The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery (19 page)

“Then Zeus can have you there and back by noon if you get up at dawn,” said Claudia.

“I am not getting up at dawn,” I said. “I plan to sleep off tonight’s performance.”

“We’re performing? Hooray!” cheered Helga. “Where? I hope it’s a tavern.”

“Maybe she really is your daughter,” said Claudia. “Where are we performing?”

“In a tavern,” I said.

“Which one?” asked Grelho.

“Where do the guards like to go drinking when their watch is over?” I asked.

“The Cormorant, up near the Tanners’ Quay,” said Grelho. “How did you manage to get invited there?”

“I don’t have an invitation,” I said.

“You plan to barge into a tavern full of drunken soldiers and tanners without permission?” he asked. “That’s akin to suicide.”

“Well, if we have to die tonight, at least we’ll know that we’ll be in good company,” I said. “You’re coming with us.”

He winced.

We could smell the Tanners’ Quay long before we saw it. It was north of the town, on a small river that fed the Lez to the east.

“Where’s the tavern?” I asked.

“There, about fifty paces upstream,” said Grelho, still in his civilian attire. “If it was downstream from the tanners, no one would live after drinking their beer.”

“Unless they had leather insides,” said Claudia. “I’ll stick to wine, undiluted and unpolluted, thank you very much.”

The tavern was a two-story wooden structure raised up from the ground several feet so that drinking could continue unabated during times of flood. As we drew nearer, we heard a constant roaring from inside. A crude carving of a cormorant adorned the roof over the entrance. The roar increased suddenly, and we heard a bottle break. Then someone came flying through the front door, missing the steps neatly to land facefirst in the mud near us. Claudia considerately turned his head to the side so that he would not drown, then stepped over him daintily.

The three of us in motley ascended the steps first, with Helga in the middle.

“On three, we go in,” I said. “The usual tavern routine.”

As I spoke, I reached behind Helga to tug on my wife’s elbow. She nodded slightly.

“Ready?” I asked.

“Ready,” said Helga.

“Ready,” said Claudia with a slight smile.

“One, two, three!” I counted.

Then Claudia and I stood there as our young apprentice barged into the tavern by herself. Grelho came up to join us.

“You didn’t just do that,” he muttered. “Not here.”

“Let’s watch what happens,” I said.

Helga stood in the middle of the tavern, blinking uncertainly as she realized she was alone. That is, alone except for a couple of dozen soldiers and other rough-looking sorts, who all looked at her and licked their lips.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for my father.”

“And who might he be, little girl?” said the tapster, leaning over the counter to leer at her.

“Well, knowing my mother, it could be any one of you,” said Helga, which brought astonished laughs and a few worried looks from the men. “But the man she tells me is my father is a disreputable foul-smelling lout who consorts with the worst sorts of men in the worst sorts of places. Naturally, I came straight here.”

“Impressive,” said Grelho, as the men caught on to the joke and began laughing.

I nodded at Claudia, and she bustled in.

“There you are, you little scamp,” she scolded Helga. “I have been in every tavern in this city looking for you.”

“I was looking for father,” she said. “He’s already been to every other tavern. He’s bound to show up here.”

“Only if he can still walk,” said Claudia.

With that cue I fell through the doorway. I grabbed my shoulder with one hand and pretended to pull myself up with it. Then I stared at Claudia and Helga. “Wife, daughter,” I said in surprise. “Good, then I must be home. What’s for supper?”

“You missed supper,” said Claudia icily. “You missed the last three suppers.”

“They were quite delicious,” piped up Helga.

“Where were you?” demanded Claudia, pulling out a club and slapping it menacingly against her palm.

“I wasn’t with you?” I asked.

“No.”

I scratched my head, puzzled, as she pulled out more clubs. Helga had hers out as well.

“Then who was that woman?” I asked her.

The clubs came flying at me from both females, and I caught and returned them as fast as I could, my feeble protests ineffective against the invective of my good wife. Duchess she may have once been, but she could outcurse any sailor when she was in character, and the combination of clubs and obscenities flying out of her had the men in the room guffawing and cheering within seconds.

Grelho slipped in unobtrusively and took a seat by the front door, watching us. I caught one club and, instead of returning it to Helga, flipped it over my shoulder in his direction. He was holding Portia in the crook of his right arm, so he caught it with his left hand.

“My pardons, Sieur,” I called to him. “Would you be so kind as to toss that back to me?”

He didn’t look happy about having any attention directed his way, but did his best to appear like a casual onlooker and threw it clumsily in my direction.

I sent it back, then sent another one right after it. He caught each in rapid succession, and returned them as Portia bounced happily. I now held three clubs in my left hand as I kept returning the ladies’ throws with my right. I grinned at Grelho.

He sighed. “Hold this,” he said, handing Portia to a soldier sitting by them. Then he stood up with a grimace and beckoned to me with both hands. Claudia and Helga tossed me their remaining clubs so that I had a total of eight. I tossed four to Grelho.

“First one to drop buys,” I said.

“You’re on,” he replied, and the game began in earnest. Around us, men were frantically betting. The clubs went back and forth between us in a blur. He was good. He was very good. Too good, in fact. I lost after about fifteen rounds.

“The great Grelho!” I cried, holding up his hand in triumph. “And we are the Fool Family!”

There was applause; there was drinking. I bought Grelho his first, but that was the last coin to leave our pouches that evening.

“Grelho, where have you been hiding yourself?” asked a captain of the Viguerie, coming over to our table to slap him on the back.

“Oh, you know what it’s been like lately,” said Grelho. “I didn’t think there was much call for my services.”

“Ah, don’t let that bitch and her new man get you,” said the captain. “We missed seeing you. Where’s the makeup and costume? I didn’t even know it was you until this other fool introduced you.”

“Well, I—,” began Grelho.

“Part of the act,” I interrupted. “Sieur Grelho kindly agreed to play an innocent member of the crowd.”

“Quite generous of him to share the room with us,” added Claudia. “Always a privilege to work with a master fool.”

“Stop, you’re embarrassing me,” said Grelho, pleased in spite of it.

“We’ll have you at the barracks Saturday,” said the captain. “It’s payday, and we always have a party. Bring your friends. That little girl is a pip.”

We celebrated with our new friends until midnight, then staggered back to Grelho’s place. He continued carrying Portia, putting her up on his shoulders and galloping about as she shrieked in laughter and terror.

“Apprentice,” I said when we arrived. “Front and center.”

She stood before us.

“There are a number of tests you have to pass before becoming a jester in full,” I said. “You passed one tonight. Congratulations.”

She beamed as the rest of us applauded, including Portia.

“Now, let’s all get some sleep,” I said. “We’ll wake when we wake.”

Grelho handed Portia to Claudia, smiled, and waved a weary good night as he climbed the steps to the upper floor. Helga was practically out on her feet, and needed little coaxing to go to sleep. Claudia nursed Portia, then put her down.

“Grelho has a nice smile when he uses it,” she said.

“Nice to see it come out,” I said.

“I’ve never seen you lose a juggling challenge when there’s a free drink on the line,” she said. “One might almost believe that you let him win.”

“First time for everything,” I said. “I’m going to sleep. I’m riding to Maguelone at a lady’s behest in the morning.”

*   *   *

The Lattes Gate was being manned by the Tanners’ Guild when I passed through it, and the leathery-looking fellow standing guard recognized me from our performance at the Cormorant and waved me through. Zeus saw open road ahead and bucked a couple of times to see if I was paying attention. I tugged on his reins to let him know that I hadn’t fallen off; then I flicked them gently, and the landscape became a blur.

Fortunately, the Mediterranean presented an obstacle large enough that even Zeus knew better than to try to leap it. A narrow island spread out before us, and dominating its western end was the cathedral. The island was well-protected by walls and fortifications seaward, but was connected to the mainland by a low wooden causeway to our left. The tide was out, however, so we simply rode across the exposed sand flats, scattering shorebirds who were stabbing at the crabs and shellfish with their long pointed beaks.

The cathedral itself was a cross between a house of God and a fort against Muhammad. It was Romanesque in style, made of blocks of white sandstone, with a white tiled roof. The island was the principal defense for the area against attacks by invaders or pirates, which was why the Church chose to place the bishopric here rather than in Montpellier proper. Still, once on the island, with its gentle beaches and its ample vineyards, I could see the seductive aspects of renouncing the world for the cloth. If they only had a decent tavern …

The door to the cathedral was carved with vines and grapes, and had a tympanum over it with a frieze depicting Our Savior welcoming one and all, surrounded by some adoring animals. I rejected the possibility that that meant I could bring Zeus into the cathedral itself, and tied him to a rail nearby. There was a wooden post standing there with an iron bell suspended from it.

There was an inscription over the door:
To this haven of life come those who are thirsty. In crossing this threshold, pray for your life. Always weep for your sins. Whatever is wrong is cleansed by the fountain of your tears.

I have never been much for weeping. But then, I have never been much for cathedrals, either. Still, this one lacked the wasteful extravagance of the Gothic monstrosities that were being built everywhere, so I renounced my pride and crossed the threshold. I did pray for my life, albeit dry-eyed. There were not enough tears to cover my sins.

It was dark, the narrow windows stingy with what they let in from the outside. The layout was a simple rectangular box, the altar at the far end just a stone slab of a table. Plain wooden stalls lined both sides. Probably no more than a dozen clerics here, all told. At the base of the altar was a curious-looking fan made of peacock feathers. As I looked at it, someone cleared his throat. I turned to see a priest standing there.

“Why the fan?” I asked, pointing at it.

“To protect the Host from contamination,” he said. “The mosquitoes can be something fierce around here. May I help you, my son?”

“Forgive the intrusion,” I said.

“We can forgive far worse things,” he said, smiling.

“I am looking for one of your newer monks,” I said. “Guilhem of Montpellier.”

“Brother Guilhem should be attending to our gardens,” he said, pointing to the north side of the cathedral.

“Thank you, Father,” I said, starting in that direction.

“Should be, I said,” he continued. “But I would first check the beach. It might save you a trip.”

“Thank you again,” I said. I placed a penny in the collection box and went back outside.

I passed through groves of almonds and date trees, restraining myself from plucking anything that didn’t belong to me. There was a brick wall at the other side, and I followed it until I came to a door. I opened it, and the bright blue Mediterranean dazzled before me, separated by a short stretch of sand. A young man was stretched out on top of his discarded cassock, his sandals discarded next to a football. He had been swimming recently, if the wet tonsure was any indication. His eyes were closed, but he was humming, so I assumed he was awake. I decided to put that theory to the test.

“Brother Guilhem,” I said sternly.

He sprang guiltily to his feet, gathering his cassock.

“Forgive me, Father, I’ll get right to—” he blurted, then stopped as he saw me.

“Forgive me, Brother Guilhem,” I said, chuckling. “It was too good an opportunity. I am Tan Pierre, the fool.”

“And you have made me another,” he said, laughing at his embarrassment. “Let me reassemble myself.”

“Oh, don’t bother on my account,” I said. “I came to see Guilhem of Montpellier, not Brother Guilhem of Maguelone.”

“Really? Why?”

“Curiosity,” I said.

“Oh, is that all?” he said petulantly. “Come see the boy count who gave it up to be a monk before he could even shave.”

“That patter is much too long,” I said. “You’ll get more tourists if you come up with something short and catchy.”

“But they’ll come because I’m an oddity, isn’t that what you’re saying?” he said, kicking the ball in my direction.

I blocked it, then kicked it up and juggled it back and forth with my knees.

“Hey, you’re good,” he said. “Kick it back to me.”

And suddenly, we had a game going. I quickly learned that the accumulated skills of a middle-aged jester are no match for the energy of a fourteen-year-old boy. After about ten minutes, I held my hands up in surrender.

He picked up his cassock and threw it over his head, then tied the cord around his waist. He picked up the ball and his sandals. “Good match,” he said. “Walk me to my penance. I detest gardening.”

“That’s why they have you do it,” I said.

“No doubt,” he said cheerfully. “You should join us. No one else here plays football. They’re all too busy praying.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“I suppose,” he said, tossing the ball up and heading it a few times. “But they’re all so old. They don’t know what it’s like to have someone young here. They’ve forgotten how to dream. It’s a romantic place, in many ways. Do you know the legend of Maguelone?”