Read Online [Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal by Alan Gordon - Free Book Online

he asked. “I’m just the visible watchman.”
    “Got it,” I said. “Carry on.”
    The Villeneuve Gate was on the eastern wall of the bourg, not far from where it met up with the original city wall. The leper house was on the outside of the wall, of course. The sun was setting, which meant that the gates were closing, but Sancho had no difficulty talking the guards into letting us through. I imagine that they had a steady secondary income in bribes from wayward patrons returning in the dark.
    There was a small cluster of shops and taverns outside the gate, taking advantage of the lower rents to undercut their city competitors. The road into the gate was not one of the major routes, so the traffic was light, mostly farmers returning home with whatever goods they had been unable to unload at the markets.
    The leper house sat in isolation beyond the shops. At least it must have, but all one could see was the high brick wall surrounding it, keeping the gawkers out and the contagion within. The upper story was visible, as were the red shutters that marked it, but they were all closed. There were five such houses scattered around the outside of the walls of Toulouse. I did not know what charity ran this one.
    Sancho walked past the far corner of the house, then turned left like a man who had done this before. A narrow path ran between the brick wall and the fence of the adjoining farm, leading to the rear of the house.
    The brick wall was lower in back, and the shutters were not so well maintained, but that did not matter. What drew us on was another two-story house, hung with many lanterns that glowed with a welcoming promise even as the sun was setting on the other side of the bourg. There were bursts of laughter, mostly women’s, escaping into the evening, and someone was sawing away passably at a viol.
    “This is the place,” said Sancho.
    “If the women here are as good as the beer in the Tanners’ Pit, then we are in for a rare treat,” said Baudoin.
    “No woman is as good as that beer,” said Sancho. “But they’ll do.”
    He walked up to the door, nodding at the large man who sat by it with a serious-looking club resting against his thigh.
    “I vouch for them,” said Sancho, and the guard looked us over, then opened the door and beckoned us through.
    There was a copper lamp suspended from the center of the room, its leaves hammered and punched into a delicate filigree that cast undulating webs of shadow on the walls. Red cushioned chairs rested against the walls, and in front of them was a low table covered with a cloth embroidered with scenes of Greek maidens in varying states of undress fleeing from satyrs who were not dressed at all. The maidens did not appear to be trying that hard to flee. The viol player must have been playing outside one of the ladies’ workrooms, for the music floated down from somewhere farther into the interior of the place.
    “Is that Sancho?” asked a low, mocking alto of a voice. “Could the dice have given him enough to grace our house with a visit?”
    She appeared from the shadows of the hall opposite the entrance, wearing a dark green damask gown cut so low in front that the missing fabric could have made for a large tablecloth. She glided across the thick rug that I had just noticed contained more scenes of mythological debauchery. I also noticed that her feet were bare. I found myself thinking about what nice feet they were, and what it would be like to—
    “No dice for me tonight, I’m sorry to say,” said Sancho, Lord High Interrupter of Erotic Reveries. “But I’ve brought you some customers, all the way from Paris.”
    “You are most welcome, gentlemen,” she said in perfect langue d’oïl.
    “Does everyone in Toulouse speak our tongue?” wondered Baudoin.
    “Only those of importance,” she said. “And in this house, you’ll find that our tongues are quite talented.”
    “What shall we call you, Domina?” asked Baudoin, bowing.
    “I am the