[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal (11 page)

“I would applaud, but it is painful,” he said. “No, I will thank you properly.”

“Good senhor, do not hurt yourself on my account,” I begged him.

“No. I must pay you tribute.”

There was a single muffled clap before I could say anything else.

“Please stop, senhor,” I said. “I am here to bring you pleasure, not pain.”

“That is the supposed goal of the ladies in the house behind you,” he said. “I daresay you achieve it more often than they do.”

“You are most gracious, senhor,” I said. “That solitary clap honors me more than the applause of an entire tavern.”

“If only I could see you perform in a tavern,” he sighed. “I miss taverns—the taste of new beer, the camaraderie of drunks, the flirting of the maids. Especially the maids. Will you come back here?”

“It seems that I shall, senhor,” I said. “I shall perform for you again. Shall I alert the house when I return?”

“No need,” he said. “I rarely sleep. The view from this window is my entire world. I will know when you return.”

“Until then, senhor,” I said, bowing.

I gathered my clubs, then my daughter, and left. It occurred to me as I passed through the gate that I never learned his name.

I sorted out my thoughts on my walk home. The Abbess seemed genuinely caught off guard by the news that La Rossa’s last night was with the count’s brother. But she knew something about Baudoin.

Or was it La Rossa who knew something? If so, that secret was dead and buried with her. Unless …

Sylvie.

Never underestimate the servants. I may have been a duchess once, and a duke’s daughter before that, but that was a lesson I knew long before the Fools’ Guild brought it back in my training. The servants who hear all, who see all, who mop up the floors and change the sheets after, will have an intimate knowledge of every stain left behind.

Sylvie knew about La Rossa. And that garden was big, but it couldn’t supply all the needs of that house. Which meant that someone had to go to the market each day.

I am a jester, and I am a woman. I like markets. I resolved to encounter Sylvie in the market while she made her purchases. Accidentally, of course.

I hadn’t arranged with Helga where to meet once we had completed our respective tasks. The usual choices were home and the Yellow Dwarf. I chose the latter. Besides, the ale was good.

The regulars were there when I arrived, greeting me with the regular comments, which I would have regarded as flattering had they come from sober men. Portia waved to everyone, then screamed, “Papa!” at the top of her lungs. Only one man waved back at that, although several looked momentarily panicked. I put her down, and she ran to Theo, who picked her up and tossed her into the air, her head coming just short of striking the rafter.

“The only things that keep me from worrying when you do that is she’s getting heavier and you’re getting old and weak,” I said as our child landed safely in his arms, laughing.

“These are compensating factors,” he agreed. “Look who I ran into. And you’ll never guess where.”

There was Helga sitting by him, wolfing down some stew. She swallowed hastily.

“I found out who the man at the church was,” she said. “I followed him through the town. He didn’t look back once, so it was easy. He went all the way through and out the other side.”

“Which gate?” I asked.

“The Porte Narbonnais,” she said. “He went into the château. I couldn’t really follow him there.”

“But how did you find out who he was?” I asked.

“I watched from outside, and I saw him heading toward the Palace of Justice. And before he goes in, he stops to chat with one of the most disreputable characters in all of Toulouse.”

“Really?” I exclaimed. “And who would that have been?”

“That would have been me,” said Theo, bowing modestly. “Your mysterious man was none other than our Parisian visitor, Hue.”

“Baudoin’s man,” I said. “But why was he at the funeral?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “Not yet. How did he behave?”

“He sat at the rear and tried not to be noticed. That’s why I noticed him.”

“Did he seem to be in mourning?”

“At first glance, I would have said so. But now, I am not sure. I wonder if he was investigating in behalf of his master?”

“Hah! I think that you have found the answer,” said Theo. “It will be interesting to see what he discovers. He’s a stranger here. We, at least, know the territory.”

“We have been here only six months,” I pointed out.

“But we are fools,” he said.

“Well, there is that,” I conceded. “Huzzah for us.”

“So, how was the bordel?” he asked mischievously. “Make some new friends? Some new money?”

“I had a better time gossiping with the ladies there than I have on the highest levels of society,” I replied.

“I myself go to such places only for the conversation,” he said. “Any fresh insights into Baudoin?”

“They all think he did it,” I said. “And they would happily tear him limb from limb if they had the opportunity.”

“I know which limb they’ll start with,” chirped Helga.

I summarized what I had heard. He looked thoughtful when I was done.

“No struggle, no argument,” he said. “He makes love for as long as he can, waits until she falls asleep, stabs her twice while she lies there, then falls asleep next to her. I have never heard of such a manner of killing. Those times when men have treated women so savagely, there was some rage or madness that came upon them. Those who were clever enough to kill them quietly would never be so obvious about it or so foolish as to remain at their side after. This smacks of neither rage nor cleverness. Which means either he is innocent, or he’s a mild-mannered, stupid sort of murderer.”

“And you come down on the side of innocence?” I asked. “Let’s just say that I am not certain of his guilt,” he said. “You saw the gardens out back?”

“Yes. There was a wall around them, but not one that couldn’t be scaled easily.”

“So someone could have come in through the rear door,” he mused. “But it was barred from the inside.”

“Unless someone let the murderer in,” I said. “And then rebarred it after he left.”

“Or if someone in the house did it,” he said. “Either way, one of those women may have been involved.”

“A woman who walks barefoot makes the least noise,” I pointed out.

“The Abbess would be the likeliest,” he agreed. “So, the question becomes, who would want to set up Baudoin like that?”

“What did you find out about the Count of Foix?”

He waved Hugo over. Our tapster, beside being one of the treasured brewers of Toulouse, had been one of the Cathar society until a year ago, when he had been bested in a barroom debate by a Castilian priest who was passing through town accompanying the Bishop of Osma. We were not in Toulouse then, but Hugo had recounted the story enough times that we felt we had front row seats to a divine encounter in a coliseum, concluding with the priest being carried aloft by an angelic host upon his victory. Still, despite Hugo’s conversion, he was loyal to his Cathar companions, holding friendship as a cardinal virtue to be valued over dogma.

“Na Gile, good day to you, and to you, my lovely Portia,” he greeted us, fondly patting my girl on her head. “How is the ale today?”

“Ambrosia, as always, my good tapster,” I said.

“Hugo, tell her what you told me about the Count of Foix,” said Theo.

“Was he one of the Cathars?” I asked.

“Never openly,” said Hugo. “But he supported them, no question. His wife and his sister are both heavily involved. They received the consolamentum last year in Fanjeaux.”

“Was he present?”

“Of course,” said Hugo. “He indulges his wife in everything. He owes her his freedom.”

“How so?”

“She intervened when he was imprisoned by King Pedro during some dispute with Aragon over territory. It was kept fairly quiet, but the Cathars were involved in the negotiations.”

“Did Raimon step into that as well?” asked Theo.

“Not that I heard,” said Hugo. “But I am only a poor tapster, living off the leavings of the traveling gossip.”

“What do his wife and sister do with the Cathars now?” I asked.

“They support them financially, host their meetings, usually just for the women,” replied Hugo.

“And the count supports that as well?” I asked.

“He does,” said Hugo.

“He does have an affinity for houses full of women,” mused Theo dryly. “Thank you, friend Hugo, both for the gossip and the ale.”

“I enjoy dispensing both,” said Hugo. “Now, if you will excuse me. I see thirsty men in need of my ministrations.”

He left us to digest his information.

“The Count of Foix is devoted to his wife,” I said. “Yet he spends his waking hours pursuing other women.”

“And not just for the thrill of the chase and seduction,” said Theo. “He will take the easy way out and pay for them when he cannot have them otherwise. He is a veritable satyr.”

“Which is the truth?” asked Helga. “A man cannot be in love with his wife while sleeping with every woman he sees. Can he?”

“Another paradoxical character,” said Theo.

“Unless she has willingly released him from his marital duties,” I said.

“Why would she do that?” asked Theo. “Why would any woman do that?”

“Because she has become one of the Perfect,” I said. “Even among the Cathars, they are extreme in their devotion. And they regard coition—“

“As anathema,” he finished. “So, if she has ascended to this higher state of being, leaving him to an unfulfilled marriage bed, then she may have assented to his quenching those fires in other pools.”

“Perhaps in exchange for his supporting her religious efforts.”

“A convenient arrangement,” he said.

“But what does that have to do with Baudoin?” asked Helga.

“I don’t know,” confessed Theo. “But if Baudoin is innocent, then Foix must be involved. He picked the whore.”

“Who picked the whorehouse?” I asked.

He sat up suddenly. “Damn,” he muttered. “Damn, damn, damn. I hadn’t thought it through all the way. It was a long way to go to get what could have been gotten much closer. That particular bordel was suggested by my good friend Sancho, who has since turned out to be much more devious than we knew.”

“And he’s the count’s man,” I said. “Did this scheme come from Raimon himself? Was he trying to destroy his brother? And if so, why?”

“If he is, then we should back away quickly and quietly and let things play out,” said Theo. “It isn’t the Guild’s business, and this cat hasn’t enough lives left to risk on mere curiosity.”

“But what if Sancho is working against the count?” I asked. “What if there is some plot here, one involving both Sancho and the Count of Foix? That means two men in Raimon’s inner circle could be dangers to him. And that makes it Guild business.”

I watched as Theo took a long, slow swallow of ale, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on the ceiling, his vision somewhere else entirely.

“Then may the First Fool protect us from harm,” he decided. “We go after Foix.”

“And Sancho?”

“I’d like to find out if he is beholden to Foix in some way,” he said. “But not just yet. If we start looking into him now, he’ll be on to us in no time. Dear God, what are we getting ourselves into, I wonder?”

“What about the bordel?” I asked. “There is more to be discovered there, I’ll warrant.”

“There was something,” he said. “The Abbess was surprised when you said Baudoin was the count’s brother?”

“She swore to the others that she didn’t know,” I said. “Raimon Roger greeted Baudoin as the prodigal brother right in front of her,” he said. “And Sancho said something about it as well. She had to have known.”

“So disillusioning when a whore turns out to be a liar,” sighed Helga. “Who will be left for me to look up to?”

“There is always Saint Agnes,” I said.

“What is it with whores and Saint Agnes?” wondered Theo. “There were saints who actually started out as whores, yet every bordel I know worships this girl who died rather than become one. Why choose her for inspiration?”

“For the daughters,” answered Helga. “It is too late for the mothers, but the daughters can still be saved, so long as they pray to Saint Agnes.”

“That makes sense,” said Theo. “But why not the sons?”

“Because they grow up to become the men who want the whores,” said Helga. “Boys are stupid, useless creatures.”

“Hear, hear,” I said.

I
t did not come
as news to me that the women in my life, at least those capable of expressing themselves, regarded me, being the nearest representative of my sex, as a stupid, useless creature. I could only hope that Portia hadn’t figured that out yet. There would be opportunity enough to disappoint my daughter when she was older. In the meantime, there was a plot to investigate that might exist only in my untrammeled imagination.

It would not do for us to pursue Raimon Roger right away, I thought. I had seen him at the Château Narbonnais that morning, engaging in the usual braggadocio with the count and the other members of that exclusive little wolf pack. I added my usual witty remarks, then left for the afternoon, only to be intercepted by Helga.

So, if we were to descend so soon upon the house that the Count of Foix maintained in town, it would no doubt raise his defenses. We had to find a more natural route to his inner life, to learn what lurked beneath the layers of lard and lechery shielding him.

It would help if he would hold a formal dinner. I knew for a fact that he liked to eat.

Or I could pursue his other vice and show up at one of his amorous adventures, lute in hand, ready to accompany his seductions with a randy melody. I just had to make sure that my own virtue would not be endangered now that every attempt at making love to my wife could be regarded by her as penance for sins unknown.

My own virtue. A recent reacquisition. Three years married, and in some respects, I was still getting used to it after so many years of foolery and fooling around. To say no to a prime piece of female flesh like the Abbess would have been astonishing to the old Theo. The Theo who still lay beneath my own motleyed surface, conjuring up visions of her jumping into bed with me.

Feet first, of course.

I remonstrated sternly with the old Theo and bade him remember all the disasters that littered the landscape of my lusty travels, and returned to my strategizing. The old Theo muttered something about my manhood being locked in a box in my wife’s possession, then subsided.

T
he four of
us made the rounds of the taverns that afternoon, doing well with the pilgrim traffic that was resting up for the long walk to Compostela. No sign of the Count of Foix. We ran into Pelardit at the Red Crow and joined him for some wine after he had finished performing for several members of the night watch who were getting their last drinks in before starting on their patrolling.

“Seen the Count of Foix on your tour today?” I asked him.

He shook his head.

“Know where he’s likely to be found?”

He batted his eyes, his mouth pursed, and suddenly became something flirtatious and feminine. Then he swelled up his cheeks and became Raimon Roger, huffing and puffing in pursuit. He switched rapidly between the two, enacting the whole chase and capture while never leaving his seat. Then he did something unmistakably lewd with his fingers.

“Any specific target that you know of?” I asked, laughing.

His arms encompassed the entire world and all the women that lived on it.

“That should narrow it down,” said Claudia.

He raised an eyebrow, his way of asking why we asked. I gave him a brief explanation. He looked at me skeptically, then gripped the ends of an imaginary rope with his hands and pulled them apart, straining with the effort.

“All right, it is a stretch,” I conceded. “But worth investigating.”

He looped the imaginary rope around his neck and lifted it, his head sagging to one side, his tongue lolling out grotesquely.

“Oh, someone will swing for it,” I said. “But it won’t be us, have no fears on that account.”

He wagged his forefinger at all of us.

“We’ll be careful,” promised Claudia.

T
he next morning
, I appeared bright and early at the château Narbonnais, singing in the hall before I even entered the Grande Chambre to let Count Raimon know that I was there. He was eating his morning meal alone.

“You’re here a lot lately,” he observed.

“You’ve needed me a lot lately,” I said, grabbing a chair and joining him.

“That’s Raimon Roger’s chair,” he said.

“Then it should have no difficulty supporting my weight,” I said, grabbing a muffin. “It may even be grateful for rhe respite.”

“You have empathy even for inanimate objects,” he said. “Except for muffins.”

“To truly know someone, you must get at their essence,” I said, my mouth full. “This is the only way to get at the essence of a muffin. How are you today?”

“Bored.”

“I shall cure you of that.”

“By eating in front of me? I have seen that before. In fact, I see that more than I see you perform.”

“Fuel for the fool,” I said. “Have I told you the tale of the fox who fell in love with the hen?”

“Will this be one of those tiresome fables with a hidden agenda?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” I confessed.

“Then refrain,” he said. “Play me something without words. I grow weary of words.”

I touched a finger to my lips, swallowed the remainder of my muffin, then picked up my lute.

For all his quirks and cruelties, this was a count who had a genuine appreciation for music. I could see the tension slip away, his eyes relax, his ever-present guard drop. He became human once again, alive and vulnerable.

If I ever found it necessary to kill him, it would be while playing my lute. I hoped that day would never come.

I quickly shoved that thought deep into the midden of my mind and played on, my expression smooth and bland. When I reached the end, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I consider myself entertained,” he said, smiling for the first time that morning.

It vanished as he heard his friends down the hall. They entered the room in mid-squabble.

“Well, how was I to know you were going after her?” protested Sabran. “You told me you were going after her Friday night. I assumed that by now you had already tired of her and that she was ripe for the picking by a real man.”

“My plans changed,” growled Foix. “You, of all people, should know that if I had had her Friday, I would have been telling you about it Saturday morning.”

“Perhaps he thought you might have been suffering from a bout of discretion,” laughed Comminges.

“After knowing him for how many years?” scoffed Raimon. “What happened?”

“This interloper, this blunderer, this fool—“

“Excuse me?” I interjected.

“Not you, Fool, the other fool, the real fool,” said Foix. “Excuse me again?”

“Shut up and let’s hear the story,” said Raimon.

“Right,” said Foix. “He knew that I had been on a sacred quest to deflower the daughter of the ostler who lives by the Porte Montgalhart. I had been courting her for days, learning her father’s daily routine, ascertaining the most propitious moment for my foray. And just when I had her half-naked and panting on my knee, in walks this lecherous parasite, and off scampers the wench, screaming to wake the dead.”

“We both had to make haste,” said Sabran. “The father’s a brute, with no respect for one’s rank.”

“And off we ran, stopping only to collect Bernard in case any unjustified accusations came our way.”

“So I am to say that you were with me?” asked Comminges. “Should the ostler come seeking redress, yes,” said Foix. “Just pay him off, you dolt,” said Comminges. “Why raise such a commotion over one cheap slattern of a daughter?”

“Fool, no thoughts on all of this?” asked Raimon.

“I am still trying to master the idea of the Count of Foix running,” I said. “It is beyond even my prodigious powers of imagination.”

“I can run fast enough when there is a pretty maid to be chased,” protested Foix indignantly.

“Or when there is an angry father to elude,” added Sabran. “I am the witness to that. Any less fleet of foot, and he would have had a fresh brand on his buttock.”

“I would not have been able to sit for a month,” said Foix. “Speaking of which, Fool?”

“Senhor?”

“My chair.”

“What about it, senhor?”

“You are in it.”

“Just keeping it warm for you,” I said, standing and holding it for him. “Though to warm it properly would be the work of several men.”

“Or one ostler’s daughter,” he sighed, plopping his bulk onto the seat, which shuddered but held under the onslaught. “That piece will be under lock and key for a goodly time.”

“She wasn’t that good, truth be known,” said Comminges. Foix and Sabran looked at him in astonishment. “When?” asked Foix.

“This morning,” said Comminges smugly. “I saw the ostler pursuing the two of you. I thought, aha, his daughter is alone, unguarded and no doubt disappointed. I consoled her for her loss.”

“You are no friend of mine,” growled Foix.

“Neither is she, anymore,” said Comminges. “But as I said, no great loss.”

“There you have it,” said Foix. “I do all of the hard work, the research, the reconnoitering, and just when I am about to achieve success, in swoop the raveners to pick up my gleanings. You are both parasites.”

He grabbed the last two muffins and popped one into his mouth to assuage his sorrow.

“You usually have more of these, don’t you?” he asked Raimon.

“You were late this morning,” I said. “I was forced not only to occupy your chair, but your role.”

“You let him eat my muffins?” wailed Foix, crumbs spewing from his mouth.

“My château, my muffins,” said Raimon. “One of the benefits of being count around here.”

“By the Holy Mother, Fool, if you come between me and a muffin again, there will be a reckoning,” said Foix.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I shall race you for the last one.”

“No contest there,” said Sabran.

Raimon Roger rose to his feet and placed the muffin on the table.

“I accept your challenge,” he said. “Once around this room, and to the victor belongs the muffin.”

“And the penalty?” asked the count.

“If I lose, I shall perform at your next dinner gratis,” I said. “Hardly a penalty,” said Comminges. “Just try getting him to open his house and purse for the rest of us.”

“That is not so!” protested Foix. “Why, I had a dinner party only—“

He stopped and thought, then looked sheepish.

“It has been some time,” he admitted. “Very well. I shall have you all over, and the fool will entertain.”

“And your penalty, senhor?” I asked.

“What would be the equivalent of a free performance, I wonder?”

“I have it,” said Raimon. “His penalty will be to run ten more laps around this room in front of all of us.”

“Done,” I said.

We took positions at the head of the table.

“At your command, Dominus,” I said.

“Go!” shouted Raimon.

To my surprise, Foix took off at a fox’s pace. The others might have anticipated me to have an easy victory over the fat man, but no one expected the quick start. And, for all my bravado, running was no longer my forte, since I had injured my leg a few years back.

Foix also knew the terrain. It was a large room, but it was littered with trestles and chairs thrust against the walls. With the lead he had, he was able to grab them as he passed and send them crashing into my path. The sprint for him became a steeplechase for me, and as we passed the last corner, he had increased his margin by a good five steps.

Sabran and Comminges cheered him on, while the count merely watched, a slight smile on his lips. Foix bounded toward the table, one hand outstretched to snatch his prize. But as he was about to reach it, Comminges leaned forward, grabbed the muffin, and popped it into his own mouth. Foix sprawled against the table, howling in chagrin, and I crashed into him a second later.

“You never learn, do you?” said Comminges with his mouth full.

The count and Sabran laughed uproariously, and in moments, we had all joined them, Foix and I collapsing onto the floor in an exhausted embrace.

“I am at your mercy, my good master,” I gasped. “How is tomorrow night?”

“Should be enough time,” he said, still chuckling.

He stood, dusted himself off, and bowed to the others.