Read Online The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery by Alan Gordon - Free Book Online Page A

Roncelin has been here ever since, and Aragon has stayed away.”
    “So he’s now in charge?” I asked.
    “Not in the least,” said Pantalan. “He’s a viscount who doesn’t count. Marseille is run by a consulat made up of merchants and gentry, backed up by the mercenaries, all for the great purpose of running the city profitably with as little outside interference as possible. Roncelin mopes in luxury. The Pope excommunicated him, and periodically threatens to impose an interdict on the entire city, but nobody cares as long as they can keep fleecing the pilgrims, coming and going.”
    “Did this Roncelin know that Folquet was behind his being pulled out of his monastic life?” asked Claudia.
    “Probably,” said Pantalan.
    “And do you know why Folquet became a monk himself?”
    “He never told me,” said Pantalan. “Just up and left without so much as a good-bye.”
    “What are you thinking?” I asked Claudia.
    “Roncelin is forced by Folquet to leave an abbey, then Folquet joins one,” she said. “It restores a balance, somehow.”
    “I don’t see the connection,” said Pantalan. “Folquet didn’t join the Cistercians until three years after Roncelin was made Viscount.”
    “I am thinking about the impact of being forced away from God to serve Mammon,” said Claudia. “To be deprived of His love and protection, to be excommunicated by the Pope himself, and to be held a prisoner in your own house. I could see Roncelin wishing to take revenge on the man who caused his sorrows.”
    “But after all these years?” objected Pantalan.
    “Resentments can grow over time,” said Claudia. “And revenges can take time to plan. God knows my husband and I have seen such in our own lives after years of quiet.”
    “It’s a possibility,” I said. “Certainly a place to start. You have access to the Hôtel de Barral?”
    “Of course,” he said huffily. “I have access to every house in Marseille.”
    “Then you and I shall go there tomorrow,” I said.
    “What about me?” exclaimed Claudia. “It was my idea.”
    “It was,” I said. “But we have to split up. I need you to speak with Hélène’s brother to see what he knows.”
    “Ah, the noble Julien,” said Pantalan. “He’s in the Ville-Basse near the Saint-Esprit hospital. He lives over his shop near the mercers’ wharf.”
    “Why do you call him noble?” she asked.
    “Because he’s a good man for a merchant,” replied Pantalan. “Visits his sister monthly ever since she was thrust into holy orders. There are plenty who abandon their relatives once that happens.”
    Portia suddenly nestled against the fool’s chest, her eyes half-closed. He looked down at her in astonishment.
    “I’ve become boring,” he whispered. “My conversation usually doesn’t have this effect until after the fourth cup.”
    “Looks like he’s got your job, Helga,” I said.
    Pantalan rocked the baby expertly back and forth until her eyelids completed their downward journey; then he placed her gently in her cradle. He looked at her and sighed. “I enjoyed that,” he said softly. “Never thought about having children.”
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “Because then I would have to grow up,” he said, smiling. “Good night, fellow fools. I will see you in the morning.”
    *   *   *
    We were up and doing our stretches in the courtyard when our host emerged, yawning and blinking in the midmorning sun. He watched us for a while.
    “I remember that one,” he said as Helga stood on one leg and put her other foot behind her head.
    “Could you ever do it?” she asked.
    “When I was thirteen, after four years at the Guildhall,” he said. “Two decades and many meals ago.”
    He bent over, scraped the tips of his fingers against his toes one time, straightened, and rolled his head from side to side. Then he shrugged his shoulders until they cracked. “Ready,” he announced.
    I collected my gear, planted kisses on various noses and lips, and