The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery

by Alan Gordon

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She walked over to Helga, snatched the clubs from above her, and hugged her suddenly.

  “Mama, stop,” said Helga in muffled protest.

  Claudia held her tightly for a long moment, then released her, smiling gently, and tossed her clubs high overhead. Helga scrambled to make all the catches.

  Portia woke up, and Claudia went to attend to her. Helga came over to me, still juggling.

  “Why does she always do that?” she complained.

  “She’s playing a mother,” I said. “Go pack our gear. I’m going to take Zeus for a run.”

  “Can’t I?” she pleaded.

  “When your legs can reach the stirrups.”

  “I could shorten them.”

  “What good would shorter legs do you?”

  She pouted. I pulled a carrot out of my bag and walked into the stable. Zeus looked at me suspiciously.

  “Want to stretch your legs for a bit?” I asked, taking his saddle from the wain. “It would do you some good before we hitch you up.”

  I opened the door and stepped carefully inside the stall, holding the carrot at arm’s length. I let him snatch it out of my hand, then threw the saddle on his back and cinched it quickly before he had time to finish eating. I jumped on and grabbed the reins, then leaned over to untether him.

  It was the leaning that nearly undid me. He bucked from the rear, throwing me half off the saddle, then burst through the stable, the other horses watching in envy. The stable boys and Helga scattered in all directions as we galloped through them toward a stone wall some five feet in height. It occurred to me that this might be a good time to try riding him from on top, rather than clinging precariously to his side with my legs as my head dipped toward the swiftly moving ground. I grabbed the pommel, hauled myself back up, then flung myself onto his neck as he jumped the wall.

  Much to my relief, there was level ground on the other side. I looked around his neck to see a pasture zipping by us, with another wall coming up all too soon. Zeus gathered himself on the run and jumped, and I had several quick and pessimistic thoughts about my mortality.

  Enough was enough. I hauled on the reins until he was at a sedate trot, huffing mightily.

  “Back to the wain for you, steed of Satan,” I growled. “And, if you don’t mind, we’ll go through the gates this time, not over them.”

  The stable boys, who had had more amusement in this one morning than in their entire lives before it, cheered as I approached, and scrambled forward eagerly to help harness Zeus to the wain. He glared at me.

  “I understand entirely, old friend,” I said, patting him on the rump. “Responsibilities are burdensome things.”

  I limped over to Claudia.

  “Good ride?” she asked as she dressed Portia.

  “A little bumpy,” I said. “Good thing I got it out of his system.”

  “His? Or yours?” she laughed. “Maybe you should become a trick rider.”

  “The trick is not dying,” I said. “Helga!”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “You may exercise him tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  The cook ran out with a basket of food for us, an unexpected gift for which we thanked her profusely. She tickled the baby under the chin, kissed Helga and my wife, and winked at me before going back to her kitchen.

  Bertrand himself came to see us off.

  “Which is the road to Le Thoronet?” I asked him.

  “Come, you can see it from the hill,” he said.

  We walked past the maison to the top of the hill. The valley spread out before us, a patchwork of farms ringed by mountains. He pointed to a road going northwest, disappearing into a forest that clung to the lower slopes.

  “The abbey is about eleven miles, as I recall,” he said. “A day’s journey. I am giving you a few sacks of wheat to take them. Tell them to throw in a prayer or two for us.”

  “I will, milord, and much thanks,” I said.

  We climbed onto the wain, and were off to Le Thoronet.

  * * *

  It was only half a day’s journey northwest. It might have been shorter, but there was not much in the way of an actual village to find. It was more like a series of tiny hamlets and isolated farms. We saw few people, and the few that we saw stared at us in astonishment as we asked for directions.

  “I don’t think our pretense for traveling will work so well out here,” commented Claudia with amusement.

  “On the other hand, who would they tell?” I replied. “Helga?”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “Take a seat at the rear, and keep your bow within reach.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, clambering over the piles of props and costumes.

  “Is this a dangerous place?” asked Claudia, eyeing the forest ahead of us with trepidation.

  “Any forest is a dangerous place,” I said. “I would hope that there is so little traffic on this road that banditry would be a bootless profession, but I haven’t lived this long by ignoring simple precautions.”

  Claudia said nothing, but reached back, patted the baby, and felt underneath the cradle for her own bow.

  The trees closed over us, and I slowed Zeus down to a walk, watching the sides of the road. But we came through without attack. The road climbed once the forest cleared, and the trees took on a regular spacing.

  “Olives and chestnuts,” I pointed out. “We must be near the abbey.”

  “Can I come with you?” called Helga.

  “No, sorry,” I said. “They don’t allow women inside.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the Cistercian Rule,” answered Claudia. “You wouldn’t like them, anyway. They only bathe once a year, and they wear the same robe and cowl all the time.”

  “She’s exaggerating,” I said. “They bathe twice a year, not once. But she’s right about the robes.”

  “They stink to high heaven,” continued Claudia. “Which may be how they reach God.”

  “Eww,” said Helga.

  We passed by fields that were being worked by monks in white robes and lay brothers in brown copes, many wearing mittens to protect their hands. A small group of dairy cattle grazed under the watchful eye of one wizened fellow. The road rose ahead of us, and we saw the steeple of the church against the sky.

  We passed a lay brother balancing two wicker baskets filled with olives on a pole across his shoulders.

  “Greetings, Brother,” I said. “Could you tell me where visitors may set up camp?”

  He pointed to a clearing nearby. I guided the wain to it and reined Zeus to a halt. Portia woke and began to cry.

  “Right on cue,” I said to Claudia. “You nurse; we’ll set up the tent.”

  Once Helga and I had finished that task, I sent her to the stream running in front of the abbey to fetch water. Claudia walked with me while I picked up kindling.

  “Will it be safe for us here?” she asked.

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” I said. “I would think so.”

  “What about them?” she asked, nodding toward the abbey.

  “Not a violent group, in my experience,” I said. “But we can trade watches, if it will make you feel better.”

  “It would,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I have an odd feeling about this place.”

  I glanced at the sky. It was just past noon.

  “We’ll eat, then I’ll go pay my respects,” I said.

  * * *

  I don’t like cathedrals, but I have nothing against churches when they are built for worship and not for display. Nothing could have been simpler than this abbey, yet it was beautiful in its simplicity. The construction was without mortar, each stone carved to fit its neighbors perfectly. There were no statues, neither gold nor gilt to catch the eye, and the irregular slope of the ground had forced whatever master builder they had to adjust and innovate rather than force Nature to accommodate his wishes. The building
was very much of a piece with the land, and many of the monks and lay brothers seemed old enough to have become of a piece with both.

  The entrance was to the right of the church, past a two-story building that I guessed was the chapter house. I rapped on the door. It was opened by a massive man crammed into his robe, looking down at me impassively. He was clean-shaven, as was the custom of the Cistercians, and had an old scar running up his left cheek to his ear. No, to part of an ear. He saw me glancing at it and shrugged slightly.

  “What do you seek?” he asked.

  “An audience with your abbot,” I said.

  “Wrong answer,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you seek?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “God’s mercy.”

  “May you find it,” he said. “Please come in.”

  Everyone has their passwords, I thought. I wondered what it would take for me to get by Saint Peter when my time came.

  It occurred to me, not for the first time, that that was not likely to be a problem given my moral state.

  “My name is Antime,” said the monk. “I am the cellarer here. Normally, our hosteler would be greeting you, but we have just finished our noon meal and it is permitted to have a short nap afterwards.”

  “I begrudge no man his nap,” I said. “Forgive me if I have interrupted yours.”

  “I never nap,” he said. “Our parlor is here.”

  He led me to a small room off to the right, containing a pair of roughhewn benches. Gardening and farm implements were stacked against the wall. A small table held some cups and a ewer of water. He poured some for me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Have you come a long way?” he asked.

  “We were in Le Cannet this morning,” I said. “I heard by chance that an old friend had settled here and is now the Abbot. I thought that I would take the opportunity to pay my respects.”

  “The Abbot will be happy to see you, I am sure,” said Brother Antime. “What name shall I give him?”

  I searched my memory for a moment. Too many names.

  “Droignon,” I said, hoping the hesitation did not show. “Droignon, the Fool.”

  “I will bring him.” He bowed his head and left, walking with his hands crossed on his chest.

  Some time later, I heard footsteps approaching the parlor. Lighter ones than those made by the massive Brother Antime. I stood with my hands down at my sides, a gesture of respect in the Fools’ Guild because it puts them at a distance from any concealed weapons. A man in a white robe came through the door, glanced at my motley, then down to my hands, and smiled.

  “Ah, my old friend, Droignon,” he said loudly. “It has been years. How gracious of you to come visit.”

  “To see the legendary Folquet of Marseille?” I laughed. “No distance is too great.”

  He glanced behind to make sure that no one was within close range, then pointed to the bench. “Sit,” he commanded me quietly.

  I sat, and he took the other bench and leaned toward me, pulling back his cowl so that I could see him more clearly. I knew that he was about fifty, but he looked older, a more gaunt and weathered man than the troubadour I remembered.

  “I am sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “Brother Calvet caught Brother Pelfort dipping into our wine supply, and we needed to find both the appropriate punishment and a better way of securing the wine. We have met, haven’t we?”

  “Once,” I said. “In Marseille. I was returning from Outremer late in ’92—”

  “With your petty king,” he interrupted. “I remember now. You were in Marseille for a week. We invited you for dinner. You drank too much wine and told some highly inappropriate stories to my sons. They were delighted to hear them, as I recall.”

  “That does sound like me,” I admitted. “Forgive me. You can do that now, can’t you?”

  “I can. I must say, I am surprised that Monsieur Droignon would dare come back to this part of the world, if what I heard was true.”

  “That depends on what you heard,” I said. “And, in any case, that was three days north. Not here.”

  “Password,” he said suddenly.

  “God’s mercy?”

  “Don’t waste my time,” he snapped. “Give me the Guild password or I’ll call for Brother Antime. He was a soldier for thirty years before he came here. I’ve seen him throw a sack of flour forty feet.”

  “Then let him throw a sack of flour,” I said. “Guild passwords are for Guildmembers. You quit.”

  He was silent, clasping and unclasping his hands repeatedly. “How do I know you’re still with the Guild?” he asked.

  For a reply, I pulled a small scroll out of my sleeve and handed it to him. He studied the seal carefully.

  “So Father Gerald is still running things,” he said. “How is he?”

  “Old,” I said. “Blind now. One might say not long for this world, but that was first said twenty years ago.”

  He broke the seal, read the letter, then handed it back to me. “Theophilos,” he said. “That is your Guild name.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yours was Marcello, Abbot Folquet.”

  “Fine, your credentials are accepted,” he said. “By the way, it’s Folc, now. Abbot Folc. Folquet was a diminutive, a frivolous name for a frivolous time long since passed.”

  “Very well, Abbot Folc,” I said. “Curious how the diminutive is longer than the true name.”

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “What does the Guild want from me?”

  “Your help.”

  “My help,” he said, laughing bitterly. “The great and powerful Fools’ Guild seeks aid from a retired troubadour?”

  “From a former member who is now an abbot,” I said. “When is the last time you heard anything about the Guild?”

  “I heard that our Holy Father was considering an interdict against you, but settled for routing the Guildhall,” he said. “Where did you end up fleeing to?”

  I shook my head. “Again, you’re not a Guild member,” I said.

  “No, I’m not,” he said. “And I have no interest in resuming a troubadour’s life.”

  “No one is asking you to,” I said.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because we need an abbot.”

  “For absolution?” he laughed. “You have Father Gerald for that.”

  “We need an abbot to help save the Guild.”

  “To help save the Guild,” he said flatly. “How could I possibly do that?”

  “By being who you are—an abbot who once was a Guildmember. By bringing your influence to bear on Rome.”

  “We are not in Rome. We are in Le Thoronet, a place of retreat from the world. A place of quiet worship.”

  “But you’ve been to Rome,” I said. “When Innocent assumed the Holy See, you were there. You met the Pope; the Pope met you. You liked him; he liked you. We think he’ll listen to you.”

  “Listen to me say what, exactly?”

  “We have enemies within the Church,” I began.

  “Hardly surprising,” he said. “The Guild has always campaigned against the Church.”

  “Not the Church, just the hypocrisy and corruption that take hold there,” I said.

  “Which is most of it, nowadays.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Certainly, the Guild has rubbed more than a few powerful people the wrong way. That’s our goal, after all. But the consequences lately have been severe.”

  “Hence, your pilgrimage to see me,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t travel to Rome on a regular basis,” he said. “I’ve been there twice in nine years. I send my monthly reports to Marseille, I go over our accounts, lead my flock in prayer, supervise the building of the new quarters for the lay brothers, and help press the olives when an extra hand is needed. Of what use to the Guild is an abbot in Le Thoronet?”

  “Very little,” I agreed. “But we think you are due for a promotion.”

  “What?” he exclaimed.
>
  “Of all the fools and troubadours who have taken vows, only you have risen as far as becoming an abbot. And a Cistercian abbot, at that. We like the Cistercians. We think that we can live with them, especially compared to some of the other orders. You value simplicity and piety over ostentation.”

  “We also despise flattery,” he said.

  I bowed my head in acknowledgment. “Anyhow, we thought a man of your worth should become a bishop,” I continued.

  “A bishop,” he said. “You think that you can arrange that?”

  “That is the second part of my mission,” I said. “You being the first.”

  “And where am I to be elevated to this lofty stature?”

  “Toulouse.”

  He shook his head. “Ridiculous,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “First, they already have a bishop in Toulouse.”

  “His name is Raimon de Rabastens,” I said. “He is a weak man, corrupt and vulnerable, according to our reports. The town deserves better, and it needs it soon. Toulouse occupies a precarious position in the world.”

  “The more reason for me to shun it,” said Folc. “I am not too popular there.”

  “You aren’t? I was under the impression that you had never been to Toulouse before.”

  “No, but my songs have,” he said. “Don’t you know who my patrons were when I was composing? Guilhem of Montpellier, Barral of Marseille, both enemies of the Count of Toulouse. How do you propose to place me in the bishopric when the Count controls the selection?”

  “That’s my problem,” I said. “Father Gerald didn’t choose me because he thought this was going to be easy.”

  “What was the plan if I refused?”

  “If I cannot persuade you, then there is no plan,” I said. “But hear this—the very life of the Guild is at stake. You know what we stand for. You were part of it once. I know that you believed in it then. There are still friends of yours carrying on the Guild’s mission, and hundreds more you’ve never met who risk their lives on a daily basis. All we ask is that you intercede for us.”

  “All you ask is that I leave everything that I have built here and become bishop in a town that is half corruption and half heresy,” he replied.