The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Alan Gordon

  Copyright

  To my own Fools’ Guild,

  my fellow members of the Legal Aid Society of New York.

  Friends, scholars, warriors.

  I’m sure you know that picture well,

  A monk, all else unheeding,

  Within a bare and gloomy cell

  A musty volume reading;

  While through the window you can see

  In sunny glade entrancing,

  With cap and bells beneath a tree

  A jester dancing, dancing.

  —ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE,

  “ROOM 5: THE CONCERT SINGER”

  ONE

  Here come the jesters, one, two, three.

  —BAD COMPANY, “ROCK AND ROLL FANTASY”

  “Hag!” I screamed at my wife as she ran from me. “Foul harridan!”

  “Bastard!” she screamed back, dashing to the far side of the fire. “Ill-smelling cur!”

  “I will teach you manners, woman,” I growled, holding up an iron saucepan. “I will teach you to obey your husband.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she snapped.

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  I whirled it around my head three times and whipped it across the fire at her head. At the last possible moment, she stepped to the side and caught it by the handle, the force of the throw spinning her around completely.

  A second spin added just enough speed to the pan to send it flying back at my chest. I caught it clumsily with both hands, but the impact sent me reeling back. I tripped, fell backwards into a somersault that left me sitting, dazed, with the saucepan now perched on my head.

  My wife laughed uproariously as I regained my feet.

  “So, woman,” I began, pointing at her; then there was a loud clang as something hit the pan from behind me. I stumbled around, clutching my head, then turned to see Helga standing at the edge of the firelight, a broom raised in both hands. It was the stick end that had rung my pan so resoundingly.

  “You leave my mother alone!” she barked, and I had to restrain myself from smiling because it was a perfect impression of my wife.

  “So, little girl, you think you are too old for a spanking?” I sneered.

  “If I’m a little girl, how could I be too old for anything?” she asked.

  “Well, because…” Then I stopped, confused by the question. “Never mind. Put down that broom, or there will be hell to pay.”

  “You want this broom? Then take it from me,” she cried. She ran toward me and suddenly planted the broom handle into the dirt, using it to vault into the air. She landed with both feet on my shoulders. I grabbed her ankles to steady them; then her skirts settled over my face, blocking my view of the world.

  “Am I too old to do this?” she shouted, and she started pummeling me with the business end of the broom.

  I staggered around as she kept hitting me, veering perilously close to the fire as the children in the audience screamed in terrified delight. Helga rode my shoulders like a Minoan acrobat, then leapt into the air, flipping over the broom and landing easily on her feet as the crowd applauded.

  “Finally, I can see you, brat,” I said.

  “But you can’t see behind you,” she retorted, and I turned just in time to take an oversized club on the noggin, courtesy of my good wife. I toppled like a tree, and the two females planted their right feet on my back.

  “And that, ladies, is how you teach obedience to your husband,” concluded Claudia, and the men roared and the women cheered. Claudia and Helga hauled me to my feet, and we held hands and bowed together, the saucepan falling to the ground before me.

  Helga grabbed a tambourine and darted around the crowd, begging for their hard-earned pennies while I dashed over to our wain to fetch our lutes. Portia looked at me nervously, sitting on the lap of the girl we had hired to watch her for the evening.

  “Everything is fine, poppet,” I assured her. “Papa was just pretending. Papa’s not hurt at all.”

  She seemed dubious. I leaned forward and kissed her on the tip of her nose, and she suddenly smiled, that six-toothed grin that stopped my heart every time.

  “Kiss Papa on the nose,” I said, and she planted a wet smack on my nose that probably did nothing good for the whiteface coating it. “All better.”

  I ran back to the fire and tossed Claudia her lute.

  “And now, good people of Le Cannet,” I shouted. “We will close with a song written by one of the greatest troubadours I have ever come across, a man who was born in a great city south of here: Folquet of Marseille.”

  I raised my hand and brought it down on the lutestrings, singing:

  O give me leave, fair lady mine,

  For I have worshipped at your shrine.

  I saw your face, your lips divine,

  And Cupid’s swift arrows are stinging.

  Then Claudia sang:

  Now, get you gone, O suitor mine,

  I know full well that men are swine

  Who only want their maids supine,

  Sweet pillows on which to be springing.

  Then I sang:

  Return my love, fair lady mine,

  A married life will suit me fine.

  Just say you’ll let our loves combine,

  Then Heavenward I will be winging.

  Then she sang:

  Let other lovers wait in line.

  Just yesterday, I turned down nine.

  But since our fates you’d intertwine,

  Then at your side I will be clinging.

  Then we both sang:

  So let us welcome God’s design,

  So long as sun and moon both shine,

  And long as there are joy and wine,

  Then we’ll have a reason for singing.

  The crowd applauded madly, and a few more coins flickered into view like shooting stars out of the darkness.

  “I am Tan Pierre,” I shouted, catching them. “This is my wife, Domna Gile, and our daughter, Helga. We are the Fool Family, and we thank you!”

  We bowed again, then began to collect our gear and store it on the wain, chatting with those who came to see us up close and sweaty. The fire had been built in the center of the little square of the town, a small collection of stone buildings on top of a hill with a wall running around it. A church looked out at us from one end, and a square, fortified stone maison with three levels loomed over the other, the wall circling around it like the prow of a ship, ready to take on all comers.

  Bertrand, the local seigneur, came up clapping his hands as the villagers drifted off to their houses or down the hill to their farms. “Marvelous, Fools, just marvelous,” he chortled. “I have not laughed like that in an age of ages.”

  “Then we have f
ulfilled our purpose,” I said, bowing. “And we thank you for graciously permitting us to entertain your village.”

  “Oh, that was the best part of it all,” he said. “To have something like this, and not even a feast day! Why, they will think me the very soul of benevolence.”

  “And so you are,” said Claudia. “So many lords would not deign to waste their peasants’ time with the likes of us.”

  “As their lord, I consider them my children,” he said grandly. “Does not every parent wish to keep their children happy?”

  “We certainly do,” said Claudia, taking Portia and giving her evening’s guardian a penny, which the girl accepted with awe.

  “Two daughters,” said Bertrand, looking from Portia to Helga with delight. “I myself have six boys.”

  “I bow to your superior efforts,” I said as Claudia and Helga squealed in outrage.

  “A daughter would have been a welcome change,” he said. “Someone to outsmart me and keep me on my toes.”

  “They certainly do that,” agreed Claudia as I threw the last prop on the wain.

  I helped Claudia and Helga up, then took Zeus’s reins quickly before he had a chance to bite me.

  “Lead on, milord,” I said.

  He fell into step by me and we walked around his maison down the slope to the stables. “The hay in the loft is fresh and dry,” he said. “It should be comfortable enough.”

  “More than enough, milord.”

  “You know, that troubadour friend of yours lives not far from here,” he remarked.

  “Folquet? Here?” I exclaimed in surprise. “I didn’t know he still lived. I’ve heard nothing about him in ten years. Does he still sing as magnificently as he once did?”

  “I have never heard him sing,” he replied. “He’s at the abbey at Le Thoronet.”

  “He joined the Cistercians?”

  “Not only joined,” he said. “He’s the abbot there.”

  My jaw must have been hanging below my neck. He started laughing at my expression; then I joined him.

  “Truly a marvelous world,” I said when I was able to catch breath. “The Folquet I knew was hardly a candidate for holy orders.”

  “It strikes suddenly with some men,” he said. “I would not have guessed a family of fools to be so religious, yet here you are, returning from pilgrimage.”

  “We wanted to have the baby blessed in Rome,” I said as I unhitched Zeus and carefully put him in an empty stall.

  “Did the Pope bless her himself?” asked Bertrand with reverence.

  “Hardly,” said Claudia. “All we could afford was a bishop. But well worth it.”

  “We wanted her to start her life right, just like we did with Helga,” I said, mussing the girl’s hair affectionately. “You were too young to remember your first pilgrimage.”

  “Yes,” she said, yawning, “but you tell the story so often, I think I do remember it.”

  Claudia and I beamed at Helga, as proud of her as if she had been our own.

  “Inspiring,” said Bertrand. “Perhaps I shall go there. I would like to see Rome once before I meet my maker. Fools, you have blessed my humble abode. I shall see you in the morning.”

  We bowed low as he left, humming Folquet’s melody.

  “We’ve only blessed his stables,” muttered Claudia. “It would have been nice to bless his maison. From the inside.”

  “I’d like to bless a real bed sometime,” added Helga. “It’s been a while.”

  “I guess we merit his praise, but not his full protection,” I said. “But once we get to Toulouse, I promise we will all have beds.”

  “A mighty promise. Should we trust it?” Claudia asked Helga.

  “He does lie an awful lot,” said Helga.

  “That’s because he’s good at it,” said Claudia.

  “Yes, he is,” agreed Helga. “Will you teach me? And why did you pretend you didn’t know Folquet was nearby?”

  “Just trying to make our little visit to him seem natural,” I said. “In case anyone asks questions. Nothing unusual about a family returning from a pilgrimage, even if it’s a family of fools. Speaking of which: Apprentice, front and center!”

  Helga scampered through the hay and stood at attention before us. She was a spry young girl of twelve, although small enough to pass for younger if the need arose. I had thought she was ten when we first met. When her hair was washed, it was blond. Or so we believed.

  “You followed my story about Rome with an excellent bit of improvisation,” I began. “Full marks.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “Your command of langue d’oc is excellent, and any slips in the accent we can attribute to your constant travel,” I continued. “Your performance tonight was generally good. However, in the part where you were hitting me in the face with the broom, you actually hit me in the face with the broom.”

  “You can’t fault her for that,” objected Claudia. “She’s standing on top of your shoulders while you’re lurching about the fire.”

  “But she knows which way I’m lurching,” I said. “Or she should know. Anything that could throw me off balance could end up sending one of us into that fire, and I know which one I will choose if that happens. Roast Apprentice is an excellent dish for early autumn.”

  “Maybe the routine is too hard for her,” said Claudia.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Helga. “I made the mistake. When I’m on his shoulders, it’s step left, back, whack, back, right, whack, left, right, whack, forward, whack, back, whack, and jump. I was early on the third whack.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “I’ll rehearse it in the morning,” she said. “After exercises.”

  “Yes, you will,” I said. “Now, get some sleep, little one.”

  I tossed her her bedroll, and she spread it out. Then she went over to Portia.

  “Hug for Helga?” she whispered, and the baby opened her arms wide. Helga embraced her, then lay down on her bedroll and pulled a blanket over her body.

  “Good night, Princess,” said Claudia to Helga, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Good night, Apprentice,” I said.

  Claudia nursed Portia until the babe was full, then handed her to me to burp. The resulting belch was loud enough to wake the horses, and Portia looked around in astonishment, then giggled.

  “Good night, little Fool,” I whispered, kissing her. I put her in her cradle and tucked her blanket around her. Claudia kissed her, then rocked her for a few minutes until her eyes closed.

  We lay on our blankets, holding each other for warmth.

  “You were hard on her,” whispered Claudia.

  “Because she’s good,” I said. “Did you notice her imitating you?”

  “I sound nothing like that!” she protested.

  “No, it must have been someone else,” I said. “Someone else with the exact same voice as you.”

  “Hmph. How far is Le Thoronet?” she asked sleepily.

  “One day’s journey north,” I said.

  “Do you think he’ll agree?”

  “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  We woke to the sounds of the stable boys whistling as they mucked out the stalls. Portia was still asleep, so I picked the cradle up gently and carried her outside. Claudia and Helga joined me, and we began our stretches, then moved on to some quick tumbling routines. After that, Claudia began her juggling warm-ups, while Helga picked up her broom and faced me.

  “Put down that broom, or there will be hell to pay,” I said.

  “You want this broom? Then take it from me,” she cried.

  She ran toward me and vaulted onto my shoulders.

  “Left, back, whack, back, right, whack, left, right, whack, forward, whack, back, whack,” she chanted as I did the steps, the broom whistling harmlessly past my face. “And jump!”

  She landed neatly on her feet as the stable boys cheered. She curtsied to them impishly.

  “Again?” she said.
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  “It’s not necessary,” I said.

  “Again,” she insisted.

  “Very well,” I said, pleased, and we repeated it. This time, it was even better. I bowed to her, then tossed her her juggling clubs. She sent them into the air in a pattern that accidentally carried her closer to the stable boys.

  “Behave, daughter,” I called.

  “Of course, Papa,” she replied innocently.

  “Oh, to be twelve again,” I said to Claudia. “Our little apprentice is growing up.”

  My wife stopped to watch the girl, a sad look in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I asked softly.

  “It’s Celia’s birthday today,” she said. “She’s eleven. If she still lives.”

  “I am certain that she does,” I said.

  “I wonder what she looks like now,” said Claudia. “She resembled her father so. I wonder if she thinks of me at all.”

  “Of course she does.”

  “She must hate me,” said Claudia.

  “I doubt that,” I said. “Her last letter sounded quite cheerful.”

  “That was months ago. She’s at such a crucial stage in her life, and I’m not there to guide her.”

  “And if you were there, you would not be allowed to guide her,” I said. “That was the agreement you made. They might even lock you up as a madwoman if you return.”

  She was silent.

  “Do you want to go back?” I asked.

  “Would you come with me?”

  “I have a mission to accomplish,” I said.

  “I left my world for yours,” she said.

  “By choice,” I pointed out.

  “By choice,” she agreed. “Would you ever choose mine?”

  “I lived that life once,” I reminded her. “It ended badly. And how would I reenter it? In Orsino, they know me as the jester who ran off with their lady. How could I be anything else but that? Once you choose this foolish world, it is hard to go back to your old one.”

  She looked at Helga, who had four clubs in the air and three boys enraptured.

  “Look, Mark will be of age in two more years,” I said. “Once your sister-in-law no longer has the regency in her fat greedy hands, we can go back safely. For a visit, at least.”