The Moneylender of Toulouse (12 page)

“Hooray!” cried Helga. “It's fool season at last!”

“Only for the seasoned fools,” I reminded her. “You are still an apprentice.”

She picked up a sprig of dried parsley and tucked it behind her ear.

“I'm seasoned now,” she declared defiantly. “Do I qualify?”

“That's good,” said Claudia. “We should work that into the act somewhere.”

“We will,” I said. “In the meantime, let's work on our short routine.”

About halfway through the juggling, it hit me. I grabbed the clubs as they came at me and put them down.

“What's wrong?” asked Claudia.

“If Vitalis was comforting the widow before dashing off to noon prayers, then who was Bonet talking to at the cloisters?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said. “I should have thought of that.”

“Damn those cowls,” I muttered. “He had the same build. I just assumed it was Vitalis.”

“So we have to find another burly monk at Saint Sernin,” she said. “There can't be that many.”

“Unless it was someone else disguising himself as a monk to meet with Bonet,” chirped Helga.

“Wonderful,” I said. “I followed the wrong man. I hope Pelardit learned something.”

“Nothing to be done about it now,” said Claudia. “Let's keep working.”

*   *   *

We were doing our exercises at Jordan's the next morning when Pelardit arrived.

“What happened with the monk?” I asked him.

He dropped to a kneeling position with his hands together in prayer.

“How long?” I asked.

He stayed there, a statue. Then his eyes slowly shut and he toppled to the side, the praying hands making him a pillow.

“Nothing else?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I have some news for you,” I said. “He may have had Vitalis's burliness, but that wasn't Vitalis.”

Pelardit remained on the floor, but his eyes popped open in surprise.

“A burly monk, but not Vitalis?” repeated Jordan.

“Yes,” I said. “Know of any?”

“I don't frequent Saint Sernin,” he said. “Pelardit?”

The other fool shrugged.

“Pelardit attends the new Dalbade Church, and we're in the cathedral parish,” explained Jordan. “So we go to the cathedral.”

“When we bother going at all,” said Martine. “Ever since that bishop took over, it's become a weekly haranguing for money.”

“So, you don't go to Saint Sernin,” I said. “Do you have any contacts there? Any sources of Benedictine gossip? It is the major church for the bourg. That makes it the church for half the consulate and all of the new wealth in Toulouse.”

“Balthazar had some contact with them, I think,” said Jordan uncertainly.

“A name, Fool, can you give me that?” I said, almost shouting.

“I wasn't preparing for all this,” he whined. “Had I known that you were coming in hellbent on intrigue, I would have concealed myself in the baptismal font breathing through a hollow reed and eavesdropped for the last three months.”

“Fine,” I said, taking a deep breath. “What have you heard from the Cathars?”

“Now, them I know,” he said confidently.

“And?” I prompted him.

“And they have all clammed up,” he said. “They are terrified that this baile is going to whip up the church-fearing part of the population against them. They don't believe that anyone will believe them if they deny involvement in Milon Borsella's death, so they aren't saying anything.”

“Do you think someone from the cult was involved?”

“No,” he said. “But that doesn't mean I'm right.”

“All right,” I said. “Let's eat, then it's off to see Oldric.”

*   *   *

We were in motley today, at long last, but in deference to the season kept ourselves covered by cloaks and left the makeup off until we reached the Château Narbonnais. Oldric had an office in the Count's palace. When we reached it, we waited in the hallway and quickly applied our whiteface. My wife and I added the finer details to each other's faces, finishing with the green diamonds below the eyes that had been my trademark but had been adopted by her. Helga, as an apprentice, was not in motley. We had left Portia with Martine, to the consternation of both.

A servant admitted us to the office. Oldric was seated behind a desk, a tall, thin graying man whose eyebrows sloped down to the sides, giving him a perpetually sad look. He was writing something, ignoring our entrance. When he was done, he blotted it, then looked up at us.

“Let's see it,” he commanded.

We bowed, and Jordan stepped forward.

“Greetings, milord,” he said. “The season of joy is nigh, and…”

“Just get to the entertainment without preamble,” said Oldric.

“Very good, milord,” said Jordan. “A song to begin. Pelardit, if you will?”

The other fool stepped forward with a tiny viol that he handed to his rotund partner, while keeping an oversized lute for himself. They made a fussy display of tuning the instruments, after which Jordan gave an elaborate flourish of his bow, nearly decapitating Pelardit who ducked just in time. As he straightened back up, the backswing of the bow hooked his ear and slammed his head into Jordan's shoulder. Jordan, oblivious, bowed back and forth, whipping Pelardit about helplessly. Finally, the fat fool stopped and looked at the silent one.

“You aren't playing,” he complained.

Pelardit disentangled himself from the bow and nodded, then walked to the other side of Jordan, out of harm's way.

“Let's try that again,” said Jordan.

He gave the elaborate flourish again while Pelardit watched it, smug in his safety. Then Jordan swooped the bow across the viol's strings, and on the upswing poked Pelardit in the eye. The latter dissolved in an exaggerated display of pain.

I glanced at Oldric. He was watching wordlessly without a trace of a smile.

“That's all very well and good,” he said finally, interrupting as Pelardit was about to brain Jordan with his lute. “But we've seen it before, haven't we?”

“The Count hasn't,” said Jordan.

“Nor will he, if that's all there is,” said Oldric. “Let's see what these new people have brought along.”

We had devised a routine involving a family on a pilgrimage, where the holy purpose becomes undermined by their squabbling with each other. As the father, I was provoked from slow burns of anger to outright flare-ups of rage, proving the desperate need for absolution. Ultimately, objects were thrown, which turned into a juggling match.

We performed it flawlessly, then launched into song, with Jordan and Pelardit accompanying on their instruments.

Oldric had yet to smile, but he didn't interrupt, and he nodded when we were done.

“I suppose that is acceptable,” he said. “And the woman is pretty enough—the Count will like that. Let me see—Advent is over on Sunday, and Christmas is the Saturday after. We are expecting the Count to return in two days. He usually invites the more influential members of the community to dinner the Monday before Christmas. You will perform then.”

We bowed.

“May I ask you something, milord?” I said.

He looked surprised, but indicated that I could speak.

“You know that the Feast of Fools has been banned from the Church,” I said.

“I had heard,” he said. “A foolish decision by the Pope. It shows fear.”

“I agree entirely, milord,” I said. “Would there be any way of bringing your influence to bear in changing this?”

“You must take up your quarrel with Rome, I'm afraid,” he said.

“Then what would you say if we were to hold it in public instead?” I asked. “It would not be the same thing—we couldn't ape the Mass, for example—but it would be a glorious occasion. The Montaygon Square would do nicely.”

“I shall discuss it with the Count,” he said. “The Feast has always been a favorite of the citizens here. I would like to see it continue in some form. Now, there are musicians to hire, so I must get on with my day.”

“Thank you, milord,” we said in unison.

We bowed as we walked backwards out of his office. Not an easy thing to do, and we ended up jammed together in the doorway, finally falling over each other into the hall. I glanced back into the office as the door closed.

There. A smile. At last.

CHAPTER 6

“Let us give thanks to the First Fool that you are pretty enough,” I said to Claudia as we walked away.

“Just think, if I was slightly less pretty, we would have lost this chance,” she said.

“You had it by an overwhelming margin, my love,” I said, and Pelardit nodded emphatically.

“We did it!” chortled Jordan, grabbing the silent fool in a bear hug. “The Count's dinner at last!”

“We will rehearse at our place on Sunday when you come over,” I said.

“No need to rehearse,” scoffed Jordan. “Pelardit and I know this routine down to the last flick of an eyebrow.”

“How long have you been doing it?” I asked.

“Oh, ten or eleven years,” he said.

Pelardit stretched the air with his hands.

“Maybe longer,” conceded Jordan.

“Then maybe that's why you haven't gotten into the Count's dinner before,” I said. “They want fresh material.”

“This routine never fails to get its laughs!” insisted Jordan indignantly.

“It failed with Oldric,” I said.

“He's a professional stoneface,” said Jordan. “Your lot didn't make him laugh, either, and the material was new to him.”

“True enough,” I admitted. “Tell you what—let me see the whole routine on Sunday, and we'll discuss it then. You're not too old to learn some new tricks, are you?”

“I—well, no,” he said. “Very well. Must keep an open mind, right?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed cheerfully. “Now, let's all wash our whiteface off before we go back outside. We don't want to get fined by the baile for being too amusing before Advent is over.”

“But I will only be prettier with my whiteface off,” protested Claudia. “My throngs of admirers will be driven to a frenzy of adulation.”

“I'll chance it,” I said.

A few minutes later, the flour-chalk coatings had been scrubbed away, and five relatively normal people walked out of the château. Claudia caught me looking at her and smiled.

“I can't help it,” I said. “That's the face I fell in love with.”

“Can't blame you,” commented Jordan jovially. “Although for the life of me, I can't see what she saw in you.”

“It wasn't his face,” she replied.

“We don't need to hear more,” Jordan said hastily as Pelardit sternly clapped his hands over Helga's ears.

“'Twas his wit, his agile mind that inspired my passion,” Claudia said airily.

“Of course, of course,” said Jordan as Pelardit removed his hands from the giggling girl's ears.

“Plus he's a stallion in bed,” concluded my wife, a lewd grin on her face. “What woman could resist?”

“None that I have ever met,” I said.

“Oh, dear,” said Jordan as Helga snickered. “We fall short of you in so many ways, don't we, Pelardit?”

Pelardit shook his head in disagreement.

“Right, back to work,” I said. “Helga, back to Milon's house. Find out if Evrard has been seeing anyone on the outside.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, and was off like a shot.

“Wait!” I called.

She skidded to a halt and ran back.

“Find out if anyone had been in Milon's office that morning before the Bishop arrived,” I said.

“Yes, Papa,” she said, and she took off again.

“Helga?” I called.

She stopped short, and trudged back to us.

“What?” she said.

“See if any of the servants noticed whether or not that desk drawer had been opened before Mascaron was in there.”

“Fine,” she snapped, and stood stock still.

“Well?” I said. “What are you waiting for?”

“Right,” she said, and left at a moderate trot.

“On three,” I said. “One, two…”

And Claudia, Jordan and I all shouted, “HELGA!”

Without turning, she made a gesture that would have been excessive even for Pelardit and continued without breaking stride.

“La Vache used to pull that one all the time when we were apprentices, remember?” Jordan said to Pelardit.

The latter nodded, rolling his eyes.

“You apprenticed with La Vache in Paris?” I asked. “When were you there?”

“'79 to '81,” he said. “Pelardit came a year later after training at the Guildhall. Why, were you there?”

“Just for a few months at the end of '75,” I said. “Then things got complicated, and it was a while before I came to the Guildhall. Marvelous juggler, La Vache.”

“The best I've ever seen,” agreed Jordan as Pelardit nodded.

“All right, the two of you keep listening around, see what you can find out about anyone who may have owed Milon.”

“What about you?” asked Claudia.

“I should check in with Father Mascaron,” I said. “He'll be wanting a report on my progress.”

“So do we,” said Claudia. “Let us know if you make any.”

I thumbed my nose at them, and took the next street going east.

Father Mascaron was in his office, reading some correspondence. The door was open, but I knocked respectfully before entering. He waved me in.

“Payment first,” he said, handing over a few pennies. “This will take you through Sunday.”

“I don't have much worth paying for,” I said, sitting down.

“I am paying for your efforts,” he said. “If you retrieve that book, then I will pay extra for the results.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Tell me about when you were in Milon's office.”