The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery

by Alan Gordon

  “Oh,” said Helga.

  She held out her hand, expecting him to kiss it. Instead, he shook it so heartily that it nearly came off.

  “Good-bye, Little Chick,” he said merrily. “Come back and visit when you’re fully fledged, and maybe I’ll marry you. This town needs more fools.”

  We clambered onto the wagon. Theo flicked the reins, and Zeus trotted out of the courtyard. I looked back, and Pantalan was waving until we lost sight of him.

  We took the western gate out of the Ville-Haute, the same that we had taken to see Vidal. This time, however, we took the main road west, the sun following behind us.

  Helga was uncharacteristically quiet as she perched in back, watching Marseille gradually disappear from view.

  “Do you think he meant it?” she said suddenly.

  “Meant what?” I asked.

  “About marrying me. Was he serious?”

  “When is a fool ever serious?” I asked.

  “When he talks about marriage,” said Theo. “It’s a very frightening subject. It will make any fool turn sober.”

  “You didn’t turn sober when we got married,” I said. “Much the opposite.”

  “The subject turns the fool sober,” he explained. “The actual marriage will drive him right back to drink.”

  “That’s the male fool speaking,” I said. “I, on the other hand, got drunk one fine night, and when I sobered up, to my horror found myself married to this one. That’s the only explanation for it.”

  “What about Pantalan?” persisted Helga.

  “If you think he’s serious, feel free to go back there and find out,” said Theo. “Once your apprenticeship is complete, you should be old enough.”

  “But he’s so old!” she said. “He must be over thirty.”

  Theo and I glanced at each other.

  “Do you want to throw her over the side, or shall I?” I asked.

  It was a four-day journey, although I don’t know if I would count five rivers. One or two were merely streams, easily forded. The Rhône, on the other hand, was wide and full of boats, and we waited in line for two or three hours before the ferrymen were able to accommodate us. The price of crossing was exorbitant, but one look at their massive arms was all it took to dissuade us from haggling.

  “The name of the fool in Montpellier is Grelho?” I asked my husband as we broke camp on the fourth day.

  “Right,” he said. “I’ve never met him. I was last here back in ’79, long before I ever met you. Grelho has been there about twenty years, I think.”

  “So he would have known Folc.”

  “Folc the merchant did business in Montpellier, and Folquet the troubadour rode the circuit from Marseille and back. If the answers to our quest aren’t found in Marseille, then they may very well be here. Unless it is that Itier fellow.”

  “Or somebody else we haven’t even thought about,” piped up Helga helpfully.

  “You can look for him,” said Theo.

  “Or her,” I said. “The Lark is a woman, after all.”

  “You know, one thing about your theory bothers me,” he said.

  “What is that?”

  “Why would Folc join the Cistercians when he did? Everything that happened with the succession in Marseille happened several years before that. You also don’t account for the sudden fear and haste that your gallant merchant described.”

  “Maybe it had something to do with her second marriage,” I said. “Maybe we should go back and question Folc some more.”

  “Maybe I should have thought of that before we came all the way to Montpellier. Look! You can see the bell tower from here.”

  There was one more river to cross, a broad but shallow one that supported only barges and flat-bottomed boats. There was a bridge over it, and a road leading to a gate protected by a tower that soared some sixty feet. The combination might have been intimidating to the casual invader were it not for the fact that no walls fanned out from them, nor were there any soldiers guarding them. One solitary man sat on a stool to the right, leaning back with his eyes closed, enjoying the morning sun. He was wearing a leathern apron over his clothing, and an enormous hammer with a thick handle the length of a man’s arm rested against the stool.

  Theo looked at the gate, which was closed, then glanced to the open sides. “I’m guessing we go around,” he said.

  “And I’m guessing you don’t,” said the man, his eyes still closed, but his right hand now resting on the hammer.

  “We go through the gate?” asked Theo.

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “But the gate is closed,” said Theo.

  “It is; that’s the plain truth of it,” said the man, yawning, then stretching like an immense cat.

  “How are we to pass through the gate if it’s closed?” asked Theo, smiling slightly.

  The man finally opened his eyes, stood, and walked over to us. He turned to stare at the gate, apparently in deep contemplation.

  “I could open it for you,” he offered finally.

  “That would be a kind and Christian thing to do,” I said.

  “But I can’t just yet,” he said. “There are things I am supposed to say first.”

  “Some ritual incantation?” I asked. “Is it a magical gate?”

  “Ooooh,” sighed Helga, lost in the idea.

  The man looked her and the baby, and a broad grin split his grimy face. “First, I am supposed to say welcome to the cloture commune of Montpellier,” he said. “At least, it will be a proper cloture when they finish building the walls.”

  “I would think a gate without walls would be fairly useless,” said Theo.

  “It is, and that’s the plain truth of that,” agreed the man. “But it is much easier to connect the walls after you build the gates and towers than it is to build the walls all the way around, then tear down the spaces for the gates and towers and build them, especially since the gates and towers are the tricky parts. Any fool can build a wall.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “But I’m not just any fool.”

  “So that’s what you are,” he said, peering at our faces. “I thought as much. Introductions, then. I am Reynaud, the blacksmith.”

  “I am Tan Pierre, the fool,” said Theo. “My wife, Domna Gile, and our daughters, Helga and Portia.”

  “I’m Helga,” clarified Helga. “She’s just a baby.”

  “Two daughters,” said Reynaud. “A world of trouble faces you. My sympathies. A pleasure meeting you. The Blacksmiths’ Guild welcomes you to Montpellier.”

  “We thank you,” I said. “Why are the blacksmiths manning the gates?”

  “It’s Wednesday,” he said. “Each of the guilds has their gates and days to watch them. When the walls are built, we’ll hire more soldiers to do a proper job. But there’s not much point in paying soldiers when anyone could just go around.”

  “Like us, for example?” asked Theo.

  “Not like you, for I can see that you have the proper respect due to a gatekeeper,” said Reynaud. “Even a once-a-week gatekeeper like myself. And I would think that people hoping to make a living as entertainers would want to make a noticeable entrance into a new city.”

  “True enough,” said Theo.

  “Now,” continued Reynaud. “The next thing that I am supposed to ask you is if you will be staying or passing through?”

  “Staying for a while,” said Theo. “Then leaving when the while is up.”

  “Does that constitute passing through?” I asked.

  “I would say not, but it all depends on the length of the while,” said Reynaud. “Is a fool’s while the same as most people’s?”

  “I think a fool’s while is probably longer,” said Theo.

  “It depends on the wiles of the fool,” I added. “How long is the while of a blacksmith?”

  “That would depend on the circumstances,” he said. “Sometimes my wife asks me to do something that I would rather not, but because I love and fear her, I will say,
‘In a while, my sweet.’ And that while can be a very long time indeed. Therefore, I will put you down as staying. Now, if you are escaped serfs, and I’m not saying as you are, but if you were, then you have no protection against being returned to your master should he request it. But if you are escaped serfs, and it’s really none of my business whether you are or you aren’t, and you succeed in staying here for a year and a day, our laws consider you to be free, in case you weren’t before.”

  “A generous policy, whether it applies to us or not,” I said.

  “We need people to populate the city once the walls are finished,” he said. “Otherwise, what’s the point of expanding?”

  He took a small paintbrush from a bucket of whitewash that sat near his stool and marked our wagon with an x.

  “Three pennies for the entrance fee,” he said. “I’m not charging you for the baby.”

  “Thank you, kind Reynaud,” said Theo. “Now, could you tell us the whereabouts of a fool named Grelho?”

  “He lives just off the herberie,” said Reynaud. “And that’s just past Notre Dame of the Tables. Ask when you get there. Hey, now that there’s more than one fool in town, maybe you could form your own guild.”

  “There’s an idea,” said Theo, smiling at me. “What do you think, wife?”

  “Not a good idea at all,” I said firmly.

  “Why not?” asked Reynaud, disappointed at my quick dismissal of his plan.

  “Because if there was a Fools’ Guild, then we would have to take a turn guarding the gates,” I said. “You wouldn’t want your city to be guarded by fools, would you?”

  “A good point,” he said. “All right, let me open them for you.”

  He walked over and swung them open easily. Theo flicked the reins, and Zeus pulled us through.

  “No lock on the gates,” Theo noted.

  “What would be the purpose?” asked Reynaud. “People can just go around them.”

  “Good-bye, friend Reynaud,” I called. “We’ll be sure to come to you if we have any iron that needs, um, hammering.”

  We had come to the city from the southeast, and a broad road ran northwest from the newly fashioned gate we had just encountered, moving uphill toward the church of Notre Dame, whose bell tower had a double set of arches piled one upon the other. It was this road, I would come to learn, that carried the pilgrim traffic from the west to Marseille, while another road, the via Francigena, ran north to south, taking a different group of pilgrims from France to retrace the steps of James of Compostela. Where the two roads crossed was a place of holy gossip as those returning shouted their good news to those on their way, and great was the misinformation thereof.

  It was in these two crossing rivers of pilgrims that the good citizens of Montpellier cast their nets and hooks, trawling for whatever sustenance they could find. Fishers of men abounded in Montpellier, though not what Our Savior had in mind when he used that description. Fishers of pockets and purses, more the like. What would the inhabitants of Montpellier and Marseille do for a living if these quests for absolution ever stopped?

  We passed by the church of Notre Dame. Directly in front of it were the tables of the money changers, taking the coins of whichever direction people were coming from and trading them for slightly less of those of the opposite compass point. We exchanged some of our dwindling Guild funds for local coinage, then sought out the herb market.

  This turned out to be a short distance west of the money changers, a small rectangle of space with a number of narrow twisty streets radiating out from it. It was a lively place, filled with gossiping wives and cooks with bunches of green dangling from their baskets, and the mingled scents from the different stalls greatly eased the fatigue of our journey.

  Theo inhaled deeply as we passed through, his eyes closed for a moment. Then he looked at me and smiled sadly. “My mother kept an herb garden,” he said. “Or so I was told. I always imagine her holding me when I smell fresh herbs.” He sighed. “But she never did, did she?”

  “Let’s find our colleague,” I said softly.

  Half the streets in Montpellier were barely wide enough to allow passage of our cart, and the other half weren’t. We kept scraping against the walls of the buildings, most of which were two-story structures with a vaulted store at street level and a single room above. Light was at a premium—windows were angled to catch as much of it as they could, and many of the houses seemed tilted in their construction, ready to follow the passage of the sun like a flower over the course of a day.

  Grelho lived in a particularly dark and grubby little street that probably saw daylight only at noon in good weather for three days in midsummer. The road ran down a hill, and sloped on both sides down to a central gutter that carried a sickly stream of water. The house itself was indistinguishable from the others. A blotch of black paint covered the door. Nothing would have alerted a passerby to the presence of a jester within. Theo touched the black blotch on the door gingerly with his forefinger.

  “Still tacky,” he said. “He’s painted over his sign. Wonder what’s going on?”

  “One way to find out,” I said.

  He pounded on the door.

  “Go away!” came a muffled voice from inside.

  “Open up, Grelho,” called Theo, pounding on it again. “Don’t make me start singing.”

  An eye appeared for a moment at a peephole. “Christ on a crutch,” moaned the owner of the eye. “Why me? Why now?”

  The door opened, and a skinny man dressed in gray rags dashed out and started grabbing our gear from the cart.

  “Get it inside,” he muttered. “Quickly, you bastards. Oh, God, a horse. Wonderful. Is he safe?”

  “Not particularly,” said Theo as we lugged in our gear in as few trips as we could. Portia started crying.

  “All I need, all I need,” said the man. “Shut her up. Give her a rattle, stick a teat in her, whatever you do, just get her quiet. Is that everything? You, Fool, throw something over your motley and get rid of your bells. What were you thinking?”

  “Who are you?” asked Theo.

  The man stopped and glared. “I’m Grelho, as you very well know,” he said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Theo whistled the first part of the password.

  “No time for that,” said the man; then he squeaked as my gentle good-natured husband took him gently by the collar and slammed him good-naturedly into the wall.

  “There’s always time for a melody,” said Theo, smiling.

  The man looked at him, his eyes bulging; then he tried to whistle. A few faint notes came out. Then he licked his lips frantically and tried sounding a few more.

  “That’s enough,” said Theo, releasing him. “You are Grelho the Fool.”

  “Your confidence is appreciated, I’m sure,” gasped Grelho. “Now, throw a hat on, and we’ll get rid of this damned horse and cart. The rest of you get inside and don’t breathe until we’re back.”

  He practically shoved Helga and me into the store and closed the door. We looked at each other in the dark. Portia continued to cry.

  “What should we do?” asked Helga.

  “You keep watch,” I ordered her. “I’ll nurse.”

  Portia snuffled a little, but latched on quickly. The subsequent burp after she was done would have won her a round of drinks at many a tavern.

  “How does she do that so loudly?” wondered Helga. “Wait. They’re coming back.” She opened the door quickly and the two men slipped in.

  Grelho pushed the door shut and slid a bolt into place. He turned to face us in the gloomy space. “Welcome to my humble hospitalum,” he said. “Now, tell me why you are here.”

  “First, light a candle or something,” said Theo. “We didn’t travel all this way to talk to a fool in the dark.”

  “Candles cost money,” said Grelho.

  Theo grabbed at his pouch in disgust and stuck a coin in front of Grelho’s face. “This is a penny,” said Theo. “It will buy you
a couple of boxes of candles. Light one now, you cheap bastard, or I will shove a wick up your ass and see how long you burn.”

  “Oh, I’d taper off in the end,” said Grelho. “Stay here.”

  He vanished up a steep set of stairs at the rear of the storeroom.

  “If he hadn’t made that last quip, I’d still be wondering if we had the right man,” commented Theo.

  “I wonder what put him into this state,” I said.

  A glimmer appeared at the top of the stairs; then Grelho descended, carefully holding a lit candle in each hand.

  “Catch,” he said, suddenly tossing one to Helga.

  She snatched it from the air without batting an eye and spun it through her fingers while keeping the flame going.

  “Well done, Apprentice,” he said. He took a small table from a nail in the wall and set it down in the middle of the room, then placed the candle at its center, and held out his hand. Helga tossed back the other candle, and he put it by the first.

  “Welcome to Montpellier,” he said bitterly.

  “Some welcome,” said Theo. “What’s going on?”

  “The whole city has been turned upside down,” said Grelho. “Ever since the She-Serpent married the Devil’s Spawn.”

  “The new broom has been sweeping?” I asked.

  “More like the new scythe has been reaping,” he said. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “We’ve been on the road,” said Theo. “We knew about Marie marrying Pedro, but we haven’t heard the latest. Bring us up to date.”

  “Where to begin, where to begin?” muttered Grelho. “It started going wrong with the second-to-last Guilhem.”

  “The what?”

  “Montpellier has been ruled by a long series of Guilhems,” explained Grelho. “The second-to-last was Guilhem the Seventh, an absolute prince of a man, even if he was only a count. Cultured, witty, played the harp rather well, always had some revelry going at the palais royal. Oh, the Guild did fine by him, I can tell you. I was there practically every day, and there were usually a couple of troubadours hanging about. He kept the peace with everybody inside town and out, and kept the Bishop happy down at Maguelone, so the Church never bothered sticking another bishop here to keep an eye on things.”