The Moneylender of Toulouse (6 page)

A guard snatched the tanner's hook from his grasp. Two more guards quickly knocked him down and trussed him up for transport, to the glee and derision of the crowd. The tanner's howls continued unabated as they threw him onto a wagon.

“Inquest tomorrow,” said the baile. “I am done here. Get the body to assizes.”

The corpse was picked up and dumped next to the tanner, whose howls changed to screams as he squirmed away from his unwanted companion.

Pelardit tapped me on the shoulder and made a quick hand to mouth gesture.

“You're right, we might as well get back to our meal,” I said.

We walked back toward the Portaria, Helga still riding my shoulders. As we neared the Borsella house, I reached up and lifted her off me.

“I thought we were going to our meal,” she said.

“We are going to our meal,” I said. “You, on the other hand, are going to perform an act of Christian charity.”

“I am?”

“A household has lost their head,” I said. “They will no doubt be needing extra help to prepare for the onslaught of condolence. And since you have already proved your worth to their maidservant…”

She rearranged her features into an expression of mourning.

“How's that?” she asked.

Pelardit turned her toward him and inspected her critically. Then his face drooped into a mask of such abject sorrow and pity that in comparison hers looked like indifference. She studied him and altered her expression until it matched his perfectly. He nodded and patted her shoulder in approval. She turned back to me.

“Don't overdo it, or you will have me in tears,” I warned her. “See you outside the gate before sunset.”

She trudged dolefully toward the house, in mourning for her lost chance at Domina Martine's feast.

Pelardit looked at her, then turned to me and cocked his head inquisitively.

“Yes, she's that good,” I replied. “Father Gerald thinks she's the best he's seen in many years.”

His eyebrows rose, impressed.

“Let me ask you something,” I said as we resumed our walk to Jordan's house. “If there ever was some important information for you to convey, you do have the power of speech, do you not? I don't want to waste time playing charades when there's an emergency.”

He smiled slightly.

“Fine,” I said. “What if you had to warn me quickly?”

He put his two index fingers into his mouth and produced a loud, piercing whistle that startled a flock of starlings out of a distant tree.

“That works well enough,” I conceded, my ears still ringing. “Save it for an actual emergency, all right?”

Martine had kept our food warm for us, thankfully, but mine cooled off as I was forced to recount the details of what little I knew. To my chagrin, Pelardit happily dug back into his meal, contributing nothing to the conversation. Oh, well, such is the price of leadership.

“Milon Borsella, murdered,” said Jordan. “The only surprise there is that it didn't happen long ago.”

“Not a popular man in town?”

“He has made more than his share of enemies over the years. I pity the poor baile who has to find the murderer. Which one was called in?”

Pelardit mimed what looked to me like an exasperated bulldog.

“Arnald Calvet,” nodded Jordan. “Honest man, not too much imagination. I doubt he'll get very far.”

“I was thinking we could lend our efforts to the investigation,” I said. “Unofficially.”

“Why bother?” asked Jordan. “Why is it any business of ours? Why were you having that girl follow him?”

“A chance encounter,” I said. “We saw him trying to shake down the Bishop yesterday. At the cathedral, no less.”

“He may have to get in line,” said Jordan. “Well, not now, obviously, but the Bishop owes money to quite a few people. He just came into office two years or so ago, and found out that his predecessor had pledged most of the rents to creditors. Poor Raimon has been living hand to mouth ever since.”

“Hmm. And there is no pressure being put on him because of this?” I asked.

“He has the Count's favor,” said Jordan. “What is your interest in the Bishop?”

“The Guild wants me to figure out a way to replace him with one of our people,” I said.

Jordan and Pelardit looked at me in astonishment, then Jordan started to laugh.

“A jester in a miter,” he roared. “Well, that will make the Feast of Fools a year-round celebration!”

“It might help bring it back,” I said. “But it's not a jester who we want in there. It's a troubadour, or one who was one once upon a time.”

“A troubadour? Who?”

“Ever hear of Folquet of Marseille?”

“Certainly,” said Jordan as Pelardit looked thoughtful. “Much despised locally, thanks to a few choice ballads commissioned by the last count's enemies that found their way to his ears. Didn't Folquet become a monk?”

“He did, and rose to become a Cistercian abbot at the abbey of Le Thoronet.”

“And you think that you can persuade him to leave a quiet, God-fearing abbey to take over this noisy, iniquitous town?” asked Jordan.

“I already have,” I said. “That was the first part of my mission from the Guild. This is the second part.”

“And how do you plan to do it?” demanded Jordan. “Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a sitting bishop? They've been trying to throw out the Archbishop of Narbonne for years, and he's still glued to his glory.”

“I don't know how yet, but that's why I am following up on this connection to Borsella. It's a place to start poking around. Anything either of you find on him, I want to know about it.”

“Oh, no, not me,” said Jordan.

“I wasn't asking,” I said. “As the Chief Fool, I expect your cooperation.”

“You do,” sneered Jordan. “The Guild is cowering in the Black Forest until Rome gets weary of chasing them. If they're lying low, then why should we stick our necks out?”

“They aren't lying low,” I said. “They are fighting back.”

“By getting Folquet made a bishop? That's the great strategy cooked up by Father Gerald?”

“Part of it,” I said. “I am not aware of all the irons he has in the fire. I do what I am supposed to do.”

“And for this, I am supposed to jeopardize all that I have accomplished in Toulouse,” said Jordan.

“If it comes to that, yes,” I said. “That's what we do.”

“There's a limit,” he said.

“Not for me,” I said.

“A true believer,” he scoffed. “A Guild fanatic. Would you put your life on the line?”

“I already have,” I said. “Many times. Have you?”

“I have a wife and family,” he said.

“As do I.”

“Would you sacrifice them?” he asked. “Your wife's a fool, so you'd put her in danger in an instant, but what about your daughters?”

“Helga's an apprentice, not my daughter,” I said.

“And the baby?” he insisted. “Would you endanger her life? Slit her throat at Aulis for favorable winds to Troy?”

“She may already be condemned, just for being a fool's daughter,” I said softly. “Do you think, do you truly believe that hiding from danger will make the danger go away? The Church is going after the Fools' Guild, all of us, whether you lay low or not. They've forced us to flee the Guildhall, they've banned the Feast of Fools. It's only a matter of time before they start coming after the individual jesters. Will all you have accomplished and established in Toulouse protect you when that happens? Will it save your family?”

“I told you it would come to this,” muttered Martine. “I told you to get out years ago. You kept clinging to your little ambition to be Chief Fool of Toulouse, and now you don't even have that.”

“Peace, woman,” he snapped.

“Why all this ambition when you don't even want to work with the Guild?” I asked.

“Why?” he returned incredulously. “For years, I have been waiting for the golden apple of foolery to come within my grasp. Sucked up the lesser jobs, did what I was told, all for the promise that someday it would be mine.”

“Promised by who?” I asked. “And what is this prized apple?”

“To perform before the Count at the court,” he said, almost in tears. “All these years, and Balthazar kept it to himself. Oh, once in a blue moon, he'd bring us in as stooges, but it was always Balthazar who reaped the glory, and Balthazar who reaped the rewards. And now, with it dangling before me, I am back to the old second-rate jobs, waiting for—”

He stopped abruptly.

“Waiting for the new Chief Fool to die,” I finished for him.

He turned beet red.

“I didn't mean—”

“Yes, you did,” I said. “Well, that was churlish behavior on the part of Balthazar, no question. But you will find me, I hope, to be a different sort of fool. When we were in Constantinople—”

“You were in Constantinople?” exclaimed Jordan.

“I was the Chief Fool there,” I said. “Long story. Many long stories, in fact, and I will happily regale you with them some other time. But there were several of us there, and we all worked the palace, we all performed for the Emperor and the Empress, we all played for the great crowds at the Hippodrome. We all worked together, in other words. I promise that you will play before Count Raimon, as long as you prove yourself a reliable fool.”

“I am a funny man, I assure you,” he said quickly.

“No doubt,” I said. “But a reliable fool is one I can trust in everything.”

“I see,” he said heavily. “Lay my life on the line for you, and if I survive, I might make some money.”

“That's putting in pessimistically.”

“Why shouldn't I go to the Master of Revels myself?” he said. “They know me. They don't know you.”

“Because they will know me very soon,” I said. “All of Toulouse will know Tan Pierre, Domina Gile and the Fool Family, as well as our superior talents. That's another reason the Guild chose me over you, and I will take any fool's challenge you have to offer if you want proof. And if you continue to refuse to help me, I will have the Guild send more talented fools who will. You may find the demand for your services to be dwindling.”

Jordan looked over at his wife, but she was busying herself with wiping the faces of her two boys, taking care to avoid meeting his eyes. He looked back at me.

“You can get us a performance before the Count?” he asked.

“If I get in there, we will all be in there,” I said.

“And you'll keep the life-threatening situations to a minimum?”

“In truth, he's more likely to risk his own neck before he risks anyone else's,” said Claudia. “I know that from experience. Sometimes I have to beg him to put me in harm's way.”

“I didn't get this far in life by making good choices,” sighed Jordan. “You have my help.”

He thumbed his nose at me. I returned the gesture.

“Good,” I said. “Who in particular might have had it in for Milon Borsella? Someone whose debt was particularly large, or someone who had been ruined by him? Women he's used, men he's cuckolded?”

“There's his brother,” offered Martine.

We all looked at her in surprise. She shrugged.

“Which one, the consul or the monk?” I asked.

“The monk, the younger one,” she said. “Brother Vitalis. I was dropping off a dress I had redone for Domina Garba, who lives in one of those monstrous new houses near Saint Sernin, and I saw Milon and his brother coming out of the cloisters. Milon was laughing and Vitalis was screaming at him.”

“Screaming what?”

“‘I will see you in Hell!' was the one I heard,” said Martine. “And he stormed away while Milon just laughed his head off. Vitalis is such a religious man, so you can understand my wondering at what got him that way.”

“Add him to the list,” I said wearily. “All of you, keep your ears open, pick up any information you can. Next order of business: When is the count returning to Toulouse?”

“He always comes in the week before Christmas so he can attend Mass at the cathedral,” said Jordan.

“Who is his Master of Revels?”

“His name is Oldric. Decent fellow, as a matter of fact. He and Balthazar were thick as thieves. He actually came to the funeral.”

“How do you get on with him?”

“Why, the last time we spoke, I said, ‘Greetings, Senhor Oldric,' and he replied in the very height of courtesy, ‘Oh, it's you,' and continued on his way.”

“Sounds promising,” I said. “I think we should all meet him together. Could you arrange the interview since you know him so well?”

“Consider it done,” said Jordan, puffing up slightly.

“Very good,” I said. “Domina Martine, we thank you for the splendor of your cooking, especially on such short notice. Will you and your family do us the honor of joining us for dinner next Sunday after Mass?”

“Why, yes,” she said, startled and pleased. “Thank you.”

“Then we will bid you farewell. We need to collect our apprentice from her spying.”

We bowed to Martine, thumbed our noses at Jordan, and left.

“Good meal,” I said.

“She's a good cook,” commented Claudia as we walked down the street. “She barely ate anything herself, though. I hope she wasn't too upset over Jordan's not getting the job. You handled that most diplomatically, by the way. I'm more used to seeing you ruffle people's feathers than smoothing them. I didn't expect coming in as Chief Fool in Toulouse would be more difficult than it was in Constantinople.”

“That's because there were no other fools in Constantinople when we came in,” I said. “I only had you to argue with.”

Someone cleared his throat behind us. We turned to see Pelardit standing there. He looked around to make sure no one was close by, then beckoned us toward him. When we did, he pointed at us, then raised each finger in turn and put them to his chest.