The Moneylender of Toulouse (25 page)

It was approaching noon, and the monks were in church for the Office of Sext. I was in the middle of the last bed when a shrill whistle echoed through the windows from the square in front of Saint Sernin. I threw the blanket back and flew down the steps and out the door, reaching the cover of a nearby shed just as the doors to the church opened and the monks poured out to resume their chores.

I slipped off my sacred disguise and took the long way around to the square, coming to it from the northwest. Pelardit was wobbling around on a rickety pair of stilts, whistling in panic whenever he seemed about to topple over, which was frequently. The whistles were answered by shrieks from the children watching him, yet he always regained his balance in the nick of time.

Helga was sitting on the steps by the main entrance to the church, where she had been listening to the monks, Portia on her lap. Since I didn't know the timing of the service for Sext, her job was to signal Pelardit when the final hymn began. Hence the warning whistle.

“You cut it awfully close this time,” commented Claudia, materializing by my side.

“What's life without risk?” I asked.

“Longer,” she said.

“Any luck?” asked Helga as she came up to us.

“None,” I said. “A little earlier on the signal next time.”

“It's a short hymn,” she said. “Personally, I thought they sang it too quickly.”

“We'll have them hire you on as choir mistress,” said Claudia. “And what do you mean by ‘next time'?”

“There's still the kitchen and a few other rooms to consider.”

“Right now, we should consider lunch,” said Claudia.

Pelardit hopped down from his stilts and beckoned to us, rubbing his stomach.

“You know a good place?” I asked.

He nodded, and walked his fingers in the air.

“Very far?”

He shrugged.

“Is it worth the walk?”

He lifted an invisible cup to his mouth, drank deep, and staggered, smiling cherubically.

“You make a compelling case,” I said. “Lead on.”

It was a long walk, all the way across the city to the Porte Montgalhart, which was the first gate east of the Château Narbonnais. A funeral procession was passing through it. Jews, by their dress and their chanting, going to their cemetery outside the city walls.

The tavern was called the Yellow Dwarf, which gave me a momentary pang of longing for the Scarlet Dwarf, our favorite tavern near the Fools' Guildhall before our exile, a rambling, raucous place filled with drunken, competitive jocularity. This tavern, on the other hand, was small and quiet. There was an upper floor with rooms for lodgers, although there was no sign that there currently were any. In fact, there was no one there but the innkeeper when we arrived. Our arrival appeared to wake him from a light nap, but he brightened upon seeing not just customers but fools.

“Pelardit, my old friend!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping to see you here today. And these must be the new fools in town. Welcome, welcome all. I'm Hugo, and this is my tavern.”

“I'm Tan Pierre, friend Hugo, and I have never met a tapster I haven't liked,” I said. “Pelardit tells us you brew a fine ale here. At least, I hope that's what he meant.”

“Oh, you'll find he told you true,” said Hugo, filling a pitcher and placing it on our table with a stack of cups. “But confirm it for yourself, Senhor.”

Pelardit poured for all, and we raised our cups to our host and drank.

“I now name my friend Pelardit to forever be my guide in all things,” I said. “This is excellent ale, Senhor Hugo.”

“Now, all I have is bread and cheese for lunch,” said Hugo. “Will that satisfy?”

“It will,” said Claudia. “But you must join us.”

“I will, and thank you, Domina Fool,” he said.

He brought in a tray of bread and cheese, straddled a bench, and began slicing.

“It's good to see such a lively crew here again,” he said. “Haven't seen this many jesters at my table since Balthazar passed on, God rest his soul.”

“Was he a frequent visitor?” I asked, helping him pass the food around.

“He lived here,” said Hugo. “Didn't you know?”

“I did not,” I said.

“Oh, sure, for years,” said Hugo. “He'd be sitting where you are, and Pelardit and Jordan on either side, sometimes a troubadour or two, and they would go on into the evening, one song after another, or stories or tricks or what have you. Those were the days, weren't they, Pelardit?”

Pelardit nodded, looking wistful.

“Well, now that we know that the ale is fine and the host so convivial, we'll make sure to bring those days back again,” I said.

“I would enjoy that,” he said. “I do miss the old sod. I can still see him, sitting here while I cleaned up after everyone else had gone home, writing notes by a single candle until there was just a stub left.”

“And up the next day at the crack of noon,” I said.

“Oh, you have the right of it,” he laughed. “Wish I could keep a fool's hours.”

“This is excellent cheese,” said Claudia. “Won't you have some, friend Hugo?”

“Oh, I suppose I will at that,” he said, taking a piece. “I'm still not used to eating it after all this time.”

“You don't like cheese?” I asked.

“Well, I was a Cathar for a long while,” he said. “True believer until I had the darkness pulled from my eyes, so didn't eat cheese, you know.”

“Nothing that comes of coition may be eaten,” I said. “That's what they believe.”

“That's right,” he said. “Thankfully, I was shown the error of my ways, and I get the benefit of the better food as a bonus. Forgot how good roast mutton could be.”

“I always thought it was a cruel trick to separate the sheep and the goats only to eat the sheep,” said Claudia. “So what brought you back to the fold, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Oh, this priest came through back in the spring,” he said. “Traveling with that bishop from Osma who was staying with our bishop, only they couldn't handle the entourage, so we got a couple. I always liked picking on the traveling clergy, get them all flustered about theology compared to the Cathar beliefs, 'cause none of 'em were all that good at debating and such. Only this fellow, what was his name? De Guzman?”

He shook his head admiringly.

“I've never met a priest like him. Knew everything, had an answer for every argument I had. And he wasn't just some show-offy type. He really seemed concerned for my soul. He persuaded me, God bless him. I hope he comes back some day. If more priests were like him, I would have come back years ago.”

“Where did he go?” I asked.

“They were off to Denmark on some mission,” he said. “Who knows when they'll return? Or if? But I'll pray for them in the meanwhile.”

“Sounds like you could preach the Word yourself now,” I said.

“Naw, I don't have the gift,” he said. “And I'm not out to bring the others back. Everyone should find his way without being forced into it.”

“I agree with that,” I said.

“Of course, if you die a Cathar, like poor Milon, then it's straight to Hellfire with you,” he said. “And that's a sad thing. But he had his chance. You never know when life's gonna turn on you.”

“Milon? Do you mean Milon Borsella?” I asked.

“Right, the one who got dumped in the tanner's pit last week,” he replied.

“I had no idea he was a Cathar,” I said.

“Well, it's not like everyone knew it,” he said. “But he was, for ages. Not ready to take the final step to being one of the Perfect, you know, and it wouldn't have been good for business if people knew.”

“I am amazed,” I said, glancing at Pelardit, who listened impassively. “Is his wife Cathar as well?”

“Oh, no,” said Hugo. “Just the opposite. Very Christian in her ways. That was kind of a funny thing. He didn't want her knowing he was going to meet with the Cathars, so when he was out nights, she thought he was seeing other women, and would scream at him like nobody's business. And he never would tell her the truth, 'cause he figured that would upset her even more than thinking he was cheating on her, can you imagine?”

“Friend Hugo, you know that Calvet the baile thinks that Cathars killed Milon, don't you?” I asked.

“Well, I doubt anyone in the community would do that,” he said. “He was liked among the Cathars.”

“Have you told Calvet about this?” I asked.

“Why bother?” he said. “I don't really know what happened to Milon, and even though I'm Christian now, I'm not gonna rat out my friends even if they haven't seen the light. I'm not like that. Oh, let me get you more ale.”

He picked up the empty pitcher and went in back.

“This is why you brought us here, isn't it?” I asked Pelardit.

He nodded.

“I wonder if Milon's brothers knew,” said Claudia. “Imagine Vitalis's position, being a Benedictine monk and having a Cathar for a brother.”

“Could be embarrassing,” I said. “Frustrating.”

“Enough to make him want to kill his own brother?” asked Helga.

“I doubt it,” I said. “Besides, he allowed them to bury Milon in consecrated ground. Would a Benedictine monk do that knowing he was really a Cathar? Even for his own brother?”

“That might account for his behavior at the grave the other day,” said Claudia. “Well, this throws water on a pet theory of mine, I must say.”

“What's that?”

“That Milon's wife killed him out of jealousy over some lover. But there was no lover.”

“No, he only cheated on her church,” I said.

Hugo came back and refilled our cups.

“To Milon,” he said, raising his cup. “Too late to save, but a nice fellow for all that.”

We drank, and were silent as Pelardit for a while. He was the first to rise, signaling that he was heading out.

“Meet you in time for services,” I said.

He nodded, shouldered his stilts, and left.

“Did Balthazar die here?” I asked.

“Naw, he died a good jester death,” said Hugo. “He was juggling in Montaygon Square, and his heart just stopped, so they said. Fell on his back, with the clubs landing everywhere. People thought it was part of the act at first, and laughed and laughed.”

He chuckled at the memory.

“He got a laugh by dying, just think of that,” he said.

“Not a bad death at all,” I said. “Could you show me his room?”

“His room?” he said in surprise.

“If it's not currently occupied, of course.”

“Well, as it happens, it's available,” he said. “Let me take you.”

He stood. I tapped Claudia on the knee under the table. She nodded, and I rose to follow Hugo upstairs.

“Here it is,” he said, opening a door to an undecorated room, just a bed and a basin inside. “Bigger than a hermit's cell, and I keep it clean. Never had any complaints.”

“He lived here alone all those years?” I asked, stepping in.

“Oh, I couldn't say that he never had a woman up here,” he said. “Reckless wives, traveling pilgrims on their way to absolution, you know how it goes when there's ale to be had. Why, there was this—”

“Hugo?” called my wife from downstairs. “Have you some rags? I'm afraid the baby has knocked over a cup of ale.”

“Oh, no worry,” he called to her. “You'd have no idea what I've had to clean up some nights. Be right there. You'll excuse me, Senhor Fool? Take a look. Rates are reasonable if you have a mind to stay over some night. Sing a few songs, draw a crowd, and I'll put you up cheap.”

He hurried down. I immediately moved the bed aside and began feeling along the floorboards until I felt one give slightly. I took my knife and slid it along the crack that was revealed and pried it up easily. There was a space underneath, large enough to conceal, say, a coffer or several stacks of gold. But it was empty, only a small scrap of parchment curled at the bottom. I picked it up, but it was blank.

I replaced the floorboard and went back down.

“Here's for lunch and ale,” I said, handing him a few coins. “We will certainly be back. Once we get through the Twelve Days, we could arrange a regular evening here, if that suits you.”

“It would suit me fine,” he said. “A pleasure meeting you, and a happy Christmas to you all.”

We took our leave, and walked north.

“What did you find?” asked Claudia when we were out of earshot.

I handed her the scrap of parchment. She turned it over in her hands several times, then held it up to the sun.

“Nothing,” she pronounced. “That's unfortunate. I was starting to feel comfortable here. Always a bad sign.”

“We'll sort it out,” I said. “First, there's the rest of the dormitorium to search. We should be back just in time for Nones.”

“The more you go back, the more likely it is someone will see you,” said Claudia. “All for a book that may not even be there. For all we know, Vitalis never had it, or moved it if he had.”

“If we could only get him to take us to it,” I mused.

“Why don't we set the dormitorium on fire?” suggested Helga.

We looked at her sternly, and she flinched.

“You are an evil, despicable child, and you should be ashamed of yourself,” I said.

She hung her head.

“I think it's a brilliant idea,” said Claudia.

“So do I,” I said. “We'll do it tomorrow during Sext.”

*   *   *

Back across town and bourg to the square in front of Saint Sernin. Pelardit waved from atop his stilts.

“It's off,” I muttered as we came to him. “The wife talked me out of it.”

He mopped his brow in exaggerated relief and hopped down to the ground.

“Some eight-handed juggling?” I suggested.