The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery

by Alan Gordon

  “The merchants of Marseille were ever a fickle lot,” she said. “Forming alliances only to betray them, undercutting their own families at every turn. But to pursue my husband after he left all that after all this time—no, I can’t imagine any of them would spend a bent penny to do that.”

  “From his Guild activities, then?”

  “He never told me much about them,” she said. “You know how it is—you’re married to one. Although it must be different, being a jester yourself.”

  “I am a Guildmember,” I said. “But we are a married couple just like any other. We each have our secrets.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Still, you’re lucky. It’s much easier being in the Guild than being married to it. The disappearances for months at a time, never knowing what dangers he might be in.”

  “That actually describes life with my first husband,” I said. “He went off on Crusade, and I spent two years praying for his safe return.”

  “Did he return safely?”

  “He did.”

  “Then he had your prayers to thank for his well-being.”

  “It is good of you to say so.”

  “But this jester is your second husband?”

  “Yes. I married him after my first husband died, and then became a jester myself. He was my teacher.”

  “How strange life is,” she said. “I could never have become a troubadour. I sing like a crow.”

  “I like crows,” I said. “They’re mischievous and smart. What was it like being married to a troubadour? I always thought that would be wonderfully romantic.”

  “He wooed me with song,” she said, suddenly a dreamy young girl again. “And after we wed, there were oft times when he would sing only to me, even if there was a crowd of people around.”

  “That must have been lovely,” I said.

  “For a long time, it was,” she said. “But one day, he stopped singing.”

  “To you?”

  “To all,” she said. “He came home from his travels on some business with a cloud over his face. He went into our room and stayed there for three days without saying a word. Then he came out and announced that he was becoming a monk.”

  “Just like that? Had he never shown any signs of this religious fervor before?”

  “Never before,” she said. “He sold all of our possessions, and bundled us off into holy orders.”

  “Why, that’s—” I was about to say something sharp, but she looked at me serenely. Very well, it was not my life. “That must have been a … difficult adjustment.”

  “It was, at first,” she admitted. “But there’s something to be said for having regular order to your life. The Cistercian rules, and the cows’ rules. We know what we are going to be doing every day of our lives.”

  “Who’s stricter, the Cistercians or the cows?”

  “Oh, the cows,” she laughed. “If they don’t get milked or fed on time, they can become quite surly. God is willing to wait for His prayers.”

  “Ah, but His wrath is more powerful than a cow’s.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said. “If they stampede—One of our order was trampled to death a month ago.”

  “How horrible! Were you close?”

  “She had just joined us,” she said. “No one knew her well. She was a city woman who came to us from a convent, and knew nothing about the real world. She didn’t see the warning signs. It was a stormy day, and the herd was agitated. Then something startled them, and she didn’t know where to take cover.”

  “Never underestimate the wrath of females,” I said, and we sat and watched the herd for a while. They looked peaceful enough.

  “See that bull down there?” she said, pointing to a large black beast in a fenced-off enclosure.

  “Is he the only one?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “We call him the Bishop.”

  “That doesn’t bode well for breeding,” I said.

  “He does just fine,” she said. “We call him that for luck. We’re hoping that Marseille will recognize us as an official order and build us our own abbey.”

  “This would be a lovely spot for it,” I said, getting to my feet. “I wish you luck.”

  “Where will you go next?”

  “To Marseille,” I said. “Maybe the answer lies there.”

  “My brother, Julien Guiraud, is a merchant there,” she said. “Tell him that you spoke to me, and he will give you any assistance you require.”

  “Thank you, that is most gracious,” I said.

  “Will you be seeing my husband again?” she asked.

  “God willing, yes,” I said.

  She looked across at the bull, grazing quietly in his little enclosure. “Tell him that he is in my prayers,” she said softly.

  “I will, Domna,” I promised.

  * * *

  By the time I had walked back down the hill, it was noon. I heard Portia squealing happily, which aroused my suspicions. Sure enough, I came upon my husband tossing her into the air and catching her.

  “I should have had triplets so you could juggle three,” I said as I came up.

  “But how do you nurse triplets?” he asked. “Speaking of which, take her. She’s starving.”

  “So am I,” I grumbled. He helped me up onto the wain, handed me Portia, and tossed me a piece of bread.

  “Any luck?” he asked as he flicked the reins.

  “Not really,” I said. I recounted my conversation.

  “The merchant angle seems unlikely,” he mused. “I can’t think of a purely monetary reason to hold a grudge that long. But we can look up the brother when we get there.”

  “How long to Marseille from here?”

  “Hopefully, we’ll arrive before sunset tomorrow. This valley sends milk and cheese there, so it can’t be too long a journey.”

  He glanced back at the holy women and their charges. “Pretty spot,” he said. “Quiet, peaceful. I think I’d go mad.”

  “Would you ever join a holy order?” I asked.

  His laughter subsided about eight minutes later. “What on earth possessed you to say such a thing?” he asked, wiping the tears streaking his whiteface with his kerchief. “You know me better than that.”

  “What possessed Folc to join? There he was, prosperous merchant, celebrated singer, wife and two boys—then overnight, he is a servant of Christ. Why couldn’t that happen to you?”

  “Because I am me, not Folc,” he said. “Besides, no respectable order would take me.”

  “All I am saying is that it could happen,” I persisted. “And then what would become of Portia and me?”

  “Ah, so that’s what this is about,” he said. “I vow by all that is sacred that if I suddenly turn monk, I will not condemn the two of you to the cloister. Satisfied?”

  “Could I have it in writing? Sworn and sealed by a reputable notary?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I have never been more serious,” I said.

  “Well, stop it at once; it’s bad for the act,” he said.

  Something in my look caused him to wince. I made a mental note to teach Helga that look. And Portia, when she was older.

  “Fine, one sealed and notarized release if I turn monk,” he said. “Shall I draw up my will while I’m at it?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “What will you do if I die?” he asked.

  “Hélène said they want their own abbey here. Maybe I’ll join them.”

  “Become a milkmaid?”

  “It would be a welcome change from living with a fool,” I snapped. “Peace and quiet at last. I think it’s the absence of men that causes that.”

  He guffawed and held out his hand. “Truce?” he asked.

  “Truce,” I said, taking it.

  Behind us, I heard Helga sigh with relief.

  THREE

  Where is my clown? I need him now, to take my troubles away.

  —BLACKMORE’S NIGHT, “FOOL’S GOLD”

  “
Ever been to Marseille?” I asked as we were ferried across the river that flowed into the city’s harbor.

  “Once, as a child,” said Claudia. “When Father took my brother and me to Paris, we sailed first from Sicily into Marseille. I remember seeing Lazarus’s Grotto and having nightmares that he was going to rise again and come looking for me.”

  “You actually believed that story?” I asked. “My most skeptical wife, I am astounded.”

  “I was eight years old,” she said defensively. “The priests at the abbey said it was where Saint Lazarus heard confession after he became Bishop, and who was I to contradict all of those priests?”

  “The abbey does very well with that legend,” I said. “I think they also say Mary Magdalene ended up here. Along with all of the others whose story didn’t finish in the Gospels.”

  “I thought she ended up in that cave in the mountains,” she said. “Wasn’t there some abbey we passed claiming her?”

  “At least three, I think.”

  “Why would she come all the way to Languedoc just to live in a cave?” asked Helga. “Didn’t they have caves in the Holy Land?”

  “They did,” I said. “But they became very popular and overpriced after Our Lord and Savior made his appearance. All those hermits competing for space. It’s no wonder she left.”

  “And how did people here know who she was?” persisted Helga. “She would have gotten here before the Book was written. Nobody would have known she was of importance, and it’s not as if she could tell them, yes, that was me, I was the girl in the story. She wasn’t anyone yet.”

  “Everyone who isn’t anyone comes to Marseille,” Claudia said as the ferry bumped into the wharf. “And now, we are here.”

  The ferrymen secured the boat and lowered a plank ramp. I guided Zeus and the wain carefully onto the wharf.

  “Do you know Pantalan, the Fool?” I asked one of the ferrymen.

  “Sure,” he said, grinning. “He spilled a pint of ale on my head once. Funniest thing you ever saw.”

  “It certainly sounds it,” I said. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Somewhere in the Ville-Haute, near the church of Saint-Martin,” he said. “Ask around. Try—”

  “The taverns?” guessed my wife, smiling sweetly.

  “Oc, Domna,” he said. “I expect a looker like you will be welcome there.”

  “How gallant!” sighed Claudia, doing that fluttering business that so often swayed lesser men. Helga watched her studiously.

  “Come, wife,” I said. “The sun is plummeting, and we must find our friend before the nightwatch comes out.”

  I guided Zeus past the competing hostels of the Templars and the Hospitalers and stopped. In front of us was the mad profusion of wharves, inns, brothels, warehouses, and shops that made up the Ville-Basse. Through them swarmed hundreds of pilgrims seeking supplies to keep them alive during the forty-day journey to the Holy Land, and twice as many Marseillese seeking to overcharge them for those supplies. On the other side of the harbor, a safe distance away, the walls of the Abbey of Saint-Victor stood in solitary rebuke to the manifestation of greed facing it. Where Lazarus died a second time, and no one there to raise him. I looked at the abbey shutting out the world, then back at the Ville-Basse, which made one appreciate why they would want to.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Claudia.

  “I barely recognize this place,” I said. “It’s doubled in size since I was last here.”

  “This Pantalan will help us,” she said. “Do you know him well?”

  “I knew him for the same week that I knew Folc, and that was a long time ago,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting to come here. I thought that we would go to Le Thoronet to convince Folc, then go straight to Toulouse. I didn’t bother bringing myself up to date on Marseille.”

  “Well, Pantalan’s in the Guild; so there’s our start,” she said. “And we now have Hélène’s brother, so that’s twice as much help. We came into Constantinople with less.”

  “And almost got ourselves killed several times over,” I reminded her.

  “But if Constantinople couldn’t kill us, I doubt that Marseille can,” she said confidently.

  “Your logic is impeccable,” I said. “I feel much better now.”

  “But just in case, let’s find that notary in the morning,” she added.

  The Ville-Haute was the section of the city ceded to the Church during the great partition some forty years before. The Church promptly built walls around the district, and we found them easily enough. From there, it was just a short ride to the gate.

  “Why do they want to wall themselves off from the rest of the city?” asked Helga.

  “Because as great and noble Christians, they do not wish to sully themselves with common pilgrims,” I replied.

  “Why then would a fool live here?” she wondered.

  “Ask him when you see him,” I said. “In fact, that will be your next assignment, Apprentice.”

  We spotted the church of Saint-Martin by its bell tower and made our way toward it, passing rows of carpentry shops. The Ville-Haute had an unusual but not unpleasant assortment of smells, the fresh-cut wood and sawdust mingling with the aroma of cured leather from two streets down, both giving way to flower and herb gardens near the church.

  Queries to a series of locals brought us to a courtyard with a cistern in its center. One of the two-storied houses facing it had a grinning white face surmounted by cap and bells painted on its door. We pulled up in front of it.

  “A serenade?” I suggested, and we stood on the wain, Claudia with Portia in her arms, and sang:

  Lord of emptiness, King without subjects,

  Ruler with no rules.

  A short, stout man stuck his head out of the second-story window, his whiteface, cap, and bells the mirror to the image painted on his door.

  All hail Pantalan, a jester’s jester,

  Emperor of Fools!

  “Passable!” he cried. “Now, once more, sing from the gut, especially that poor excuse for a scarecrow on the tenor voice, and above all, give me sincerity!”

  We repeated the song as the women of the other houses leaned out their windows and their children poured through the doorways to see what was causing the commotion. Pantalan conducted us from above, waving his arms grandly, then led the applause when we finished.

  “Excellent, and welcome to Marseille, my peripatetic, peregrinate pelerins,” he called. “I’ll be down in a trice.”

  We waited, watching the door for his entrance. We should have known better. He came hurtling out the window, arms outstretched, and before anyone could scream, he reached the end of the rope tied around his waist. He swung down to the ground, landing lightly just before the front wall of the house. Everyone cheered, and he bowed, then slid the rope down and stepped out of it.

  “Nicely done,” I said, jumping down from the wain and helping the ladies. “A fool’s welcome if ever there was one.”

  “Welcome again, my friends,” he said, then added under his breath, “and who the hell are you?”

  I whistled a few notes softly, and his eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he whistled the countermelody back.

  “I know you,” he said quietly. “You came back from Outremer with some silly minor king. End of ’92 or thereabouts. I don’t know the woman, though.”

  “I’m Tan Pierre, Guildname of Theophilos,” I said. “My wife, Domna Gile, Guildname of Claudia.”

  “Pantalan, Guildname of Artal,” he replied. “And the brats?”

  “Our apprentice, Helga, and our daughter, Portia,” I said, waiting. Sure enough, he walked over to Helga and looked her up and down.

  “Scrawny little thing like this thinks she can be a jester?” he sneered. “I’ve seen more meat on a diseased chicken. After it’s been plucked.”

  “And I’ve seen better manners from a hog,” she replied. “After it’s been slopped.”

  “Insult given, insult received,” he said, nodding. “Not b
ad, child. Well, a passel of fools to put up and provision. Just a quick visit, I hope?”

  “We may be a few days here,” I said. “Something came up. You can keep us?”

  “Two adults, a squalling infant, and a diseased chicken,” he sighed. “My love life is over, not to mention any hope of sleep. I’ll take your horse around to the stables.”

  As he reached for the reins, all three of us shouted, “Look out!” He snatched his hand back just in time, the sound of Zeus’s colliding teeth echoing through the courtyard.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Pantalan. “The legendary Zeus. I’ve heard some stories about the two of you, but even more about this vicious beast. I’m surprised he wasn’t eaten years ago.”

  “He’s too tough and ornery to eat,” I said. “Like me. We get along.”

  “Let’s take your things inside and you can bring him to the stables yourself,” said Pantalan.

  The bottom room was filled with props and costumes, but there was a stack of pallets in one corner. We sent Helga with a brace of buckets to the cistern; then I took Zeus and the wain to the stables and paid for a week’s accommodation.

  When I returned, Pantalan was sitting on a low stool with Portia bouncing happily on his lap.

  “Looks like her mother, at least as far as I can tell under your whiteface,” he said. “Lucky for her.”

  “It is,” I agreed as Claudia smiled at me. “Did you have that rope trick ready and waiting for us?”

  “Oh, it’s there all the time,” he said. “You never know if a jealous husband or a spurned lover is going to barge in suddenly.”

  “Does that happen a lot?” asked Helga.

  “Well, I live in hope,” he said, grinning at her. “Come back for a visit when you’re older.”

  “Looks like you could use a stronger rope,” I said, leaning forward and patting his ample belly. “Have we been neglecting our exercises?”

  “The fool must reflect his environment,” he said serenely. “Marseille has grown fat and happy under my reign, and so have I. Now, am I to gather from your choice of password that you’ve come straight from Father Gerald?”

  “With a few stops along the way,” I said. “I am to be the new Chief Fool in Toulouse.”