The Moneylender of Toulouse (22 page)

“And he's lucky to have you,” I said, gathering up my gear. “Let's go, my hardworking colleagues. Let's juggle as many clubs as we can, and first one to drop buys the first round later.”

“Portia can't afford that,” protested Jordan.

“Portia never drops anything,” I said, as I placed her on my shoulders.

She promptly removed her cap and bells and let them fall to the floor, then giggled.

“That's going to cost you,” I said, kicking it up to my hand and placing it back on her head.

The dancing had already begun by the time we came out, the musicians pounding out a raucous jig. We sailed through, clubs and balls passing over us. Portia hung on to my head and bounced happily with the beat.

The guests milled about, the wine propelling them into increasingly wild displays of terpsichorean endeavor. Guilabert was at the center of it all, capering wildly, stomping with his thick legs as loudly as any drum. He had one of his grandchildren in his arms and swung the poor boy this way and that, tossing him up into the air and catching him.

Off to the side, I noticed that Bonet Borsella was watching rather than dancing. Audrica, the maid, came over to him with a tray of pastries. He leaned over and whispered something into her ear. She turned nearly crimson with anger. He smirked and swatted her on the rear, and she stormed away.

Pelardit ended up being the first to drop a club, and the rest of us hooted at him, startling the people nearby who were unaware of our game. Then the music came to an end, people applauded, and it was time to leave.

Guilabert came up to thank us, staggering from the drink.

“Most excellent foolery, all of you,” he said, clapping Pelardit, Jordan and me on the shoulders. When he came to Claudia, he seized her and kissed her hard, then did the same with Helga who was openmouthed with shock.

“There's for all of you,” he said, tossing me a purse that felt heavier by half than the one we had received from Oldric. “I must say, friend Pierre, you far surpass that old fraud Balthazar, God rest his soul.”

“God rest his soul,” I repeated, suppressing my anger.

“Come by any day at dinner time,” he said, patting Portia's cheek. “You are always welcome at Bazacle.”

“My thanks, Senhor,” I said, nodding politely.

We packed our gear as he went to pay the musicians.

“Let's get out of here,” I said, and we filed out of the tower, subdued.

“Of all the rude behaviors,” sputtered Jordan when we were out of the château. “Yes, he was drunk, and yes, he's obscenely wealthy, but that gives him no right.”

“Leave it be,” said Claudia. “Helga and I are the offended parties. I saw his wife looking daggers when he did it. She will be our champion this evening, I'll warrant.”

“I hope that wasn't your first kiss,” I said to Helga.

“There was a boy back at the Guildhall,” she said sadly. “He was very sweet. I will probably never see him again.”

“Ah, but the paths of fools often cross,” I said, patting her shoulder. “Why, I myself…”

“Fool!” called a voice to my right.

Bonet Borsella was standing in front of his sawmill.

“Another job?” asked Claudia.

“Somehow, I doubt it,” I said, handing Portia to her.

He motioned me inside when I came up to him. The sawmill was busy, the shrieking of the blades more than able to keep our conversation from being overheard.

“Have you enjoyed our performances, Senhor?” I asked him.

“I find it difficult to warm to your humor, Fool,” he replied.

“Understandable,” I said. “We got off on the wrong foot the other day. Have you reconsidered improving our relationship since then?”

“Why should I?” he asked. “If anything, my position has improved since then.”

“Yes, the man who posed a threat to you was stabbed in the back,” I said cheerfully. “One might almost see our conversation and his death as connected.”

“Which makes me wonder why you killed him,” he said.

“Me?” I laughed. “I had no reason for wanting Armand dead. Quite the contrary.”

“How so?”

“For reasons you know too well, Senhor,” I said.

“You're bluffing,” he said carefully. “He's been dead four days, and you haven't gone to the baile with anything. Nor have you come to me seeking payment.”

“My busy season is upon me,” I said. “When things get slack, I will—”

“You have nothing, you know nothing,” he pronounced. “Get out of here.”

“We still have open dates available, if you're interested,” I said as I left.

“Well?” asked Claudia.

“He thinks I know nothing,” I said.

“Then he and I are of the same mind,” she said.

“Of course, that he is so concerned with establishing that I know nothing means there must be something,” I said.

“Poke, poke, poke,” she sighed. “Let's go. There's little daylight left.”

“It's the Feast of Saint Thomas,” said Jordan. “Shortest day of the year.”

We passed by the communal ovens of Saint Pierre des Cuisines. Women were lined up, waiting for their Christmas loaves to be finished.

“It's been a profitable two days,” said Jordan. “We should probably split up tomorrow. There are no dinners comparable to these two.”

“Fine,” I said. “We'll be hitting the markets tomorrow if you need to find us.”

He waved and headed home.

“Know a pilgrim's tavern that's likely to be lively tonight?” I asked Pelardit.

He grinned.

Most of the pilgrim's taverns were situated where the road from the Daurade Bridge crossed the Grande Rue. Pelardit led us to one called Balaam's Ass, where he was greeted with a welcoming roar that quickly extended to the rest of us.

We sang, we juggled, we did our tavern routines, and when Helga flitted about with her tambourine held up, enough pennies dropped to make the evening more than worthwhile. But when she came back with her collection, she slipped something into my hand.

“From that man going up the stairs,” she said.

I looked to see a grey-cloaked figure leaving the room. There was a small scrap of paper with a message scrawled on it.

“Third room on the right,” I read.

“Be careful,” said Claudia.

“You're in more jeopardy down here than I will be up there,” I said. “Back in a few minutes. Entertain them, will you?”

I left as Pelardit commenced a juggling routine where the balls occasionally bounced off Claudia and Helga's heads, to their increasing chagrin. I went up the steps, paused at the top to take my knife out of my boot, counted three doors, and knocked.

“Come in,” said a man.

I opened the door and made sure no one was waiting on either side of it, then went in. He was alone, seated on the bed, a man in his late fifties wearing a merchant's garb, yet not somehow seeming anything like a merchant. Not a soldier, either. He lacked the hardness of a man who had been in the military. But there was nonetheless a sternness in his demeanor.

“All right, I'm a fool,” I said. “What are you?”

He held out a scroll. I took it and read it, noting the seal at the bottom with surprise.

“Satisfied?” he asked me, smiling slightly.

“For now,” I said. “So, how is the Pope?”

CHAPTER 10

“The Pope was in good health when I saw him last,” said the man.

“He didn't ask about me, by any chance, did he?” I asked.

“Sorry, no,” he said. “I was unaware that you were acquainted.”

“We're not,” I said. “I was just wondering if he knew anything about me.”

“He doesn't know that I'm meeting anyone from your little organization,” he said.

“What organization is that?”

“You know what I'm talking about,” he said. “You've seen my credentials.”

“I have seen a piece of parchment that says you are one Peire of Castelnau, and that you are a papal legate,” I said. “Very impressive, if it's real, and if it's true, and if you're him, but what does any of that have to do with me?”

“Didn't Father Gerald…”

“Who's he?”

“The leader of your organization,” he said impatiently.

“What organization is that?”

“God give me patience,” he sighed. “Of course. ‘Unexpected source.' That's what I was supposed to say, wasn't it?”

“And about time, Brother Peire,” I said. “Is that the correct way to address you?”

“It is,” he said. “I am a monk of the Cistercian order.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I don't see a white robe on you.”

“When one wears a white robe, people mostly notice the white robe,” he said. “Dress as others do, and you are unrecognizable. I imagine what works with a white robe works even better with whiteface.”

“It does,” I said. “Welcome to Toulouse.”

“Oh, I've been here before,” he said. “In my official capacity, about a year ago. I ended up excommunicating the Count for a while, but he made amends and has been admitted back to the fold. I must say, it's quite exciting to be sneaking around here in disguise, using secret passwords and having covert meetings. Nothing like my normal existence. I imagine you do this sort of thing all the time.”

“Hate to disappoint you, but what I usually do is juggle and tell jokes,” I said. “How is it that you know Father Gerald?”

“I don't,” he said. “But I owe my life to another member of your Guild, so I am here to help you if I can.”

“Thanks. Do you know what you will be helping me to do?”

“Not exactly,” he confessed. “My instructions were only to find you and assist you. I assumed it would be in a task that I could support.”

“Maybe. My mission is to depose Bishop Raimon and replace him with someone we favor.”

He smiled and cracked his knuckles.

“The first I support wholeheartedly,” he said. “He's a pathetic excuse for a priest, a whining, fawning hypocrite. None of which is sufficient reason for deposition by Rome. That's the problem with bishops. Once they're elected, they are almost impossible to dislodge. Who do you have in mind for his successor?”

“Abbot Folc, from Le Thoronet.”

“A Cistercian,” said Brother Peire. “I've never met him, but he's one of ours. And, I suppose, one of yours as well. He was a troubadour at one time, wasn't he?”

“One of the best,” I said. “So, help me. How do I trip up Raimon de Rabastens?”

“Tell me what's been happening here,” he said. “I've heard about the murders.”

I gave him a truncated account of what I knew and what I didn't know. The latter part was longer. When I was done, he leaned back on the bed and put his feet up, his hands clasped on top of his chest as if posing for his sarcophagus.

“I don't know this city well enough to see how these deaths are connected to the Bishop,” he said. “But I sense that they are. This story of Mascaron's about the secret book of debts is clearly meant to cover something more serious. Perhaps some threat to the Bishop's position.”

“My thinking as well.”

“What puzzles me is that the Bishop of Toulouse has almost no power to speak of,” he said. “Why would he fear losing such a tiny thing?”

“You can't say he's in it for the money,” I said. “The cathedral is falling apart, and his rents are all pledged to creditors. I don't even know why anyone would want to be Bishop here in the first place. He probably wishes he was back in Rabastens, doing whatever he was doing before. What was he doing before?”

“He was a deacon or something low-level in Agens,” he said. “Came from a well-connected family in Rabastens, but no one ever thought much of him.”

“How did he get the post here?”

“Like I said, well-connected, although I heard it was a close vote among the canons. Everyone thought the Bishop of Comminges would get the nod. Much better man than Raimon de Rabastens, from all reports.”

“So, they made Raimon de Rabastens bishop, and he's been impoverished and whiny ever since,” I said. “That was three years ago?”

“About that,” said Brother Peire. “I wasn't here then.”

“What about his family in Rabastens?”

“Rumors of heretics among them,” said Brother Peire. “Nothing we could substantiate.”

“The Bishop of Toulouse has Cathars in the family?” I laughed. “No wonder he's preaching against them so much.”

“Is he? Interesting. He never took a strong position on them before,” said Brother Peire. “Frankly, I am glad to hear of it. If we do not bring them back to the Church, their souls will burn in eternal Hellfire.”

“To be sure,” I said. “But that's your mission, and I'll leave you to it. I don't think having Cathars in the family is the threat facing the Bishop. It's already known.”

“I know nothing else useful about him,” said Brother Peire. “But bring anything incriminating you find to me, and I will bring the full force of Rome down upon him.”

“As you did with the Archbishop of Narbonne?”

“The Archbishop of Narbonne is a member of the royal family of Aragon,” he said, frowning at me. “Raimon de Rabastens, on the other hand, is not that substantial a man.”

“It's who you know,” I said.

“And now you know me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I am returning to my abbey at Fontfroide for Christmas. After that, I shall return. You'll find me at this inn.”

He held out his hand. I took it.

“I've never shaken the hand of a papal legate before,” I said.

“I have shaken the hand of many a fool,” he said. “You'll get used to it. Good hunting.”

I left, and rejoined my fellow fools. A ball bounced off my forehead, courtesy of Pelardit, and I staggered around in a mock daze as the patrons laughed.