by Alan Gordon
“I have many things that once belonged to others,” I said. “Could you narrow it down?”
“Something that you took,” he said.
“Anything I take I regard as mine,” I said, smiling broadly.
“Things that are taken can be taken back,” he said.
“Not everything. A life, once taken, cannot be returned.”
“Are you accusing me of murder?” he said.
“As a matter of fact, no,” I replied. “Not recently, anyway. But I’m new in town.”
“The book,” he said.
“You mean this?” I asked, pulling it out of my pouch.
“Where did you find it?”
“I took it from someone who took it from someone who took it from someone else,” I said.
“I have been searching for it for some time now. Lately, I have noticed that you and your fellow fools have been popping up in the same places I’ve been looking. Then came that fire, and I realized in the middle of everything that there was an extra monk there, a tall man who kept his cowl up at all times. Is that when you obtained it?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Is that why you were watching my place?”
“Maybe. Hand it over.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I represent one who has a proper claim to it,” he said.
“Your big brother?” I asked.
“Now, how did you know about that?” he asked softly.
“No shame in being a bastard,” I said cheerfully. “I’m one as well. Not a whoreson like you, though I’ve been called one often enough, but still a bastard through and through. Why do you want this book so much? Is it really worth killing for?”
“Someone thinks so,” he said, stepping forward.
I jumped over to the downstream pilings and held it over the river. He stopped.
“Not much of a reader myself,” I said. “Is it worth more dry or wet?”
“I am willing to pay a fair price,” he said quickly.
“But I don’t even know what the market value is,” I said. “Tell me why it’s important so I know how much to sell it for.”
“It’s worth your life if you don’t give it to me,” he said.
“That doesn’t help at all,” I said. “My life is worth a great deal to me. More than I can afford most the time. But everyone else thinks I’m a worthless fool. How am I to know the truth?”
“No man is worthless in God’s sight,” he said, clasping his hands in mock piety.
“You sound like a monk, you look like a monk, yet you are willing to kill me,” I said. “Will you shrive me first?”
“To save your soul, I would,” he said.
“Thanks, but on second thought, no thanks,” I said. “Want to buy a book?”
“I am a poor man,” he said, holding his hands out to show they were empty. But Lord, they were large. “If you were to give it to me freely, I could arrange for an indulgence for your soul.”
“From the Bishop himself, no doubt,” I replied. “I saw his name at the end. Hmm, eternal Paradise in exchange for a donation to Donatus. Not a shabby offer at all. But what happens if I do that, and then your big brother’s plan ends up killing people? What happens to my newly purchased soul then?”
“What plan would that be?” he asked, taking another step toward me.
“Guilabert’s a miller at heart,” I said. “The river runs, the wheel turns, and all manner of gears and shafts spin away, grinding and grinding until all is dust. Who will be grist for the Guilabert mill? The Cathars? Not worth the effort, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask,” said Donatus, starting to walk toward me again.
“He’s going after the Count, isn’t he?”
He stopped.
“How did he coerce all of these men into signing their lives to him?” I asked. “Debts forgiven? Threats by you?”
“A little of each,” he said. “Some came willingly. They saw which way the wind was blowing. The Count is a deeply flawed man. Left alone, he will lead us to ruination.”
“And big brother will run things better, I suppose.”
“He is a great man,” he said. “He’s been planning all of this for a very long time. And I have helped him, every step of the way.”
“Very fraternal of you, Brother Donatus. When did the Bishop join the cause?”
“A few months ago,” he said. “He had many debts. Arnaut bought them up and traded them for a bishop’s loyalty.”
“I’m surprised it was that recent,” I said. “I thought your brother had bought the Bishop’s election. Weren’t you the canon who switched his vote to Raimon de Rabastens?”
“No,” he replied.
“That was me,” said Brother Vitalis.
Donatus turned, a knife suddenly in his hand. Vitalis was standing with his arms folded. He had come up quietly while we were in the middle of our conversation.
“How did you know about this?” asked Donatus. “The message was delivered to me.”
Vitalis held up another scroll.
“A young lady handed me this,” he said. “It said to follow you, and I would learn about the book.”
“Two scrolls, two messengers, two monks,” said Donatus, turning back to me. “Neatly done.”
“I am something of a planner myself,” I said. “Now, I could have the two of you bid against each other for the book, but an auction where the only participants are monks doesn’t sound like it would be very lucrative. Therefore, I propose a contest. The champion shall win it.”
“You said that you could sell tickets for a match between us,” said Brother Vitalis.
“Oh, I would dearly love to see that,” I said. “Alas, there was no time to advertise this battle. But the match I suggest is one of words, not blows. The best story wins. I have heard from Donatus. Now it is Vitalis’s turn to tell me about the book, and why it should belong to him.”
“So that it will not belong to Guilabert,” he said.
“Succinctly put and a good argument,” I said. “But I would like more of a story, if you please. How did you get it?”
“From Milon,” he said. “Two days before he died. It was a Saturday morning. He came to services at Saint Sernin, which surprised me.”
“Because he was a Cathar.”
“That, and because I thought that he hated me to the depths of his corrupted soul,” said Vitalis. “For which he had good reason.”
“I am not interested in the reason, Brother Vitalis. What did Milon tell you about the book?”
“That it was a danger to any who held it. That the men whose names appeared in it would stop at nothing to get it back. He thought that because our mutual hatred was well known, no one would suspect me of helping him, which is why he was asking for my help. Using me was his way of—of telling me that he forgave me.”
“When he was killed, why didn’t you bring the book to the authorities?”
“Because I didn’t know who to trust,” he said. “The Count was still away, and anyone in Toulouse might have been corrupted. And I also thought that Milon had been killed by someone else, someone who had nothing to do with the book.”
“Béatrix,” I said. “You thought she had killed him. You were protecting her.”
He bowed his head.
“She didn’t do it, Vitalis,” I said.
“I cannot be certain of that,” he said.
“But I can,” I said. “We have Milon’s murderer in captivity, complete with confession. Béatrix had nothing to do with it.”
“Is it true?” he cried. “God be praised!”
“This is all very touching,” sneered Donatus as he started to cross the footbridge. “But I am done listening. Hand over the book or I will kill you.”
“No,” I said, scratching my nose.
“I swear, Fool, that—”
Vitalis suddenly dove forward, bringing him down from behind. Donatus swung his dagger blindly behind him and was rewarded by a cry of pain. Vitalis let go
with one hand, but clung tightly to Donatus’s cowl with the other.
With a speed and agility that defied his mass, Donatus rolled, spun, and kicked hard at the other monk’s jaw. This time, Vitalis relinquished his hold as he staggered and fell backward onto the shore. Donatus straightened and turned back to me, his knife raised.
“The book, Fool!” he screamed. “Give it to me now!”
I held it high over my head.
“Let all oaths be abrogated!” I cried to Heaven. “Let all sins be washed clean in the river!”
Donatus took another step toward me, then roared with pain as an arrow hit him in the back of his thigh.
“You want it?” I yelled. “Then take it!”
I tossed the book high and to his left. He reached for it desperately, but the wounded leg gave way. With a cry, he tumbled into the sluice.
I rushed forward to help, but the current, funneled into that narrow opening, swept the monk out into the river. He struggled feebly against it, but his wet robes tangled about his body. He started to slip below the surface.
“He hit his head,” called Vitalis from the other side of the bridge. “We have to go after him.”
“No need,” I said, pointing.
A pair of longboats launched from the small beach below the sawmill. I saw the dark forms in them lean over to grab the wounded monk and haul him to safety.
“He’s alive!” one of them shouted.
“Thank God,” said Vitalis. He looked over at me. “The Count’s men?”
“Yes.”
The book had landed on the lip of the sluice. He picked it up.
“I suppose this means I don’t get it back,” he said.
“Read it first,” I said. “You won’t find it very interesting.”
He looked at me, puzzled, then held the book up to the moonlight and opened it to the first page. It was blank. So were the rest.
“Did you really think that I would risk the real book on this little production of mine?” I asked, taking it back.
“Where is it?”
“I have it,” said Count Raimon, emerging from the shadow of a mill. Beside him was my wife, her bow in her hands, a second arrow nocked. “Senhor Fool, your talent for entertainment has surpassed anything I have ever seen.”
“Thank you, Dominus,” I said bowing.
“Brother Vitalis,” said the Count. “I am curious as to one aspect of your tale, though I find that it was honestly said. Why did you change your vote for Raimon de Rabastens?”
“A certain person—urged me to,” answered Vitalis. “As penance for my sins.”
“Father Mascaron?” asked the Count.
“Yes,” said Vitalis.
“Why did he want Raimon to be his master?”
“The other candidate, the Bishop of Comminges, is a strong man,” said Vitalis. “Father Mascaron is ambitious. He couldn’t control a strong man. But he thought he could control Raimon de Rabastens. Your Bishop was a deacon from a suspect family, and you’ve seen what a pathetic man he is.”
“Your confessor put you in a perilous position,” said the Count. “I do not hold your actions against you. Nevertheless, I am going to ask you to enjoy the hospitality of the Château Narbonnais until we straighten all of this out.”
“The prison?” asked Brother Vitalis.
“Oh, no,” said the Count. “A guest room, with all the luxuries that grateful nobility can provide. You can go back to your monastic existence and repent when you’re done. Will you walk with me, Brother Vitalis?”
“With all my heart,” said the monk.
“Lady Fool, your performance was equal to your husband’s,” said the Count as Claudia bowed. “That was a superb shot.”
“It wasn’t so difficult,” said Claudia. “Big men make big targets.”
“You will come to the Château in the morning,” said the Count. “It will be my turn to entertain you.”
We bowed one last time, and the two men strolled across the stone bridge to the shore, where the Count’s men waited for them.
“It really was a good shot,” I said.
“Thank you, husband,” she replied, unstringing her bow. “Will you walk with me?”
“With all my heart,” I said, offering my arm.
Soldiers had quietly taken up positions around the Château Bazacle, awaiting orders. As we passed through the bourg, we heard shouts and the sounds of mailed fists pounding on doors.
“It’s going to be a bloodbath,” said Claudia as we walked along the river road.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But if it is, it will be nothing compared to the war that might have been. Let’s get home. Helga must be dying from the suspense.”
A low whistle greeted us as we reached the house of Honoret. I whistled the counter, and Pelardit stepped from the shadows.
“All is well?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Thank you. All is well with us. Stay the night, and we’ll catch you up on what happened.”
We went in. I climbed the steps and whistled. I heard the counter from above, then the sound of the bar sliding from the trapdoor. A moment later, Helga opened it and smiled down upon us.
* * *
The day of the Feast of Saint John the Evangelist was cold but sunny. We were meticulous with our makeup and motley. Helga scrubbed the two boys until they were practically pink, then presented them to us for inspection.
“Ever been to the Château Narbonnais?” I asked them.
They shook their heads solemnly.
“You’re only going as far as the courtyard,” I said. “But wait there, and I promise you there will be someone you will want to see.”
Pelardit and I each carried one of the boys down the steps, while Claudia carefully held Portia, who was asleep. Helga came last, making sure the padlock was secure. Then we were off to the Château.
No less a personage than Peire Roger, the viguier, came to greet us upon our arrival.
“I’m afraid it’s just the two of you he wants,” he said apologetically. “But the rest may come to the kitchen for now.”
Helga pouted, but Pelardit brightened at the prospect of free food, or possibly the prospect of kitchen wenches. He took the boys by the hands and led them away. Claudia handed Portia to Helga.
“Mind that she doesn’t become soup, Apprentice,” she instructed the girl.
“Yes, Domina,” said Helga. She followed Pelardit and the boys.
“This way, Fools,” said Peire.
He led us into the Grande Chambre, then pointed to the balcony.
“I believe that you will find the view from there to be quite good,” he said. “The Count wishes that you be unobserved.”
We bowed and climbed the steps to the balcony.
Count Raimon entered a few minutes later, accompanied by the Count of Comminges and the viguier. He carried the book in his right hand. They took their seats, then the Count looked up at the balcony.
“Good morning, Fools,” he said.
We stepped into view and bowed.
“As you can see, no crossbows from on high, no guards around me,” he said.
“Are we your protectors then?” I asked.
“You already have been,” said the Count. “But now, I must be the protector of my realm. This will be a play in four acts.”
“May I interpolate a scene of my own devising before one of them?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Some comic relief only enhances the tragedy. Now, stand back and listen.” He turned to his viguier. “The soldiers first.”
The guards brought in seven men, their hands and feet chained.
“Leave us,” commanded the Count.
The guards exited the room. He stood and walked down the line of men, inspecting them.
“I am not certain if a mercenary can ever be called a traitor,” he said. “But you took an oath upon entering my service, you have taken my coin ever since joining, you have accepted my hospitality in the
form of food, shelter, even women on some memorable occasions. And now I find that you have thrown that aside.” He held up the book and waved it at them. “If this was purely a matter of violating a contract, then I suppose that I would simply take you to the court next door and demand my money back. But this is a matter of military discipline. This is a question of sworn loyalty to my person. I will give each of you one chance to save yourselves. You are the commanders of disloyalty in my armies. Give me the names of the men who have committed to your wretched cause, and I will spare your lives and theirs. Well?”
None of the soldiers uttered a word.
“At least you are loyal to someone,” sighed the Count. “Admirable behavior at the end. Guards!”
The guards reentered.
“Hang them in front of the troops,” he directed.
The condemned men were led away.
“End of Act One,” said the Count. “They were most eloquent in their silence, were they not, Fools?”
“It speaks well of them, Dominus,” I called.
“The consuls next,” he said.
The chains of office looked puny compared with the chains of captivity. Fifteen fatigued men, including Bonet Borsella, stood in a frightened bunch before the Count, who was drumming his fingers loudly on the book. Among the men guarding them was Calvet, the baile.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for responding so promptly to my invitation. I trust your accommodations were acceptable? And that the food was adequate?”
There was silence.
“I have just sentenced seven officers to death,” continued the Count in a conversational tone. “Men who have in fact done me good service over the past several years. You, on the other hand, have been a constant thorn in my boot, a greedy annoyance.”
He slapped his palm on the book, and the men as a group jumped, their chains rattling together. The Count smiled, and the Count of Comminges smirked at his side.
“But that isn’t why I asked you here today,” Raimon said. “I have come up with the most ingenious idea, and it being the Christmas season, I wanted to share it with you immediately. It occurred to me that we need to bring more of the notables of Toulouse into the court. Young people to be educated in the ways of gentility and chivalry, so that their blood, if you will, may brighten and enliven our days. Therefore, I propose that we shall select from each of your families one fortunate child to be the beneficiary of this gift of ours. People will say to you, how lucky you are to have such a generous and caring count! And as long as I am alive and safe, so will your children be, for I am a caring and loving man.”