The Moneylender of Toulouse (3 page)

“I wonder if there is room for us,” said Claudia as we approached.

“I have a feeling there will be,” I said.

The churchgoers were not exactly pouring through the doors. It was more like a sporadic trickle, mostly elderly folk whose feet were dragging them there out of habit.

The benches inside could hold several hundred people, but only if several hundred people decided to show up. I counted the crowd—maybe eighty all told. We sat near the back.

The interior may have been grand at one time, but they hadn't kept it up. The plaster in the walls was several years away from its last coat of whitewash, much of it chipped and crumbling. The benches were cracked, with names of long-grown schoolboys carved into them dating from some other dull long-forgotten Sunday.

The choir entered and took their seats to the right. Then the Bishop came in, accompanied by three priests and some sleepy altar boys. The choir began singing without any real enthusiasm. Several of them lost their place halfway through the opening hymn and clammed up, looking embarrassed or trying not to laugh. The rest finally stopped, though not all of them at the same time.

The Bishop, suddenly aware of the silence, stood up hastily and began leading us through the service. He had a decent speaking voice and an adequate command of the Latin. However, his perfunctory readings of the text did little to keep the aging congregation awake, and those of us who were, felt like we were aging more rapidly by the minute.

His vestments were richly trimmed and must have been grand when new, but they had not been kept well in the few short years of his reign. Neither had he, if his face was any indication. He was puffy around the eyes, with a broad, florid nose dominating a tiny, thin-lipped mouth and little chin to speak of. Whoever was in charge of shaving him must not have liked him very much, for his cheeks and neck were nicked in several places. His neck seemed to wobble under the weight of his miter, or perhaps it was his state of indignation that did that.

“It is appalling that now, as we approach the holiest time of year,” he began, “when we celebrate the birth of Our Savior, that His Church is in such dire straits. It is embarrassing that in these prosperous times, when the taxes have been lifted and the money is flowing everywhere, that not one trickle of it comes into our collection box. Why, there is so little in our treasury that our own sick parishioners, whom we have maintained in our hospital for years, have sought out other establishments for their convalescences, because we no longer have the means to feed them at the same level as our brethren with the Benedictine abbeys. Even our lepers have been complaining, and you know how they never complain. Now, I know that many among you have already paid for your funeral masses, and I am grateful to you, and will celebrate your eventual demises with all due solemnity. But many of you have not provided for this inevitable occurrence. Do you hope to avoid fate by postponing payment? I assure you that your days on earth are numbered, and if you die unprepared, you cannot count on your survivors, in their grief or distance or dotage, to consider your needs at that time. The proper prayers at your death may be crucial, and yet you blithely go on about your daily lives, blissfully ignoring the risks.”

He stopped to swallow dramatically, his Adam's apple trembling in terror.

“Should we purchase our funeral masses?” whispered Claudia. “We might be able to get a bargain rate today.”

“I am not planning to die here,” I whispered back.

“That's a relief. Where, then?”

“In some other woman's bed if you do not cease this yammering.”

“It is not the finances of the church so much as the appearances that concern me,” continued the Bishop. “If we fail to attract the sinners, then we fail in our mission. These are dangerous times. Those heretics known as Cathars lurk in the shadows of our very doorstep, seducing the unwary with their false beliefs and their perjurious attacks on us. Will you deny yourself the Kingdom of Heaven because a false prophet denies himself meat and calls himself pure? Or because he promises salvation through the mere touch of his hand, though you have done nothing to merit it? Yet the simpleminded and the sinful have flocked to these devils as sheep would to a…”

He gulped, having wandered into a metaphorical dead end.

“What evil would attract sheep?” whispered Helga.

We all pondered this weighty question as the Bishop recovered and simply moved on.

“With every new heretic, the church is diminished in life, and in tithes,” he said. “With every diminution in income, we become more and more of a laughingstock. We cannot demonstrate the path to Salvation when we cannot even keep ourselves in bread. Why, when our brother bishop came all the way from Osma on his holy mission, we were unable to show him the hospitality that one bishop should provide another. We could not feed and house his entourage, and they were forced to put themselves up at their own expense in a common tavern.”

“Where they were forced to drink common wine and consort with common whores,” I muttered.

“Poor dears,” sympathized my wife.

“So I say unto you, my children, poverty of the church will mean poverty of the soul,” he concluded. “We must restore this house of God to its former glory. Amen.”

“I find no satisfaction in my soul today,” murmured my wife as the choir stumbled through the concluding hymn. “So, that's Bishop Raimon de Rabastens. Seems like a nice fellow. I suppose he means well enough for a bishop.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Too bad we have to get rid of him.”

CHAPTER 2

Brother Timothy tapped me on the shoulder after the evening meal. We slipped away to join Father Gerald, who was sitting on a boulder by the edge of the stream that ran past the farm. The old priest lifted his head and cocked it toward us as we came up.

“Toulouse,” he said. “It is our belief that things are building to a crisis there.”

“They always are in Toulouse,” I said. “What's different now?”

“The Church,” he said. “If they came after the Fools' Guild after all we have done for them, then they will go after anyone they find displeasing.”

“Toulouse has displeased Rome?”

“In many ways,” he said. “Did you meet the current count when you were there?”

“Raimon? Yes,” I said. “It was right before his father died, so he wasn't count yet. He had this very pretty wife, Bourguigne, who was from Cyprus. She was his third, as I recall, maybe fourth. I forget what alliance was being forged with the union. His father would marry him off to any woman who was useful to him back then.”

“Raimon, son of Raimon,” said Father Gerald. “Now the sixth count of that name, with a few more wives and territories notched on his belt since then and another Raimon of his very own, courtesy of wife number five.”

“Feckless, irresponsible, and so on?”

“Surprisingly, no,” said Father Gerald. “Seems to be an astute man, at least when it comes to keeping the competing powers at bay. But he's like a juggler who is tiring
—
you know that sooner or later, he'll start dropping the clubs.”

“You want me to be there to catch them.”

“Among other things,” said Brother Timothy. “We also see an opportunity to help the Guild get back in the good graces of the Church.”

“How? And how much do we have to compromise our mission to do it?”

“Always a problem,” sighed Father Gerald. “If our mission is to continue at all, we must end this papal interference. Someone close to Pope Innocent is working against us, for whatever reasons. We have to start building up our own influence to counter it. That means getting our own people inside.”

“How does sending me to Toulouse help us get inside the Church? Why don't I just go to Rome and tell Innocent a few jokes?”

“Your jokes aren't that good,” smirked Brother Timothy.

“There is a bishop in Toulouse, Raimon de Rabastens,” said Father Gerald. “We think he may be vulnerable. We want to replace him with one of our own people, then use the bishopric as a stepping-stone to Rome.”

“Who do you plan to install?”

“Do you remember Folquet, the troubadour?”

“From Marseille. I met him once.”

“He's a Cistercian abbot, now. We need you to persuade him to work for us again, and then find a way of forcing Raimon de Rabastens to resign his office and bring Folquet in to replace him.”

“Is that all?” I laughed. “I was hoping for something challenging. Tell me that this isn't our only hope.”

“We will be working on many avenues,” said Brother Timothy. “This is just one.”

“In fact, you may receive some assistance from an unexpected source,” added Father Gerald. “Don't be surprised by it.”

“Nothing surprises me anymore when you start making plans,” I said. “Any suggestions as to where in this bishop's life I can start?”

“You'll find something,” said Father Gerald, turning to listen to the stream rush by again. “Everyone has something.”

*   *   *

Bishop Raimon de Rabastens stood in front of the cathedral, greeting the congregants as they shuffled out.

“Good to see you, good to see you,” he said continuously. “How is your poor mother doing? Tell her that she is in my prayers. Hasn't that leg of yours healed yet? Did you try that balm I gave you? You did? Strange, it worked wonders for my shoulder.”

As the line came to us, he looked quizzical for a moment, then brightened.

“Why, do we have some new parishioners among us today?” he exclaimed. “Welcome to God's house, my friends. I am Bishop Raimon.”

“Your Holiness,” we murmured, bowing.

“Yes, yes, always good to see new blood at our cathedral. Are you recently come to Toulouse?”

“Just this past week, Your Holiness,” I said. “We have taken up residence in Saint Cyprien, near the Saint Nicholas church.”

“Ah, lovely little church,” he said. “The parish is under the aegis of the Cluniac brothers. Of course, there is nothing like coming to a cathedral to worship, and I thank you for taking the trouble to join us today. I did note your contribution at collection. And did I see you add to the poor box as well?”

“In thanks for our safe journey and arrival,” I said.

“Goodness, how rude of me, I have neglected to ask your names,” he said.

“I am Tan Pierre,” I said. “My wife, Gile, and our daughters, Helga and Portia.”

“What a lovely family!” he exclaimed, smiling at my wife and chucking the baby under the chin. “And an unusual collection of names. I take it you are not native to this region?”

“No, but we are hoping to settle and find employment here,” I said.

“Well, if there is any assistance I can give you, please let me know,” he said. “What is your profession?”

“We are a family of jesters,” I said. “And, if I may be so bold as to take you up on your offer, we would be more than happy to perform at your Feast of Fools this season. We would offer something lower than our usual rates in return for the introduction to the city.”

His smile became fixed and odd.

“The Feast of Fools,” he repeated. “Yes, well, I do not think that I can help you there.”

“Of course,” I said. “There must be some other person in charge of that. If you could direct me to him, then…”

“What I mean to say is that there will be no Feast of Fools here,” he said.

“There won't?” I said in surprise.

“No,” he said. “But I am sure that you will find some employment come Christmas. Welcome to Toulouse, my friends.”

We moved away from the entrance as he turned to the next parishioner.

“Some welcome,” muttered Claudia. “How on earth can they have Christmas without the Feast of Fools?”

“There have been rumors that the Pope was going to ban the Feast,” I said. “I never thought he would actually do it.”

“I do not like this pope,” said Claudia.

“Maybe the Bishop could hire me as a choirmaster,” I sighed. “They could certainly use one.”

There was a raising of voices behind us. We turned to see the Bishop, of all people, in heated argument with a man who appeared to be well-to-do based upon the richness of his garments. He stood with his hat in his hand but otherwise showed no deference whatsoever to his Holiness.

“How dare you approach me on God's day!” thundered the Bishop.

“Why, have I not approached you on all the days belonging to the rest of us?” asked the man. “And every time, I was told that you were at prayer. What a religious man you are! What an inspiration to all of us poor sinners!”

“Be careful, Senhor,” said the Bishop. “There is a price to be paid in Hell for mockery such as yours.”

“Yes, well, it's the price to be paid here on Earth that interests me,” said the man. “Especially the interest. There is a note due that has your name on it, and I will not hesitate in showing up at the assizes first thing tomorrow morning with it if I do not receive satisfaction.”

A priest who had been standing in the shadows behind the cathedral entry sidled out quietly and whispered something to the Bishop. The Bishop took a breath and gathered the remains of his dignity back together.

“Father Mascaron suggests that you wait in my office,” he said stiffly.

“The question is, will you be coming there?” asked the man. “I would hate to see you suddenly all prayerful again. It would waste my time, and I have other places to go.”

“One of them is to the Devil, as far as I am concerned,” snapped the Bishop.