The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery (3 page)

“I begrudge no man his nap,” I said. “Forgive me if I have interrupted yours.”

“I never nap,” he said. “Our parlor is here.”

He led me to a small room off to the right, containing a pair of roughhewn benches. Gardening and farm implements were stacked against the wall. A small table held some cups and a ewer of water. He poured some for me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Have you come a long way?” he asked.

“We were in Le Cannet this morning,” I said. “I heard by chance that an old friend had settled here and is now the Abbot. I thought that I would take the opportunity to pay my respects.”

“The Abbot will be happy to see you, I am sure,” said Brother Antime. “What name shall I give him?”

I searched my memory for a moment. Too many names.

“Droignon,” I said, hoping the hesitation did not show. “Droignon, the Fool.”

“I will bring him.” He bowed his head and left, walking with his hands crossed on his chest.

Some time later, I heard footsteps approaching the parlor. Lighter ones than those made by the massive Brother Antime. I stood with my hands down at my sides, a gesture of respect in the Fools’ Guild because it puts them at a distance from any concealed weapons. A man in a white robe came through the door, glanced at my motley, then down to my hands, and smiled.

“Ah, my old friend, Droignon,” he said loudly. “It has been years. How gracious of you to come visit.”

“To see the legendary Folquet of Marseille?” I laughed. “No distance is too great.”

He glanced behind to make sure that no one was within close range, then pointed to the bench. “Sit,” he commanded me quietly.

I sat, and he took the other bench and leaned toward me, pulling back his cowl so that I could see him more clearly. I knew that he was about fifty, but he looked older, a more gaunt and weathered man than the troubadour I remembered.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “Brother Calvet caught Brother Pelfort dipping into our wine supply, and we needed to find both the appropriate punishment and a better way of securing the wine. We have met, haven’t we?”

“Once,” I said. “In Marseille. I was returning from Outremer late in ’92—”

“With your petty king,” he interrupted. “I remember now. You were in Marseille for a week. We invited you for dinner. You drank too much wine and told some highly inappropriate stories to my sons. They were delighted to hear them, as I recall.”

“That does sound like me,” I admitted. “Forgive me. You can do that now, can’t you?”

“I can. I must say, I am surprised that Monsieur Droignon would dare come back to this part of the world, if what I heard was true.”

“That depends on what you heard,” I said. “And, in any case, that was three days north. Not here.”

“Password,” he said suddenly.

“God’s mercy?”

“Don’t waste my time,” he snapped. “Give me the Guild password or I’ll call for Brother Antime. He was a soldier for thirty years before he came here. I’ve seen him throw a sack of flour forty feet.”

“Then let him throw a sack of flour,” I said. “Guild passwords are for Guildmembers. You quit.”

He was silent, clasping and unclasping his hands repeatedly. “How do I know you’re still with the Guild?” he asked.

For a reply, I pulled a small scroll out of my sleeve and handed it to him. He studied the seal carefully.

“So Father Gerald is still running things,” he said. “How is he?”

“Old,” I said. “Blind now. One might say not long for this world, but that was first said twenty years ago.”

He broke the seal, read the letter, then handed it back to me. “Theophilos,” he said. “That is your Guild name.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yours was Marcello, Abbot Folquet.”

“Fine, your credentials are accepted,” he said. “By the way, it’s Folc, now. Abbot Folc. Folquet was a diminutive, a frivolous name for a frivolous time long since passed.”

“Very well, Abbot Folc,” I said. “Curious how the diminutive is longer than the true name.”

“Why are you here?” he asked. “What does the Guild want from me?”

“Your help.”

“My help,” he said, laughing bitterly. “The great and powerful Fools’ Guild seeks aid from a retired troubadour?”

“From a former member who is now an abbot,” I said. “When is the last time you heard anything about the Guild?”

“I heard that our Holy Father was considering an interdict against you, but settled for routing the Guildhall,” he said. “Where did you end up fleeing to?”

I shook my head. “Again, you’re not a Guild member,” I said.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “And I have no interest in resuming a troubadour’s life.”

“No one is asking you to,” I said.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because we need an abbot.”

“For absolution?” he laughed. “You have Father Gerald for that.”

“We need an abbot to help save the Guild.”

“To help save the Guild,” he said flatly. “How could I possibly do that?”

“By being who you are—an abbot who once was a Guildmember. By bringing your influence to bear on Rome.”

“We are not in Rome. We are in Le Thoronet, a place of retreat from the world. A place of quiet worship.”

“But you’ve been to Rome,” I said. “When Innocent assumed the Holy See, you were there. You met the Pope; the Pope met you. You liked him; he liked you. We think he’ll listen to you.”

“Listen to me say what, exactly?”

“We have enemies within the Church,” I began.

“Hardly surprising,” he said. “The Guild has always campaigned against the Church.”

“Not the Church, just the hypocrisy and corruption that take hold there,” I said.

“Which is most of it, nowadays.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Certainly, the Guild has rubbed more than a few powerful people the wrong way. That’s our goal, after all. But the consequences lately have been severe.”

“Hence, your pilgrimage to see me,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t travel to Rome on a regular basis,” he said. “I’ve been there twice in nine years. I send my monthly reports to Marseille, I go over our accounts, lead my flock in prayer, supervise the building of the new quarters for the lay brothers, and help press the olives when an extra hand is needed. Of what use to the Guild is an abbot in Le Thoronet?”

“Very little,” I agreed. “But we think you are due for a promotion.”

“What?” he exclaimed.

“Of all the fools and troubadours who have taken vows, only you have risen as far as becoming an abbot. And a Cistercian abbot, at that. We like the Cistercians. We think that we can live with them, especially compared to some of the other orders. You value simplicity and piety over ostentation.”

“We also despise flattery,” he said.

I bowed my head in acknowledgment. “Anyhow, we thought a man of your worth should become a bishop,” I continued.

“A bishop,” he said. “You think that you can arrange that?”

“That is the second part of my mission,” I said. “You being the first.”

“And where am I to be elevated to this lofty stature?”

“Toulouse.”

He shook his head. “Ridiculous,” he said.

“Why?”

“First, they already have a bishop in Toulouse.”

“His name is Raimon de Rabastens,” I said. “He is a weak man, corrupt and vulnerable, according to our reports. The town deserves better, and it needs it soon. Toulouse occupies a precarious position in the world.”

“The more reason for me to shun it,” said Folc. “I am not too popular there.”

“You aren’t? I was under the impression that you had never been to Toulouse before.”

“No, but my songs have,” he said. “Don’t you know who my patrons were when I was composing? Guilhem of Montpellier, Barral of Marseille, both enemies of the Count of Toulouse. How do you propose to place me in the bishopric when the Count controls the selection?”

“That’s my problem,” I said. “Father Gerald didn’t choose me because he thought this was going to be easy.”

“What was the plan if I refused?”

“If I cannot persuade you, then there is no plan,” I said. “But hear this—the very life of the Guild is at stake. You know what we stand for. You were part of it once. I know that you believed in it then. There are still friends of yours carrying on the Guild’s mission, and hundreds more you’ve never met who risk their lives on a daily basis. All we ask is that you intercede for us.”

“All you ask is that I leave everything that I have built here and become bishop in a town that is half corruption and half heresy,” he replied.

“Sounds like a worthy target for a man of your holiness,” I said.

“Do not mock me,” he said furiously. “I am not meat for your japing.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “I was speaking to Folquet. But you are not Folquet.”

“Not anymore,” he said.

“When is the last time that you sang your songs?” I asked.

“The Cistercian Order forbade the composition of nonreligious songs five years ago,” he said.

“You must miss it,” I said.

“No,” he replied. “I gave up my old life with a willing heart when I came here. The world is a wicked place, Theophilos, but here one finds respite. Here one finds God.”

“Here one finds a tomb,” I said. “I prefer to participate in the world. Among the living.”

“You made your choice,” he said. “I made mine. And there’s an end to it.”

He stood and offered his hand. I took it.

“You have a family now, I see,” he said as he walked me to the entrance. “I must confess my surprise. You never struck me as a fool who would settle down.”

“My family is quite unsettling,” I said. “They suit me fine. And what became of your sons when you joined the Order?”

“My sons are in the abbey at Grandselves,” he replied. “My wife is with a community of women in Gémenos who serve the Bishop of Marseille. I do not hear from any of them much.”

I walked outside, then turned. “We may not win this fight,” I said.

“Then I will pray for your souls,” he replied, and he closed the door in my face.

*   *   *

I walked across the low bridge over the stream and back to our camp. Claudia had a fire going and beans cooking in a pot. Helga was playing with Portia, who was crawling around the clearing at a rapid pace, giggling.

“How did it go?” asked Claudia.

“He refused,” I said.

“You thought that he would,” she said.

“Yes, at first.”

“But you believe that he will come around?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a week.”

“Why?”

“Because I appealed to his ambition,” I said. “Something he keeps trying to push down. But it’s still there.”

“Do ambitious people become monks?”

“They must. Because it takes an ambitious monk to become an abbot.”

She stirred the pot, then tasted it. “Done,” she said. “Tell me, husband. What do ambitious fools become?”

“There are none,” I said. “Being a fool means that you have achieved your highest ambitions already.”

After our dinner, Claudia tutored Helga in Arabic while I played with Portia. She could not quite walk yet, but had mastered sitting on my soles as I lay on my back with my feet in the air. I bounced her up and down gently, then brought my knees past my head until they touched the ground behind me. Slowly, I curled my way through the somersault while my daughter sat unperturbed on her perch.

“Must you do that where I can see you?” complained Claudia. “You know how it unnerves me.”

“I haven’t dropped her yet,” I pointed out.

“It is the ‘yet’ that’s discomforting,” she said. “All right, Helga. Music time.”

“Let me teach you one of Folquet’s,” I said as we picked up our lutes. “It’s called, ‘Singing will reveal my faithful heart.’”

“How lovely,” said Helga.

We strummed away as the sun began to set. I wondered if Folc could hear us. I turned so that my voice would carry toward the abbey.

“I’ll take first watch,” said Helga after we were done.

“Two hours,” I said. “Watch the stars to know when to wake me.”

We crawled into our tent and went to sleep.

A sleepy apprentice shook me awake on time, and I sat outside, listening to an owl hoot somewhere in the distance, wondering if my words had reached Folc. Or, better, if they had reached Folquet.

*   *   *

Roosters at the abbey sounded the coming of the dawn. And with the dawn came trouble. Helga spotted it first, and came flying into the tent to shake me awake.

“Master,” she whispered urgently. “Monks are coming from the abbey. Many of them. And they have staves.”

I came outside in a trice. Sure enough, ten monks were filing into the clearing, surrounding us. Brother Antime approached me, carrying a club larger than Helga.

“Come with us, Fool,” he said.

“Time for morning prayers?” I asked.

“Now,” he said.

“Husband, is everything all right?” came Claudia’s voice from inside the tent, and I knew from the tone of it that she had an arrow nocked.

“Everything is fine,” I reassured her. “I will be back soon. Get the wain loaded.”

“Fine,” she replied.

I bowed to Brother Antime. “Lead on, my friend.”

To my surprise, instead of taking me to the entrance again, they led me around to the west entrance to the church. There were two doors on either side leading in, a pair of long, narrow windows with semicircular tops between them, and a large round window above everything.

Brother Antime suddenly shoved me against the wall and searched me quite thoroughly, removing my knife from my boot.

“I can have that back when I leave, right?” I asked.

“Inside,” said Brother Antime, indicating the door at the left.

Folc was standing at the foot of the steps inside the door, his face distorted with rage. “How dare you come to this house of God and defile it!” he shouted.

“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked.

Brother Antime came up behind me and knocked me to the floor. Folc squatted in front of me. “There will be judgment for this, Fool,” he hissed.

“For what?” I said; then I rolled to one side as Brother Antime’s foot thudded into the floor where I had just been. I kicked his legs out from under him, and as he toppled, I snatched the club out of his hands. The rest of the monks edged forward, nervously clutching their staves.