Free [Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal by Alan Gordon Page A

Sunday, just after dawn. I had come with the general idea of getting my pupil out of the bordel before too many people were aware that he was in one. Maybe invite him to attend Mass with us. New sins to confess, and all that. Turned out there were more than I thought possible.
    Sancho and Hue were side by side on a couch, a near-empty wineskin on the table before them. Sancho was awake when I came in, and nudged Hue, who had his head back and his open mouth to the ceiling. The Parisian sat bolt upright and dabbed at a stream of drool with his sleeve. We made the usual lewd, stupid jokes that one makes under such circumstances; then Hue went upstairs to rouse his master.
    And came flying back, choking in terror.
    Sancho’s companions had moved from their post of the night before, no doubt thanks to my ease in finding them.
    I had no time to play hide-and-seek. I stood in front of the bordel and said, “Sancho needs you. Now!”
    I thought I saw a movement from an upper window at the rear of the leper house, but then the two soldiers emerged from behind a woodpile.
    “What’s going on?” asked one of them.
    “Can’t talk about it,” I said softly. “But one of you has to get a squad back here immediately. The other come with me to Sancho.”
    “Why isn’t he telling us this himself?” asked the other one.
    “You’ll see when you get back. Now, hurry!”
    Despite my whiteface, they took me seriously. The first ran off, while the second drew his sword and followed me back inside.
    “A rare treat for me, coming in here,” he said, looking around appreciatively.
    “I’m about to spoil it,” I said, leading him upstairs.
    I knocked softly at the door. Sancho opened it. His fellow took one step in and stared.
    “Him?” he asked, looking at Baudoin, who was dressed now and sitting in a chair.
    “Oc, him,” said Sancho. “We have to keep this quiet until the others get here.”
    “Right,” said the other soldier. “Nothing like a whorehouse for quiet and secrecy.”
    He looked at La Rossa with an expression that somehow combined pity and lust.
    “Wouldn’t have minded spending my last night on earth doing her,” he said.
    “Did you find Hue?” asked Sancho.
    “Sorry,” I said.
    I ran downstairs and did a quick look around. There was a kitchen in the rear, with a door leading to the gardens in back. It was barred from the inside, I noticed. There was a large table in the middle. Hue sat by it, resting his face on his folded arms. From the smell, he had been violently ill in the last few minutes. I couldn’t blame him.
    “You’re wanted upstairs,” I said softly.
    “They’re going to put us back in that dungeon, aren’t they?” he said without looking up.
    “Just your master, I would think,” I replied.
    “But I am his man,” he said. “I will have to go with him to serve him.”
    “You may have to do that from without,” I said.
    He sat up and shook his head. “I must go with him,” he said with determination.
    “Then come upstairs.”
    As we reached the red room, the Abbess suddenly appeared, her hair loose, a blue silk robe wrapped around her.
    “Senhors, why are you all up here?” she asked. “Does your Parisian still sleep on?”
    Sancho stepped into the hallway.
    “Domina, I regret to inform you that La Rossa has been murdered,” he said.
    She clapped her hands to her face, her eyes wide in horror; then she shoved him aside with surprising strength and rushed into the room.
    “Holy Mother save us,” she whispered, looking down at the dead woman.
    She turned to see Baudoin flinching in his seat, and a low, guttural sound escaped her.
    “You!” she shouted, and she flew at him, her nails aiming for his eyes.
    Sancho grabbed her and pinioned her against the wall.
    “Give him to us,” she cried.
    “He’s ours,” said Sancho.
    “I will make it worth your while,” she said. “Sancho need never worry how the dice roll in this house again.”
    “No, Domina Abbess,” he