“Look closely. There is an inscription on it.”
The Vatican director bent over it. Yes, it could be. It had all the right markings. There was an inscription. In Latin. He squinted close to read. “Acre, Galilee…” He examined the artifact from end to end. The age fit. The markings. It also corresponded to descriptions in the Bible. Yet how did it come to be buried here? “All this, it does not really prove anything.”
“That’s true, of course,” Rene Lacaze shrugged, “but Dottore… I am from here. My father is from the valley, my father’s father, and his. There have been stories here for hundreds of years, long before this grave tumbled open. Stories every schoolchild in Blois was raised on. That this holy relic was here, in Blois, a thousand years ago.”
Mazzini had seen a hundred purported relics like this, but the tremendous power of this one gripped and unnerved him. A reverent force gave him the urge to kneel on the stone floor.
Finally, that’s what he did—as if he was in the presence of Jesus Christ.
“I waited until your arrival to place a call to Cardinal Perrault in Paris,” said Lacaze.
“Forget Perrault,” Mazzini looked up, moistening his dry lips. “We are going to call the Pope.”
Alberto Mazzini couldn’t take his eyes off the incredible artifact on the plain white sheet. This was more than just the crowning moment of his career. It was a miracle.
“There’s just one more thing,” said Ms. Lacaze.
“What?” Mazzini mumbled. “What one more thing?”
“The local lore, it always said a precious relic was here. Just never that it belonged to a duke. But to a man of far more humble origins.”
“What sort of low-born man would come into such a prize? A priest? Perhaps a thief?
“No,” Rene Lacaze’s brown eyes widened. “Actually, a jester.”
Part One
THE ORIGINS OF COMEDY
Chapter 1
VEILLE DU PERE, a village in southern France, 1096
The church bells were ringing.
Loud, quickening peals—echoing through town in the middle of the day.
Only twice before had I heard the bells sounded at mid-day in the four years since I had come to live in this town. Once, when word reached us that the King’s son had died. And the second, when a raiding party from our lord’s rival in Digne swept through town during the wars, leaving eight dead and burning almost every house to the ground.
What was going on?
I rushed to the second-floor window of the inn I looked after with my wife Sophie. People were running into the square, still carrying their tools. “What’s going on? Who needs help?” they shouted.
Then Arnaud, who farmed a plot by the river, galloped over the bridge aboard his mule, pointing back towards the road. “They’re coming! They’re almost here!”
From the east, I heard the loudest chorus of voices, seemingly raised as one. I squinted through the trees and felt my jaw drop. Jesus, I’m dreaming, I know I said to myself. A peddler with a cart was considered an event here! I blinked at the sight, not once, but twice.
It was the greatest multitude I had ever seen! Jammed along the narrow road into town, stretching out as far as the eye could see.
“Sophie, come quick, now,” I yelled. “You’re not going to believe this.”
My wife of three years hurried to the window, her yellow hair pinned up for the workday under a white cap. “Mother of God, Hugh….”
“It’s an army,” I muttered, barely able to believe my eyes. “The Army of the Crusade.”
Chapter 2
EVEN IN VEILLE DU PERE, word had reached us of the Pope’s call. We had heard that masses of men were leaving their families, taking the cross, as nearby as Digne. And here they were…. The army of Crusaders marching through Veille du Pere!
But what an army! More of a rabble, like one of those multitudes prophesized in Isiah or John. Men, women, children, carrying clubs and tools straight from home. And it was vast—thousands of them! Not fitted out with armor or uniform, but shabbily, with red crosses either painted or sewn onto plain tunics. And at the head of this assemblage… not some trumped-up duke or king in crested mail and armor sitting imperiously atop a massive charger. But a little man in a homespun monk’s robe, bare-foot, bald, with a thatched crown, plopped atop a simple mule.
“It is their awful voices the Turks will turn and run from.” I shook my head, “not their swords.”
Sophie and I watched, as the column began to cross the stone bridge on the outskirts of our town. Young and old, men and women; some carrying axes and mallets and old swords, some old knights parading in rusty armor. Carts, wagons, tired mules and plow-horses. Thousands of them.
Everyone in town stood and stared. Children ran out and danced around the approaching monk. No one had ever seen anything like it before. Nothing ever happened here!
I was struck with a kind of wonderment. “Sophie, tell me, what do you see?”
“What do I see? Either the holiest army I’ve ever seen, or the dumbest. In any case, it’s the worst equipped.”
“But look, not a noble anywhere. Just common men and women. Like us.”
Below us, the vast column wound into the main square and the queer monk at its head tugged his mule to a stop. A bearded knight helped him slide off. Father Leo went up to greet him. The singing stopped, weapons and packs were laid at ease. Everyone in our town was pressed around the tiny square. To listen.
“I am called Peter,” the monk spoke in a surprisingly strong voice, “called by his Holiness Urban to lead an army of believers to the Holy Land to free the Holy Sepulcher from the heathen hordes. Are there any believers here?”
He was pale and long-nosed, resembling his mount, and his brown robes had holes in them, threadbare. Yet as he spoke, he seemed to grow, his voice rising in power and conviction.
“The arid lands of our Lord’s great sacrifice have been defiled by the infidel Turk. Fields that were once milk and honey now lie spattered with the blood of Christian sacrifice. Holy churches have been burned and looted, sainted sites destroyed. The holiest treasures of our faith, the bones of saints, have been fed to dogs; cherished vials, filled with drops of the Savior’s own blood, poured into heaps of dung like spoiled wine.”
“Join us,” many from the ranks called out loudly. “Kill the pagans, and sit with the Lord in Heaven.”
“For those who come,” the monk named Peter went on, “for those who put aside their earthly possessions and join our Crusade, His Holiness Urban promises unimaginable rewards. Riches, spoils, and honor in battle. His protection for your families who dutifully remain behind. An eternity in heaven at the feet of our grateful Lord. And, most of all, freedom. Freedom from all servitude upon your return. Who will come, brave souls?” the monk reached out his arms, his invitation almost irresistible.
Shouts of acclamation rose throughout the square. People I had known for years shouted, “I… I will come!”
I saw Matt, the miller’s oldest son, just sixteen, throw up his hands and hug his mother. And John the Smith, who could crush iron in his hands, kneel and take the cross. Several people, many of them just boys, ran to get their possessions, then merged in with the ranks. Everyone was shouting, “Dei leveult!” God wills it!
Inside, my own blood surged. What a glorious adventure awaited. Riches and spoils picked up along the way. A chance to change destiny in a single stroke. I felt my soul spring alive. I thought of gaining our freedom, and the riches I might find on the Crusades. For a second I almost raised my hand and called out, “I will come! I will take the cross.”
But then I felt Sophie’s hand pressing on mine. I lost my tongue.
It minutes, the procession started up again. The ranks of farmers, masons, bakers, maids, whores, jongleurs and outlaws, hoisting their sacks and makeshift weapons, swelling in song. The monk Peter mounted his donkey, blessing the town with a wave, then pointed west.
I watched them with a yearning
I thought had long been put behind me. I had traveled in my youth. I’d been brought up by Goliards, monks who entertained from town to town. And there was something that I missed from those days. Something my life in Veille du Pere had stilled but not completely put aside.
1 missed being free, and even more than that, I wanted freedom for Sophie and the children we would have one day.
Contents
Front Cover Image
Welcome
Acknowledgments
A Preview of The Jester
Prologue: THE CHOIR KIDS
Part One: THE WOMEN’S MURDER CLUB—AGAIN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Two: JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Part Three: THE BLUE WALL OF SILENCE
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Epilogue: I’LL FLY AWAY
Books by James Patterson
Second to None Acclaim for James Patterson’s: 2nd Chance
Praise for James Patterson’s Thrillers: 1st to Die
Copyright
BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON
The Thomas Berryman Number
Season of the Machete
See How They Run
The Midnight Club
Along Came a Spider
Kiss the Girls
Hide & Seek
Jack & Jill
Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge)
Cat & Mouse
When the Wind Blows
Pop Goes the Weasel
Black Friday
Cradle and All
Roses Are Red
1st to Die
Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas
2nd Chance
Violets Are Blue
SECOND TO NONE ACCLAIM FOR
JAMES PATTERSON’S
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
2ND CHANCE
“PRIME PATTERSON: FIRST RATE ENTERTAINMENT. Patterson’s richest, most engaging novel since When the Wind Blows. THE STORY RIPPLES WITH TWISTS AND REMARKABLY STRONG SCENES…. But what makes this Patterson stand out above all is the textured storytelling arising from its focus on Boxer’s personal issues.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“RE-ESTABLISHES PATTERSON AS ONE OF THE TOP MYSTERY-THRILLER WRITERS IN THE GAME TODAY. 2ND CHANCE IS A FIRST-RATE THRILLER.”
—Grand Rapids Press
“PATTERSON AT HIS BREEZY BEST.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“A SOLIDLY ENGINEERED WHODUNIT. BOTTOM LINE: WORTH CHANCING.”
—People
PRAISE FOR
JAMES PATTERSON’S THRILLERS
1ST TO DIE
“TERRIFIC… A GREAT THRILLER…. What’s not to love about a ‘club’ formed by four women to catch a psycho killing newlywed couples?”
—Providence Sunday Journal
“I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW GOOD PATTERSON IS…. HE’S ALWAYS ON THE MARK.”
—Larry King, USA Today
“PATTERSON BOILS A SCENE DOWN TO THE SINGLE, TELLING DETAIL, THE ELEMENT THAT DEFINES A CHARACTER OR MOVES A PLOT ALONG. It’s what fires off the movie projector in the reader’s mind.”
—Michael Connelly, author of City of Bones
“HIS CLEVER TWISTS AND AFFECTING SUBPLOTS KEEP THE PAGES FLYING.”
—People (Page-Turner of the Week)
“DELIVERS A SHARP PUNCH.”
—Chicago Tribune
“THAT RAPID-FIRE, IN-YOUR-FACE, YOU’D-BETTER-KEEP-READING-OR-ELSE FORMAT WILL MAKE YOU FINISH 1ST TO DIE IN ONE SITTING (barring World War III, a 9.1 earthquake or the Ebola virus).”
—Denver Rocky Mountain News
“PATTERSON KNOWS WHERE OUR DEEPEST FEARS ARE BURIED…. THERE’S NO STOPPING HIS IMAGINATION.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Patterson’s prose style is smart… powering the plot along smoothly…. Works to keep readers glued tight right to the end. A WALLOPING GOOD RIDE.”
—Buffalo News
“[A] NEAT TRICK OF AN ENDING.”
—Janet Maslin, New York Times
“A clever plot with enough LAST-MINUTE REVELATIONS TO KEEP YOU GUESSING.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“JAMES PATTERSON WRITES HIS THRILLERS AS IF HE WERE BUILDING ROLLER COASTERS. He grounds the stories with a bare-bones plot, then builds them over the top and tries to throw readers for a loop a few times along the way.”
—Associated Press
“A SLICK, TAUT THRILLER…. Patterson keeps the pace moving at top speed. 1St TO DIE is a darn good book.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“A good story with a murderer as twisted as any Patterson has created—and AN ENDING THAT WILL TAKE READERS BY SURPRISE.”
—Newark Star-Ledger
“POLISHED, BRISKLY WRITTEN ENTERTAINMENT… DELIVERS THE SPINE-TINGLING GOODS.”
—Sunday Oregonian
“A SURE BET FOR A BESTSELLER.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“HE’S DONE IT AGAIN…. CLEVER KICKOFF TO A NEW SERIES… A GLEAMING MACHINE OF A NOVEL…. Patterson… isn’t afraid to reach as a writer.”
—Publishers Weekly
“If you want to—gasp—scare yourself silly, GRAB JAMES PATTERSON’S LATEST THRILLER.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“PATTERSON, WHO FIRST HOOKED CRIME-THRILLER FANS WITH HIS SERIES OF ALEX CROSS NOVELS, DOESN’T MISS A BEAT. The plot moves at breakneck speed…. Patterson manages a fine balance… and he keeps the reader guessing right up to a scary double-twist ending.”
—Memphis Commercial Appeal
“PATTERSON SHOWS HE’S 2ND TO NONE…. Patterson catches us again with book in hand and fingers turning those pages just as quickly as we did for other favorites, Along Came a Spider, Pop Goes the Weasel, and Kiss the Girls.”
—Oakland Press
“SOLID, THREE-DIMENSIONAL CHARACTERS… newcomers to his work will be enthralled.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“ONE OF THE MOST CREATIVE AND SADISTIC KILLERS SINCE HANNIBAL LECTER…. There are surprises in store right up to the last page.”
—BookPage
“PATTERSON AGAIN PROVES HIMSELF A MASTER OF THE CRAFT…. Such a great book: every time you think you’ve got it all figured out, you realize the killer is still a step ahead.”
—Providence Sunday Journal
“PATTERSON KEEPS UP THE SUSPENSE UNTIL THE VERY LAST PAGE and will have readers looking forward to the second installment in the series.”
—Booklist
“READERS WLL ENJOY THE HEART-PUMPING PLOT AND ROOT FOR THE LADIES TO SUCCEED.”
—Midwest Book Review
“THE RELENTLESS VELOCITY is guaranteed to hook fans of the bestselling Patterson.”
—Kirkus Reviews
ALONG CAME A SPIDER
“JAMES PATTERSON DOES EVERYTHING BUT STICK OUR FINGER IN A LIGHT SOCKET TO GIVE US A BUZZ.”
Women's Murder Club [02] 2nd Chance Page 25