you,” said Sancho modestly.

  “By the way, the last man you had following me was superb,” said Theo. “You should give him a bonus come payday.”

  “What man?” asked Sancho.

  “What do you mean, what man?” asked Theo.

  “I haven’t had anyone follow you since you lost these two tortoises,” said Sancho.

  “You’re playing with me.”

  “I am not, and you are trusting me today,” said Sancho. “I did not have any other man following you.”

  “Interesting,” said Theo. “Interesting and disturbing.”

  “Next order of business,” I said, clapping my hands for their attention. “As your hostess, and as the first to arrive at the house of Ferrer de Planes, I suggest that we share our information.”

  “That was my idea.” Theo pouted.

  “Shut up, husband. The last shall be first, the first shall be last. Sancho, what brought you here?”

  “Your husband suggested that I look into who owned the bordel before Foix bought it,” said Sancho.

  “Ferrer de Planes,” I said. “He set it up to fund the leper house.”

  “You already knew that?” exclaimed Sancho in a hurt tone. “You might have saved me the trouble of finding that out. It wasn’t easy.”

  “I just learned it this past hour,” I said consolingly. “And it is good to have my information confirmed, good Sancho.”

  “Well, all right, then,” he said, mollified. “So I came to check the place out, and saw the three of you gawking at each other. I like to gawk. I thought I would join in. But there’s something else about this place. You recognized it, didn’t you, Pierre?”

  “Baudoin asked about it when you gave us the tour of the city,” said Theo.

  “Oc, he did,” said Sancho. “Of all the places we passed by, this was the only one that pulled a question out of him.”

  “What was the question?” I asked.

  “Why this crumbling heap still stood in this fancy old neighborhood,” said Sancho.

  “He couldn’t have known,” said Theo.

  “Known what?” I asked. “It’s your turn to share what you know.”

  “This is where the Countess Constance came when she fled Raimon the Fifth,” said Théo. “De Planes sheltered her while she awaited funds from Paris. She was here for two months, hiding in the cellar.”

  “Brave man to defy his count like that to help an escaped wife,” I said. “He could have been hanged as a traitor.”

  “How romantic!” sighed Helga.

  “I had the sertse that Baudoin thought his mother’s ally might still be here in Toulouse,” continued Theo. “He said he didn’t know who it was, but why else would he be so curious about the house?”

  “Stands to reason,” said Sancho.

  “How did he know which one it was?” asked Helga.

  “What?” said Theo.

  “How did he know this was the house of de Planes?” asked Helga. “Baudoin’s mother hadn’t been here in forty years. The street isn’t marked. There isn’t anything to show the house belongs to de Planes. I didn’t know it, and I’ve passed by here lots of times.”

  “Excellent question, daughter,” I said, patting her hand.

  She gave me a huge smile.

  “And how does this connect to La Rossa?” asked Sancho.

  “Julie,” I said.

  “Who’s she?” asked Sancho.

  “La Rossa’s real name,” I said. “Let’s see. She was in her mid-thirties, so she was born, say, about 1170. It’s been five years since Constance left and Baudoin’s born. De Planes gets married sometime between 1165 and 1170, and his wife bears him a son and heir, Guerau. But de Planes has servants, including a pretty maid who leads him into temptation.”

  “Not Sylvie,” said Sancho, shuddering visibly.

  “No,” I said. “Another one. He gets her with child, a girl called Julie. De Planes does the proper thing and sets them up with a house and garden outside the town walls. The maid may have continued as his mistress.”

  “That’s why they call them extramural activities,” Theo said to Helga. “They take place outside the walls.”

  “Humor never works in Latin,” said Helga.

  “I was just explaining the derivation of the word,” said Theo, deflated. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”

  “Then you succeeded,” said Helga. “No more lessons today. I want to hear the rest of the story.”

  “Me, too,” said one of Sancho’s men.

  “The maid dies when the girl is only two,” I said. “De Planes acts nobly again and brings her into his household to be raised by the cook.”

  “That’s Sylvie,” said Sancho.

  “Correct,” I said. “The little girl grows into a redheaded beauty. She gets married to another servant, and all is going well. But then de Planes’s wife dies, and he suffers financial ruin. In desperation, he sends
his only son along with the servant to Paris to seek help. I will bet that they were trying to get it from Constance.”

  “Makes sense,” said Theo.

  “Only they never made it to Paris,” I said.

  “What happened?” asked Theo.

  “No one knows, no one ever finds out,” I said. “They simply vanish.”

  “Constance dies in 1190,” said Théo. “Baudoin is living it up in Paris. What is de Planes doing?”

  “Looking fruitlessly for his son, then going off on Crusade,” I said. “He comes back, say about ’94, sets up the leper house and the bordel to fund it. His own house falls to ruins, and Sylvie and Julie end up in the bordel.”

  “Did he know that his daughter was forced to become a whore in the house he set up?” asked Theo.

  “According to Sylvie, Julie made certain that he knew,” I said.

  “Nice,” muttered one of Sancho’s men.

  “Plenty of reasons to kill for one family,” commented Theo. “Nothing like bringing a bastard child into the household.”

  I squeezed his knee in sympathy. He had been such a child once, and his family ended up paying a terrible price for their parents’ sins.

  “I wonder if she was left anything in his will,” said Theo, looking out the door at the old mansion.

  “I was thinking along those lines myself,” I said. “Only—“

  “How could she inherit?” asked Sancho.

  “I know she was illegitimate, but given de Planes’s sense of honor …”

  “You’re missing the point,” said Sancho impatiently. “She couldn’t have inherited anything. De Planes isn’t dead.”

  We all turned to look at him.

  “You were supposed to share what you knew,” I scolded him.

  “I assumed you knew it already,” he said. “You knew everything else I knew. You knew things I couldn’t possibly know.”

  “He’s still alive,” I said, amazed. “Is he still at the house?”

  “No,” said Sancho. “No one’s lived there for years, except for the rooks.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” said Sancho.

  “Come on, out with it,” said Theo.

  “He caught the curse,” said Sancho. “He’s in the leper house.”

  * * *

  I pulled the bell-cord for the second time that day.

  “Do we have to go inside?” asked Sancho nervously.

  “You could take our word about what we find out, if you like,” I said.

  “No, the count will want to hear it from me,” sighed Sancho. “I follow the fools. I must be one by now.”

  “Do you have an act?” asked Theo interestedly.

  The peephole opened, and Adhémar’s eye caught mine. “Domina Gile, is it not?” he asked. “I do not know that Senhor Montazin has the strength for a second visit.”

  “Open up, Adhémar,” said Sancho. “It’s not Montazin we’ve come to see. It’s de Planes.”

  The door opened, and Adhémar stood there, a sword in one hand.

  “I cannot permit that,” he said softly. “Senhor de Planes sees no one. And you know he is under the protection of the Count of Foix.”

  “Do you see this?” asked Sancho, holding up a document with the seal of the Count of Toulouse. “This is better than anything you’ve got, whether steel or parchment. Put up your blade before I take it from you and shove it up your ass.”

  “You really should have said, ‘Please,’” muttered Theo.

  I thought that Adhémar might take them on even with numbers and armor to their advantage. Then he took a deep breath and sheathed his sword. “This way,” he said, and he turned and went inside.

  “You two guard the door,” Sancho ordered his men. “No point in all three of us catching it.”

  I have never seen an order followed by two more grateful men.

  “The count will hear of this,” said Adhémar as he led us into the front parlor.

  “We’ll race you to him if you like,” said Theo. “Bring down de Planes.”

  Adhémar moved to set up the screen.

  “No,” I said. “We must be certain it is him.”

  “Are you sure about that?” muttered Sancho.

  Adhémar hesitated, then replaced the screen.

  “I will bring him,” he said. “It will take a while.”

  We could see the base of the stairs from the parlor. He disappeared up them, and the four of us sat.

  “None of us knows what he looks like, anyway,” said Helga. “What good is using no screen?”

  “Adhémar doesn’t know that we don’t know him,” I said. “He’ll bring down the right man.”

  There came a careful footstep, followed by another. Adhémar descended, tenderly carrying a shriveled old man in his arms. The man’s hands were gnarled and shaking. His feet were swathed in bandages and dangled uselessly. He was clad in a quilted robe, and his face, neck, and balding head were covered with lesions, old and new. His eyes were pale blue, and looked out into nothing.

  “Who is here?” he said in a croaking voice.

  “Four people, senhor,” said Adhémar, placing him gently on a cushioned seat. “Two fools, a soldier, and a girl.”

  “Which of them wants to speak with me?”

  “All of us, senhor,” I said.

  He turned in the direction of my voice. “You do not sound like a girl, and you are not a soldier,” he said. “You must be the female fool.”

  “You know who I am, senhor,” I said. “You sent Carlos to frighten me away from you.”

  “I thought he could frighten a woman,” he said. “But you are no ordinary woman.”

  “He was somewhat frightening,” I said. “I had help from my daughter.”

  “So I heard,” he said. “I had to laugh when I heard about it, and I am not a man given to laughter.”

  “You are Ferrer de Planes,” said Sancho.

  “What remains of him, I am. You must be the soldier.”

  “Oc, senhor. I am here on behalf of Count Raimon.”

  “How is he?” asked de Planes. “I remember him as a young man.”

  “He is well,” said Sancho. “Not so young.”

  “I would offer my prayers to his health, but my prayers do not seem to carry much weight,” said de Planes. “I prayed this week that my shame would not be revealed to the world, yet now the world sits before me in my parlor.”

  “Is that why you sent Carlos?” I asked. “To prevent us from finding out about you?”

  “It is, Na Gile, and I ask your pardon for it.”

  “If you wish to make recompense, then my price is a simple one.”

  “Name it, lady.”

  “I ask that you answer our questions with the truth.”

  He grimaced, or smiled, I do not know which. “Your price is a steep one, and far from simple,” he said. “But I shall pay it.”

  “You had a bastard child with a maid in your household. A daughter named Julie.”

  “I did.”

  “You took her in after her mother died.”

  “I gave her a roof and a way of providing for her, and when she was of age, I found her a husband. Pelfort, a servant on my staff.”

  “Did she know that she was your daughter?”

  “I do not know when she learned it, but she did,” he said. “My wife—I could not keep the truth from her. It destroyed her. She wasted away before my very eyes. I learned from Julie years later that my wife had, in a fit of rage, whipped her while calling her a bastard of a whore’s child. If she hadn’t known before, she certainly did then.”

  “Was Julie left anything in your will?” I asked.

  “I had a stipend for her, enough for her to live upon had she—had she outlived me. It was not much, but it was all I could do.”

  “What about while she was alive?” asked Theo. “What about when she needed enough to stave off whoredom?”

  “I tried,” he said. “But
she wanted so much, and there was little enough as there was. She had some idea that I had a fortune stashed away somewhere.”

  “What about the house?” asked Sancho. “That had to be worth something given the neighborhood.”

  “The house may never be sold while a de Planes still lives,” said the old man. “There is a great-nephew waiting in Arles for me to finally leave this earth, and the house will go to him. He’s more than welcome to it.”

  “After your wife died, you sent Guerau, your son, and Pelfort to Paris,” I said. “Who were they to meet?”

  He sat up, his shoulders stiffening. “I will not give you that name,” he said. “It is a matter of honor.”

  “I would be much more impressed by that chivalry if you were not the sort of man who sends bordel ruffians to intimidate women,” I said.

  He slumped down in embarrassment.

  “You sent him to speak to Constance, didn’t you?” I asked. “I confess it,” he said, miserably. “But Guerau never went to Paris, and she never— I was a fool to try, and my son paid the price for my folly. I thought I could gain absolution by taking the Cross, but I fear that my soul will be as damned in the afterlife as my body is in life.”

  “How did you come to sell the bordel to Foix?” asked Theo. “Did he owe you some favor from your time together in the Holy Land?”

  “I never knew him there,” said de Planes. “We had no connection. He just appeared on my doorstep a few years ago and offered to buy the place, keeping the arrangement going with this house. I thought it would be a way to assure the care of my afflicted brothers after God finally took pity on me and allowed me to die.”

  “And you had no other connection to him?” persisted Theo. “None,” said de Planes.

  We all looked each other.

  Sancho shrugged. “I have nothing,” he said.

  “Senhor,” I said gently. “You know of the death of your daughter.”

  “Oc, Domina,” he said, tears starting to glisten in the dead eyes.

  “Do you have any idea of why she was murdered?”

  “The actual murder, no,” he said, crying openly. “But her entire life sent her to her doom, and I am the one responsible.”