The Moneylender of Toulouse (5 page)

“Tall skinny man, short pretty lady with a baby,” said the boy promptly.

“That should do,” I said.

“And thank you for your gallant description,” added my wife, patting him on the head.

We were halfway through a bowl of mussels when a rotund man entered the tavern, glanced around, then came over to us. Despite his girth, there was a delicacy to his movements, a dancing in his step. The two boys peered in at the doorway.

“I am Jordan the Jester,” he said, bowing slightly, his fingers interlacing in an intricate wiggle before his chest. “Are you the traveling friends of whom my son spoke?”

“We are,” I said, rising to my feet.

I pursed my lips and whistled softly. His eyes widened in surprise, then he smiled broadly and whistled the counter.

“Jordan, Guildname of Rollo,” he said softly.

“Tan Pierre, Guildname of Theophilos,” I said. “My wife, Gile, Guildname of Claudia, and our baby, Portia.”

“You've come from the Guild!” he chortled exultantly. “I knew it! I knew this day would come. Boys, quickly.”

The two scampered in and stood at attention.

“Roland, go tell your mother to prepare a welcoming meal for our friends,” he ordered. “A celebration. Spare no expense. Get the good wine from the back. Oliver, run and find Pelardit. He's probably still asleep. No dawdling! Scoot!”

The boys ran out, and Jordan turned back to us.

“I thought it would be me,” he confided. “Pelardit is a good fool, no mistake, but experience counts in this world, and that's no lie. It's a pity that Balthazar had to die for the Guild to make me the Chief Fool here, but that's life, isn't it?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Now, we are going to show you and your lovely wife a glorious time, Advent be damned,” he continued. “I feel positively inspired. I may buy out a tavern and put on a special performance for the occasion.”

“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” I said.

“Maybe some new motley,” he said. “I have had my eyes on a bolt of garance red that my wife, she's a seamstress, by the way, her name is Martine, got in from Montpellier this month. It's beautiful, a real— misunderstanding?”

In response, I handed him a small scroll from my pouch. He glanced at the seal, then at me.

“From Father Gerald himself,” he whispered, holding it as if it might burst into flames in his hands.

He unrolled it, then read it over several times, his lips moving silently. His face crumpled in disappointment as he looked back up at me.

“So, you are the Chief Fool of Toulouse,” he said.

“Yes.”

“After all my years of service, never complaining, they gave it to an outsider,” he said. “That's hard. That's very hard to take.”

“It was not my decision,” I said. “Nevertheless, the decision was made. So, here we are.”

“Here you are, and here I am,” he echoed in a tight voice. “Yes, well, as the former senior surviving fool in Toulouse, let me bid you welcome. Our celebratory meal will proceed.”

“Perhaps we should—”

“Please, my house is yours. Come.”

We quickly paid for our meal and followed him.

A small, pinch-faced woman was waiting at the top of the steps, wearing over her gown a many-pocketed apron containing an assortment of needles and thread. She clapped her hands in glee when she saw her husband.

“Has it happened?” she asked.

“Meet the new Chief Fool of Toulouse,” he said as he reached her.

“At last!” she shrieked, embracing him hard. “Oh, bless that old priest.”

“I wasn't talking about me,” he said.

She withdrew from the embrace, dismay rippling across her face.

“They didn't appoint you,” she said. “Is it the man or the woman?”

“This is Tan Pierre, the new Chief Fool,” he said, gesturing curtly to me. I bowed. “That's his wife, Gile. She's a fool, too. This is my wife, Martine.”

“I see,” she said flatly. She turned to us and made courtesy. “You are welcome. Please come in.”

She bustled about as we entered, preparing the meal.

“May I help?” offered Claudia.

“Certainly not,” she snapped. “You are our guests.”

As she turned her back on us, Portia started to cry. Claudia held her close and patted her, but the yowls did not abate. Jordan began dragging the table to the center of the room so that more people could sit around it. I grabbed a thick board that was resting against the wall and placed it across the two stools on one side of the table, making a bench for four. Jordan nodded his thanks and did the same with the other side.

There was a clatter of steps, then the older boy burst into the room.

“Pelardit is coming,” he announced breathlessly.

The man who came through the door was skinny like me but slightly shorter, all bones and angles, with a hangdog expression and sleepy-looking eyes. Despite that, I noted that he looked quickly around the room, taking in my wife and myself with a single glance. He looked at Jordan inquisitively.

“Oh, my friend,” moaned Jordan, bursting into tears. “The Guild has passed me over. They have sent an outsider to replace Balthazar.”

Pelardit's face collapsed in a rictus of sorrow, looking like nothing more than the ancient mask of Tragedy perched upon the body of a scarecrow. He threw his arms around the other fool, his shoulder heaving to match Jordan's sobs. It was the very image of commiseration, yet as he looked over the larger man's shoulder at me, he winked.

“Thank you, old friend,” said Jordan, releasing him. “What is done is done. Such a pity that the Guild does not know my true value as you do.”

Pelardit nodded emphatically in agreement. Perhaps it was my imagination that detected a hint of mockery in the nod. Perhaps it wasn't. Pelardit then came over to me.

“My name is Tan Pierre, Guildname of Theophilos,” I said.

He looked at me impassively, his body immobile as stone.

“Of course,” I said, and I whistled the password.

He whistled the counter, then reached out his hand. I shook it. He glanced at my wife.

“Gile, Guildname of Claudia,” I said. “And Portia, no Guildname yet.”

He reached out his hand, then pulled it back as Claudia held hers out and made a deep bow. The baby was still crying. Pelardit looked at Portia appraisingly and held out both hands. Claudia hesitated for an instant, then handed over the baby.

Portia was startled at being given to this stranger, and was fully prepared to take the crying to the next level, which was substantially louder in my experience. But Pelardit fixed his gaze on her, then suddenly mirrored her expression, his eyes scrunched, looking ready to bawl himself. The baby stared at him in shock, taken aback by this behavior. Then one of his eyes opened, saw that she was watching, and immediately snapped shut again. She caught her breath. He opened the other eye, seemingly surprised to see her watching him, and closed it again. She reached out and touched his nose, something she did to comfort us. He opened both eyes this time, his expression turning to exasperation. She started to giggle, and a small smile began on his lips that proceeded to spread across his face until Tragedy had given away completely to Comedy. He jiggled her slightly, and she laughed loud and long.

“You're hired, starting immediately,” laughed Claudia, and it seemed as if all of the tension in the room had dissipated. Even Martine was smiling, which made her face much more pleasant.

“Let us dine, now that we are all here,” said Jordan.

We took our places together at the table. Jordan poured cups of wine and passed them about.

“I leave the honor of the first toast to our new Chief Fool,” he said.

I lifted my cup.

“To the memory of Balthazar,” I said. “May he be telling a joke to the First Fool in Heaven right now.”

“To Balthazar,” said Jordan. “Although Saint Peter would have had to bend some rules to let him in.”

“That's probably true for all of us,” I said.

Pelardit rapped his knuckles on the table in agreement.

“How is he going to toast?” asked Claudia.

In response, Pelardit held his cup toward our hostess, kissed the back of his hand, and drank.

“Very gallant, I'm sure,” said Martine. “And here's some stewed lamb for you in thanks.”

She had just finished serving us when we heard someone burst through the outer door and charge up the steps. I was on my feet with my dagger in my hand in an instant, Claudia a second behind, when Helga tore into the room.

“He's dead!” she shouted.

“Who is this?” demanded Jordan. “What do you mean by breaking in like this?”

“Who's dead, Helga?” I asked.

“The man I was following,” she cried. “Milon Borsella. He's dead!”

CHAPTER 3

“You were following Milon Borsella,” said Jordan, confused. “Why? And who are you?”

“This is Helga, our apprentice,” I said. “Introductions later. Who killed him?”

“I don't know,” said the girl. “I was playing in his courtyard, hoping to find out more about him, but he wasn't home. He hadn't been home all night, I heard, but that wasn't unusual, according to the people there.”

“That's true enough,” said Jordan. Pelardit nodded, a lewd expression flashing across his face.

“Then one of the nightwatch came in, shouting for Borsella's wife. A manservant came out, and the guard said that Borsella was dead. His body was found in the tanners' quarter. I ran down there as fast as I could. We all did—there was a big crowd already when I got there, and lots of guards holding everyone back, but one of the guards was saying Borsella had been hit over the head.”

“Maybe we should go take a look,” I said.

“He'll keep until you get there,” said Helga, giggling inappropriately. “He'll keep very well.”

“Your meaning, Apprentice?”

“They found him in a tanner's pit, soaking with the hides. He should keep very well indeed.”

“Oh, if I didn't know she was in the Guild before, I'd know it now,” said Jordan as Pelardit winced.

“I have been working very hard on this meal,” said Martine.

“No need for all of us to go,” I said. “You stay here and enjoy this fine repast. I'll go with Helga.”

Pelardit rose and thumped his chest.

“I would be delighted,” I said.

We followed Helga out of the house and down to the Portaria. This time, we turned left after passing through it. The road took us through a marshy area, then kept parallel to the Saracen Wall until we came to the parish of Saint Pierre des Cuisines, so called because of the communal ovens that the Benedictines maintained for the area.

I don't know when or why the tanners' quarter had been given to this parish, but the arrangement had been made long before I was born. The proximity of the canal that ran from the Garonne to Saint Pierre was one reason, of course, and water was diverted to the tanners' pits by an ingenious system of water wheels and sluices. Dozens of shops were clustered together, surrounded by small sheds where hides were laid out to be scraped and dried. Barrels containing bark from oak and elder trees were stacked around them, ready to be poured into the pits to replenish their powers.

There was a growing crowd gathered by one of them. The stench was unpleasant, and many had kerchiefs tied over their mouths and noses. We did the same, but even so, our eyes stung. We were unable to shove our way to the front, so this became one of those occasions where my height was useful. Helga stomped her foot in exasperation, so I simply picked her up and sat her on my shoulders. She could have stood on them easily enough, but this was not the time or place to put on a show. Pelardit stood on his tiptoes for a moment, then looked around until he found a decent-sized rock on which to balance.

The guards were keeping the onlookers back while a baile stood cautiously at the edge of the pit, looking down.

“One of you, go pull him out,” he commanded.

“I'm not sticking any part of me in there for duty or love,” replied a soldier. “That stuff burns.”

“Whose pit is this?” demanded the baile.

“Mine, Senhor,” said a man from the other side of the soldiers. “I can get him out for you.”

“Do it,” ordered the baile.

The man ran to a nearby shop, and returned with a long pole with a blunted hook at the end of it. He reached with it into the pit and expertly snagged something. He pulled back with all his might, and I saw a boot heave up onto dry land. No, a leg encased in a boot. The tanner handed the pole to a soldier, pulled on a pair of thick gloves, grabbed the leg and hauled the body out of the pit.

“He's not very tanned yet,” observed Helga.

“It takes a few days,” I said. “And I don't think he was dressed properly beforehand. Or undressed improperly. What are they all pointing at?”

The baile, clutching his kerchief to his face, was bending over the corpse. Gingerly, he rolled it over onto its stomach, then poked at the back of its head.

“I don't see any blood, but the skull doesn't look right,” reported Helga with her younger eyes. “I think somebody conked him!”

“So much for accidental causes,” I said. “Unless he slipped and fell backwards, then rolled into the pit. Perhaps a fit of some kind.”

“But what would he be doing at the tanners' quarter?” asked Helga.

“I have no idea.”

“If there is anyone here who knows anything about this, I charge you to come forward!” cried the baile.

There was absolute silence from the crowd.

“Fine,” sighed the baile. He pointed to the tanner. “Take him.”

“Me?” protested the tanner. “I have nought to do with this.”

“He's murdered in your pit,” said the baile. “That's something. Until we know the rest, you'll be kept where we can find you easily.”