The Moneylender of Toulouse (23 page)

“Don't know what was in that last drink, but it kicked like a mule,” I bellowed. “Time to sleep this one off. I bid you good night and safe journey, good pilgrims.”

I plucked Portia from her mother's arms and put her on her accustomed perch. She waved to the crowd as we exited to their cheers and good wishes.

“How'd we do?” I asked.

“Not bad at all,” said Claudia, patting her purse. “How did you do?”

“Reinforcements from an unexpected source,” I said. “All we need to do is all the work.”

“'Twas ever thus,” she said. “Good night, Pelardit.”

“Good night, Pelardit, it was fun,” said Helga.

He bowed to us, and two balls slid from his sleeves. This time, he snatched them just before they hit the ground. He held them up for us to see, turned his palms toward him, then turned them back to us. The balls were gone.

“I do know how it's done,” I said.

His face fell.

“But you do it better than anyone I've ever seen,” I added.

He smiled, and we parted for the evening.

*   *   *

“We have a papal legate helping us?” Claudia exclaimed in disbelief when we were alone in our bed.

“Apparently so,” I replied.

“Does this mean that the Pope is on our side?”

“Not at all,” I said. “But this monk seems to favor the Guild no matter what the Pope thinks.”

“So you trust him.”

“Not entirely,” I said.

“Why not entirely?”

“Because if Father Gerald wanted me to trust him entirely, he would have given him one of the Guild passwords. ‘Unexpected source' was one he arranged just for me.”

“What a sneaky man we work for,” she murmured, nestling into me. “How delightful.”

I felt warm and comfortable, and was starting to drift off when she said, “Theo?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think the Church will really come after the Cathars?”

“They came after the Fools' Guild, and all we did was make fun of them,” I said. “When it comes to the competition…”

“How bad will it be?” she asked. “What did Father Gerald think?”

“He thinks it will be persecution,” I said. “I think it's going to be war.”

*   *   *

I woke to hear someone pounding on our trapdoor. I glanced out the window. It was midmorning, and a light snow had fallen during the night. I like snow. It muffles my footsteps.

I opened the trapdoor to see a soldier looking up at me. I recognized him immediately as the one who followed us from the Château Narbonnais the other day.

“From the Count,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “He wants you to attend him this morning.”

“All of us, or just me?”

“Just you,” he said. “I am to escort you.”

“Come up and take a bench while I prepare,” I said, holding out my hand.

He took it, and I hauled him up.

“I owe you a cup of hot wine,” I said.

“You do?” he replied in surprise.

“But we have none at the moment. Have some bread and ale while you wait.”

“My thanks, Senhor Fool,” he said, pouring himself a cup.

“The name's Pierre, friend soldier,” I called over my shoulder as I went to fetch my gear.

“Sancho,” he said, watching in fascination as I came back to apply my makeup.

“You're a long way from home,” I observed.

“From Alarco,” he said. “I left during the famine in '95. Joined up with the Knights of the Holy Sepulcher for a while, but heard that the Count of Toulouse paid better.”

“That's why I came to Toulouse,” I said, grinning, my makeup complete. “Let's go get paid.”

We chatted as we walked through the snowy streets. A trio of cormorants were perched on the base of one of the mills under the Daurade Bridge, their wings spread, drying in the breeze generated by the slowly turning waterwheel.

“We'll be getting ice on the river soon,” said Sancho. “A sight that never ceases to amaze me. I didn't even know a river could freeze over until I came here. But some of my fellows come from places where it gets two feet thick and lasts for months.”

An image of a body trapped under the ice arose in my mind, hands bloodied, a look of reproach …

“I've seen it myself in my travels,” I said, driving it back down. “The novelty wears off quickly. I'd rather be somewhere warm.”

We came to the Château Narbonnais. Sancho led me to the door to the Grande Chambre, which stood open.

“My orders end here,” he said. “See you around, friend Pierre. Next round is on me.”

“Until then, friend Sancho,” I said, and I went in.

A servant was setting up a group of chairs, one of which dominated the others by its height and the richness of its carvings and cushions. He saw me and waved me over.

“You are to play while the meetings go on,” he said to me. “You are to otherwise remain silent unless spoken to.”

“Who bids the fool stand mute?” I asked.

“The Count's precise words were, ‘Make sure he keeps that damn yap of his closed, or I'll have his tongue ripped out.'”

“I am persuaded,” I said, unslinging my lute and tuning it.

I strolled about the room, playing as I looked at the various tapestries and weaponry hanging on the walls. I came back to the group of chairs, and bowed to the largest. Then I took out my flute and started playing. Quite a lovely echo in that large, stone room.

There were footsteps. I turned to see Bernard, Count of Comminges, enter the room. He did not look pleased to see me. I bowed anyway.

“You've had your instructions,” he said.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “And if you ever bring my former wife up in front of the Count like that again, you will have me to deal with, do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said. “But I do not obey.”

“Do you dare flout me thus?” he thundered.

I trilled a few notes in his direction.

“As you can hear, Senhor, I am a skilled floutist,” I said. “I am here at your master's invitation. I follow his orders, not yours.”

“I speak for him,” said Comminges.

“No, you don't,” said Count Raimon, entering the room. “Leave off the jabbering, Bernard. It ill becomes you to wage a war of words with a fool. Especially when he is winning.”

We both bowed.

“And you, Fool,” he said, taking his seat. “I ordered you here to watch, not to speak. Be like your friend Pelardit. He knows how to keep quiet.”

“Actually, Dominus, he doesn't know how to speak,” I said. “It's a different thing entirely.”

“That's the last word out of you,” he said. “Keep the music soft and lulling. I am expecting some people who need to be lulled this morning. Good morning, friends.”

Raimon Roger, Count of Foix, and Rostaing, Baron of Sabran, entered the room and bowed. Peire Roger, the viguier, followed them in. I threw in a little fanfare on the lute for each.

“Good, you're all here,” said Count Raimon. “We will be hearing official business today. A number of people whom I supposedly rule will be coming in to tell me what to do.”

“Always amusing,” said Foix.

“Is it going to take very long?” asked Sabran.

“You have something more important to do than attend your lord?” asked Count Raimon sternly.

“Or is it someone to do?” jibed Comminges.

“Let's just say I would like to be out of here by noon and out of there before sunset,” said Sabran.

“Sunset being when an honest working husband returns home to his beloved wife,” said Foix.

“What do you know of honest working hours?” retorted Sabran.

“Enough,” said the Count wearily. “Who is first before us?”

“The Bishop,” said Peire Roger.

“Who will give us his blessings and ask us for money in exchange,” said the Count. “Show him in.”

The viguier bowed and left the room. I sauntered over to a position behind one of the pillars supporting the balcony and stopped playing. The Count watched me, amused.

The Bishop entered, Father Mascaron close behind. They nodded rather than bowing, and the Count returned the nod.

“Thank you for coming, Your Holiness,” he said. “Father.”

“God's blessings upon your head,” intoned the Bishop. “May His mercy rain upon you.”

“His blessings and mercy are both welcome,” said the Count. “Now, tell me what you really want.”

“Why, Dominus, merely to pay the respects of the Church,” said the Bishop unctuously.

I started strumming my lute softly. At the first note, the Bishop jumped slightly and the two holy men turned toward me. The Bishop looked surprised and displeased to see me there. Father Mascaron was expressionless.

“Thought I would have a little music today,” said the Count, smiling. “I hope you don't mind. It soothes me.”

“Not at all, not at all, Dominus,” said the Bishop. “I was merely startled, having not remarked him when—”

“Well, now that you have paid me the respects of the Church, you may attend to those parishioners who have greater need of your ministrations,” said the Count.

There was a subtle prompt by Father Mascaron as the Bishop looked to him for help. The Bishop took a deep breath.

“Actually, Dominus, there is a matter that I wish to discuss with you,” he said.

“Then by all means,” said the Count grandly. “Let no man come to the Count of Toulouse during Christmas season and walk away empty-handed. How much do you want?”

“Well, that isn't it,” stammered the Bishop. “I mean, yes, of course, anything you care to give would be most—it's just that, I'm not here to talk to you about money.”

“Forgive my astonishment,” said the Count. “Why, then, are you here?”

“To warn you, Dominus,” said the Bishop. “To have you look to your soul if you seek salvation.”

“Is my soul in danger?”

“Well, there are the Jews,” said the Bishop. “You have Jews working for you, many in positions of great responsibility.”

“And you object to that?”

“The Church objects,” said the Bishop.

“They do my bidding and are a threat to none,” said the Count. “You don't like them because they have no obligation to tithe.”

“You also employ mercenaries,” continued the Bishop.

“As do the Kings of France and England,” said the Count. “I am forced to pay foreigners to protect us from other foreigners working for still more foreigners because I have so few soldiers of my own.”

“And you permit heresy to be practiced openly in the city, even after taking an oath to end it,” concluded the Bishop.

“I have honored that oath,” said the Count. “You are confusing efforts with results. I could just as easily take you to task for not filling your cathedral every Sunday.”

“But the heretics—”

“Will be quashed,” promised the Count. “But these things take time. As for the rest—it is not up to the Pope to tell me how to conduct the business of running my holdings. Let him look to people's souls, and leave the governing to those who govern.”

“I only seek to guide you toward God's grace,” said the Bishop.

“And you have conducted your master's warning with the utmost respect and sympathy to our office,” replied the Count. “So, Raimon, now that the preliminaries are over, what may I truly do for you? The cathedral is in deplorable shape. May I at least get something done about the walls? That plaster will come down with the next stiff breeze.”

“That—that would be most generous of you,” gulped the Bishop.

“Consider it done,” said the Count. “And I'll make sure that there are no Jews among the workmen. There may be a few Cathars among them, because you really can't tell them apart from the Christians when it comes right down to it, but I expect that a holy man like you will be able to sniff them out and convert them. That will be all, thanks for dropping by.”

The Bishop was slow to appreciate that his audience was over, but Father Mascaron plucked at his sleeve. They stood quickly and left.

“Let's make sure there are a few Cathars among the workmen,” said the Count. “It will be good practice for him. Who's next?”

“A delegation from the consulate,” said Peire Roger.

“Let's get this over with quickly,” said the Count. “Bring them in.”

A dozen men entered, each trying to look more important than his fellows. I saw Bonet Borsella, and recognized most of the others from Guilabert's dinner. I noticed that the Count was frowning slightly as he looked at them. I ran my fingers down the strings of my lute, playing an intricate instrumental that held my attention, if no one else's.

“Well?” said the Count.

“You've raised the tolls on the Narbonne road,” said one who was acting as their leader. “Again.”

“It's a well-traveled road,” said the Count. “It needs maintenance and security. Those things cost money.”

“It won't be so well-traveled if no one can afford to make the journey,” said the consul. “We ship goods through Narbonne. We receive goods through Narbonne. And you've made all of that more expensive, just so you can pay for this army that sits around and eats every scrap of food in the Toulousain.”

“You liked my army just fine when you used it to conquer the competition,” said the Count.

“We had to expand,” said the consul. “Our markets were threatened.”

“And thanks to your little wars I have to spend half my year riding around and putting out all of these little insurrections just because your markets were threatened,” said the Count. “With precious little help from the consulate, I might add. I've cut your taxes over and over. You're richer than you ever were, and you complain about the tolls? You couldn't afford to buy anything outside the Toulousain ten years ago, do you remember?”