The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery

by Alan Gordon

  “Go on, then,” he said. “I’ll see if it’s a story I know.”

  “There was a lady of this town many years ago,” I began. “Possessed of a rich husband, a small son, and a beautiful voice. Her name was Mathilde, wife of Antoine Landrieux.”

  “I remember her,” said Reynaud. “I remember her voice even now.”

  “Then her voice was stopped. She died, victim of an accident, in 1187. She was buried in the cemetery of Saint-Barthélemy, south of the city.”

  “A brief tale, quickly over,” said Reynaud. “Scarcely worth the telling.”

  “But there was a coda,” I said. “Two days after being laid to rest, the grave was dug up, and her body was carried off. No one knows whatever happened to it.”

  “And you think I had something to do with that,” said Reynaud.

  “I am merely searching for the missing piece of the story,” I said.

  “It’s not just a piece that’s missing,” he said, starting to grin. “It’s the whole body.”

  “So it seems.”

  He started to chuckle, then to laugh loudly. It was infectious, even though we didn’t know why he was laughing. “You like a good joke, don’t you?” he said, trying to catch his breath.

  “A good joke is one of the principal tools of my trade,” I said.

  “This story of yours,” he said. “It’s a joke, and you don’t know the punch line. It’s one I’ve known for nigh on eighteen years, and I’ve never been able to tell it to anyone. Sometimes I’ve been like to burst holding it, for it’s a funny one, though not to all ears.”

  “Funny is my life’s work,” I said. “Tell your joke, and I will render you my professional opinion.”

  “But you never heard it from me,” he said. “That must be your oath.”

  “Easily taken,” I said. “A jester is loath to give credit to others anyway. I swear by my baby’s smile, which I hold dear above all things, that your part in this will be anonymous.”

  “Then here it is,” he said. “Let’s say that there once was a young fellow in desperate need of money. Someone in the middle of an apprenticeship to an honorable trade, but with a sickly widowed mother and three younger sisters to support.”

  “A good beginning and a sympathetic fellow,” I said. “One’s heart reaches out to him immediately.”

  “Now, thinks this fellow, there’s all these people who have gone on to their just rewards. Their souls are in Heaven, their bodies await Judgment Day, yet their pernicious relatives laid them to rest with jewelry, gold and silver and gems that good men broke their backs wresting from deep within the earth, only to see them buried again. Where’s the sense in that?”

  “A reasonable argument made by this sympathetic fellow,” I said. “There is only one possible conclusion.”

  “Concludes this desperate fellow, ‘The dead have no need of adornment, and no jewelry is worn in Heaven. Why not put these buried trinkets to use for the benefit of the living?’”

  “It would, in fact, be a blessing to do so,” I agreed.

  “So, he embarks on this second profession to his profit. One day, he hears of a rich young lady who has met a tragic fate. He decides to pay his respects but, alas, is unable to attend the funeral.”

  “Schedules can be so difficult,” I said.

  “So he shows up at his next free moment, which happens to be shortly after midnight maybe two nights later.”

  “And he notices that the ground is still loose.…”

  “And by coincidence, he’s carrying a pick and shovel.…”

  “And nobody else is about.…”

  “So, why not?”

  “No possible harm that I can see.”

  “And he puts himself to work.…”

  “And it’s no small task.”

  “It’s much harder to dig up someone than to bury her.”

  “But hard work carries with it a reward.”

  “Normally,” said Reynaud.

  “Normally?” I asked.

  “All of the graves this fellow ever dug up gave him value,” he said, starting to laugh again. “All of them but this one. He reaches the coffin, kind of a cheap one for such a wealthy family, but there it is. He pries open the lid, having taken the care to tie a kerchief over his mouth and nose because that first rush of decay can be something awful. But there is no such smell.”

  “She was that well preserved?” I asked. “Was she a saint?”

  “Perhaps even holier than that,” he said. “There’s not much of a moon, and he’s below the surface without a light to see by. He’s done this before, however, so he grits his teeth and reaches into the coffin. He comes away with nothing.”

  “No jewelry on the body?”

  He laughed grimly. “No body,” he said. “And that’s the punch line.”

  * * *

  “You don’t think she was like Our Savior, do you?” asked Helga quietly as we walked to the Orgerie. “His body disappeared from the Holy Sepulchre after three days.”

  “And she only took two,” I said. “No, Apprentice, I see no miracle here. Miracles aren’t wasted on grave-robbers who keep them quiet. They are placed before us to bring us faith.”

  “I didn’t really think it was a miracle,” said Helga, sounding disappointed. “But if it wasn’t that—”

  “Then it may have been something far worse,” I said. “Look, they are already there.”

  The two fools were carrying on a mock debate in learned gibberish with broad gestures that made them look like apes at one moment, cats at the next, and so on through the catalog of beasts. When they saw us, they barked a greeting, and we barked back. We waited while they collected their gear, then walked to a quiet side street to confer.

  “We know where he is,” said Theo with smug satisfaction.

  “And we know where she is not,” I said.

  “We already knew that she is no longer in her grave,” said Theo.

  “She was never in her grave,” I said. “She might not have had any need for one.”

  “What?” exclaimed Grelho.

  “She’s still alive!” burst out Helga.

  “Tell us everything, and tell it quickly,” demanded Theo.

  I recounted Reynaud’s tale.

  “Why bury an empty coffin?” wondered Grelho.

  “To make the world believe she was dead,” said Theo.

  “But why would the Hawk want that?” asked Grelho. “If he wanted to get rid of her that badly, he could simply kill her.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to kill her,” I said. “Maybe he wanted her to suffer first. To suffer for a long time. And if the world thought she was dead, then no one would come looking to rescue her.”

  “What a horrible thought,” said Theo, looking sick under his whiteface. “Could the Hawk have been capable of doing something like that?”

  “With sufficient provocation, yes,” said Grelho.

  “My apologies, wife,” said Theo. “Not a waste of a trip at all.”

  “Accepted, husband,” I said. “Let’s visit friend Rocco.”

  * * *

  More carvings of hawks, set on the pillars of the gates to the courtyard of the château. They were padlocked.

  “We spotted a wisp of smoke from the chimney,” explained Theo.

  “No one has taken the place since the Landrieux clan was evicted,” said Grelho. “Apparently Pedro is asking too high a price for it.”

  “Could it be a caretaker?” I asked.

  “The lady across the street says there is none,” said Theo. “It’s a good place to hide temporarily.”

  “Is there another way in?” I asked.

  “Servants’ door around back,” said Theo. “Bolted from the inside. We could pick the padlock here, but that might alert the Viguerie, and I don’t think we could talk our way out of that one.”

  We strolled around to the back of the château. The servants’ door looked quite formidable from this side. I looked up at the windows of the second f
loor.

  “He left one unshuttered,” I observed. “Careless.”

  “It’s rather high up,” Grelho pointed out.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “About the height of a tall man and a tossed apprentice, wouldn’t you say?”

  Theo glanced up and down the street, then casually leaned back against the wall under the window and locked his hands at waist level. Helga handed me Portia, then took a running start and jumped, landing with her knees bent and her right foot in the center of his linked hands. With a grunt, he heaved her up. She kicked out at the last possible moment for extra height and just barely grabbed the window ledge. She took a breath, then pulled herself up and scrambled inside. We saw her hand reach out and close the shutters after her.

  “Thoughtful of her,” said Theo.

  A minute later, we heard a bolt slide and the door open. A composed and dignified young lady looked at us disdainfully.

  “What ruffians are you?” she said, sniffing and wrinkling her nose. “Welcome to the Landrieux house. I am afraid that the master is not at home.”

  We pushed by her quickly and shut the door. She bolted it behind us.

  “Congratulations, Apprentice,” I whispered. “You just earned the right to swing on the gibbet alongside the rest of us.”

  “Stick together, weapons out,” said Theo softly.

  We crept through the dark hallways, feeling our way through to where Grelho thought the smoke had originated. Then we saw a faint glow from a doorway ahead. Theo and Grelho pressed themselves against the wall by it, while I peered cautiously from the opposite wall.

  A single taper sat on a small stool, directly in front of the doorway, providing enough light to illumine anyone coming through. The candle’s glare kept me from seeing past it into the recesses of the room. I came back to Theo’s side.

  “Looks like a trap,” I whispered.

  “One way to find out,” said Grelho.

  He edged up to the door frame and called softy, “Rocco?”

  “First person through that door gets a bolt through his chest,” said a hoarse voice. “Second gets the same.”

  “There’s five of us,” said Grelho. “You don’t have enough crossbows. We’re not here to harm you, Rocco. We might be able to help.”

  “I don’t need help,” said the voice. “Who are you? You sound familiar.”

  “It’s Grelho the Fool, Rocco. And I’ve got some other fools with me.”

  “Fools?” said Rocco. “What are fools doing here?”

  “Looking to find you,” said Grelho. “And I’m glad we found you before that other fellow.”

  “Which fellow?”

  “The one who killed Berenguer,” said Grelho. “And he killed that big bald man the other night. He’s after you, isn’t he?”

  “How do you know about him?” demanded Rocco. “What does this have to do with you?”

  “We think he’s after the same thing we are,” said Theo.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something now known only to you,” I said.

  “There’s a woman with you?” he exclaimed.

  “We are two men, one woman, one girl, and a baby,” said Grelho. “All fools. Will you talk to us? It may save your life.”

  There was silence for a while.

  “Let the woman fool stand in the doorway where I can see her,” he said finally. “No weapons. If I see steel, I shoot. No one else comes into it.”

  I sheathed my daggers and started toward the doorway.

  Theo put his hands on my shoulders, stopping me. “I don’t like this,” he murmured.

  “We’ve come this far,” I said.

  He withdrew his hands, and I stepped into the doorway.

  “Close enough,” said Rocco, and I looked in the direction of his voice. There was an indistinct form just past the edge of the candlelight. A small bit of steel reflected the flame. It looked sharp, and it was pointed in my direction. I raised my hands.

  “What do you want from me?” he said.

  “The truth about Lady Mathilde,” I said.

  “She’s dead and buried,” he said. “Fell down the steps in ’87. I could show you where we found her.”

  “You and Berenguer buried an empty coffin,” I said. “Lowered it into a grave while your master watched. And because she did not die that day, people are dying now.”

  “How do you know all this?” he shouted. “Are you some kind of a witch?”

  “Was it because Landrieux learned that she was unfaithful to him that he punished her so?” I asked.

  “The whore deserved it,” he said. “Everything that happened, she had coming to her. You can’t leave these things to God to sort out. That’s what the master used to say. God’s got a lot on His mind, so we have to take care of His business here.”

  “Who was her lover?” I asked.

  “It was that pretty boy troubadour,” said Rocco, snickering in a high-pitched voice. “Used to come over, give her singing lessons, worm his way in until the master trusted him enough. Then the master would go off hunting, and the lessons were for something else, something nasty. But the master found out. You couldn’t fool him, not the master. He pretended to go hunting, had someone dress up in his clothes and ride his horse out to the country, and all the while he was hiding here, watching her. Watching them. Oh, he smelled them out good, did the master.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He hauls the troubadour in, makes him pay, beats him but good, and in front of the lady,” said Rocco. “I didn’t even have to lay a hand on him; the master does it all himself. Then he gives him two days to clear out, and pretty boy is gone in one.”

  “And the Lady Mathilde?” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “There’s a dungeon here no one knew about,” said Rocco. “No one but the master, and Berenguer, and me. He puts her in there, chained to the wall, and keeps her there in the dark. She screamed and screamed, but no one could hear her. Sometimes the master would go down and have his way with her, but he was her husband, so he was in the right, wasn’t he? And me and Berenguer would bring her food, muck out the cell, and throw a bucket of water on her every now and then.”

  “What about Rafael de la Tour?” asked Theo from behind me.

  “Berenguer heard him singing once,” said Rocco. “Singing about master and her. He told the master, and the master told us to bring him here. You don’t disrespect the master like that and get away with it. So we waited for him, conked him, put a sack over his head and tied it good. We brought him to the master. He made him sing the song to her. Sing it over and over. It was supposed to be sung over her corpse, but she was alive, and hearing her death song over and over and screaming. Just the song and the screams. Then, at the end, she was singing it with him. Christ, she had a voice like an angel. A fallen angel, chained forever, singing her own funeral lament. And we took Rafael back and told him to get out of Montpellier, and if we ever heard him singing again, we’d cut out his tongue and feed it to him. You don’t disrespect the master like that and get away with it. He was lucky.”

  “How long did your master keep her there?” I asked.

  “Until he died,” he answered.

  “Eight years,” breathed Helga in horror.

  “And then what?”

  “And then Berenguer was the steward for the boy, and he kept her there after,” said Rocco.

  “He kept her there?”

  “He was told to by the master,” said Rocco. “The master would say, ‘If I die before her, boys, you keep her there until she’s ready to join me.’ So Berenguer did.”

  “Did the boy,” began Grelho, and I could hear that he was weeping. “Did Philippe know about this?”

  “Not while it was going on,” said Rocco. “He grew up thinking she was dead all along.”

  “Did she die finally?” I asked, hoping that she was truly at rest somewhere.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “The Countess kicked everyone out. I don’t know
what happened to her. I took a look down there when I sneaked back in here, but it was empty.”

  “Why did you panic?” asked Theo. “What caused you to hide?”

  “A couple of days ago, Berenguer looks me up at the warehouse,” he said. “Says there’s people poking about, asking about her. Says a big man’s offering money to find out what happened to her, and someone else is offering even more. Then I hear the big man’s been killed, so I go to Berenguer to find out what’s what, and someone did him, too. So, I ran.”

  “Who was the other man?” I said.

  “Ask Berenguer,” he said. “I never seen him. But if I do, I’ll stick him before he sticks me first. You can count on that. And you’d best do the same, lady.”

  “Sound advice, thank you,” I said.

  “Who killed Rafael?” asked Theo. “Who killed the priest who performed the rites at the burial?”

  “He hung himself is what I heard,” said Rocco, and I could sense the smirk even if I couldn’t see it. “And the master heard that the boy was still singing that song. He was lucky the first time he disrespected the master. Not so lucky the second, is what I heard.”

  “There’s bad luck for everybody in this,” I said. “Who knows you’re here?”

  “Didn’t think anyone did,” he said. “What tipped you?”

  “You made a fire, Rocco,” said Grelho wearily. “We saw the smoke.”

  “I was cold,” he whined.

  “It’s colder in the grave,” said Theo. “You may want to consider getting out of town entirely.”

  “I’m safe here,” said Rocco. “I’ll wait until it blows over.”

  “It’s your funeral,” said Theo. “Nice chatting with you. We’re leaving.”

  “Wait,” said Rocco. “Lady, pick up the candle from the table and hold it in front of you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I got a crossbow pointing at you,” he explained.

  I picked up the candle and held it in front of me.

  “Back up slowly into the hallway and stand there,” he directed. “Good. Now, two steps toward your friends and stop. I’m coming to the door. Anything funny happens from any of you, I kill her.”

  I prayed that he had a steady hand. The candle wax was dripping onto my fingers, but I held on for dear life.