The Moneylender of Toulouse (16 page)

“They're working together,” said Claudia. “And they're still looking for the book.”

“And they haven't found it yet,” I said. “Unless one of them is lying to the other. Good work, girl.”

“I wasn't finished,” she said indignantly.

“There's more?”

“Bonet said, ‘We have to find it before he does. Are you sure no one came in that night?' And Evrard said, ‘I can't be certain. You know my situation.' And Bonet said, ‘A fine time to be visiting your little maid.' And Evrard said, ‘How was I to know your brother was going to get himself killed? For all we know, he may have had it on him then, and we're just pissing in the dark.' What do men mean when they say that?”

“I'll tell you when you're older,” I said. “Was there anything else?”

“Evrard asked him, ‘What about the ledgers? Any luck there?' And Bonet said, ‘I report to one man, and you're not him. You just worry about your end of it.' And Evrard was silent after that. Then I heard them coming to the door, and I ran back to my duties. The end.”

She bowed.

“Bonet is another man's lackey,” marveled Claudia. “He's a consul, and a wealthy man, yet beholden to someone else.”

“But to whom?” I asked. “Who is more powerful than him?”

“The Count?” guessed Helga.

“Not from what I hear,” I said. “The consuls are more powerful than the Count in Toulouse, even though he reaps the benefits.”

“That may be true of the consulate as a whole,” said Claudia. “But not of any single member.”

“So, I keep looking into Bonet's business,” I said. “Frustrating. With every day, we stray further from our mission to unseat the Bishop.”

“You could always just kill him and blame the Cathars,” said Claudia. “It seems to be all the rage in Toulouse these days.”

“Where is your sense of style, woman?” I asked. “Much too crude. Besides, I like the Cathars.”

“Better not brag about that,” she said.

*   *   *

I had a much better seat at the inquest this time. Odd, with all of the violent deaths I have seen, or for that matter inflicted, that I would be called to testify about one that I had nothing to do with. At least, I hoped I had nothing to do with. I looked at Armand, lying in the open coffin in the center of the room, and hoped he would have the decency to just lie there without saying anything troublesome.

Smaller crowd for this inquest, which was a bit of a disappointment. Portia had been fussy, so Claudia stayed behind to pay her some added attention. I had sent Helga, to her chagrin, back to the Borsella house. Jordan, of course, was seated next to me, and Pelardit had managed to find a seat where he could face us. He amused himself by catching our eyes with bizarre expressions, snapping back to normality if anyone else glanced in his direction. It was all we could do not to respond in kind, curse him.

The halberds thumped, and Calvet came in.

“You,” he said, pointing at me. “Take the oath.”

I did.

“State your name.”

“I am Tan Pierre, a new jester in town,” I said. “Head of the Fool Family, recently come to Toulouse to entertain everyone from the Count on down for the joyous Christmas season. Reasonable rates, no gathering too small.”

“Long name,” he said, and there were a few chuckles from the assemblage.

Damn, he got a laugh at my expense.

“You found the deceased,” he said.

“Yes, Senhor. I was walking with my brother fool, Jordan, along the riverbank, planning the festivities for our performance before the Count at the dinner he's throwing on Monday. Jordan pointed out that something was jammed into one of the waterwheels. On closer look, I saw a man there, and jumped into the mill-run to try and save him. Alas, my efforts, though valiant, were to no avail.”

“You observed the stab wound in his back.”

“I did, Senhor, when he was dragged out of the river.”

“Had you seen him at any other time?”

“Well, in here, of course, when he testified. And I've seen him in taverns around town a couple of times.”

“What about yesterday?”

“I saw him earlier at a tavern up near the Bazacle Gate,” I said. “There was some kind of fight, but I was not a part of it.”

“Who was?”

“I don't know their names, Senhor, but there were many people fighting. I was more intent on keeping my cup from spilling than from figuring out who was doing what to whom.”

“Is that all you know about this?”

“It is, Senhor, and I swear to it,” I said.

Yes, it was perjury. Yes, one more black mark in the divine ledger that will add up to damnation when my time comes. There was no rectifying that balance in the long run, so no point in fretting over it now.

“You may stand down,” said Calvet.

“I'm not sure how to do that,” I said. “May I sit down instead?”

“Just move out of my way,” he said, and then he pointed at Jordan. “You.”

Jordan testified as I had. The men who helped us came next, then the barkeep from the Tanners' Pit, who managed to see all of his regular customers in the brawl, yet recognize none.

“It was confusing,” he protested.

The baile sighed.

No one brought up my brief conversation with the deceased outside the tavern. That was lucky.

When all the testimony had been taken, Calvet looked around the room, his visage stern.

“This man lost his life because he had the courage to testify against the Cathar scourge,” he said. “I suspect that he was killed by the same man who killed Milon Borsella, but there may be a larger Cathar conspiracy at hand. I call upon every true Christian to come forward if he knows aught of such things.”

The room was either filled with false Christianity or true ignorance. In any case, no one came forward.

“Death by person or persons unknown,” pronounced the baile. “Get out of here. All of you.”

Pelardit joined us as we walked out of the château and back through the Porte Narbonnaise. As we came into the city, I noticed a small, dark object flying toward the general vicinity of my head. I reached up and caught it, then dropped it like a hot chestnut, which was exactly what it was.

“Where did he go?” I demanded.

“He scurried around the corner,” said Jordan. “Like a rat in a cassock.”

“Father Mascaron is stealing some of my moves,” I said, rubbing my palm where the chestnut had stung it. “I had better go see what he wants.”

He was in his office, looking expectantly at the door. I held up the chestnut, which had cooled down.

“I should not have enjoyed that, but I did,” he said, smirking like a naughty child. “No doubt it will cause consternation when I bring it up in confession.”

“I suppose that makes us even,” I said. “I didn't see you at the inquest.”

“I didn't want to give that wastrel any more importance in death than he had in life,” he said. “I take it that your testimony omitted our little arrangement?”

“No one asked me about it, so I didn't say anything about it,” I said.

“And if they did ask?”

“We'll never know,” I said. “What do you think about his death?”

“I think that it's worth looking into,” he said. “Don't you?”

“It could be coincidental,” I said.

“Neither of us is fool enough to believe that,” he said, his earlier humor vanishing like a dove under a conjurer's silk. “Find out who he was working for, and you will find who killed Borsella and stole his book.”

“As far as my time permits,” I said. “Remember, my services will be subject to demands of the season after tomorrow.”

“I shall have to find a way of extending Advent,” he said.

“I will trade you for bringing back the Feast of Fools,” I replied. “What about Saint Sernin?”

“Not worth pursuing,” he said, shaking his head. “Armand is your best lead.”

“Then I shall follow the dead man,” I said. “I doubt that he will prove a fast quarry.”

I started to leave.

“One more thing,” he called.

“Yes?”

“I hope that we may count on seeing you at Mass tomorrow,” he said piously.

“I understand the Count will be here,” I said. “If it's good enough for him, I suppose it's good enough for a fool.”

When I came out, I saw Claudia playing with Portia in front of the cathedral. I swooped in and snatched my daughter up, throwing her into the air and catching her as she shrieked in terrified delight.

“Hello, my loves,” I said as I nuzzled her, then kissed my wife. “How did you know to find me here?”

“I ran into Pelardit,” said Claudia. “He told me.”

“He told you? How?”

“Well, in his own way,” she said. “Either he was saying that you were at the cathedral speaking to Father Mascaron, or that the city was being attacked by fish.”

“And you came here first?”

“No, I checked the river,” she admitted. “Everything appears safe—for now. But we should be careful crossing the bridge.”

I hoisted Portia onto my shoulders, and we walked toward the Grand Rue as I filled Claudia in.

“He might be right about Armand,” she said when I was done.

“Which is why I am going to look more closely into Saint Sernin,” I said.

A normal wife might have questioned me at this point, but Claudia simply looked thoughtful.

“Let me see if I can follow the twisted path your mind has taken,” she said. “We want to bring down the Bishop. Father Mascaron is the protector of the Bishop. Therefore, since he wants you to concentrate your efforts on Armand and drop your pursuit of the abbey, the abbey must hold something that would present a threat to the Bishop if revealed. So we must do the exact opposite of what Father Mascaron wishes to achieve our goal.”

“Thank you for putting my instincts into a form that almost sounds like they make sense,” I said.

“Years of practice,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Now, say Father Mascaron has been on to us from the start. Maybe he knows of the true purpose of the Fools' Guild, maybe he butted horns with Balthazar in the past and finds our recent arrival suspicious.”

“All right. Where does that lead you?”

“What if he doesn't even care about this mysterious book? What if there was something else in Milon's office that he was searching for?”

“But the whole fight between the Borsella brothers and him was over the missing book.”

“The brothers brought it up, not Mascaron,” she said. “At least according to what Helga heard. He could have then used it as a plausible diversion, and a way of finding out what you were doing.”

“Dear me. Deception on both sides of our arrangement. What is the world coming to?”

“A bad end,” she said. “At least, if those fish have something to say about it. Keep an eye on the river if you value your life.”

“I need one of those Benedictine outfits,” I said. “We don't have any, do we?”

“Alas, our cassocks only come in brown,” she said. “But I will bet that Pelardit has one.”

“Good thought. I'll—”

A horseman came galloping down the road, shouting, “Count Raimon approaches. Get yourselves out to greet him! They'll be throwing gold!”

“Pennies, more the like,” I said. “Shall we?”

“Let's. Portia should enjoy it immensely. All those magnificent horses.”

There was a gradual flow of people trudging toward the Château Narbonnais including, I noticed, a goodly number of the town prostitutes, vying to show the brightest colors in their wardrobes or the most skin under them.

There was a group of musicians hastily setting up outside the outer walls of the château. I handed Portia to her mother and went over to the leader.

“I'm Tan Pierre, the new fool,” I said.

“I'm Egidius, the old trumpeter,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Could you use an extra player?”

“Depends,” said Egidius as he puffed air through a long trumpet. “What do you play?”

“Lute, flute, and tabor, mostly,” I said.

“First two are useless outside,” he said. “But if you are possessed of any rhythm at all, you'd be more proficient than half of the idiots I'm fielding today. Grab that side drum. Bartolomeo will tell you what to do.”

I picked it up and joined Bartolomeo, a cheerful stripling strapped to a drum as large as he was.

“Right, it's fanfares, naturally,” he said after I introduced myself. “Trumpets go blat blat ba blatty blat, we go tum tum terrumti tumtitty tum, whole thing repeats twice, then a big long roll when the Count dismounts and if you could just reach over and whack this cymbal at the moment he kisses the ground, that would be terrific. Otherwise, just improvise off my beat.”

“Easy enough,” I said. “How far away is he?”

“About that far,” he said, pointing.

A squad of armed horsemen was coming around the tip of a copse of oaks that swallowed the road as it went south.

“Give them a good marching beat,” directed Egidius.

“Right, that's a barrump bump bump bumpity bump bump bump and repeat,” said Bartolomeo.

He counted off the beat, and I launched into my barrumps, throwing the occasional roll or flourish just to keep it interesting.

“Good!” shouted Bartolomeo, pounding both sides of his drum energetically.

“Better start cheering,” a guard advised the crowd. “Louder you are, the more you get.”

They got very loud very quickly, driven by hope and greed. I could see Portia perched atop Claudia's shoulders, bouncing gleefully as she saw the horses approach.

I had met the current Raimon during his younger years and mine. He didn't make much of an impression, especially since his father, Raimon the Fifth, tended to dominate whatever room he was in. The older man was ill at the time but concealed it by booming heartily at the king who I served, commending him on his holy pilgrimage and his part in the Third Crusade. Raimon the Fifth was a Crusader himself, a warrior and a leader of warriors. The future Sixth was a skinny, unimposing man in his thirties, finally with a wife he liked to all appearances. The two sat off to one side, gazing adoringly into each other's eyes. She was the daughter of the King of Cyprus, so there were political implications to the marriage, but it appeared to be a love match all the same.