In Pursuit of the Green Lion (44 page)

“What’s your pleasure?” she asked. “I’m Jeannot the Fat, and I’m known as the ‘Abbess’ here in Avignon. You won’t find a better place in town.”

“By the bowels of God!” Hugo exclaimed, grinning and looking about eagerly. “I’ve died and gone to Mussulman heaven!”

The Tête du Maure was a house of ill repute.

By the time the sun had come out the next day, it had become clear how the Moor’s Head was run. The first floor was the public floor, a tavern with two great wide fireplaces, narrow little barred windows, and a large number of alcoves, many curtained. The second floor was where the women lived, with rooms that were, shall we say, let by the night. On the uppermost floor, served by a rickety outside staircase, were a few rooms under the leaky eaves, let at long term to the most dubious of travelers.

In the center of the house was a wide courtyard, which you could see from our little window. Open staircases led from the courtyard to the rooms on each floor. And when the weather was good, the court was filled with travelers in strange costumes, Jews with their yellow badges opening their packs to display colorful wares, groups of students jesting in Latin, and women all finely dressed, with tinkling jewelry, tall headdresses, and high pattens, coming and going on mysterious business. All of it was a hint of the vibrant life of the streets and buildings beyond, a life I craved to go and see for myself. But most of the time I couldn’t even leave the little room, for someone had to be with Gregory, who was still too weak to be out of bed. And besides, I couldn’t go through town without a man to escort me, and Hugo and Malachi and the others all had business of their own. How I wished with all my heart that a miracle would happen and Gregory would sit up one day with his old energy renewed, all curious to see the new places! Then he would take me everywhere on his strong arm, and we could see everything together, and talk all about it, just as in the old days: the Turkish ambassadors in their strange turbans, the swarthy foreigners with the talking birds on their shoulders, the shops, the peddlers, the shrines, and the wonderful churches full of incense and chanting.

Instead, I had to content myself with hearing all about it at second hand. Malachi told me all about the streets in which he wandered daily, and Hugo told me about the palaces of the great, where he loitered for hours, hoping for audiences with someone who might help him get the Pope’s intercession. Even Hilde had got one of Hugo’s attendants to take her about to various shrines, and though she did try to stay with me, I could see the holy places tugging at her heart, and told her to go and pray for Gregory there, if she wished to help me.

One day Hugo came in all cross, followed by Robert carrying his lute.

“Throw the damned thing in the fire, Robert. The man who sold it to me cheated me: the neck’s too narrow for a man’s fingers.”

“My lord, I beg you—it’s too valuable for firewood. Give it to me, instead.”

“You? You heard the man. You strive to outdo me?”

“Me? Oh, no, not at all. After all, it’s the verse that’s the higher thing. The music is only accompaniment. The work of the mind is proper to the lord, the job of noisemaker should be left to his squire.”

Hugo turned to inspect Robert’s face. His mind appeared to be working, although with Hugo you can never be sure.

“The damned little bitch laughed at me. You heard her. And that preposterous little fellow who calls himself a master of music says I need to perfect myself. Perfect myself! I’m perfect already!”

“Yes, my lord,” responded Robert without the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. He really wants that lute, I thought. He must have found an entirely different woman to court, and doesn’t want Hugo to know about it.

“Very well, Robert. You play it. I think I’ll go enhance my talents with that little dark fellow we met in the cardinal’s antechamber. He seemed to know quite a lot about that sort of thing. Yes, in this town poetry’s the lure that catches the most dear little fishes. Who’d have thought it? Usually they’re content with a handsome face and well-turned figure. Well, everyplace is different. Did you see that sweet little thing that lives upstairs in the Street of the Painters, Robert?”

“The one with the mole?”

“Quite right. And she’s got another on her—”

“Sir Hugo,” I interrupted. “How can you go to see the Pope when you live worse and worse every day?” He looked puzzled.

“Worse? I’ve never been so holy. I’m practically halfway into heaven these days. Haven’t killed any begging burghers for months, haven’t had a woman I haven’t paid for. Why, at home I was only shriven once a year at Easter, and, of course, before going into battle. Now, I’m shriven every week. Bleached almost as white as snow. Found a priest at St. Agricol who doesn’t speak a word of English. I tell him everything. He nods. I beat my breast and weep. He absolves me. I make an offering. I tell you, I’m living a new life. Ah, God, it’s the sacredness of this place. It rubs off, even on a sinner like me.” He rolled his eyes heavenward, and clasped his hands, and it was clear that being the knothead that he was, he was perfectly sincere. “At times—at times I feel myself—surrounded by saints here. Elevated. The golden halls! The incense! The magnificence! God must live this way! It’s just like heaven!”And he hurried off to the second floor.

Brother Malachi, of course, was equally busy. He spent his days searching for his translator, and his evenings complaining. Weary and footsore, he’d return from scouring the shabby streets of the Jewish quarter, and grumble as he sat on the bed: “That ghastly sailor, Jannetus, that wretch at Montpellier, they’ve deceived me! Do you know how many men in the Jewish quarter are named Abraham? Only those who aren’t named David or Isaac. And surnames! I swear, I’ve been misled on purpose! Of course, in any Christian city, anyone who’s Jewish is given ‘the Jew’ as his surname. So, from all over Christendom, Abraham the Jews have poured into Avignon. It’s like looking for John the Smith or William the Cook in London.”

“But what about the university? I thought there were people there who could read Hebrew. Didn’t you say so yourself?”

“They refuse to translate anything but Scripture. It seems tolerance doesn’t stretch too far, even in Avignon. I inquired after that fellow Josceus Magister. Well, at least he was real. But he was dead too—several years ago from plague. So I found his successor, a Jewish professor, a very learned man. ‘Is it sacred?’ he said. ‘Surely, you understand I’d lose my post if I got involved in anything shady. Go find someone who won’t be dismissed for doing your translation.’ So I told him about Abraham the Jew. ‘Oh, yes, him. Perfect. Go get him to do it. Good-bye.’”

“Well, surely among all those Abrahams, you’ll find the wise one you heard about very soon.”

“The wise one? They’re all wise—wise to me, that’s what. I go to Abraham the money changer. ‘What’s this?’ he says, ‘A book? My, how I’d love to help you, but I don’t read a word of Hebrew. Try Abraham the goldsmith.’ So I go to the goldsmith’s. ‘A book?’ he says, ‘Oh, it’s the tragedy of my life I don’t read Hebrew,’ and he even manages to look as if he’s wiping away a tear. A tear as dubious as some of the saints’ tears I’ve sold. Ha! They just don’t
want
to read my book, that’s what, and I’ve come to the conclusion they’re playing a game with me.”

“But Malachi, you yourself have often said that alchemy can be a dangerous business. Look at what happened with the Count of St. Médard. They may fear the risk you put them at—and it seems entirely fair to me,” Mother Hilde broke in. She had put down her mending and had gone to get the flask to renew Malachi’s glass.

“But Hilde, my love, Avignon is a hotbed of alchemy. It’s unlike any other place in Christendom that way. People who already have a lot of gold can always use more. I thought I’d told you that even a pope was one of us. That’s what made me so sure I’d find my translator here. There’s probably dozens of them somewhere, laboring away in cellars, translating arcana. Why not mine? Oh, the injustice of it all. Think, think—I must think.”

On the litter, propped across benches in the corner, Gregory groaned and stirred.

“Not now, Gilbert, not now. Can you never understand when it is inappropriate to interrupt my delicate thought processes? It’s like breathing into my vessels, just when the process must not be disturbed—a sin to which your curiosity led you often in the old days. Consideration! Consideration! Think of my delicate brain, and be silent!”

“Noisy yourself” was the sound that seemed to come from the litter as Gregory pulled the covers over his head.

“A pope an alchemist, Malachi? Which one?” I was very curious.

“They say, the last Pope John. The twenty-second of that name, I believe. He certainly left enough gold in the treasury. But I don’t think he found the Secret, even though it’s rumored. It was probably through the sale of indulgences, it seems to me. But then, that’s a kind of alchemy, turning paper into gold. I’ve practiced a little of that sort myself, and ought to know.”

“Speaking of alchemy, Malachi,” began Hilde, pouring wine into his cup to make him mellow, “I’m still waiting to hear how you made the gold for that count, when you’ve never made any for me, even when the roof needed fixing.”

“Me?” Malachi looked around him in feigned surprise. Then he looked at Hilde, and sighed. “I suppose it’s only fair. You’d think the less of me if I didn’t tell. Hilde, queen of my heart, haven’t I sworn that the first gold I make after I get the Secret will be used to crown you for your years of patience?” Hilde smiled indulgently. But she didn’t quit looking as if she were waiting for an answer. “I’d planned a ruse, my treasure, as you must have suspected all along. The secret’s in my rod. The gold was Margaret’s florins, melted down.”

“Malachi, you mean you offered the Count a false Secret as ransom? I swear, I’d have died of fear if I’d known you were just planning another of your tricks,” I broke in.

“And so I thought myself, Margaret. So of course you didn’t know. I thought the man would be gullible. What I didn’t suspect was that he was evil, as well.”

“Malachi, stick to the point. I’m waiting to hear how you did it,” said Hilde.

“Very simple. The oldest trick there is. The rod was hollow, stopped up with black wax. The gold was inside. The heat melts the wax, and there it is! The gold tumbles out. The rest consists of mystic hand-waving, strange chants, and other acts of my constantly creative imagination. They swallowed it all. Desire made them blind. It often does.”

Hilde sat down and shook her head wonderingly. “Oh, Malachi, dear Malachi,” she said. He looked at her as if he suddenly feared she might say something sharp for taking such a risk. But she saw the look, and smiled, and said, “Oh, Malachi. You’re such a philosopher.” And he beamed in response.

I waited for the precious moment to pass, and then broke in with something that had been bothering me.

“Malachi,” I asked, “have you told them it’s an alchemical text? Maybe you should make the agreement before you show them.”

“I haven’t shown it yet, but they always seem to know. And then it’s ‘try down the street.’”

“Well, suppose they know you have the Secret. Then they’ll think that if they translate it, you might not want them to know it too—”

“Yes, sensible, sensible. If I were a man like the Count, I might just send an assassin after them. An accident in the street, a fire—No, suppose I were fearful they’d told? I might just get rid of the lot. Yes. It’s clear. No wonder nobody reads Hebrew. I’ll have to give guarantees—prove my sincerity—” and he was off again, thinking of fanciful schemes.

“Malachi, you must press on,” said Hilde. “We can’t stay much longer. Did you know that Hugo was here trying to borrow money? We think he must have spent the passage money back. Margaret questioned him, and he got very annoyed. ‘I’m the heir of Brokesford, and need to live like a knight. You don’t want me to live like a peasant, do you?’ He hasn’t paid his men, and two of them have vanished. They say they’ve run off to join the Archpriest. The rest are loyal, at least for now. But the sooner we leave, the better.”

“That wretched cabbage brain! I can’t believe he’s any relative of Gilbert’s. I imagine he put the passage money on the gaming table. He hasn’t got the sense of a cooked carrot! He’s probably counting on getting home by hiring out to a party traveling in the right direction. Armed men are at a shortage now, and he can name his price. But us—we’ve got no such recourse. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave without us.”

Now Malachi had a second preoccupation. In the night, when I’d get up to attend to Gregory, whose fever waxed and waned without reason, I’d hear him muttering.

“Money, money. I need money. Think, brain, think. For God’s sake, Gilbert, stop that moaning and gibberish. You’re interfering with my mental processes.” Then I’d hear the bed creak and know that he’d sat up, to stare into the dark for hours.

A
BRAHAM THE TAILOR WAS
nobody’s fool. He knew how to smell things coming in the air. That is why he was already packed and on the road when they’d fired the Jewish quarter in Marseilles. He himself had led the mule laden with his wife, his goods, and two little babies in the panniers all night beneath the unseeing stars. He’d never turned his face back once on the road to Avignon, even on the rise of ground just beyond the city, when he heard the faint echo of distant cries behind him. His oldest son, a little boy just ten, who walked beside him with a tall stick and a pack exactly like his own, had turned and cried, “Oh, look, Father,” pausing to stare at the column of flames climbing into the night sky. But even then, the old man had only hunched his back and turned his face like iron to the road ahead.

Now he was confronted with a stranger who wanted a book translated. Looking the man over carefully, he went through his mental checklist. Not armed; not evil; not crazy; and not a Flemish wool merchant. No matter what he claimed, the man lacked the countinghouse eyes and ponderous mind of the merchant of the north. He checked the hands as the man held out the book for him to inspect. Acid-stained. And the sleeves—marred by tiny little burn holes, as if from flying sparks. Oh, God, not another alchemist, thought Abraham. What have I done to deserve this? Still, it was tempting. His wife was wanting a new pair of shoes, and his oldest boy had just outgrown his gown, which was ready, even in its patched condition, to be passed to the next child.