The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery Page 16

  She beamed as the rest of us applauded, including Portia.

  “Now, let’s all get some sleep,” I said. “We’ll wake when we wake.”

  Grelho handed Portia to Claudia, smiled, and waved a weary good night as he climbed the steps to the upper floor. Helga was practically out on her feet, and needed little coaxing to go to sleep. Claudia nursed Portia, then put her down.

  “Grelho has a nice smile when he uses it,” she said.

  “Nice to see it come out,” I said.

  “I’ve never seen you lose a juggling challenge when there’s a free drink on the line,” she said. “One might almost believe that you let him win.”

  “First time for everything,” I said. “I’m going to sleep. I’m riding to Maguelone at a lady’s behest in the morning.”

  * * *

  The Lattes Gate was being manned by the Tanners’ Guild when I passed through it, and the leathery-looking fellow standing guard recognized me from our performance at the Cormorant and waved me through. Zeus saw open road ahead and bucked a couple of times to see if I was paying attention. I tugged on his reins to let him know that I hadn’t fallen off; then I flicked them gently, and the landscape became a blur.

  Fortunately, the Mediterranean presented an obstacle large enough that even Zeus knew better than to try to leap it. A narrow island spread out before us, and dominating its western end was the cathedral. The island was well-protected by walls and fortifications seaward, but was connected to the mainland by a low wooden causeway to our left. The tide was out, however, so we simply rode across the exposed sand flats, scattering shorebirds who were stabbing at the crabs and shellfish with their long pointed beaks.

  The cathedral itself was a cross between a house of God and a fort against Muhammad. It was Romanesque in style, made of blocks of white sandstone, with a white tiled roof. The island was the principal defense for the area against attacks by invaders or pirates, which was why the Church chose to place the bishopric here rather than in Montpellier proper. Still, once on the island, with its gentle beaches and its ample vineyards, I could see the seductive aspects of renouncing the world for the cloth. If they only had a decent tavern …

  The door to the cathedral was carved with vines and grapes, and had a tympanum over it with a frieze depicting Our Savior welcoming one and all, surrounded by some adoring animals. I rejected the possibility that that meant I could bring Zeus into the cathedral itself, and tied him to a rail nearby. There was a wooden post standing there with an iron bell suspended from it.

  There was an inscription over the door: To this haven of life come those who are thirsty. In crossing this threshold, pray for your life. Always weep for your sins. Whatever is wrong is cleansed by the fountain of your tears.

  I have never been much for weeping. But then, I have never been much for cathedrals, either. Still, this one lacked the wasteful extravagance of the Gothic monstrosities that were being built everywhere, so I renounced my pride and crossed the threshold. I did pray for my life, albeit dry-eyed. There were not enough tears to cover my sins.

  It was dark, the narrow windows stingy with what they let in from the outside. The layout was a simple rectangular box, the altar at the far end just a stone slab of a table. Plain wooden stalls lined both sides. Probably no more than a dozen clerics here, all told. At the base of the altar was a curious-looking fan made of peacock feathers. As I looked at it, someone cleared his throat. I turned to see a priest standing there.

  “Why the fan?” I asked, pointing at it.

  “To protect the Host from contamination,” he said. “The mosquitoes can be something fierce around here. May I help you, my son?”

  “Forgive the intrusion,” I said.

  “We can forgive far worse things,” he said, smiling.

  “I am looking for one of your newer monks,” I said. “Guilhem of Montpellier.”

  “Brother Guilhem should be attending to our gardens,” he said, pointing to the north side of the cathedral.

  “Thank you, Father,” I said, starting in that direction.

  “Should be, I said,” he continued. “But I would first check the beach. It might save you a trip.”

  “Thank you again,” I said. I placed a penny in the collection box and went back outside.

  I passed through groves of almonds and date trees, restraining myself from plucking anything that didn’t belong to me. There was a brick wall at the other side, and I followed it until I came to a door. I opened it, and the bright blue Mediterranean dazzled before me, separated by a short stretch of sand. A young man was stretched out on top of his discarded cassock, his sandals discarded next to a football. He had been swimming recently, if the wet tonsure was any indication. His eyes were closed, but he was humming, so I assumed he was awake. I decided to put that theory to the test.

  “Brother Guilhem,” I said sternly.

  He sprang guiltily to his feet, gathering his cassock.

  “Forgive me, Father, I’ll get right to—” he blurted, then stopped as he saw me.

  “Forgive me, Brother Guilhem,” I said, chuckling. “It was too good an opportunity. I am Tan Pierre, the fool.”

  “And you have made me another,” he said, laughing at his embarrassment. “Let me reassemble myself.”

  “Oh, don’t bother on my account,” I said. “I came to see Guilhem of Montpellier, not Brother Guilhem of Maguelone.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Curiosity,” I said.

  “Oh, is that all?” he said petulantly. “Come see the boy count who gave it up to be a monk before he could even shave.”

  “That patter is much too long,” I said. “You’ll get more tourists if you come up with something short and catchy.”

  “But they’ll come because I’m an oddity, isn’t that what you’re saying?” he said, kicking the ball in my direction.

  I blocked it, then kicked it up and juggled it back and forth with my knees.

  “Hey, you’re good,” he said. “Kick it back to me.”

  And suddenly, we had a game going. I quickly learned that the accumulated skills of a middle-aged jester are no match for the energy of a fourteen-year-old boy. After about ten minutes, I held my hands up in surrender.

  He picked up his cassock and threw it over his head, then tied the cord around his waist. He picked up the ball and his sandals. “Good match,” he said. “Walk me to my penance. I detest gardening.”

  “That’s why they have you do it,” I said.

  “No doubt,” he said cheerfully. “You should join us. No one else here plays football. They’re all too busy praying.”

  “Isn’t that the point?”

  “I suppose,” he said, tossing the ball up and heading it a few times. “But they’re all so old. They don’t know what it’s like to have someone young here. They’ve forgotten how to dream. It’s a romantic place, in many ways. Do you know the legend of Maguelone?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “Maguelone was the daughter of the King of Naples, a rare and virtuous beauty. A brave knight fell in love with her, and entered a tournament to win her. After many heroic battles, he was victorious and they pledged eternal devotion to each other. He gave her three golden rings in a cloth bag to keep by her heart. But a seabird swooped in and stole the bag. The knight promptly pursued it by boat, and was lost at sea.”

  “How sad.”

  “But it didn’t end there,” he said. “She searched for him, and ultimately ended up here, where she founded a hospice for the sick and abandoned. Meanwhile, it turned out that he had been captured and made the slave of a sultan. After many years, he grew ill and unrecognizable, and the sultan cast him off by a miraculous coincidence at this very spot. He was carried to the hospice and nursed back to health by Maguelone, who didn’t recognize him. When he recovered his health and memories, he revealed himself to her, and they were married and lived happily to the end of their days running the hospice. Now, many come to Maguelone to ring the bell outside
the cathedral to be blessed by her before marrying in the cathedral.”

  “Did she ever get her rings back?”

  “The story doesn’t say,” he said. “Probably not.”

  “Why did you join?” I asked. “You don’t seem to be the monkish kind.”

  “That’s that curiosity of yours,” he said. “Do you know Grelho?”

  “I’m staying with him in town,” I said.

  “He was my father’s fool, and mine, too,” he said. “I remember his telling me the story about the fool who wanted to find his identical twin. Do you know that one?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “He saw him at the bottom of a well, and drowned trying to embrace him,” he said.

  “And what is your exegesis of this foolish parable?” I asked.

  He sat down to put on his sandals. “Ever since I joined here, men have journeyed from the city to see me,” he said. “Powerful men. Rich men. All wanting something from me, because I am the last of the Guilhems. I have nothing to give them, but they won’t accept that. And, although they don’t know it, they end up giving me something valuable and dangerous.”

  “What is that?”

  “That they came to powerless me, knowing that my sister is the countess. Which means that they are a threat to her.”

  “And being a good brother, you pass that information on to her.”

  He nodded.

  “Will you be telling her about me?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said. “You are neither rich nor powerful. And you played football with me. I like that. And, I confess, you have aroused my own curiosity. I’ve never been sought out by a fool before. I reserve judgment. Tell me what you want to know, and remember that lying is a sin.”

  I bowed briefly. “I have no interest in your sister, or the affairs of Montpellier,” I said. “I am tracking down an old story, probably from before your time. Ever hear of the troubadour Folquet of Marseille?”

  He stopped.

  “I thought you had no interest in my sister or the affairs of Montpellier,” he said. “Folquet is a forbidden topic.”

  “Ever hear of the Lady Lark?” I asked.

  “The Lady Lark,” he repeated. “A ghost of a rumor. I once heard my father referring to a lady at court by that name when I was young. Someone who died before I was born.”

  “Did you know her real name?”

  “No. But he said that she sang like a bird until someone put her in a cage, then she pined away and died.”

  “A sad story,” I said. “Was Folquet part of it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps it was just another parable. Is that all you wanted?”

  “Yes.”

  We climbed over a stile into a large vegetable garden. He picked up a sack and a hoe and sighed. “I really don’t mind gardening,” he said. “Life is so much simpler now.”

  “There was simplicity in the Garden of Eden,” I said.

  “And when they chose knowledge and exile, they bred and produced a fratricide,” he said. “I chose to return to ignorance and innocence.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because if I hadn’t, either my loving sister would have killed me, or I would have been forced to kill her,” he replied. “A mortal sin was avoided either way. Will you be leaving Montpellier once you find what you need?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I won’t tell Marie about your visit,” he said. “Thank you for playing with me. Go with God.”

  “And you, Brother Guilhem,” I said, bowing.

  I left the garden, retrieved my horse, and got the hell out of there.

  * * *

  It was close to sundown when I returned Zeus to the stable. He had barely broken a sweat with only me for his burden, but I treated him to a bath and a thorough brushing, which he pretended not to enjoy. I patted him on the neck and gave him a bunch of carrots as a final treat, then went back to Grelho’s. I ran into my family at the door.

  “Well met,” said Claudia, kissing me. “Take Portia.”

  “Has she been to the palace?” I asked as the baby clung to me like a monkey.

  “She has,” said Claudia. “Made quite the impression on the countess. I barely had to do anything.”

  “You are proving to be a great help,” I said to my daughter. “Pity you can’t stay this age. We’ll just have to keep having more babies.”

  “That is not going to happen,” said Claudia in a voice that had steel in it. Very sharp steel.

  “Just a thought, good wife,” I said meekly. “And how was your day, Apprentice?”

  “I have been playing with dolls for hours,” said Helga. “I had no idea fun could be so wearying. But I didn’t learn anything helpful.”

  Grelho opened the door. We looked at him and cheered. He was in motley and makeup. “Come in, come in,” he said merrily. “I have dinner prepared.”

  “You actually spent money?” I said in mock astonishment.

  “I’m celebrating my comeback,” he said. “I had a good day in the markets. Some people actually threw sausages, which I hope was meant as a compliment.”

  There was fresh cheese and superb wine to go with the sausages. We were sated and happy in a very short time.

  “Did you find Guilhem, husband?” asked Claudia.

  “I did,” I said. “He likes to play games, although he’s left the main game to his sister.”

  “That was a prudent move for him, I think,” said Grelho. “But it would have been better for the town had he stood up to her. Did he know anything?”

  “He said the Lady Lark had been a woman at his father’s court who died before his time,” I said. “Does that narrow things down for you?”

  “A recently banned family with a lady who died say in the late eighties,” mused Grelho. “I can think of three who meet those characteristics. But before we go gallivanting after them, I have found someone who might help us even more.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Turns out Rafael de la Tour had a younger sister,” he said triumphantly. “Turns out she’s still in the area. And best of all, they say she sings like an angel.”

  “So the gift ran in the family,” said Claudia. “She might know more about ‘The Lark’s Lament.’ Where is she?”

  “Married to a farmer a few miles north of town,” he said. “We can go tomorrow.”

  “Well done,” I said. “All right, we should—”

  A pounding on the door interrupted me. We sprang to our feet, the senior fools with hands to weapons and Helga picking up Portia and retreating to the stairs at the rear. I nodded at Grelho.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  The pounding repeated, but weakly this time. Then there was a soft thud. Grelho slid back the bar on the door and pushed it open a crack.

  “There’s a man lying in the street down near the bottom of the hill,” he said. “He’s moaning.”

  “Let’s see who it is,” I said. “Helga, stay here with Portia.”

  For a change, she didn’t argue.

  It was near midnight, and there was only little moonlight to guide us. We stepped quietly toward the prostrate form, guarding against attack from where the alley met the next street.

  The man was on his back, one arm feebly beckoning to us for help. Grelho and I stepped past him to make sure no one was waiting for us around the corners, then turned to look back at him. He was a large man, and cloaked. Claudia knelt by his head.

  “It’s Brother Antime!” she exclaimed.

  “Who’s he?” asked Grelho.

  “Did Folc send you?” I asked, kneeling by him.

  “Told me to come here,” he said hoarsely. “To find out what you’ve learned.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Grelho, nervously looking up and down the street.

  I ran my hands across his chest and felt something thick and wet. “He’s been stabbed,” I said. “What happened, Antime?”

  “The other man,” he gasped, a
nd I heard a bubbling sound as he did.

  “What other man?”

  “The other man following you,” he whispered. Then he coughed twice and fell silent. I felt his neck for a pulse.

  “Let’s get back inside,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  NINE

  En chantan m’aven a membrar

  so qu’ieu cug chantan oblidar!

  [It happens that, by singing, I remember

  that which I thought, by singing, to forget!]

  —FOLQUET DE MARSEILLE, “EN CHANTAN MA’VEN A MEMBRAR” [TRANS. N. M. SCHULMAN]

  We sat in darkness by the barred door, listening.

  “Who was Brother Antime?” asked Grelho.

  “He was a Cistercian monk at Le Thoronet,” said Theo. “He was the cellarer.”

  “The big monk?” whispered Helga. “He’s dead?”

  “Stabbed,” said Theo.

  “And you just left him there?” she asked incredulously.

  “If anyone had seen us, I would have called for the guard,” said Theo.

  “No one saw us, so we left him for the nightwatch to find,” said Grelho.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “They would have suspected us in his death,” I explained. “Even if we could have talked our way out of it, it would have made our mission more difficult.”

  “Isn’t it anyway?” asked Helga.

  “No question,” said Theo. “I think we made it safely inside. Let’s go to bed as if nothing happened.”

  “How can we possibly do that?” asked Helga.

  “Lie down, pull up the covers,” I said. “When the nightwatch bangs on the door, we will sound like we’ll be getting out of bed because we will be.”

  “I’ll be upstairs, then,” said Grelho. “We’ll talk in the morning. When there’s light.”

  He slipped upstairs, and the rest of us crawled under our blankets.

  There was no sleep to be had for Theo and me. We carried on a silent wake for the dead monk, waiting for the first shout of discovery, the alarm, the rousting of the tenants house by house, inexorably approaching our own as we prepared our startled expressions, our shock and horror that murder had struck so randomly and so near.