The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery (31 page)

The other is to go straight up the slope in reckless disregard of all hazards and sense.

I looked at the road, then at the steep ascent.

“She didn’t take the road,” I said to Zeus. “The climb is easier for a two-legged beast than a four-legged one.”

He snorted and pulled at the reins.

“Fine,” I said, yanking him to the left. “But if you break your leg, I leave you.”

We reached the chapel at the Eagle’s Pass in no time, and I was breathing harder than he was.

“The corollary is that if I break my neck, you leave me,” I gasped. “All right, we have proved that we are sufficiently brave, stupid, and masculine. Let’s see how fast we can get across the massif without a wain and family dragging us down.”

The trip had taken three days coming from the other direction, but that was at a wain’s pace. Still, this was not the place to let Zeus go all out. At his top speed, we would have plunged off the first cliff we came to. I spent the day reining him in from a full gallop until my hands bled from the effort. By the time night fell and forced us to stop, I was so exhausted that I barely had the strength to gather wood for a fire. I poured Zeus a pile of oats, then shared my water skin. In my haste, I had brought only food, no blankets or bedding. The remains of an old shepherd’s lean-to gave me some shelter, but no amount of dead leaves could compensate for the cold of a November night in the mountains. I wrapped my cloak around me as tightly as I could and missed my wife intensely. Not just for the warmth, either, although I confess that became the predominant desire after a while.

I awoke early and rolled out of the lean-to. I didn’t bother with a fire, but I did do my stretches. No amount of urgency would make me forgo that routine, especially with another day of riding facing me. Zeus looked at me blearily.

“Cheer up, old friend,” I said, putting his saddle on. “We should be off the massif by noon. Then you can stretch your legs.”

I winced as I gripped the reins. The early morning mists were clinging to the mountain, and even Zeus saw the wisdom of a relatively cautious pace. I huddled into his neck on the straightaways, hoping to draw some warmth from the animal, but we were high up and the chill refused to leave.

Then I heard a wolf howl, somewhere off to my right. It seemed far away, but it echoed through the mists and crags. I hoped that we were not its prey. A second answered it, much nearer, and that was all Zeus needed to hear. He bolted, with me screaming at him and hauling back on the reins to no avail. The road twisted and writhed like a pinioned serpent ahead of us, and with each turn I was thrown to one side or the other. Finally, I just wrapped the reins around my wrist and clung to his neck, hoping and praying that we would emerge unharmed.

After an eternity, we burst through the last pass on the massif and I managed to bring him down to a trot, then a walk. Finally, he stopped, his sides heaving, his eyes rolling wildly.

There was the sound of a stream somewhere ahead of us. I slid down into an untidy heap, my right wrist still tangled in the reins. I had to pry my fingers from them. My hand looked like it had been whipped repeatedly.

“Well done,” I croaked. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”

I led him to the stream, and he plunged his muzzle in, sucking in the water greedily. I plunged my blood-caked hand in quickly, hoping that the cold would numb the pain, but I only ended up with a hand that was frozen as well as in agony. I washed the blood off and clumsily wrapped my kerchief around it, tying the knot with my teeth. Then I drank. The water was as cold, crisp, and clean as any I have ever tasted, and I would have gladly traded the entire stream for one cup of wine right then and there.

It was near noon, but the clouds still covered the sun. After a couple of false starts, I succeeded in heaving myself back onto the saddle, taking the reins in my left hand.

“Maybe this is all for naught,” I said to Zeus as he walked down the road. “Maybe the wolves took her, or the cold. Maybe she despaired and threw herself into one of those ravines you kept barely missing, thank you very much.”

But she had her dogs with her, I thought. They wouldn’t have left her on that massif. They would have stayed by where she fell and howled in mourning.

Was it the dogs and not wolves doing just that as we plunged madly through the massif? Were they what had panicked Zeus? The howling sounded like wolves to me, and I have done enough hunting in my youth to know the difference. Still, I could have passed her on the massif.

I looked out at the plain stretching ahead of us. I saw some farms, and a small village. I did not see a woman with two dogs.

We reached the base of the descent an hour later. There was nothing but even terrain ahead.

There was no point in searching for her. Either I was right about where she was going, or I wasn’t. Either I would get to the abbey at Le Thoronet before her, or I would be too late. Whatever the possibilities were, my course of action was the same. My only goal now was to stay on my horse for the rest of the journey.

“No more mountains,” I said to Zeus. “Shall we?”

I took a deep breath, then nudged Zeus’s flanks lightly with my heels. He took off like a stone from a catapult. We scattered a flock of chickens as we passed by the nearest farm; then we were on the road heading east, my cloak flapping in the breeze. The sun finally broke through the clouds and warmed my back. As it began to set, I sighted the hill with Le Cannet to the south, and I knew the road to Le Thoronet must be near. Either I could ride through the woods in the darkness to reach it, or I could stop and find shelter for one more night.

But I still hadn’t seen her on the journey. I stopped at the edge of the forest so that we could have one more meal, then found a dry tree limb that could serve me as a crude torch. I lit it from the small fire I had made, then pulled myself up onto the horse.

Every muscle I owned ached. Zeus was looking much the worse for the journey himself, and was clearly disinclined to leave the safety of the fire for the gloom of the forest.

“One more push,” I urged him. “Only a few miles, and I promise that I’ll let you rest for two days. Three if I get killed. Come on.”

Reluctantly, he trotted ahead.

The torch did not light our path very well, but I was hoping that it would keep any wolves at bay. Of course, it would also alert any human predators that we were coming, but that was a chance I had to take. There was little moon to help us tonight, so I had to trust to my sense of direction and my memory of the previous time I had come this way.

Then I sensed the randomness of the forest changing into the regular spacing of the groves by the abbey, and I thanked God, who watches over those too foolish to care for themselves.

I got down from Zeus and slapped him approvingly on the rump. My torch was out. I tossed it into the stream running by the abbey, then led the horse to the entry door and started pounding on it.

“Open up!” I yelled. “Open up in the name of God!”

I did this for a long time, but eventually I heard soft footsteps approach and a bar slide back. The door creaked open, and a very sleepy and irritable-looking monk stood before me with a torch.

“What do you seek?” he asked grumpily.

“God’s mercy,” I replied.

“Find it somewhere else tonight,” he said, and I saw for the first time that he had a sword in his other hand.

“I need to talk to the abbot,” I said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

“My orders are to admit no one after sunset,” said the monk. “Come back in the morning.”

He started to close the door. I shoved it into him, sending him staggering backwards.

“Help!” he screamed. “Intruders! Bandits!”

“Stop it,” I said wearily.

Other shouts came from beyond him, and I could see a group of robed men pour into the end of the entry hall, staves and knives at the ready.

“I bring news of Brother Antime’s death!” I shouted.

There were gasps and murmurs, but no attack.

“I was here to speak with your abbot some weeks ago,” I continued. “Many of you saw me. Some of you may have been in the group that so graciously escorted me.”

“He was that fool who was here when Brother Pelfort was killed,” said one of them.

“That’s me,” I said. “The mad fool who runs errands for the abbot. I must speak with him immediately.”

“What happened to Brother Antime?” one of them asked.

“I will first speak with Abbot Folc about that,” I said. “Will you let me pass?”

“Throw down your weapons,” said the monk who had first opened the door.

My dagger and knife clanked onto the stone floor by his feet.

“Will you consent to be bound?” he asked.

“I will not,” I said. “I will consent to your taking my horse to your stables and treating him better than you have treated me. He is a heroic beast, and I have run him nearly to death in your abbot’s service. Let me pass.”

I strode forward, tossing Zeus’s reins to the startled monk. The others fell back, then surrounded me as I emerged into the gallery by the cloister. There was a frightened yelp behind me.

“Mind his teeth,” I called over my shoulder.

I looked around at the circle of staves and blades pointed at me.

“I’m in a generous mood, so I won’t take you on,” I said to the group. “This way.”

I set off down the gallery to the steps to the church, my escort shuffling quickly around me to maintain the circle. Then I stopped.

“This is the right way, isn’t it?” I asked.

“It is, if it’s salvation that you seek,” said Folc from the top of the steps leading to the church. The torches held by the monks around me cast their light unevenly on his face from below, putting his eyes into shadow.

“The salvation that I seek may not be my own,” I said. “I am the bearer of sad tidings. Brother Antime is dead.”

“How did he die?” asked Folc.

“For your sins,” I said. “Care to discuss them?”

He looked at me impassively, then turned abruptly, beckoning me to follow. The monks in front of me separated. I started up the steps. They did not follow.

Folc was waiting for me inside the church, holding a lit candle. “My office is this way,” he said, indicating a small flight of steps to my left.

“No bodyguard?” I asked.

“Some things must be done in private,” he said.

We walked up the steps and through a door. We were facing the dormitorium, which was above the librarium and chapter house. Folc’s office was a cell to the left, not more than eight paces by six, with a tiny writing desk below a small rectangular slit of a window. He put the candle on the desk and turned to me, his face in shadow.

“Close the door behind you,” he said.

I did.

“You wished to discuss my sins,” he said.

“Here is a turnabout, when the fool confesses the abbot,” I said. “I do not know if we have time enough to discuss them all. Let me begin with the one that cost so many lives.”

“Lives?” he said. “More than just Brother Antime?”

“Since I was last here, seven men have gone to their doom,” I said. “I would say to their graves, but some may still be lying where they fell. All because you are a coward and a liar.”

“In what way?” he asked calmly.

“You knew that message was from a song,” I said. “One that you had composed to mourn the death of your lover, Mathilde. The Lady Lark. Had you owned up to it immediately, we could have gone straight to Montpellier to learn the truth. Instead, you left us in ignorance, and our investigation set off a chain of violence and revenge that has yet to reach its conclusion.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Folc.

“We started by speaking to your wife,” I said. “Then to her brother, Julien. He’s the one who painted the bloody words, by the way.”

“Julien?” he exclaimed. “Why would he do that?”

“He was merely the brush,” I said. “Hélène was the artist. It was a love note from her to you, Sieur Folquet. A little message to tell you that she had triumphed over her greatest rival. She had finally killed Lady Mathilde, the supreme love of your petty life.”

“This is pure fantasy,” said Folc. “This Lady Mathilde you speak of—I remember her vaguely, but she died years ago.”

“That’s what everyone was meant to think,” I said. “The truth was something uglier, something profoundly evil. Her husband faked her death, but kept her alive and imprisoned. He tortured her every day for her dalliance with you. She remained in darkness for seventeen years, Folquet. Then, when she finally regained the sun, cruel Fate sent her to Gémenos for the final act of vengeance. Your wife killed your lover.”

“This cannot be!” he screamed. “It is some vicious trick of yours. Have you come all this way merely to throw this in my face?”

“No, I came here to save your life,” I said. “Although I am beginning to have second thoughts about that.”

“Save my life? Who seeks it?” he demanded.

“Vengeance,” I said. “Vengeance is coming, Folquet, trudging through the mountains, crawling through the forest, on bloodied feet by now, but coming nonetheless. A long time ago, you betrayed your wife. A short time ago, you lied to me. Had you told me the meaning of the song, then Julien and Hélène would never have known why we were searching, and would never have killed to prevent us from finding the answer.”

“Julien is coming to kill me,” he said.

“Julien is dead,” I said.

“What? How?”

“Because he tried to kill me!” I shouted. “Because he tried to kill my wife and child, not to mention this extremely promising apprentice of ours. Because you lied, my family was put in danger, Folquet. Because you lied, we were forced to kill. And Vengeance still comes. I wonder if she is here now.”

“Hélène,” he said in disbelief.

“Hearing of her brother’s death was the last straw,” I said. “Although I think that her reason deserted her years ago. You took everything from her. You were her husband, her only desire, but you cheated on her for years, then abandoned her for this pile of dry stones. You took her children away, her friends, her life. What did you give her in exchange?”