Fair Warning
an excerpt

Reynardin could hear the sound of the citole from the bottom of the stairs. Énide shrugged. “I leave it to you, my old friend,” she said. “I hope we have done the right thing.”

“Of course you have,” said Reynardin cheerfully. But the cheerfulness faded as he climbed up into the roof, where their room lay under the oak beams. He recognized the tune, and as he opened the door he hesitated, seeing Laurent, head bent over the citole, sitting on the table by the window. The song was one he had sung himself, but he made it more cynical. It told of a wanderer who finds the person he loves, and after an all too brief stay – the traditional single night and the dawn departure - has to continue on his journey. But while Reynardin rendered the promises of eternal devotion as platitudes, that would be repeated throughout the journey of life – the vagabond who snatches love; Laurent’s reverted to the Troubadour’s courtly life long devotion.

“Though we are apart, and may never meet,
I will know where you are. I will know when you are gay,
I will know when you wed. And I will know to be happy.
But do not pity me as I go, for I have found my taste of heaven
Which can be carried in my scrip.

With this, my pilgrimage is easier, and I walk more lightly, barely bruising the grass.
Other duties define me, and I cannot leave them to follow you.
You have a name, and a family, and I have neither.
I am a marked man and can offer nothing.
But I have taken from our meeting the light of heaven, which blazes from the lantern on my staff.

Your love is like the best woollen cloak, and I wrap myself in it.
Who could want a better dress? The wind’s fiercest blasts cannot pierce it;
The rain cannot harm me, nor the snow freeze me.
Your love is the warmth of heaven: I am clad in a tunic of love, which is eternal ease.

And if we meet. If in 40 years we meet, and I am old and halt of foot and grey,
And my voice has faded with my teeth, which no longer fence its talent in.
You will have grown in beauty and grace and my heart will pour out 40 years of love
And you will receive it, and store it in your pilgrim’s scrip.

For we both sought, and with God’s grace we will find

If not in this world, then in the next, where we will arrive with our scrips and staffs and everlasting love.”

He plucked the last notes, muting them on the sounding board. His eyes met Reynardin. “Beautifully done,” said the older man. “Now, do you think we should talk?”

“About what?” That square jaw could look most impressively adult when the muscles tightened, and it changed the boy into a formidable man.

“About a dead girl. Let’s not forget her.”

“I’m not but… Did Énide tell you about it?”

“It was the Provost’s sergeant – Noël. He told me about the girl this morning, which was how he knew enough to find this place and you.”

“He went away after Milicent said I was with her. Which I don’t fully understand. I was grateful, of course. I couldn’t tell the truth, you see. So – if it hadn’t been for Énide and the girls, things would have gone badly.”

“Wouldn’t my lord Castellucci have got you out again?”

Laurent shook his head. “I don’t think he has the influence here that he had in St Frères. There he was an Umbrian aristocrat being entertained in an insignificant town. Now he’s just another merchant in a town full of merchants – most of whom are much richer and more influential than the Castellucci family.”

“That doesn’t worry you.” He was relieved to see the youngster’s face break into a smile.

“Of course not. He’s Pier Franco – I always knew the important part of him. Now –“ the smile turned rather sheepish. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Reynardin kept his face stern. “Énide trusts her judgement about men. And Berthe does too.”

“And Milicent? She was – do you know her? That – amazed me. Oh, I know Berthe sent her, but …”

“She’s a force to be reckoned with, or will be. At the moment her mother is the one with the influence. Didn’t Énide explain?”

“No – she just recommended that I take Milicent up on her offer. But I think she was joking!”

“Milicent’s mother owns a dozen laundries – or probably more by now. She makes enough on the rent to be a substantial donor to some of the hostels. And she decided that although she wanted an heir, she didn’t want a man creaming off the profit from her businesses, or interfering, or weakening her power in the Guilds. So she chose one of the men who came to the Fair – or probably more than one: I wasn’t around at the time: this is just what Énide told me. Anyway, she had her child, and when they asked about the father, she made it quite clear that she had chosen someone intelligent, healthy and good looking (just like breeding a good horse), but that their main qualification was that they would be far away before they could learn that she carried a child. Énide says that her mother – Milicent’s grandmother – had done the same. So Noël had every reason to believe that Milicent was up to the same game. And – don’t let it go to your head – you’re just the type she would be looking for. The Count doesn’t want trouble with the Guilds. So Noël came to me.”

Laurent leaned back into the window frame, and relaxed his grip on the citole. “So that’s all over then.”

“Where were you last night?”

“What does it matter? You know I wasn’t with Clothilde.”

“No. I know who you were with, and a good idea of what you were doing, but not where you went.”

“We walked down to the Seine, past the horse pastures.”

“Down by the mills?” Laurent nodded. “Damn.”

“Is that where… No one said. How did she die?”

“Struck on the head. At first they thought it might have been by the water-wheel – I wonder if the Abbey’s mill would be able to claim benefit of clergy? – but I’ve seen the body. It was something with a sharp edge. Perhaps a grain shovel: Sergeant Noël is checking on it. And then strangled, and thrown in the river when she was dead. It’s sluggish there, and she...” Laurent had closed his eyes.

“So – what did you do down by the river?” Reynardin insisted.

“I wouldn’t have…”

“If someone had come along and found you, at a moment you wouldn’t have wanted the world and his wife and the Inquisition to know about, and demanded money -”

“No.”

“There’s a poacher who makes a good living by that, from what I hear. So the golden rule, boy, is ‘take care’. How long were you there?”

“We didn’t stay there. There were – lots of people around. We crossed the bridge. The sun had gone down, but it was light. Then we walked away from the river. Through an orchard and along the slope. There were roses blooming in the vineyards. Away from Troyes.” The roughness in his voice was softened as the night returned to him.

“It was full moon, or close enough. Easy to see where we were walking. We just – talked. Looked down on Troyes. The street lights had been put out by then. And we came to a stream. It was – clean and fresh. And the moon was so bright. On such a night, neither of us wanted to go back. And we drank the wine.”

Reynardin nodded. It would have been impossible to believe that Laurent was lying to him. And by not lingering around by the mills and the stream, he was surely not there when Clothilde had been killed. But the circumstances he had suggested could still be true, with different people involved. There would have been more than one couple out there, who did not wish to be known. But on such a night, the girl had died.

After a pause, Laurent continued: “And then we followed the stream down, and crossed the Seine at Colombier Les Deux Ponts.” He shook his head, and his mouth twisted. “It was like a dream in which everything is frozen in time, and you are the only person moving. The houses were made of beaten silver, with beams inked in, the church tower was black against the sky, the stars were brilliant. The only living creatures, apart from us, were the storks in the nest on the roof of the dovecote. They clattered their bills as we passed, like censorious hens.” He looked across at Reynardin, lounging on the bed.

“You are censorious. I can see.”

“Me? Don’t mix me up with your confessor. I would be a lot more confident if you were more cheerful, though. But Énide said you came in this morning floating on a dream of contentment – which she says is a good sign. Feo used the word ‘incandescent’ to describe his lordship – he must have read it in a book somewhere. So – just take care. There are people out there who are not going to be happy for you. And that isn’t just the Church. Did the gate guards record you as you came in?”

“By the time we got back to the city, it was nearly dawn and everybody seemed to be up and about. Porters carrying bales out to the mule lines, women working in the gardens, people taking fodder out to the animals. We walked round and separated at the St Madeleine Gate. I came back along the moat to the Preize Gate and home. No one seemed interested in one scruffy traveller.”