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

mischief,” said the woman.
    “She comes by it honestly,” I replied. “Do you know of a community of women who serve the Bishop of Marseille here?”
    “Certainly,” she said. “Over that end of the valley, about two miles. They’ll be bringing the cattle up to pasture about now. You’re not joining them, are you?”
    “Hardly,” I laughed. “I know one from earlier times. I want to see her since I’m in the area. Hélène of Marseille.”
    “Oc, I know her,” said the woman. “One of the older ones, but she does a full day’s work.”
    “Don’t we all?” I said, patting the baby, who burped and caused a minor panic among the chickens.
    We gathered our gear, thanked our hosts, and rode south. Eventually, we saw a herd of cattle in the distance, grazing on the lower slopes of the mountain, a group of women tending to them with a pack of small dark dogs dashing about.
    “You’re on,” said Theo. “Do you want to ride Zeus? It would be quicker.”
    “Not if my life depended on it,” I said, jumping down from the wain and stretching my legs. “No offense,” I said to the beast, patting him on the neck as I walked by. He craned his head around and snapped at my hand.
    The walk was pleasant but uphill, and despite the cool air, I was sweating heavily by the time I reached the women, who were resting in the shade of a solitary oak. They had seen me approaching for some time, of course, and their expressions were curious but not unfriendly.
    “Greetings, good ladies,” I said. “I am Domna Gile, a jester. I seek Hélène of Marseille.”
    One of the women rose. “I am Hélène,” she said.
    She was brown from so much time in the sun, and the skin around her eyes was cracked and slightly spotted. The eyes themselves were sharp, focusing intently on mine. She wore a simple gray woolen robe, much like those of the lay brothers at Le Thoronet. The hair peeking out from under her scarf was gray as well. I knew that she had to be close to Folc’s age, but she looked twenty years older.
    “May I have a private word with you, Domna?” I asked.
    She looked at another woman there who nodded.
    “Very well,” said Hélène. “Come with me.”
    As she walked, a pair of dogs bounded up to her sides. They came over and sniffed me, then went back to their mistress.
    “Is my husband dead?” she asked softly as I joined her.
    “He lives and is well,” I replied. “How did you know this concerned him?”
    “He was a troubadour of the Fools’ Guild,” she said. “And here come a flock of jesters, something rarely seen here. I could see your motley for miles. I thought it must be bad news.”
    “I apologize,” I said. “We did not mean to cause you unwarranted distress.”
    “What about warranted distress?” she asked, smiling ruefully.
    “You are too quick for this poor fool, Domna,” I said. “We have come in his behalf. He may be in danger from some old enemy. We seek any information about his former life that might help us.”
    “Tell me,” she said, sitting on a large rock and beckoning to me to join her.
    I quickly recounted the details of the murder and the message left on the walls of the library.
    She gasped in horror during the telling, and looked faint when I had done. “Tell me what I can do to help you,” she said immediately.
    “We thought the ‘lark’ might have been your husband,” I said. “Was that ever his nickname?”
    “Not that I knew of,” she said. “Folquet was the name he used when performing. His real name is Folc.”
    She stopped to give a brief command to the two dogs, who promptly darted off to retrieve a cow that had wandered off from the herd. The beast lumbered back, looking mildly perturbed, then lowered its head and grazed again. The dogs bounded back to us, and she patted them on the head.
    “They mind you well,” I said.
    “Yes, they do,” she said fondly. “They are named after my boys. Something to remind me of them.”
    “They have become