[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal (6 page)

“Is that Sancho?” asked a low, mocking alto of a voice. “Could the dice have given him enough to grace our house with a visit?”

She appeared from the shadows of the hall opposite the entrance, wearing a dark green damask gown cut so low in front that the missing fabric could have made for a large tablecloth. She glided across the thick rug that I had just noticed contained more scenes of mythological debauchery. I also noticed that her feet were bare. I found myself thinking about what nice feet they were, and what it would be like to—

“No dice for me tonight, I’m sorry to say,” said Sancho, Lord High Interrupter of Erotic Reveries. “But I’ve brought you some customers, all the way from Paris.”

“You are most welcome, gentlemen,” she said in perfect langue d’oïl.

“Does everyone in Toulouse speak our tongue?” wondered Baudoin.

“Only those of importance,” she said. “And in this house, you’ll find that our tongues are quite talented.”

“What shall we call you, Domina?” asked Baudoin, bowing.

“I am the Abbess, senhor,” she replied, returning the courtesy.

“An abbess? Is this a convent, then?”

“It is a place of retreat from the harshness of the world,” said the Abbess. “As for its holiness—well, I can only say that we often hear God’s name invoked. Are you on a pilgrimage?”

“I am hoping to have a religious experience,” said Baudoin.

“Excellent,” she said. “Then—“

We were interrupted by a thumping of footsteps, and suddenly, Raimon Roger filled the doorway, blinking in surprise.

“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal brother,” he said. “Domina Abbess, is there a fatted calf anywhere in the house? Slay it immediately.”

“Ah, my dear count,” purred the Abbess. “Was everything to your satisfaction?”

“To mine and, I am happy to say, to hers,” he replied. “I see that you have attracted a pair of wandering Parisians.”

“Good evening, senhor,” said Baudoin in langue d’oc, bowing as he did.

“Will you listen to that?” praised Raimon Roger in langue d’oïl. “Fool, you have made excellent progress.”

“He is an apt and willing student,” I said.

“I must get you to teach me something,” he said. “I have already hired someone here to instruct me in something new. I do so enjoy broadening my mind.” He turned his attentions back to Baudoin. “Now, senhor, since you are a visitor, you must permit me to make you a recommendation.”

“I am guided by you in all things, senhor,” said Baudoin. “You are a man whose liberty to enjoy the pleasures of life depends on a count who, although I love him like a brother, is unpredictable in his whims,” said Raimon Roger. “If you should find yourself back in a dungeon tomorrow, it should be with the best possible memory of our fair city. You must have La Rossa.”

“If she is as remarkable as you say, then you have my gratitude in advance,” said Baudoin.

“Not at all,” said Raimon Roger. “After all, you’re family now. Almost family, anyway. Well, my sainted Abbess, I must bid you a lucrative evening and be off.”

He bowed to her, nodded to the rest of us, and heaved his bulk out of the house.

“It seems that I must have La Rossa,” said Baudoin. “Then have her you will,” said the Abbess. “I shall return with her.”

She glided out.

A dancer, I thought. She must have been a dancer. I remembered a sultry Egyptian dancer who had enticed me when I was a young fool in Alexandria. I knew she was untrustworthy from the start, having been warned about her by colleagues I did trust and by my own observations, all of which I promptly ignored when I saw her dance, which ultimately led to a disastrous outcome in that particular mission, but not before it led to—

“I’ve heard about La Rossa,” commented Sancho. “Never had the chance to have her.”

The dancer disappeared in a puff of smoke, a taunting smile on her lips.

“You did it again,” I muttered, snapping back to the present.

“Did what?” he asked.

“Never mind.”

“Senhors,” said the Abbess. “May I present—La Rossa!”

The color red overwhelmed us. A bright red gown, clinging to a body that wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. Red stockings peeped out from the bottom, red talons stabbed menacingly from each finger, glistening red coated a pair of lips curved into a smile that welcomed anything and everything, and a curly torrent of red hair cascaded from her head, floating about a pale white neck that invited, no, demanded to be bitten.

Baudoin looked at her appraisingly while Hue gawked. Her smile subtly shifted to a smirk as she returned their gazes.

“Have you come all the way from Paris just for me?” she said, her voice a rippling brook in summer.

“Had I known what glories awaited me here, I would have made the journey long ago,” said Baudoin, bowing.

“A gallant,” she said. “You put our local courtesy to shame. But perhaps this is merely a veneer. Are you this gallant all the time?”

“All the time,” he assured her.

She glanced at Hue, who was still standing with his jaw somewhere around his navel, then turned back to Baudoin. She reached toward his face and trailed her long sharp nails along his cheek. He winced slightly.

“I must put your gallantry to trial,” she said. “I find that even the most courteous of men will reveal his coarser, truer nature as the night goes on.” She leaned forward and murmured into his ear, “And that’s what I like the most.”

“Then we must have the entire night,” he responded. “So that a proper assay may be made.”

A quick muttered negotiation took place. Money changed hands; then she hooked one nail under the clasp of cloak just below his throat and led him away.

“All night,” sighed Sancho. “Same job, different place. They must be brothers.”

He plopped himself onto a chair and made himself comfortable.

“But what about you, senhor?” the Abbess asked Hue. “Will you not partake?”

“I—I, no,” he stammered. “I must wait upon my master. This is all too rich for my blood.”

“Then sit by me, and we’ll pass the night with stories, friend Hue,” said Sancho, patting the cushions next to him. “I know this particular duty all too well.”

The Abbess was looking at me.

“And you, Senhor Pierre?” she asked, walking slowly toward where I was sitting.

“You know my name,” I said.

“I have seen you perform,” she said. “You made me laugh.” She lifted one exquisite foot and rested it on my knee. “I like a man who can make me laugh.” The foot began to inch forward.

“Alas, I am a married man,” I said, watching its progress like it wasn’t part of anything.

“We serve many such,” she said, her foot more than halfway up my thigh.

I reach down and stopped it. I thought that was what I was doing.

I was holding her foot.

“I am a happily married man,” I said, trying to get my breathing under control.

Still with her foot on my thigh, she bent at the waist until her face was just in front of mine.

“I can make you a happier married man,” she murmured.

“You are kind to ask,” I said. “But no.”

There were giggles from the doorway, and I looked past her to see several other residents of the house watching. The Abbess straightened up and turned to them.

“Behold, my sisters,” she cried. “That rarest of mythical beasts, the happily married man.”

I nodded amiably at them, and they giggled some more. The Abbess turned back to me.

“You are a challenge, Senhor Fool,” she said. “I like a challenge.”

“I must decline,” I said. “Respectfully. Regretfully.”

“Then leave here in shame,” she replied. “Oh, and I will need my foot back.”

I relinquished it reluctantly, and got to my feet.

“I guess I’ll meet you back here in the morning,” I said to Sancho and Hue.

“If I’m asleep, wake me,” said Sancho. “If I’m asleep next to a beautiful woman, do not wake me. Ever.”

“But what if you are only dreaming of a beautiful woman?”

“Then Brother Hue had better not sit too close,” said Sancho.

“Sounds like good advice to me,” said Hue.

“I will leave you to your duties, my friends,” I said. “I must to my wife.”

“Give her one from me,” called Sancho as I walked outside.

I nodded at Sancho’s fellow watchmen as I passed by what they thought was protective cover.

“Going to be there all night,” I informed them.

“Oh, great,” muttered one.

I showed my pass at the gate and was allowed back into the bourg. From there, it was a brief walk home.

I unlocked the door and went in. Claudia was standing there, pointing a crossbow in my direction.

“If I told you it was me, would you still be pointing it?” I asked her.

“Can’t be too careful,” she said, lowering it. “How was your day, Senhor Tutor?”

“Long,” I said. “Yours?”

“Helga and I worked the flower market,” she said. “We did all right. Oh, and one of the flower-sellers sold us these at a discount.”

She showed me some slightly wilted geraniums sitting on the table.

We went upstairs, and I peeked into the girls’ room. Both were asleep. When I came into ours, Claudia was sprawled on the bed. I sat by her feet and pulled off her boots.

“Thank you, lackey,” she said.

I placed her feet in my lap. Good solid jester feet, suitable for acrobatics and kicking husbands in the posterior. I started massaging them.

“That feels wonderful,” she sighed. “You’re a good husband.”

“I try my best,” I said.

R
ed
. The color red overwhelmed us.

Red drapes hung by the window, which gave a good view of the leper house. Not that we were looking at the leper house.

Red damask canopies surrounded the bed, pulled asunder to frame the sleepers.

The red gown, removed in haste, lay in a puddle of silk near the bed. A red coverlet partially concealed the bed’s occupants, one of whom was snoring away. The other was not.

Red hair, spilled in wanton profusion across the red pillows.

A red spray of roses in a vase on a stand by the bed.

A red spray of blood on the wall.

Red glistened on a white body, the remnants of a stream trickling down a savaged breast that must once have been as perfect as its unstained companion, both exposed to view. The stream ended in a shallow pool in the slight hollow of her stomach. More coated the underside of the coverlet. The dagger—Baudoin’s dagger—was nestled in the folds.

“Hell,” muttered Sancho, surveying the scene.

“I agree,” I said.

Hue stood in the doorway behind us, his jaw in that all-too-familiar gape.

“You pulled the cover back?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I wanted to—I wanted to see if she—“

“Was the dagger still in her?”

“No,” he managed to gasp, then he made a choking noise, clapped his hands to his mouth, and fled downstairs.

I held up the coverlet, then pointed out the holes to Sancho.

“He stabbed her twice through the covers,” I said. “The blood on the wall must have come when he pulled it out the first time.”

“And he sleeps on!” roared Sancho. He rushed the bed and grabbed Baudoin by the shoulders.

“Bastard!” he shouted.

Baudoin snapped awake in confusion as the soldier threw him against the wall. The Parisian reacted quickly, grabbing for his scabbard from the pile of his clothes on the floor, but Sancho’s sword was already out, its point stopping just short of Baudoin’s Adam’s apple, which bobbed rapidly up and down.

“Give me your sword,” directed Sancho, trying hard to control his breathing.

“What did he say?” Baudoin asked me in panic.

“He said—,” I began.

“I said, ‘Give me your goddamned sword!’” shouted Sancho in langue d’oïl.

“What is this all about?” squealed the Parisian as he handed it over.

“What is this all about?” echoed Sancho. “What is this all about?”

He grabbed the Parisian’s chin and angled his head toward the bed. Baudoin took in the gore with deepening shock.

“How did this—?” He gasped.

“How did this happen?” said Sancho, driving the man’s head against the wall. “Is that what you were about to ask me? How did your dagger end up piercing one of the most beautiful women this city has ever seen?”

“My dagger?” gasped Baudoin.

Sancho grabbed it from the bed. “Your dagger,” he said. “The match of this same sword which you have surrendered to me. La Rossa’s blood still on the blade. Your dagger.”

“I never did this!” protested Baudoin.

“I should kill you right here,” said Sancho. “But I’m not sure my initiative would be appreciated. Pierre, go get my men from wherever they’re hiding, and tell one of them to get a squad here. Then track down that useless Hue, and when he’s finished heaving his guts out, bring him back.”

“Right,” I said, slipping into the hallway.

“And close the door,” he said.

I did.

It was Sunday, just after dawn. I had come with the general idea of getting my pupil out of the bordel before too many people were aware that he was in one. Maybe invite him to attend Mass with us. New sins to confess, and all that. Turned out there were more than I thought possible.

Sancho and Hue were side by side on a couch, a near-empty wineskin on the table before them. Sancho was awake when I came in, and nudged Hue, who had his head back and his open mouth to the ceiling. The Parisian sat bolt upright and dabbed at a stream of drool with his sleeve. We made the usual lewd, stupid jokes that one makes under such circumstances; then Hue went upstairs to rouse his master.

And came flying back, choking in terror.

Sancho’s companions had moved from their post of the night before, no doubt thanks to my ease in finding them.

I had no time to play hide-and-seek. I stood in front of the bordel and said, “Sancho needs you. Now!”

I thought I saw a movement from an upper window at the rear of the leper house, but then the two soldiers emerged from behind a woodpile.

“What’s going on?” asked one of them.

“Can’t talk about it,” I said softly. “But one of you has to get a squad back here immediately. The other come with me to Sancho.”

“Why isn’t he telling us this himself?” asked the other one.

“You’ll see when you get back. Now, hurry!”

Despite my whiteface, they took me seriously. The first ran off, while the second drew his sword and followed me back inside.

“A rare treat for me, coming in here,” he said, looking around appreciatively.

“I’m about to spoil it,” I said, leading him upstairs.

I knocked softly at the door. Sancho opened it. His fellow took one step in and stared.

“Him?” he asked, looking at Baudoin, who was dressed now and sitting in a chair.

“Oc, him,” said Sancho. “We have to keep this quiet until the others get here.”

“Right,” said the other soldier. “Nothing like a whorehouse for quiet and secrecy.”

He looked at La Rossa with an expression that somehow combined pity and lust.

“Wouldn’t have minded spending my last night on earth doing her,” he said.

“Did you find Hue?” asked Sancho.

“Sorry,” I said.

I ran downstairs and did a quick look around. There was a kitchen in the rear, with a door leading to the gardens in back. It was barred from the inside, I noticed. There was a large table in the middle. Hue sat by it, resting his face on his folded arms. From the smell, he had been violently ill in the last few minutes. I couldn’t blame him.

“You’re wanted upstairs,” I said softly.

“They’re going to put us back in that dungeon, aren’t they?” he said without looking up.

“Just your master, I would think,” I replied.

“But I am his man,” he said. “I will have to go with him to serve him.”

“You may have to do that from without,” I said.

He sat up and shook his head. “I must go with him,” he said with determination.

“Then come upstairs.”

As we reached the red room, the Abbess suddenly appeared, her hair loose, a blue silk robe wrapped around her.

“Senhors, why are you all up here?” she asked. “Does your Parisian still sleep on?”

Sancho stepped into the hallway.

“Domina, I regret to inform you that La Rossa has been murdered,” he said.

She clapped her hands to her face, her eyes wide in horror; then she shoved him aside with surprising strength and rushed into the room.

“Holy Mother save us,” she whispered, looking down at the dead woman.

She turned to see Baudoin flinching in his seat, and a low, guttural sound escaped her.

“You!” she shouted, and she flew at him, her nails aiming for his eyes.

Sancho grabbed her and pinioned her against the wall.

“Give him to us,” she cried.

“He’s ours,” said Sancho.

“I will make it worth your while,” she said. “Sancho need never worry how the dice roll in this house again.”

“No, Domina Abbess,” he said.

“If you take him, will he come to justice?” she asked.

“I take him now, but after that, higher forces take over,” he said. “I cannot say if justice will be one of them.”

“Then send for the bade,” she said. “I will not have mere mercenaries tell me what to do. I want the count’s man here.”

“The baile’s jurisdiction ends at the town walls, Abbess,” said Sancho. “Outside the walls, I am the count.”

He released her. The other soldier was still staring at the dead woman.

The Abbess strode angrily to the bed and flung the coverlet back over her. La Rossa now looked as if she slept. The Abbess gently caressed her hair, then turned back to us. “I will have justice for her,” she said defiantly. “Even a whore is entitled to that.”

“You get what you pay for,” said Sancho. “You, of all people, should know that. And we will start by paying for your silence.”

“What?” she said, her color rising.

Sancho removed a purse from his waist. It was heavier than I expected. He removed several silver coins and held them up.

“This would be a year’s earnings for her,” he said. “Allowing for Sundays off. You do go to church on Sundays, do you not?”

“You think that you can buy me?” she asked coldly.

He sighed, tossed the coins onto the bed, then suddenly rushed at her, his sword in his hand. He shoved her against the wall, his forearm at her throat, and held the blade against her cheek. “Listen to me, Domina Abbess,” he said softly.

“This stays quiet, and you play along. If you can’t play nicely, then I will take you out of this particular game for good. I will have regrets, but I have a large pile of them already. Do I make myself understood?”

She was still for a moment, then nodded. He released her, then picked the coins up from the deathbed. He placed them in her unwilling hand and closed it around them.

“The squad’s here,” said the other soldier, glancing out the window.

“Good,” said Sancho. “Take him to the count’s dungeon. Same one he was in before. Not a word gets out.”

“What about her?” asked the other soldier, nodding at La Rossa.

“We bury her,” said the Abbess in a small voice. “We bury our own.”

Sancho pulled one more coin out of his pouch and flipped it to her. “For the funeral,” he said. “I can’t get her to Heaven. Just make sure she gets to the church.” He grabbed Baudoin and hauled him to his feet. “Hands behind your back,” he ordered in langue d’oïl.

The Parisian complied, and Sancho bound his wrists.

“Let’s go,” said Sancho, and we followed him as he guided Baudoin down the steps.

“Wait,” he commanded.

He took a large cloth from his pack, threw it over Baudoin’s head, and secured it.

“Rather not have people know who our prisoner is,” he said.

“Thank you for that courtesy,” said Baudoin.

“I’m not doing it for you,” said Sancho. “And shut up.”

He took him outside, where the squad was waiting.

“Half of you with me,” said Sancho. “We escort the prisoner to the dungeon, and not a peep out of you. Take him by the outside route. The fewer people see us, the better. The rest of you stay here. No one goes in or out of that bordel.” The soldiers assigned to the bordel looked at it like ravenous dogs at a pile of steaks.

“And none of you goes inside,” added Sancho.

The men gave a collective groan.

“I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither,” I muttered.

“What’s that?” asked Sancho

“Deuteronomy, chapter thirty-four, verse four,” I said. “Moses saw the promised land, but was not allowed to enter it.”

“Poor Moses,” said Sancho. “You better come, too. We’ll have some explaining to do.”

“I’m just a humble tutor of languages,” I said as the squad began marching Baudoin along the walls. “Something you apparently don’t need, my humble soldier.”

“You noticed that, did you?” he asked, falling back to my side.

“And your purse magically swelled to accommodate this emergency,” I continued. “Was it a gift from some grateful magical creature you once rescued?”

“The purse is not technically mine,” he said. “I was merely given the use of it.”

“I see,” I said.

“You can stop seeing any time, by the way,” he said.

“One last comment,” I said.

“What is it?”

“I think I may have underestimated you all this while.” He snorted.

“Underestimated by a fool,” he said. “That will cheer me up enormously when the count kicks my ass all the way back to Castile. Which he will do personally.”

“You are more than just one of his guards, in other words.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am his personal guard,” he said. “Do you think he’d send any old idiot on this assignment? He chose me for a reason, just like he chose you.”

“And you pretended you couldn’t speak langue d’oïl in the hope that they would let down their defenses around you.”

“You finally caught up,” he said. “I take on special assignments for the count. I was the one he sent to tail you when you first showed up in town, as you may recall.”

“I recall spotting you pretty easily.”

“But not many would,” he said. “The fact that you did spot me so easily told me something about you back then, so I allowed you to continue to think I was good, old, inept Sancho. You think you’re the only one who plays dumb around here, you have another think coming.”

“It came,” I said. “My apologies. You’re not just another soldier, and I’m not just another fool. I shall adjust our relationship accordingly.”

“Which is not to say that we still can’t have a drink together,” he said. “I’m going to need one after this.”

“You buy,” I said. “You can afford it.”

“This purse is to be used only for emergencies,” he reminded me.

“It will be an emergency drink,” I said.

We rounded the curve by the Jewish cemetery. The château Narbonnais was just ahead of us. The squad picked up the pace, two of them dragging the prisoner between them. Hue trotted behind them.

“Why do you suppose he did it?” I asked Sancho.

“How the hell should I know?” he replied. “Maybe he was not the man he thought he was, or the gentleman he pretended to be. Maybe she pointed that out to him. He wouldn’t be the first drunken idiot to stab a whore in a bordel.”

“True enough,” I said. “But I wonder why he would travel so far and aim so high, only to betray himself so easily.”

“Maybe this is what he does,” said Sancho. “Maybe that’s why he left Paris. There might be a whole string of dead women in his wake. It will be interesting to hear what the viguier’s man learns.”

“Will they wait that long before hanging Baudoin?”