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

signs. It was a stormy day, and the herd was agitated. Then something startled them, and she didn’t know where to take cover.”
    “Never underestimate the wrath of females,” I said, and we sat and watched the herd for a while. They looked peaceful enough.
    “See that bull down there?” she said, pointing to a large black beast in a fenced-off enclosure.
    “Is he the only one?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she said. “We call him the Bishop.”
    “That doesn’t bode well for breeding,” I said.
    “He does just fine,” she said. “We call him that for luck. We’re hoping that Marseille will recognize us as an official order and build us our own abbey.”
    “This would be a lovely spot for it,” I said, getting to my feet. “I wish you luck.”
    “Where will you go next?”
    “To Marseille,” I said. “Maybe the answer lies there.”
    “My brother, Julien Guiraud, is a merchant there,” she said. “Tell him that you spoke to me, and he will give you any assistance you require.”
    “Thank you, that is most gracious,” I said.
    “Will you be seeing my husband again?” she asked.
    “God willing, yes,” I said.
    She looked across at the bull, grazing quietly in his little enclosure. “Tell him that he is in my prayers,” she said softly.
    “I will, Domna,” I promised.
    *   *   *
    By the time I had walked back down the hill, it was noon. I heard Portia squealing happily, which aroused my suspicions. Sure enough, I came upon my husband tossing her into the air and catching her.
    “I should have had triplets so you could juggle three,” I said as I came up.
    “But how do you nurse triplets?” he asked. “Speaking of which, take her. She’s starving.”
    “So am I,” I grumbled. He helped me up onto the wain, handed me Portia, and tossed me a piece of bread.
    “Any luck?” he asked as he flicked the reins.
    “Not really,” I said. I recounted my conversation.
    “The merchant angle seems unlikely,” he mused. “I can’t think of a purely monetary reason to hold a grudge that long. But we can look up the brother when we get there.”
    “How long to Marseille from here?”
    “Hopefully, we’ll arrive before sunset tomorrow. This valley sends milk and cheese there, so it can’t be too long a journey.”
    He glanced back at the holy women and their charges. “Pretty spot,” he said. “Quiet, peaceful. I think I’d go mad.”
    “Would you ever join a holy order?” I asked.
    His laughter subsided about eight minutes later. “What on earth possessed you to say such a thing?” he asked, wiping the tears streaking his whiteface with his kerchief. “You know me better than that.”
    “What possessed Folc to join? There he was, prosperous merchant, celebrated singer, wife and two boys—then overnight, he is a servant of Christ. Why couldn’t that happen to you?”
    “Because I am me, not Folc,” he said. “Besides, no respectable order would take me.”
    “All I am saying is that it could happen,” I persisted. “And then what would become of Portia and me?”
    “Ah, so that’s what this is about,” he said. “I vow by all that is sacred that if I suddenly turn monk, I will not condemn the two of you to the cloister. Satisfied?”
    “Could I have it in writing? Sworn and sealed by a reputable notary?”
    “Are you serious?”
    “I have never been more serious,” I said.
    “Well, stop it at once; it’s bad for the act,” he said.
    Something in my look caused him to wince. I made a mental note to teach Helga that look. And Portia, when she was older.
    “Fine, one sealed and notarized release if I turn monk,” he said. “Shall I draw up my will while I’m at it?”
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “What will you do if I die?” he asked.
    “Hélène said they want their own abbey here. Maybe I’ll join them.”
    “Become a milkmaid?”
    “It would be a welcome change from living with a fool,” I snapped. “Peace and quiet at last. I think it’s the absence of men