by Alan Gordon
“Folquet?” he exclaimed. “You know Folquet?”
“I have met him,” I said. “My husband and he were once friends. The abbot asked us to look into this—”
“Abbot?”
“Your brother-in-law is the abbot of Le Thoronet.”
He started to laugh. “They made that pious old fraud an abbot,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I hadn’t heard. Still a climber, no matter what the setting.”
“Really?” I said. “He was like that here?”
“Well, he’s my brother-in-law; I shouldn’t be saying anything,” he said. “Especially to a friend of his.”
“I am not his friend,” I said. “I’m just running this petty little errand for my husband, thank you very much.” I leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “But there is one thing that I adore more than anything in the world, and that is gossip.”
“Do you?” he replied, his eyes brightening.
“Yes, I suppose that makes me a typical woman,” I said.
“You seem nothing like a typical woman,” he said, winking. “Would you like a cup of wine?”
Private office, closed door, a wink and wine—a bad combination for a married lady. But I had my Guild training for emergencies. I decided to chance it.
“I would love some,” I purred. He poured us each a cup, and I raised mine. “To your sister.”
“To Hélène,” he said, sipping it parsimoniously.
I tilted my head back for a good gulp, but let most of it trickle back into the cup. It was good wine, I must say.
“You must be the younger brother,” I said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your appearance, Sieur,” I said. “I thought to myself when I saw you, how could such a young-looking man be in charge of such a vast enterprise?”
“I am older than I seem,” he confided. “In truth, Hélène and I are twins.”
“How remarkable!” I exclaimed. “I myself have a twin brother.”
“No!”
“It is God’s truth,” I replied, my hand to my bosom. His glance lingered there, and I desperately hoped that I wasn’t leaking any milk. That tends to spoil the effect. “Alas, it has been some time since we have seen each other.”
“Did you and he have a private language?” asked Guiraud.
“When we were little,” I said. “I still remember some of it.”
“As do I,” he said, leaning forward and patting my hand. “Well, fellow twin, what can I tell you about my brother-in-law?”
“Tell me everything,” I said.
“He was this greasy, charming little man from Genoan parents. His father was the representative of some wealthier family back in Genoa who nobody trusted. Little Folquet used to be picked on mercilessly by all the local children.”
“Including yourself?”
“Of course,” he declared proudly. “You know how children gang up on each other. Marseille children will fight anyone anywhere, especially Genoan children.”
“But wasn’t Folquet born here?”
“His father wasn’t, and that’s all we cared about. We listened to what our fathers said about Genoans, and acted accordingly.”
“He must have been miserable.”
“Oh, for certain. But then everyone found out he could sing.”
“Aha!”
“Well, a voice like that becomes much in demand. He starts in the taverns, the brothels, in the worst of places, making his pennies from drunken sailors. Then he crosses the street to the hostels, singing holy ballads and prying more coins from between pressed palms. He works his way up to private performances at merchants’ dinners. He’s growing up, dressing better, and giving him his due, turning into quite the handsome devil.”
I tried to visualize the walking corpse I had met as this charmer. I couldn’t see it.
“Didn’t he work for his father?” I asked.
“Reluctantly,” said Guiraud. “He would disappear for periods of time, come back with new songs and tales of adventures no one believed he had had, but everyone wanted to hear. Rumor was he went somewhere in Italy.”
The Guildhall, no doubt. Guiraud suddenly looked gloomy.
“Your sister?” I prompted him.
“My sainted sister,” he sighed. “She always took pity on people. When we picked on Folquet, she would comfort him, wipe his brow with her kerchief, and keep the damn silk after like it was a holy relic. She had been sent away to a convent for schooling for a few years. When she returned, my father invited Folquet to sing for our dinner. He was sixteen. We were sixteen. I sat at the table and snickered with my friends, and Hélène fell in love.”
“Did Folquet love her?”
He paused. “I think that he thought he loved her,” he said, measuring his words as carefully as he would a pennyweight of clove. “I think that he was convinced by the sound of his own romantic voice that he loved her. But I think that he truly loved what she was—the daughter of a well-connected merchant. My father thought he had promise, and the Genoan connection useful, so there was profit to be had on both sides.”
“When merchants make matches, money must be made,” I said. “But that is hardly unusual.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “But not every marriage involves my sister.”
“You objected,” I said.
“I had neither the right nor the place,” he said. “They were married, and every merchant in Marseille was at the wedding. Once Folquet entered the family, many doors opened for him. He charmed his way into one house after another.”
“Including that of Viscount Barral.”
“Oh, Barral loved a good singing voice. Folquet and that other one, what was his name? Vidal, that was it. They were in there half the evenings, strumming away. Barral thought he was a singer, too. Have you heard the story about Barral’s wife and Vidal?”
“Yes,” I said, and he looked disappointed for a moment. “Tell me, did you ever hear Folquet called ‘the lark’ by anyone? Or hear of anyone else so called?”
“The lark,” he said, looking up at the ceiling to think. “No. He usually called my sister his turtledove.”
“How sweet. So, life was good for Folquet and your sister?”
“As far as anyone could tell, it was perfect. She doted on him, he doted on her, they raised two fine sons, the business was good. And then, out of the blue, he decides to become a monk.”
“You had no warning?”
“None. You could have knocked me over with a piece of silk when I heard. And to put his family in holy orders, well … Of course, he had the right to do it, and we should respect someone who gives up everything to devote his life to serving God.…”
“We should, shouldn’t we? But it seemed out of character?”
“Completely,” he said. “Blinded on the road to Damascus, I suppose, only…”
“Only what?”
“On the day he left for the abbey, he didn’t seem particularly devout or fervent. He seemed…”
“What?”
“Frightened,” said Guiraud. “I rode with them as far as Gémenos, trying to dissuade him, but he was resolute. But he kept looking back as if he expected Satan’s hounds to be on his tail.”
“Had he been under any kind of threat, as far as you knew? Were there any competitors who could have driven him away? Any political machinations?”
“Is that what you are seeking now?” he asked.
“Possibly,” I said. “There seems to be some danger for him, but we don’t know who would want to threaten him after all this time.”
“I would have to think,” he said. “It’s been nearly ten years. I remember a merchant named Marin Itier who had become heavily indebted to him. He ended up turning over his business to Folquet, but he then went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and that’s the last we heard of him.”
“Could you think of any reason why anyone would want to threaten Folquet now?”
“Well, there are some who still resent the rol
e he played in abducting Roncelin from Saint-Victor, especially now that there’s talk of a papal interdict against the city. There was a rumor going around last spring that a repentant Folquet might return on behalf of the Pope to bring Roncelin back to the fold. Or that he’s a Genoan spy trying to do the same thing. That could cause some panic if anyone took it seriously.”
“Really? Who would take over if Roncelin left?”
“That’s a question,” said Guiraud thoughtfully. “Whoever has the real power at the moment, I suppose. The Viguerie is the largest pack of armed men in the city, and they answer to the Anselme family, but the Anselmes have always stayed behind the scenes and cooperated with the rest of the merchants. I don’t see anyone else in the consulat with the ambition and resources to take over unopposed.”
“Well, you’ve certainly given me much to think about,” I said, standing.
He stood, and started to come quickly around the desk. I stepped to the doorway, and he leaned against the door, his arm blocking my path. “Won’t you stay a little longer?” he implored me. “I do so enjoy your company.”
He began reaching for me. I contemplated which part of his body would be the most vulnerable when I heard Portia crying.
“Mama, the baby is hungry again,” called Helga from just outside the door.
“Forgive me,” I said. “There is one with a greater claim. Some other time, perhaps?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said reluctantly. He reached around me to the door latch, bringing his body closer to mine. He paused for a moment; then the baby howled even louder. He sighed, and opened the door.
“My thanks, Sieur,” I said, slipping out.
Helga handed me Portia, who settled down quickly as we left the store.
“You didn’t pinch her, did you?” I asked Helga.
“A little,” she confessed sheepishly. “It seemed like the right moment.”
“Good decision, Apprentice,” I murmured. “How much did you hear?”
“Most of it,” she said. “I put on my little-girl-looking-for-her-mama face, and the man with the abacus let me sit by the door. He gave me some candy. Would you like a piece?”
“Very much,” I said, and she handed me a piece of rock candy that was flavored with a little cinnamon.
“Maybe this Marin Itier came back from pilgrimage looking for revenge,” she said.
“That’s not the usual result of a pilgrimage,” I said.
“Maybe he never went on pilgrimage,” she said. “Or maybe he went, but was captured by pirates, sold into slavery, and blamed Folc for his horrible life in chains and spent every waking and dreaming minute planning his horrible retribution.”
“Which was to splash some blood on some books?” I asked, smiling at her enthusiasm. “That hardly seems adequate for such a tale of woe.”
“Maybe that was just a warning, and he…” She sighed. “Fine. No pirates, no slavery. But we could still … Look! There’s a fleet!”
I looked toward the mouth of the harbor, where four ships were maneuvering past the jetty. There was a stir of activity at the wharves, but no alarm raised. I tapped on the shoulder of a sailor who was watching them with professional curiosity.
“Pardon, Sieur, but whose colors are those?” I asked.
“Looks to be Aragon,” he said. “Guess they’ve come to visit.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“If they’re spending money, it’s good. If they’re wanting money, it’s bad,” he replied.
“Sounds like family,” I said. “Come, daughter. Let us return home.”
We walked up the hill and returned to the house of Pantalan.
I heard the sound of an argument as we entered the courtyard. Two angry male voices, muffled by walls, but I immediately recognized them as belonging to my husband and our host. Helga and I glanced at each other; then I cautiously pushed the door open.
“Come on, curse you, it’s in that thick skull of yours somewhere,” shouted Theo.
“I swear, that’s all I can summon up,” pleaded Pantalan.
“But you’re a jester, damn it. You’re supposed to remember songs.”
“It’s not a jester’s song, is it?” retorted Pantalan. “It’s a planh, a dirge of some kind. Not the sort of thing I’d bother learning. It’s too lugubrious. I’m here to cheer people up, remember?”
“You’ve never played a wake?” asked Theo in disbelief. “Never sang at a gravesite to carry the soul to the hereafter on wings of music?”
“That’s just not done in Marseille,” said Pantalan. “They take death very seriously in these parts.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“This feeble excuse for a fool, after wasting a full precious day of my existence, has suddenly dredged up the remarkably useful information that our mysterious message in blood was from a song.”
“A song!” I exclaimed. “Sing it, please.”
“‘Cold is the hand that crushes the lark,’” Pantalan began. “‘Cold is despair unending. Tum tum ti tum, tum tum, tum ti tum…’ And that’s all I have.”
“That is a sad tune,” I said.
“I like the ‘tum tum ti tum’ part,” chirped Helga. “Did you write that yourself?”
“When did you hear it?” I asked.
“I can’t remember when. I just heard it once sometime,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “Probably some troubadour passing through. There have been so many, and there’s usually drinking. You more than anyone should appreciate how that goes, Theo.”
“Which troubadour?” demanded Theo. “It had to have been someone coming to Marseille after Folc left, or he would have known the song when he saw it.”
“Not at all,” I said. “In fact, more likely before. Someone painted that message expecting him to get the reference. It’s a threat to a troubadour.”
“Maybe from another,” said Theo. “Is there a troubadour based in Marseille?”
“No,” said Pantalan quickly. A little too quickly, I thought.
“Well, who is riding the circuit?”
“It’s not a regular circuit at the moment,” said Pantalan. “Gui de Cavalhon pops up every now and then, but he mostly goes between Montpellier and Toulouse. He might be able to help you.”
“Montpellier?”
“That way, about four days’ journey,” said Pantalan, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “You’ll have to cross five rivers, I think it is.”
Theo sat on the pile of pallets, then stretched out lazily, resting his head on his hands. “That’s a long journey just to see if he happens to be in town, and if he happens to know a song,” he said, his eyes closed.
“Well, I don’t know what else you can do here,” said Pantalan.
“I could find out why you are trying to get rid of us,” said Theo.
“What?” squeaked Pantalan. “You insult me. I have given you my hospitality, forgone my extensive love life for an entire day just to play hosteler—”
“Which is your job when Guildmembers come to town,” I reminded him.
“There is a little mouse of information that is scurrying around in that tiny warren you call a brain,” said Theo. “I can play hide and seek with it all day, or I can take a shovel and start excavating.”
“Helga, be a dear and go borrow a shovel from somebody, will you?” I asked.
“Let me remind you again of the oath of loyalty that you swore to the Guild, my fat and prosperous colleague,” said Theo, swinging his legs around and sitting up. “I want to know what you are concealing from me. If it is anything that will help me trace this song, then I have to know. I don’t need to reveal anything to the Guild about the source.”
Pantalan looked down at his feet, shamefaced. “Will you swear that?” he asked. “Will all of you swear that it will not get back to the Guild?”
Theo looked at us. We nodded.
“By the First Fool, Our Savior, I swear it,” he said.
“By the
First Fool,” Helga and I echoed.
Pantalan started pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. “Very well,” he said. “I heard it from Vidal.”
“Peire Vidal? He wrote the song?”
“I don’t know,” said Pantalan unhappily. “I told you about him and the Viscountess.”
“And he fled Marseille, yes,” said Theo.
“But that wasn’t an end,” said Pantalan. “He came back. In secret.”
“When?”
“End of ’95? Maybe ’96, I can’t remember. Folquet was gone; I was the only Guildmember here. Vidal suddenly shows up at my door, drunk as a lord. He had come back for Adalaïs. He had been all over, Toulouse, Aragon, Montferrat, Hungary, trying to forget her. Then he heard, years too late, that Barral had divorced her and then died. So Peire Vidal came back. But he was too late again. Adalaïs, Lady Pons, had died a year before.”
“Poor man,” I said softly.
“He was insane with grief,” said Pantalan. “He screamed, he cried, he spouted blasphemies like a whole herd of heretics. But most of all, he sang. I stayed up with him for three days without sleep as he drank and sang, one lament after another. My God, I’ve never seen a performance like it. That voice, those melodies, each as sorrowful as the next. Planhs for great men and nonentities, bishops and shepherdesses, sailors lost at sea, mothers lost at childbirth. I wish I could remember every one of them, I truly do, but it was all mixed together in this drunken orgy of lamentation, and that song about the lark was somewhere in there. I couldn’t remember the rest if you tortured me.”
“I haven’t ruled that out yet,” warned Theo. “Could Vidal be behind this? He knew Folc well enough. Any reason for enmity between them?”
“They were the greatest of friends,” said Pantalan simply.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” sighed Theo. “I guess we have to find Vidal. Any possibility that you know where he is nowadays? And why did this have to be such a secret?”
“That’s not the secret,” said Pantalan. “Vidal’s whereabouts are the secret.”
“Where is he?”
“Here,” said Pantalan. “He’s in Marseille.”
“What? Since when?”
“A week ago. Out of the blue, like the last time. Only…”