The Moneylender of Toulouse (18 page)

Yet beyond this privileged group, the cathedral held the same sparse crowd that had been there the previous week. The place was as dilapidated as before, the Bishop as threadbare, the choir as dissonant. I found the chattering by the Count's followers offensive, even for one as disrespectful of the Church as I am.

The Bishop approached the lectern for the sermon, quivering slightly as he glanced in the direction of the Count's party. The noise from that direction continued unabated. The Bishop placed his hands on either side of the lectern and swallowed hard.

“Two dead men!” he suddenly bellowed.

The shout echoed around the cathedral. There was absolute silence when the reverberations died out.

“Good opening,” I muttered to Claudia.

“Two dead men!” he thundered again, more confident in the attentiveness of his flock. “One struck down in the dark, the other stabbed in full daylight. Both left to float in waters contaminated by the foul stench of iniquity. Two men murdered, and have the murderers been brought to justice? No!”

He looked directly at the Count, who was leaning back in the pew, his chin resting on one fist.

“And if they are caught, will there be justice for them to be brought to?” asked the Bishop. “For there cannot be justice where there is no order, and there cannot be order where there is sin. And there is sin everywhere. Everywhere that shuns Our Savior, that provides the shadows for evil to slink about, tolerated, protected, even encouraged. Why preach of Hellfire to come after death when it is already here among us, and no one lifts a finger to quench it? When Jews are openly employed in our government, and heretics meet freely in public and mock true Christians with their very openness? How long will the word of Christ, as sent through his chosen ministers on earth, be ignored?”

Father Mascaron sat quietly off to one side, nodding in approval.

“The Holy Season is upon us,” continued the Bishop. “Advent ends, and the Twelve Days are nigh. A joyous season, and a festive one. Yet every man, woman and child who lifts a glass, who eats a pie, who gives a token to a beloved in the name of this season, yet does nothing to eradicate sin in the name of He who died for all of our sins spits upon the Cross with every sip taken, curses the name of the Holy Mother with every bite, and takes another step toward the eternal fire with every trinket bestowed. I say there will be no more toleration. There cannot be forgiveness of sinners until there is acknowledgment of sin. There cannot be peace until those who fight in Satan's name shall be sent to join their cold master, once and for all.”

He glowered about the room, trembling in righteous indignation.

“Peace be with you, amen,” he said, and subsided.

“And a happy Christmas to us all,” muttered Claudia.

The closing hymn was subdued and blessedly short.

We stood and waited for the Count and his people to leave, then slipped into line behind them. I was interested to see what his reaction to the sermon would be. The Bishop stood by the door, gnawing on his lower lip as the Count approached him. Finally, the two Raimons stood face to face.

“Small crowd today,” said the Count. “Disappointing. I would want to see that sermon reach more people.”

“Yes, well…” stammered the Bishop.

“Maybe you could take your message to the streets,” suggested the Count.

“That would hardly seem appropriate,” said the Bishop. “If they will not come to God's house—”

“Jesus had no house to preach in,” said the Count. “Just a big pile of dirt to stand on, and He did all right, didn't He?”

“Um, yes, but—”

“So, Raimon, we're still on for dinner tomorrow, aren't we?” the Count finished blithely.

“Of course,” said the Bishop.

“Good,” said the Count, clapping him on the shoulder, almost knocking his miter off in the process. “See you then.”

He walked out, pursued by his entourage, most of whom did not even acknowledge the Bishop as they passed by.

“I like this count,” commented Helga.

We drifted back to the end of the line to let the rest of the congregation exit. The Bishop was still distracted by the Count's behavior by the time we reached him.

“Good sermon, Your Holiness,” I said as I shook his hand.

He looked at me blankly, then recognized me.

“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Good to see you again.”

“I'm sorry that my own search for sinners on your behalf has yet to bear fruit,” I said softly.

He glanced quickly at Father Mascaron, who was standing impassively at his shoulder, then back at me.

“I appreciate your efforts,” he said. “There is only so much one can do.”

“Oh, but I haven't given up looking,” I said. “I am a very bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out evil. I promise you that I will not rest until the threat has been extirpated.”

“Thank you again,” he mumbled. “Blessings upon your head.”

“Thank you,” I said, and we walked out of the cathedral and into the daylight.

“Poke, poke, poke,” said Claudia. “What were you doing just then?”

“Letting Mascaron and his master know that I am still on the hunt, whether they want me to be or not,” I said. “Let's hurry. We have a dinner to prepare and fools to rehearse.”

*   *   *

We had laid in provisions the day before, so we sent Helga running up and down the ladder, fetching buckets of water from the common well.

“I'm still thinking about what you told me about Vitalis,” said Claudia as she chopped up onions for the stew. “He was concerned about Donatus meeting his brother, and about Donatus going to Bazacle, yet as far as you can tell, he didn't confront Donatus.”

“No, Donatus came out earlier, doing his chores, and Vitalis came out later. I heard no fighting, no arguing from outside, not that that's conclusive.”

“Then Vitalis must have gone into the dormitorium to check with someone else,” said Claudia. “And this other monk was able to allay his concerns.”

“Which narrows it down to the rest of the chapter, including the abbot,” I said. “Too many to investigate.”

“What if it wasn't a person at all?” suggested Claudia. “What if it was a thing, something he doesn't want found?”

“Especially by Donatus,” I speculated. “And he went in to check that it was still safe, and it was. Hence the relief. You think it might be this missing book of his brother's?”

“He had access to the house,” said Claudia. “And we know that he had some falling out with Milon because Martine saw them.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Maybe I can sneak into the dormitorium while they are all at prayer. I can put Pelardit's robe to the test.”

“That's poking at the hornet's nest from the inside,” she said. “If you're caught, they'll hang you as a common thief.”

“Then I won't do it until after our performance before the Count,” I said. “I would hate to miss a paying job because I was dead. Now, let's say Vitalis has the book. Does it follow that he killed his brother to get it?”

She threw the onions into the cauldron, then took a pair of skinned rabbits and started chopping them up.

“It doesn't mean that he did, and it doesn't mean that he didn't,” she said finally.

“Wonderfully elucidating, my love,” I said.

“It would account for his behavior at the grave,” she pointed out. “Maybe…”

There was a clattering from the steps below.

“We will continue this later,” I said. “Let's greet our guests.”

She added the hacked rabbits to the stew, then went to wash the blood from her hands.

A hand clutching a full wineskin popped up through the trapdoor, followed by the rest of Pelardit.

“You are welcome, and your offering even more so,” I said. “Happy end of Advent.”

He grinned and stripped off his cloak to reveal his motley, much of it in mesclati, a blue and red weave that was a local specialty. He looked at my civilian clothes and wagged his finger at me sternly.

“Give me a chance,” I said. “I just got back from church and have been cooking.”

“Watching me cook, mostly,” corrected Claudia, emerging from our room in her motley. “We don't have any makeup made up yet, but we are rehearsing at home, so that should be all right. Hello, Pelardit.”

He bowed until his nose was touching his shin, then daintily kissed her hand like a bird pecking at its feed. Helga came up with another bucket of water.

“I think I have brought enough to start our own lake,” she said. “May I stop now? Oh, what lovely motley!”

Pelardit stuck a pose, and turned gracefully so that she could see all of it.

“I hope I make jester in full here,” she said. “I would love to have motley like that.”

“Prospects are good, Apprentice,” I said. “Why, we've been here over a week and haven't been run out of town yet.”

“You can't be run out of town when you're already out of town,” wheezed Jordan as he pulled himself up. He had a sack of instruments and props in his free hand, which explained the effort. “Sorry I'm late. The baile has his men everywhere, and I couldn't take ten steps without one of them making me empty my bag for them.”

His two boys scampered up behind him, followed by Martine.

“Right, you get into your motley,” said Claudia to me. “Welcome, everyone.”

I changed quickly and came back to the sarcastic applause of the room. I made my most dignified bow, and toppled over into a pair of somersaults leading to a flip.

“You can still do that at your age?” marveled Jordan.

“Could you do it at any age?” I asked.

“Many years and many pounds ago,” he sighed, putting his arm around his wife. “Then I married a wonderful cook.”

“Well, I'm sure that my efforts are not up to Martine's level,” said Claudia. “But we have nuts and dried plums and apricots, and a rabbit stew for the main course.”

“Just some fruit and bread for me, if you please,” said Martine.

“Are you all right?” asked Claudia.

“A touch of stomach,” said Martine apologetically. “It generally afflicts me this time of year.”

“I could steep some rue if you like,” said Claudia.

“That would be most kind,” said Martine.

We sat down to a proper dinner, with Jordan, Claudia and me trading stories while Pelardit caused Helga and the two boys fits of giggling with various bits of sleight of hand and some droll expressions.

We finished with some lemon cakes that we had purchased from a local baker, and downed some more wine, feeling fat and happy.

“Well, as loath as I am to work after all that, we must,” I said. “Let's see that routine again.”

The two fools grabbed their instruments.

“Pelardit, a song if you will,” started Jordan, and they began tuning their instruments.

“Stop there,” I said. “The joke of that routine is that every time Pelardit gets his string in tune with yours, yours slips to a different tone, right?”

“Right,” said Jordan.

“If that's going to work, Pelardit has to get angrier,” I said. “He has to be on the verge of braining you with his instrument when you launch into the song.”

“I'm not sure…” said Jordan, but Pelardit nodded immediately and gestured for him to start over.

The timing was better, and Pelardit's rage more extreme. Helga and the boys started to laugh.

“Better,” I said. “Now, Pelardit—you have to let the anger build until you are about to lose control, but then the music starts and soothes you. Let yourself get completely carried away by it each time.”

He nodded, and when Jordan began bowing away, Pelardit's face slipped into swooning, swaying rapture.

“That's good,” I said. “And when that's interrupted by him poking you—”

Jordan's bow jabbed at the unsuspecting fool's eye, and he flew into silent paroxysms of rage and pain.

“That's all well and good for him,” said Jordan, “but where are my laughs?”

“Yours come from being completely oblivious to what he is going through, even though you're the cause of it,” I explained. “We have to increase the danger level, so that every time he seeks revenge, you do something to thwart it while remaining blissfully ignorant. It's all in the timing—”

We worked on several bits of physical business, culminating with a now-homicidal Pelardit swinging his lute at Jordan's head right as the other ducked to retrieve his fallen bow, the momentum of the swing carrying the instrument around to strike the mute fool in the back of his head. He stared for a moment, then his eyes rolled upward and he sagged into the straightening body of Jordan.

“Never could handle his wine,” sighed Jordan, looking fondly at his partner.

“Not bad,” I said. “Don't anticipate the reactions as much. Let's run the whole thing.”

And they did, even getting a laugh from Martine, a sound so novel that both of them broke character to look at her in amazement.

“It was funny,” she protested. “I'm supposed to laugh when it's funny.”

“But I told you that years ago,” fumed Jordan in mock marital exasperation. “It took you this long to get the joke?”

“It's funny, now,” she said. “Well done, both of you.”

“I agree,” I said. “Let's work on the group material.”

And we rehearsed, and we drank, and rehearsed a little more, and drank a great deal more.

“I must stop,” said Jordan finally. “Wine, my bulk, and those steps are not a combination conducive to a long life on unbroken limbs.”

“Very well,” I said. “I think we can keep things lively at the Count's dinner. They want us there at noon.”

“Then noon it shall be,” declared Jordan. “Any other foolish business to discuss? Any luck on your investigation?”