The Moneylender of Toulouse (35 page)

“Hello, Martine,” I said.

She didn't look up.

“How was the sausage?” I asked.

She pointed to the unopened package next to her.

“Oh. Apparently not to your liking. The cheese neither? I'm so sorry. My mistake. I should have realized. Nothing that comes from coition, right?”

She picked up the package and hurled it at me with a shriek.

“Come, come, Martine.” I said. “That's poor behavior even for a Cathar. Most of the ones I know are very peaceable people.”

“Go away,” she said.

“I should have picked up on it before,” I said, ignoring her. “You refused our wonderful meal because you had a touch of the stomach, yet you ate dried fruit? Odd choice for a woman who ails so. But you turned down some very good sausage, and you didn't even eat the excellent lamb that you cooked for our arrival.”

“I wish that you had never come here,” she said.

“But that's all your business,” I said. “I have no problem with Cathars. At least, with those who don't betray me.”

“What is your meaning?”

“Armand,” I said.

She buried her face in her hands.

“The day he was killed, he was supposed to meet me at the Miller's Wheel,” I said. “The only person I told about that was Jordan, and he was with me the entire time until we saw Armand floating in the Garonne. But Jordan told you. And then he took me for a nice long tour of the city, while someone killed Armand in the bourg. Who was it, Martine? Who did you warn about our meeting?”

“I can't tell you,” she sobbed.

“Martine, there are a pair of fine young boys waiting in the courtyard,” I said. “I promised them that I would free their parents. I have cleared Jordan of both murders. But if you don't tell me who you told, then he will have to raise your boys alone.”

“You wouldn't leave me here,” she whispered.

“I'm the one who put you here, Martine. You were arrested at my behest. One word from me to the Count and you will either rot here or rejoin your family.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Count and Claudia standing where she couldn't see them, listening intently.

“Good-bye, Martine,” I said, and I turned to leave.

“It was the Bishop,” she said.

I turned back.

“Tell me everything,” I said.

“I was his seamstress,” she said. “I repaired his vestments, his miter. Whenever he could scrape the money together, I would make him a new set. Then things began to change. Somehow, he found out that I was a Cathar. And he wanted me to come back to the Church, but I refused. Then he told me that things were going to become much worse for the Cathars soon. That if he denounced me, I would be ruined, maybe even burned as a heretic. And that my children would be burned at my side.”

She started crying again.

“I didn't know why he cared so much about me. But it wasn't me that mattered to him.”

“Who was it, Martine?”

“It was Jordan. Jordan and Pelardit and Balthazar, and when you arrived, he wanted to know everything about you. About what you were doing, what you were looking for.”

“So, when you found out I was meeting Armand…”

“I told him. And he was angry at Armand, saying they should have known better than to trust him. Then he told me to leave, and I did. But I stopped to watch the cathedral, and I saw him come out. Only if I hadn't just seen him, I might never have recognized him.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn't dressed as a bishop. He was wearing ordinary clothing, with a cloak and hood that covered his face. But it was him.”

“Did you follow him?”

“No,” she said. “I didn't want to know. I never thought Armand would be killed.”

“One last question, Martine,” I said.

“What?”

“Jordan knew you were informing on us, didn't he?”

She was silent.

“I was hoping you would say no,” I said.

I walked over to the Count and my wife and motioned for them to go back to the courtyard. As I followed them, I heard another woman sobbing in a nearby cell. I looked inside and saw Audrica sitting there. I tossed the package of food by her feet. She never looked up.

“Not much comedy in the interlude,” I said when we were back outside.

“Did it answer all of your questions?” asked the Count.

“I'm afraid so. Thank you for agreeing to lock them up for me.”

“We have dungeons,” he said. “Might as well use them once in a while. Captain, bring out the fool and his wife. No chains.”

Jordan and Martine soon emerged, blinking in the harsh midmorning light.

“You are no longer prisoners,” said the Count.

“Bless you, Dominus,” said Jordan.

“But you are banished from the Toulousain and your house is confiscated,” said the Count. “You have one week. Bring them their children.”

Peire Roger went to fetch them. The Count turned to Claudia and me.

“Hard work makes me hungry,” he said. “I am going to have a light repast. Then we will conclude our play. I will see you shortly.”

He turned and went into the Grande Chambre.

“You got us out,” said Jordan. “Thank you.”

“He was the one who put us in here,” said Martine bitterly.

“What?” exclaimed Jordan.

“He knows,” she said. “He knows everything, damn him.”

The boys flew into the courtyard, screaming for their parents, Helga and Pelardit following with the baby. Jordan and Martine knelt to embrace their children.

“One more thing,” I said.

“What?” asked Jordan.

“You're banished.”

“I know. We have one week.”

“No,” I said. “He banished you from the Toulousain. I'm banishing you from the Fools' Guild.”

“You can't do that!” he protested.

“I'm the Chief Fool of Toulouse,” I said. “I damn well can. You betrayed us, Jordan. From now on, if any Guildmember catches you performing, your existence will be made miserable.”

“But how will I live?” he asked.

“I don't care. Good-bye, Jordan. Helga, you and Pelardit wait here. We will be back soon.”

Claudia and I returned to our balcony while the two counts ate.

“Last act,” she whispered.

“Last act,” I said.

The Count wiped his mouth with a napkin, and the servants took away the table.

“Bring them in,” he said.

The Bishop of Toulouse entered in full regalia, followed by Father Mascaron.

“Greetings, Raimon,” said the Count. “Take a seat. Father, you as well.”

A pair of low three-legged stools were brought in. The two sat on them somewhat uncomfortably.

“I have been hearing the most interesting things about you in the last two days, Raimon,” said the Count. He held up the book, opened to the last page. “There's your signature in this, for instance.”

Father Mascaron leaned forward, scrutinized the signature carefully, then moved his stool a few inches away from the Bishop.

“I have meted out punishments to everyone in here but you,” said the Count. “Slight question of what's appropriate. I can't hang you, can't throw you in a dungeon, can't seize the cathedral. I don't want the cathedral, to tell you the truth. It looks like a money-losing operation to me.”

“Is that all?” asked the Bishop.

“I have also found out that your election was, shall we say, tainted? One of the canons was coerced into voting for you by Father Mascaron, and we have since learned that a few more were simply bribed.”

“My election was approved by Rome,” said the Bishop. “It is not for you to challenge it.”

“Then there is the murder of Armand de Quinto,” continued the Count.

Father Mascaron's mouth fell open.

“I had nothing to do with that,” said the Bishop calmly.

“I have evidence to the contrary,” said the Count. “But I don't intend to bring you to assizes. More trouble than it's worth. I am simply going to tell you to step down from the bishopric.”

The Bishop sprang to his feet, the stool bouncing away.

“You do not have the authority!” he thundered.

“I do,” said a voice to the left of us.

The Bishop turned and stared as Peire de Castelnau came into the room.

“I'd like to say I'm disappointed in you, Raimon,” said the legate. “But the truth is I never had great expectations for you in the first place. You will step down, and we will give out that it was for the election. You will keep your stipend and the power to perform the sacraments. The sacraments, Raimon—remember them? What everything was supposed to be about?”

“My stipend?” laughed the Bishop. “My stipend—how could anyone possibly live on that?”

“When you have your soul back in order, come join the Cistercians and we will teach you how to live,” said the legate gently.

“Sounds like a fair offer,” said the Count. “I suggest you accept it.”

“Enough,” said the Bishop. “I am sick of this city. It will be a pleasure to leave.”

He stormed out. Father Mascaron rose uncertainly.

“Father Mascaron,” said the Count.

The priest turned.

“Even the Count of Toulouse must draw the line at killing a bishop,” said the Count. “Of course, anything less is fair game. Remember that.”

“Yes, Dominus,” said the priest, bowing respectfully. Then he followed the Bishop out.

“Come down, Fools,” ordered the Count.

We did. Brother Peire winked at me.

“I thought you were spending Christmas at Fontfroide,” I said.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “Things were too interesting here.”

“I was going to introduce you,” said the Count. “I suppose I needn't bother.”

“You may introduce this charming lady,” said the legate.

“Then Brother Peire, may I present Domina Gile?” said the Count.

My wife and the legate bowed to each other.

“Fools, I have just acquired a house in the city,” said the Count. “I am going to install you in it. Saint Cyprien is too far away.”

“Very good, Dominus,” I said.

“Small thanks for quashing a rebellion before it began,” he said. “If there is anything else—”

“There is the matter of the Bishop's succession,” said Brother Peire.

“Officially, that has nothing to do with me,” said the Count. “Although I'm not sure that I trust anyone selected by the canons in this town anymore.”

“My point exactly,” said the legate. “I have a candidate in mind. A man from outside the Toulousain, and so unaffected by the local influences. A member of my own order.”

“A Cistercian for Bishop,” commented the Count. “Unusual. Who do you have in mind?”

“The Abbot of Le Thoronet,” said the legate. “A pious man. When he joined the order, he put his sons in the Abbey of Grandselves.”

“I have long had a good relationship with Grandselves,” said the Count.

“Your generosity to them has been noted,” said the legate.

“Who is this apolitical abbot?” asked the Count.

“His name is Folc,” said the legate.

The Count stared at him, then me.

“You mean Folquet, the troubadour,” he said flatly.

“He was at one time known for that,” admitted Brother Peire.

“He used to write songs ridiculing my father,” said the Count. “And me.”

“I assure you that he has repented,” said the legate smoothly. “Indeed, he has written no songs of any kind in years.”

“Stop pandering,” said the Count. “Who does he owe?”

“Well, me,” I said.

“You?” exclaimed the Count. “How so?”

“I saved his life,” I said. “Long story.”

“I see,” said the Count. “He's a former troubadour and a Cistercian abbot. A Cistercian monk has proposed him, and he owes his life to a jester who is somehow in league with this Cistercian monk.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” I said, trailing off.

Raimon turned to his cousin.

“What do you think, Bernard?”

“Couldn't be any worse than what we have now,” said the Count of Comminges.

“Wonderful,” said Raimon, turning back to us. “Fine. Send for him. I'll try to get along with him. Brother Peire, will you be my guest tonight?”

“I will, thank you,” said Brother Peire. “Senhor Pierre, Domina Gile, I look forward to making your acquaintances again.”

“And yours, Brother Peire,” I said.

“For you, Fools,” said the Count, tossing me a purse. “Moving expenses.”

We bowed to him and left.

“Up, up, up!” called Portia when we came out.

I took her from Helga and placed her on my shoulders.

“Well?” asked Helga.

“Raimon de Rabastens is out, Abbot Folc is in,” I said. “There's a great deal more to it than that, but it should be told properly over a good meal. I say we repair to the Yellow Dwarf.”

“Sounds good,” said Claudia.

Someone cleared his throat. We turned. There was no one there but us. And Pelardit.

“Was that you?” I asked him.

Pelardit looked around to verify that no one was within earshot.

“I just wanted to tell you how glad I am that they made you Chief Fool,” he said softly. “Working under Jordan would have been miserable.”

We looked at him dumbfounded.

“That's it,” he said. “Oh, and I'm buying.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” I asked. “Let's go.”

CODA

“
The world is a dangerous and evil place, Theophilos,” said Abbot Folc.

“Not all of it,” I said. “Not all the time.”

“This is what you fight against, isn't it?”

“On my good days.”

“Maybe it's time for me to take part in it again. Toulouse, you said.”