The Jester

by James Patterson

  “There she is,” someone shrieked.

  “I beg you, pray, lady,” a woman wailed. “God’s Heaven is great. If he finds room for us, he will for you.”

  My heart was pounding against my ribs just to see Emilie after such a long time.

  She wore a plain cotton smock and a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her blond hair was pinned and fell about her neck. She didn’t look noble, just as brave as I had ever seen her.

  Oh God, how I wanted to catch her eye, call out to her. Let her know that I was here.

  The drumbeat began again. The crowd grew hushed.

  “Let her go,” someone finally yelled. “We have no fight with her.”

  Emilie stopped for a moment, a smile of kindness on her face, but a soldier pushed her toward the scaffold.

  The crowd hollered to save her life, even as a masked hangman pulled her by the arms up the stairs and led her to the noose. I knew how frightened she must be; I knew how her heart must be fluttering. I glanced at Odo: Hold! The same to Ox. How I wanted to rise and shout the words I am here!

  Then the horns sounded again-this time the duke’s flourish. From the entrance to the castle Stephen appeared, flanked by his lackeys, the bailiff and the chamberlain.

  The bailiff pulled out a scroll and began to read: “ ‘In accordance with the laws of the Duchy of Borée and sanctioned, heretofore, by the Archbishop of the Diocese and the Holy See, it is willed that all known abettors and caregivers to the heretic rebels will be deemed agents of corruption to both Duchy and Church, and therefor be hanged by the neck until dead, and their body burned, as is the law.’ ”

  “Let her live,” a voice shouted from the crowd. “It’s Stephen’s neck that fits the noose, not hers.”

  [431] Stephen’s face reddened. “Where is your jester now, lady?” He stepped up to the gallows and said to all, “I have given him a chance to spare her life, to spare the City more blood, and yet he does not appear. Lady Emilie, you have only these weak-willed women to speak for you.”

  “Your deeds speak, for me,” Emilie said. “I pray he does not come.”

  Stephen narrowed his eyes. “We will wait, but only a few moments more.”

  Odo looked at me with readiness. Now, his eyes said. We must strike now. I gave him no signal.

  Suddenly a lookout called from the walls, “My lord, it is the jester’s army. Their arms are down. They submit.”

  Stephen’s face lit with joy. “Be sure, sergeant. Submit or attack? There must be no tricks.”

  “No, the sergeant is right,” confirmed the chatelain from the ramparts. “They carry their banners down. They do submit. And the jester, he is at the head of them.”

  From my perch, I could make out rows of my men approaching with their arms at bay. And Alphonse, in my patchwork skirt and cap, at the head.

  “The fool’s stupidity amazes even me.” Stephen smirked, bounding up the steps and peering over the wall. “He lays down everything for a woman. What chivalry! Come forth, jester,” Stephen called beyond the wall. “We will open the gates. I have something you will want to see.”

  He signaled to his gatekeepers to draw up the portcullis. Two men hoisted the heavy metal gate skyward.

  At the same time, Stephen ordered, “Hangman, secure the noose.”

  The crowd gasped in protest. Something vile was about to occur. The masked executioner fitted the rope around Emilie’s neck and positioned her body over the trap.

  “Stay away,” Emilie shouted to the men approaching outside [432] the gate. A black hood was placed over her head. “Please, Hugh, go back. Go back!”

  Stephen laughed out loud. “Sorry to disappoint you, lady. It seems he is every bit the fool he is reputed to be.”

  I could no longer restrain myself. I looked to Odo in the crowd, and to Ox hovering by the opening gate. Across the way, I spotted the Moor on a balcony above the square.

  I signaled them. Now!

  But suddenly Stephen shouted, “It is not him!” He strained over the wall, his eyes bulging. “It’s a trick! The jester is not there! Close the gates!”

  Chapter 148

  THE MOOR’S ARROW streaked across the square, striking one of the gatekeepers in the back. He slumped to his knees.

  Ox threw off his pails and jammed a rod in the pulley, bringing the heavy portcullis to a stop. He ran his knife into the back of the other gatekeeper, who was struggling to bring the gate down.

  A swarm of my men, Alphonse in the lead, rushed inside. They overwhelmed the soldiers at the gate as arrows rained down on them. Soon they were battling Stephen’s men hand-to-hand.

  Stephen leaped down from the walls and ran toward the scaffold and Emilie. “Where is your fool?” he asked her. “He lets you die? He does not come for you?”

  He gave the nod to his hangman. Then Odo pushed his way past two guards. He plunged his knife into the hangman’s gut, hurling him off the scaffold. He went to Emilie.

  “He does come, Stephen,” I called. I held up the lance. Our eyes locked in a hateful exchange. “I am here, my lord. Norbert told me you were a jester short.”

  The thrill of victory twisted into rage on Stephen’s face. “Get him!” he screamed. “A hundred gold pieces for the man who brings me that lance. Five hundred!”

  His guards started to move toward me. I raised the lance.

  [434] “You threw my son into the flames,” I said, fixed on Stephen. “Here, fetch your lance.”

  I hurled it with all my might into the center of the bonfire. To everyone’s horror, it stuck firmly amid the flames.

  “No…!” Stephen hollered.

  He ran like a madman to the fire, desperately pulling at branches and wood, flames biting at his flesh. He hurled sticks toward the lance, trying to dislodge it. Then he backed off, driven away by the raging heat. He stared at the lance fixed in the center, red-hot and starting to lose its shape.

  Then he turned toward me, murderous hatred in his eyes. “You!” he screamed. “You incredible fool!”

  Chapter 149

  STEPHEN BOUNDED UP the stone stairs two at a time and onto a parapet, climbing to my level with great speed and agility for such a large man. His eyes burned.

  I took my sword and leaped from my ledge to a second-floor balcony of the castle. One of Stephen’s soldiers moved to stop me, and I slashed him across the chest, sending him flying.

  The duke hurdled another ledge, racing toward me in a frenzy. He came to face me on the same balcony-ten paces away.

  “Your wit has never been in doubt, carrot-head,” he said, leering at me. “Now we’ll see if you have fight.”

  He leaped upon me, bringing down his blade. A bone-chilling clang reverberated through my arms as I parried the blow. Stephen pivoted deftly and swung his sword, two handed, at my chest. The blade cut my side.

  I buckled, stung with terrible pain.

  “Come on, fool,” he taunted, “I thought you had some passion for the fight. You will see there is more to being noble than sticking your dick in a highborn coo. You wanted restitution for your shit-covered wife and son? Come on!”

  He struck with his sword again, forcing mine back inches from my neck. His eyes were ablaze; hot breath fumed in my face.

  With the last of my strength, I kneed him. Stephen groaned and buckled. I pushed him away and swung my blade, knocking [436] the sword from his hand. His eyes widened as it toppled over the ledge. He stood there, defenseless, yet still glaring.

  Then he jumped up onto a ledge overlooking the square. He laughed. “Just know that if I get to her first, she is dead!”

  He leaped across to the next balcony. Then he darted inside the castle.

  I ran to the edge of the balcony, scanning the courtyard, looking for Emilie. I didn’t see her anywhere. Odo either. Blood was seeping from my side.

  I ran into the castle, expecting Stephen and a fight to the death. I was in the living quarters. No sign of the bastard anywhere.

  “Where are you?” I
hollered down the halls. Only echoes answered.

  I smashed through a door and into Stephen and Anne’s private quarters. I looked around madly. I had been here that night when I hunted for Anne after finding Sophie in the dungeon.

  I looked down at my side. A damp patch of blood was spreading on my tunic. “Stephen,” I yelled. “God damn it, come fight with me.”

  His voice came from behind me. “You want me, I am here, jester. Tell me a joke.”

  Stephen emerged from a corner smirking, a loaded crossbow aimed at my chest. “I may be a jester short, as you say,” he said, “but you, it seems, are the one who is out of tricks.”

  A chill went down my spine. I backed up to the wall. There was nowhere to run.

  “What do you say? Our little fool is out of tricks? He dreams of being noble, but he has only fucked one. Shame about the lance, though,” he said with a grin. “Don’t you agree, wife?”

  Wife …? Anne?

  Chapter 150

  ANNE STEPPED into the light, remaining behind Stephen. My legs grew weak. A hollowness was in my gut.

  In her hand she held the lance. The holy lance … not the ordinary one I had cast so theatrically into the fire. The lance I had entrusted to her last night! Entrusted.

  “I am a fool,” I said, seeking out her eyes. How could Emilie have been so wrong about Anne? How could I?

  I looked at the crossbow leveled at my chest. And Stephen’s mocking grin. For the first time, I felt ready to die.

  “One last word, jester.” Stephen smirked. “Your death is trivial to me, serf. All that mattered was the lance. But what would you do with such a thing, anyway? You could not possibly know the power it holds. I hunted the world for it. By all God’s justice, it is mine.” He tensed his finger on the trigger of the crossbow.

  “Then have it, Stephen.” Anne’s voice rang from behind him.

  Suddenly Stephen lurched and his eyes wrenched open. I stiffened, expecting my guts to fall into my hands. But no arrow came from his crossbow.

  I heard the most horrible sound-the splitting of ribs and sinew, the tearing of flesh. An awful gasp came from Stephen’s mouth. But instead of words, a river of blood followed.

  [438] Anne pushed forward strongly. This time, the blade of the lance pierced the base of his neck and came out before his very eyes. “Have it, husband.”

  Then Anne put her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “But know how worthless it is now, our Savior’s blood having mingled with your own.”

  Stephen looked down. He stared disbelievingly at the Roman eagle and the bloody tip of the holy lance’s blade protruding from his neck.

  Then he fell to the floor.

  I stared at Anne, dumbstruck. She merely stared in return. Neither of us spoke. Then I saw a softening in her eyes and she nodded, as if we shared some kind of understanding, one that would never be put into words.

  “I think it’s safe to say,” she said, “that when we pulled you from the ditch that day, such an ending would not have entered our minds.”

  “Very safe, madame.”

  I heard footsteps from down the hall. Emilie burst into the room, breathless. Our eyes met and my heart nearly exploded with joy. She looked at Stephen crumpled on the floor. Then at Anne standing over him. Then at me again, her eyes darting to the blood leaking from my side.

  She gasped. “You are wounded.”

  “And you are always nursing me back to health,” I said. “Oh God, Emilie, you cannot know how it feels to see you now.”

  “I do know,” she said.

  Emilie ran to me and flung herself into my arms. I lifted her off her feet and squeezed her as tightly as I have ever held anything in my life. I kissed her over and over, kisses of hope and gratefulness. For the first time, I actually realized that she was mine.

  My eyes were moist as I thought of all that had taken place since I first set out from Veille du Père. All who had died. “I [439] have nothing. Not a denier to my name,” I muttered. “Not even a career. How is it possible that I feel like the richest man in all the world?”

  Emilie took my hand and whispered, “Because you are free.”

  Chapter 151

  THE LANGUEDOCIANS WERE THE FIRST to leave, early the following morning. Ox told me there was a saying in their part of the woods: No sense hanging around the wine cask when the party’s over.

  He and his men assembled at the gates at dawn, their horses loaded with sacks of grain, a few pigs, and hens fluttering behind. I went out in the early light to bid them farewell.

  “You should stay,” I told him. “Anne has promised to address all your claims. You deserve a lot more.”

  “More? We are farmers,” Ox said. “What else do we need? If we came back laden with gold chalices, our people would think they were to piss in.”

  “In that case…” I patted him on the shoulder and flashed him a glimpse of a plate of gold engraved with Stephen’s crest that I intended to give him as a memento. “No need to leave with this.”

  Ox looked around and then tucked it in his saddle pouch. “I guess I’ll have to teach them some proper manners.” He grinned.

  I embraced him, patting the warrior warmly on his broad back.

  “Look us up, jester, if you ever have the urge to return that lance.” He winked. He slapped his horse and signaled his men forward.

  [441] I watched until the last of them had disappeared through the city gates. Stephen was being buried later that day. That was one last thing I had to do.

  A few of my men were there as the coffin was brought to the cathedral. It was not a service befitting a duke who had died in battle. Only Anne, their son, Emilie, and I were inside the church with the bishop.

  The duke’s coffin was carried into a crypt deep inside the castle and placed in a marble sarcophagus. In this dark, narrow space, well below ground, lay the remains of past bishops and members of the ruling family. There was barely enough air to fuel a torch.

  The blessing was simple and quick. What was there to say?

  That Stephen had bargained his honor away for greed and power. That he had been a shit to his wife and an indifferent father to his son. That he had plundered the Holy Land in search of loot.

  The bishop of Borée, the same who had excommunicated us, muttered through a quick prayer, his eyes darting toward the lance. Emilie looked on, holding my hand. When the blessing was done, Anne bent over the casket and planted a dry kiss upon Stephen’s cheek.

  Then a final blessing was said. Anne led her son out of the crypt, the bishop stumbling close behind.

  “Give me a moment,” I said to Emilie.

  She seemed not to understand.

  “I need to say something for my wife and son.”

  She finally nodded and left me. Just Stephen and I.

  I looked at his deep-set eyes, his turned-down hawk nose. “If there ever was a bastard in this world, you are it,” I said. “May you rest in Hell, you prick.” I closed the coffin.

  I held the holy lance in my palms. It brought back memories of all those whose lives had been changed by it. Maybe years from now someone would find it, I thought. In a different time, when it would be celebrated for what it was. Something miraculous, close to God.

  [442] You were a hell of a good walking stick. I smiled. But as a relic, you brought more blood than peace.

  I placed the holy lance inside the sarcophagus. Then I moved the heavy lid into place and looked away.

  The crypt attendant came back and I nodded for him to go about his duty. I stayed and watched, saying good-bye to Sophie, Phillipe, and the Turk who had spared me in Antioch.

  The sarcophagus was sealed for good and pushed into the wall, where it fitted almost seamlessly into the stone, then mortar was smoothed in the cracks.

  It would lie there forever.

  Or until it was needed again.

  Chapter 152

  CHURCH BELLS WERE RINGING.

  As I came out of the crypt, Emilie rushed up, excited. “
We have visitors, Hugh! Archbishop Velloux is arriving at the gates.”

  “Velloux…?” I did not know the name.

  “From Paris.”

  Paris ! I did not know if this was good or bad. The Church had excommunicated us. If this was upheld, all we had fought for could be lost. No matter what Anne vowed to rectify, without the Church we were outcasts, more dead than alive.

  I hobbled into the courtyard. Anne stood by expectantly. Bishop Barthelme too. From all about, my men gathered around the courtyard: Odo, Georges, Alphonse, Father Leo.

  The archbishop of Paris! This was a humbling thing.

  As the portcullis was raised, a column of soldiers in crimson surcoats galloped two by two into the courtyard.

  Behind them, an ornate carriage drawn by six strong steeds.

  It bore the cross of Rome, insignia of the Holy See.

  My heart was leaping out of my chest. Emilie squeezed my hand. “I have a good feeling,” she whispered.

  I wished I could say I did as well.

  A captain of the guard jumped off his mount and placed a stool in front of the carriage door. When it opened, two priests [444] wearing scarlet skullcaps emerged. Then, a moment behind them, the archbishop, about sixty by my estimate, his hair gray and thinned, wearing a crimson robe and a large gold cross around his neck.

  “Your Eminence,” Bishop Barthelme exclaimed. He and his priests dropped to one knee. Slowly, everyone around them did the same. “This is a great honor. I pray you did not have too unsettling a trip.”

  “We would not have,” the archbishop curtly replied, “were it not that on your word we went first to Treille, expecting to find a rebellion there, ‘heretics and thieves.’ Yet instead we found only peace and order. And, remarkably, no lord. I am told there was a battle fought here.”

  “There was, Your Grace,” the bishop said.

  “Well, you look no worse for wear, Barthelme,” the archbishop observed. “Obviously the Church still functions. Show me, where are all these dreaded lost souls?”