by Alan Gordon
And in the middle of this red brigade marched my wife, her hair subtly altered from its normal auburn to the same lurid shade as the others.
They filled the space before the gallows, and Pelfort looked at them in dumb terror.
“We are here to see Toulousan justice done!” shouted the Abbess. “But if God is in His heaven, then your Hell will look like this for eternity. You, Senhor Bade. Pronounce the sentence.”
The bade, hesitantly, pronounced Pelfort’s doom. The hangman stepped forward.
“Wait one moment,” commanded the Abbess.
A small version of the red women stepped to the front.
Helga.
She sang in a pure voice that filled the entire château.
* * *
Igne divini radians amoris
corporis sexum superavit Agnes,
et super carnem potuere carnis
claustra pudicœ.
* * *
The Hymn of Saint Agnes, I thought.
* * *
Spiritum celsœ capiunt cohortes
candidum, cæli super astra tollunt;
iungitur Sponsi thalamis pudica
sponsa beatis.
* * *
And then, every woman in the courtyard joined her.
* * *
Virgo, nunc nostra miserere sortis
et, tuum quisquis celebrat tropæum,
impetret sibi veniam reatus
atque salutem.
* * *
O Virgin, I thought. Now have pity on our lot, and whoever celebrates your victory day, let him earnestly pray for forgiveness of guilt.
And salvation for himself.
“Now!” shouted the Abbess.
The hangman shoved Pelfort off the platform, and he plummeted toward the sea of red until the rope caught him and snapped his neck.
Chapter 18
On a hot, sunny Wednesday toward the end of June, I was juggling in Montardy Square when I heard someone walk by, whistling a familiar melody. I picked up where it left off, and someone tossed something into the tamborine I had set out for contributions.
“Yellow Dwarf,” I muttered. “Dinner’s on us.”
I concluded my routine, made one last appeal for coins, then collected what I had earned for the morning. Nestling with the money was a small piece of parchment, folded the proper way with a seal depicting an ass’s head in red wax.
I ambled to a street where I knew I was safe from observation, slid my dagger under the seal, and read the letter. Then I took off at a run toward the Château Narbonnais.
I sought out Sancho when I got there.
“Did you hear?” he asked as soon as he saw me. “The viguier’s man is back from Paris. You should come along.”
“Take a look at this,” I said, showing him the letter.
He read it twice, then looked up at me in concern.
“It may be nothing,” I said.
“Or a very large something,” he replied. “Should be interesting, given what we know.”
“Let’s find out,” I said.
We hurried to the Grande Chambre, where the count and his coterie had already gathered.
“Ah, Tan Pierre, good,” said Count Raimon. “You have saved me the trouble of sending for you.”
“Are you in need of entertainment, Dominus?” I asked, reaching for my lute.
“Today, I hope to entertain you,” he said. “Was Baudoin sent for?”
“Oc, Dominus,” said a servant. “He was with his language tutor. He will be here shortly.”
Baudoin came in. “Greetings, my noble lord,” he said in langue d’oc. “I trust that you are well.”
“I am, senhor, and thank you,” replied Raimon. “Our messenger has returned from Paris.”
“Ah,” said Baudoin, taking a deep breath. “Good.”
“Arval Marti, step forward,” said the count.
Marti came before him and knelt.
“We give thanks to God Almighty for your safe journey,” said Raimon. “Were you successful in your mission?”
“I was, Dominus,” said Marti.
“And what did you learn about this man Baudoin’s claims?” asked Raimon.
“That they are fraudulent, Dominus,” said Marti.
“No!” shouted Baudoin. “He lies.”
“Bind him,” ordered the count.
Two soldiers stepped forward immediately to comply. “Here we go again,” muttered Sancho’
He walked over to Baudoin and stopped the soldiers. “Begging your pardon, Dominus,” he said. “I don’t think you should do that yet.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I heard you correctly,” said the count. “Did you just countermand my direct order?”
“One moment, Dominus,” said Sancho. “Senhor Fool?”
“Oc, Sancho?” I answered.
“What does ‘countermand’ mean again?”
“One of those military terms you soldier types love to throw around,” I said. “It means that you gave an order reversing another one, I think.”
“Oh. I always wondered,” said Sancho. He turned back to the count. “No, Dominus, I did not countermand your direct order. I’m simply offering an opinion on the matter.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?” asked the count.
“That you did not, Dominus,” conceded Sancho. “But I am of the opinion that you need my opinion, so I offered it to you without your asking. Taking the initiative, as it were.”
“Bind Sancho, too,” commanded the count.
“No, no, no, can’t let that happen,” I said, going to Sancho’s side. “Not until Senhor Marti answers a very important question for me.”
“What farce are you playing now, Fool?” asked the count. “One you asked me to play, Dominus,” I replied. “Or have you forgotten?”
The count stepped down from his throne and looked at Sancho, who stood there calmly despite the shackles being attached to his wrists. He then looked at me. I returned his gaze evenly.
“Very well, Fool,” he said. “Before I have you thrown in the dungeon with these two, ask Senhor Marti your very important question.”
“Thank you, Dominus,” I said. “Senhor Marti, here it is. Did you deliver my letter as well?”
“Oc, Fool,” he said. “And was treated most disrespectfully by the recipient.”
“Sounds like Horace,” I chuckled. “Did he send you a reply?”
“He did, Fool,” he said, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his pouch.
I stepped forward, took it, and opened it.
“What does it say?” asked Raimon.
“It confirms Marti’s information,” I said, reading it.
“Very well,” said Raimon, turning to Baudoin. “I am sorry for it, Senhor Baudoin, or whatever your name is. I was enjoying your company.”
“There’s one problem, Dominus,” I said.
“Oh?”
“This letter is a forgery,” I said.
The count stared at me.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“My colleague Horace and I have a special way of corresponding,” I said. “My letter was folded a particular way, then closed without the use of a seal. That was a signal to let him know that it was being delivered by a messenger I did not necessarily trust.”
“Dominus, I protest!” cried Marti.
“This reply came back the same way,” I said. “But I received this letter this same day from a different messenger, one who is known to me personally.”
I held up the one that came by the Guild route.
“Note how it’s folded, note the seal,” I said, bringing it up to him.
“And the contents, Fool?” asked Raimon.
“Read them for yourself,” I said.
The count read it, then looked at Baudoin.
“This Parisian jester, Horace, vouches for you,” said the count. “And he describes you to the life.”
He handed the letter back to me.
“So
, Senhor Marti,” he said. “The question is, do I place my faith in you, or in this fool and his colleague?”
“Your faith would have to extend further than Marti, Dominus,” said Sancho.
“How so?”
“Marti was handpicked for this mission by your viguier, Peire Roger,” said Sancho.
“So he was,” said the count thoughtfully.
“There are some things you should know about the viguier, Dominus, before you make your decision,” said Sancho.
“What are they?”
“Following your directions, Dominus, I allowed myself to become indebted to a local gambler earlier this year,” said Sancho. “I did so to find out to whom he might sell my debt, so that I could learn who is behind some of the corruption going on in this city. The debt was purchased by the Count of Foix.”
“Go on,” commanded Raimon.
“I started doing Foix’s dirty work, and discovered, as you know, that he also owned the bordel where La Rossa was killed, having purchased it from Ferrer de Planes. I had thought there might be some connection between the two from their time in the Fioly Land, but de Planes denied it.”
“Dominus,” said the Count of Foix. “This is outrageous.”
“Quiet,” said Raimon. “Continue, Sancho.”
“The Count of Foix purchased the bordel shortly after his release from captivity in Aragon,” said Sancho. “I knew that the Countess of Foix and the Count of Comminges had been instrumental in securing that release, but I recently learned that the viguier had been the man most responsible for rescuing him, working behind the scenes.”
A morsel of information from my wife’s conversation with Foix’s wife, I thought.
“Following that avenue, I looked to see if there had been any connection between Ferrer de Planes and the viguier,” said Sancho.
“Had there been?” asked Raimon.
“There had, Dominus,” said Sancho.
“Ferrer saved my life,” said the viguier, stepping forward. “Under circumstances that imperiled his own. When he was reduced to living in the leper house with that bordel supporting him, I helped as much as I could, but I lacked the funds to sustain it. That is why I prevailed upon the Count of Foix to take over the operation to repay me for aiding him. We kept this quiet so as to avoid any shame to the de Planes name.”
“So, Baudoin was directed to that bordel at your behest?” asked the count.
“Oc, Dominus,” said the viguier. “We were using La Rossa to glean what information she could from him. But she was killed before she could pass on what she found out.”
“Well, that’s all very well,” said the count. “The problem remains, my old friend, as to who Baudoin is? Must I send a different messenger? A team of them, with the majority vote to render the decision? Whom do I believe, a jester who has been here six months, or an advisor who has been with me for my entire tenure as count, and with my father before me?”
“You should believe the man who has your best interests at heart,” said Peire Roger.
“Fool, your response,” said Raimon, turning to me.
“Your best interests are for you to decide, Dominus, not me,” I said. “I am here only to bring you the truth, as all good jesters do.”
“Peire Roger, I ask you directly,” said the count. “Did you send this man Marti on a mission to discredit Baudoin, no matter what the truth was?”
The viguier hesitated, then started to speak.
The count held up his hand. “That is all I need to know,” said Raimon. “You are relieved of your duties.”
“Dominus, forgive me,” said Peire Roger, bowing his head. “But one last word. Brother though he may be, he is not a friend to Toulouse. He is a Parisian, a member of the court of France. A true brother would have returned to you long before now.”
“A true friend would have told me the truth,” said Raimon. “For your years of service, I pardon you for this transgression. Sancho, escort him to his office, and see that nothing of value leaves.”
“Oc, Dominus,” said Sancho, bowing as the soldiers removed the shackles. “This way, senhor.”
Peire Roger followed him.
“Excuse me for one moment, Dominus,” I said.
I chased them into the hallway.
“A word with you, senhor,” I said, stopping Sancho and Peire Roger.
“What, Fool?” said Peire Roger.
“The day I spoke with you in your office. Did you follow me afterwards?”
“I did,” he said.
“Why?”
“You were asking about my time on Crusade with Foix, and about Baudoin. I had been unaware that you were pursuing any investigation until then. I wanted to see what you were doing, so I followed you.”
“You could teach Sancho’s men a trick or two,” I said. “You were very good.”
“So were you, Fool,” he said. “You have won, today. But I am not convinced that you did Toulouse any favors in doing so.”
“I have saved an innocent man from hanging,” I said. “Twice, now.”
He looked out the window at the courtyard where the gallows sat silently in anticipation.
“I suspect that you merely delayed the inevitable,” he said. “Good day, Fool.”
I returned to the Grande Chambre. Baudoin was seated next to his brother, the two of them conversing easily.
“Well, I must go see my wife,” Raimon was saying. “We will have to find someone suitable for you, now that you have been established.”
“I’ve never had a wife before,” said Baudoin.
“I’ve had too many,” sighed Raimon. “But you’ll get used to it. Tell me one last thing. Was our mother happy during her time in Paris?”
“She seemed to be,” said Baudoin.
“I am glad for it,” said Raimon. “Good day, Baudoin.” The Count of Toulouse stood and embraced his brother. As the latter left, he looked at me and nodded. I waved.
The count and I were alone in the Grande Chambre, as we had been so many times now.
“Fool, I cannot express my thanks enough,” said the count. “Sancho did most of the legwork on this matter,” I said. “He will be amply rewarded,” said the count. “The position of viguier is available. Do you want it?”
“Hell no.”
“I knew that would be your answer,” he said. “But I thought I should do you the courtesy of offering.”
“Most generous of you, Dominus,” I said. “But I think you would trust me less if I actually was in a position of power.”
“Keep telling me the truth, no matter what happens,” he said.
“I will, Dominus. How do you feel right now?”
“Happy,” he said. “Actually happy. I had forgotten what that is like. I have gained a brother today. And things are going well with my wife.”
“You have discovered the secret, Dominus.”
“What secret, Fool?”
“The key to living life is not to stave off death,” I said. “It is simply to live your life.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
“Well, keep on dyeing your hair,” I said.
He laughed, a deep, satisfying belly laugh. Then he turned somber. “I could have had him executed,” he said, looking at the door Baudoin had just exited. “My own brother. Tell me, Fool. How did you know?”
I thought back over everything I had learned and done in the last two months. It is true that Sancho had toppled me off the precipice into this investigation, but I had already begun leaning over the edge, staring straight down into the abyss, steeling myself to leap.
“It was when I talked to him,” I said. “Sometimes you just believe a man.”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that.”
He closed his eyes. “I knew he was my brother,” he said. “From the moment I saw him. He has my mother’s face. You never forget your mother’s face.”
And the Count of Toulouse sat on his throne and wept.
Historic
al Note
I inform Your Nobility, as the one in whom alone after God I place all my hope, that on the day on which our servant Simon departed from me I left my house and took refuge in the house of a knight of the town [Toulouse]. I am left without the wherewithal to find food or to give anything to my servants. The Count has no care for me, nor does he help me or give me anything from his lands for my needs. For this reason I ask you, imploring Your Highness, that if the messengers who are on the way to your court tell you that I am well do not believe them. Had I dared to write to you then, I would have told you at greater length of my distress. Farewell.
—Letter from Constance, Countess of Toulouse, to her brother, the King of France, 1165. Recuil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, 16:126 (English translation by Fredric L. Cheyette from Ermengard of Narbonne and the World of the Troubadours, Cornell University Press, 2001).
* * *
There are dates attributed to events and people in histories that may or may not be accurate. This letter, duly copied into the sixteenth volume of a collection of letters to three French kings, is dated 1165, so we may assume that that is the year Constance left Toulouse and returned to Paris. But the date given for the birth of her third son and last child, Baudoin, is also 1165. Where was he born? What month? The texts are silent.
The historian Laurent Macé states that Baudoin came to Toulouse for the first time in 1205. Given Raimon V’s penchant for trading his children’s marriageability like baseball cards, it seems unlikely that Baudoin had spent any time there previously, or he would have had the same marital adventures as had his siblings before him. The question remains, where was Baudoin for the first forty years of his life? This translation of the chronicles of the Fools’ Guild suggests that he was in Paris, but I have found no references either to him or his mother after their arrival. Given the disappointment and the shame of the failure of the marriage, it is not surprising that Constance was banished from the pages of contemporaneous accounts. She was adamant in her refusal to return, standing firm even in the face of the pressure brought by Pope Alexander III in 1174.
