“Why?” I barked into his face. The soldier gagged, his eyes bulging, darting around. “Why is she here?”
A garbled cry emerged from his throat, but in my rage I was not waiting for his answer. I pushed the rod deeper into his neck. A force rose inside me that I could not stop. I wanted to kill this man.
“Who are you?” I screamed in his face. “Where have you come from? Why did you bring her here? Why did you kill my son?”
My thumbs pressed under his hood as I dug the poker into his throat, squeezing the breath out of him. Bit by bit, the hood fell away from his neck.
My eyes were pinned to the frightful mark I saw there.
The black Byzantine cross.
It shot me back a thousand miles. Suddenly I was in the Holy Land, revisiting the horrors I had seen there.
These bastards were Tafurs.
Chapter 73
I STAGGERED BACK in shock. Our eyes met, and it was as if some terrible knowledge had been passed between us.
The Tafur took my surprise as an opening and dug his hands into my face. I pressed the poker into his neck even harder. Then I heard bone crack in his neck. His eyes bulged, a final, desperate resistance. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth. A moment later, his legs began to give way. When at last I let go, the Tafur crumpled to the filthy prison floor.
I stood over him, breathing furiously. My mind hurtled back again. Tafurs … I saw them ravaging their captives in their filthy tents. I saw them butchering the Turk who had spared me, then darting like beetles to the crypt, scavenging for spoils. What were they doing here in Borée? What did they want with me? With Sophie?
Suddenly I heard shouts and commotion. The prisoners were clanging the bars in their cells.
Now, with what little time we had left, I had to get Sophie out of here. I rummaged over the Tafur’s body, frantically searching for a key.
I ran my eyes about the keep. Keys must be here somewhere.
I turned toward Sophie, eager to let her know that I would help her escape.
[222] But the sight of her left me rigid as stone.
She was slumped against the bars, her face icy white. Her eyes, a moment ago mad with terror, seemed calm and far-off. I did not see her breathe.
Oh, God, no …!
I crawled to her, cupped her face in my hands. “Sophie, stay with me. You can’t die. Not now.”
She blinked, barely more than a tremor. A glimmer of life appeared in her eyes.
“Hugh…?” she whispered.
“Yes, Sophie… It’s me.” I brushed the sweat off her face. Her skin was cold.
“I knew you would come back,” she said, finally seeming to know who I was.
“I’m so sorry, Sophie. I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”
“We had a son,” she said, and started to cry.
“I know. I know it all.” I wiped her cheek. “He was a beautiful boy. Phillipe.”
I looked around, desperately searching for something to help her. “The guards will be here,” I said. “I’m going to find a way out. Hold on. Please, Sophie.”
Please!
I held her hands in mine through the bars. I whispered, “I’ll take you home. I’ll pick sunflowers for you. I’ll sing you a song.”
Her mouth twitched, and she took a long time to breathe again. But when she did, I also saw her smile-a faint one, unafraid. “I’ve never forgotten, Hugh.” The words fell off her lips one at a time, so softly I could almost kiss them there: “A maiden met a wandering man…”
“Yes,” I said. “And I’ve been true to you ever since we were children.”
“I love you, Hugh,” Sophie whispered.
Suddenly she lurched in my arms. I felt her heart starting to beat out of control. Her eyes bolted wide.
[223] I didn’t know what to do to help her. She shook terribly up and down. All I could do was hold her tight. “I love you, Sophie. I’ve never loved anyone else. I knew I would find you again. I’m so sorry I left you alone.”
Her hand gripped me by the tunic. “Hugh… then don’t…”
“Don’t what, Sophie?”
A final sigh escaped her lips. “Don’t give them what they want.”
Chapter 74
AND THEN MY SWEET SOPHIE DIED in the prison cell.
She passed with a calm, far-off quiet in her eyes. Her mouth hung in the slightest smile, perhaps because I had finally come back, as I had promised.
Tears ran down my cheeks. I wanted to scream, Why did Sophie have to die? Why her?
I grabbed the Tafur by the collar of his robe and hurled his dead body against the bars. “Why, you bastard? Tell me, what did she mean? Why did you kill my son? Why are innocent people dying?”
Then I sank down with my head in my hands.
I wanted to take Sophie home. That’s all I could think of, to bury her with her son. I owed her that. But how? The dead Tafur was slumped before me. Any moment, the guards would come. I couldn’t even open her cell.
The truth hit me: Sophie was gone. There was nothing I could do for her now. Except maybe one thing-“Don’t give them what they want.” Whatever that could be.
I ran and found a ragged cloth, and came back and laid a corner of it under Sophie’s head. I covered her body with the rest, as if she were in our bed at home, though I knew nothing could disturb her now. I took one last, loving look at Sophie, the person who had been my everything since [225] we were ten. I’ll come back for you, I promised. I’ll take you home.
Then I staggered down the stone stairs and past the indifferent guards. I ran back toward my room through the castle’s maze of darkened halls.
My body shook with incomprehension. What had she been doing here? It wasn’t a dream-my wife was dead. Rotted like some diseased dog. Here in Borée … The shock tore at my brain. I shouldn’t have left her. Part of me wanted to go back. To pick her up, take her home. But there was nothing I could do.
Then a new thought crawled through the haze in my brain… something I had to do. I had to right this wrong. I finally knew who was behind it. The blame wasn’t at Treille, but here. Anne!
In a rage, I raced back toward the royal living quarters. No alarm had been sounded. Guards smirked at me along the way, a laughable fool who had perhaps tipped the jug too many times, staggering home to sleep it off.
Yet all the while, one thought reigned in my mind: Anne knew.
I bounded up the stairs toward her living quarters. Two guards stood watch on the landing. They looked at each other. What harm could I do? I was the lady’s fool. They let me pass. Just as they always had before.
Down the hall were the lord and lady’s living quarters. A new guard stepped into my way. A Tafur. “Whoa, fool, you are not permitted,” he barked.
I didn’t stop to reason. I spotted a gleaming halberd hanging on the wall over a coat of arms. I grabbed the ax from its anchor and ran at the startled guard, taking him by surprise.
I swung with all my might, the blade catching him at the base of his neck. He let out a garbled groan, his side nearly splitting away from his body like a side of beef. He toppled to the floor, dead.
Now I had killed one of Anne’s own guards.
One of her Tafurs.
Chapter 75
SHOUTS RANG OUT from behind me, deep male voices echoing in alarm.
I stormed ahead like some madman. Where was she? Anne! I had one single-minded desire: to hear the truth from her lips, even if I had to die for it.
Two guards from the stairs ran my way, their swords raised. I forced myself through a set of heavy doors and bolted them shut behind me. I ran deeper into the royal chambers. I had never been in here before.
I knew I would die here. At any moment I expected a blade to tear into my back, to see my own blood spilling out onto the floor. No matter. All that was important to me was to ask my lady, Why?
I stormed deeper into her quarters. The bedroom. An engraved wooden table with a washbasin, tapestries hung on the w
alls. A vast, draped oak bed, larger than I had ever seen.
But empty. No one was there.
“Goddamn you,” I shouted in frustration. “Why my family? Why us? Someone tell me!”
I stood there not knowing what to do next. I saw myself in my fool’s costume, blood spattered on my face. Why, why, why?
Suddenly a door opened beside me. I held my knife, expecting to face Anne, or one of her Tafur guards.
[227] But it was neither.
For a moment, I felt as if I were back on the road to Treille, blinking out of the haze, and all the things that had happened since-Norcross, St. Cécile, Sophie’s death-were just figments of a dream, terrors that could be washed away with a soft word.
I stared at Emilie’s face.
She gasped, her eyes fastened on my blood-spattered clothes. “My God, what has happened to you?”
Chapter 76
“SOPHIE’S DEAD,” I whispered.
She stared at me, transfixed. Then she moved forward to support me. “What has happened? Tell me.”
“The duke’s men have had her all along, Emilie. Sophie has been here… Not in Treille, with my enemies, but here, in the tower, among my friends.”
“This cannot be.”
“It can, Emilie. It is the truth.” I leaned myself back against the wall. “There are no more games to play. No more pretexts. It ends now.”
Shouts and pounding sounded at the door I had bolted. What a wretched sight I must have made. My clothes torn, slick with blood, the look of madness in my eyes.
“Anne,” I muttered. “I told you… She is behind it all. I have to find out why she allowed these men to destroy my family. Stephen’s guard …” I chortled, almost a laugh. “These are not knights, Emilie. They are scavengers, from the Holy Land. The lowest form of butcher. Even the Turks ran in fear of them. They hunt for relics, spoils. That is why the two knights were murdered. But my family… We had nothing.”
The commotion outside the door grew louder. Anne’s men were trying to smash it in. Emilie gripped my arm. “It doesn’t [229] matter now. Anne is not in the castle. She has gone to meet her husband at La Thanay. Come with me.”
“It is too late. The time for kindness is finished. There is nothing left for me now but to face her men.”
She put her face inches from my own. I could feel Emilie’s breath on my cheek. “Whatever you’ve done, if Anne is behind this, I will do everything to see justice is given you. But you must come. I can’t help you if you’re dead.”
Emilie hurried me out of the room, down a narrow corridor in the royal quarters. She pushed me into a small chamber and quickly barred the door. I could see she was afraid, and it touched me deeply.
Emilie searched through a drawer and found a heavy brown cloak, which upon closer inspection proved to be the robe of a monk. “Here… I thought at some point you might need it to gain access to the tower. Put it on.”
I stared at it, confused, amazed that Emilie did this for me.
“Go now. They will search every room. Send me word. Through Norbert. You have friends here; you must believe that.”
A moment later, I was no longer a jester but a monk, the hood pulled over my head.
“Your new pretext.” Emilie smiled bravely.
I took a deep breath. “I fear this one will be a greater trick than before.”
“Then let me add to it,” Emilie said. She pulled me close by the collar and, to my surprise, pressed a quick, hard kiss upon my lips.
My blood came to a halt. The softness of her lips, the boldness of her touch. I felt my knees lock, the breath massed inside my chest. In truth, I didn’t know what to feel at that moment. My head spun.
She looked into my eyes. “I know your pain is deep. I know every part of you cries out to revenge your wife and child. But, [230] common or noble, there is a specialness within you. I saw it the first time I looked into your eyes. And I have never seen it waver since. We will find a way to right these wrongs. Now go.”
There was a small window above her bed. Below, it was only a short jump to the courtyard. From there, the gardens…
I hoisted myself up and pushed through a leg. I looked out and saw the darkened shadows of roofs in the distance. I looked back into Emilie’s face. “By what luck, lady, have I earned you as a friend?”
“By leaving, right now. This instant.”
I smiled and lifted myself through the narrow window. I turned. “I hope, in all the world, to see you again.”
There was a pounding at her door. I waved at Emilie, then dropped from the window.
“You will, Hugh De Luc,” I heard her say from above. “If you hope that… you will.”
Chapter 77
THE AFTERNOON SUN BATHED the field. Anne stood outside her tent near La Thanay.
At her sides, two formations of Borée’s infantry bearing the duke’s crest stood in even rows. Banners of green and gold flapped in the breeze.
A shiver of dread went through Anne. She had brooded over this moment for weeks now: her husband’s return. There were times when she had actually prayed he would be lost in the war.
She had been married to him since she was sixteen, almost half her life. She had been betrothed as a sign of alliance between her family’s duchy, Normandy, and Stephen’s father. But if this union had fostered trust and commerce between the two duchies, it had created only isolation for her.
Once she bore him his son, Stephen forgot her, coming only when he tired of his whores from town. When she resisted, she felt the stab of his powerful fingers on her neck or the scrape of the back of his hand.
Though she kept up the appearances of court and family that were her duty, she felt only contempt for Stephen, trapped as she was in the prison women were confined to-even duchesses and queens. She felt old, so much older than her years. The time when he was away had almost freed her. But now, knowing he was near, she felt the fears return.
[232] Up ahead, a formation of about twenty knights appeared over a knoll, traveling slowly, their war-worn helmets barely glinting in the sun.
“Look, my lady.” Bertrand Morais, the duke’s chatelain, pointed. “There they are. The duke returns.”
A cheer rose from the men.
So he is back. Anne sighed, pretending to smile. Fattened, she was sure, on the meat of greed and glory he had feasted on in the Crusade.
Anne nodded, and the trumpeters broke into the flourish announcing the arrival of the duke. A rider broke away from the pack and galloped toward them. Anne felt her stomach stiffen in disgust.
“God’s grace to Stephen,” the chatelain shouted, “duke of Borée. He has returned.”
Chapter 78
THE SOLDIERS STOOD at stiff attention, swords and lances raised in salute. The duke galloped into their midst. He raised his arm to salute them, then grinned triumphantly at Bertrand and Marcel Gamier, his seneschal, the steward of his estate.
Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Anne.
Stephen then jumped off his mount. His hair had grown long and wild since she had seen him last, like a Goth’s. His cheeks were hard edged and gaunt. Yet he still carried that narrow glint in his eyes. As was his duty, he came up to her. It had been almost two years.
“Welcome, my husband.” Anne stepped forward. “To God’s grace that He has brought you safely home.”
“To God’s grace,” Stephen said with a smile, “that you have shined like such a beacon as to guide me back.”
He kissed her on both cheeks, but the embrace was empty and without warmth. “I have missed you, Anne,” he said, in the way a man might exult in seeing the health of his favorite steed.
“I have counted the days as well,” she replied coldly.
“Welcome, my lord.” Stephen’s advisers rushed forth.
“Bertrand, Marcel.” He held out his arms. “I trust the reason you have come all this way to greet me is not that we have misplaced our beautiful city.”
[234] “I assure you your beaut
iful city still stands.” The chatelain grinned. “Stronger than ever.”
“And the treasury even more filled than when you left,” promised the seneschal.
“All this later.” Stephen waved a hand. “We’ve been riding nonstop since we docked. My ass feels like it’s been kicked all the way from Toulon. Tend to my men. We are all as hungry as beggars. And I…” He mooned his eyes at Anne. “… I must attend to my lovely wife.”
“Come, husband,” Anne said, trying to seem teasing before his men. “I will try and kick it toward Paris, so as to even it out.”
All around them laughed. Anne led him to their large tent draped in green and gold silk. Once inside, Stephen’s loving look disappeared. “You perform well, my wife.”
“It was no performance. I am glad for your return. For your son’s sake. And if it has brought you back a gentler man.”
“War rarely has that effect,” Stephen answered. He sat on a stool and removed his cloak. “Come here. Help with these boots. I will show you just what a petting pup I’ve become.”
His hair fell over his tunic, greasy and grayed. His face was sharp and filthy from the road. He smelled like a boar.
“You look like the wars have left you no worse for wear,” Anne remarked.
“And you, Anne,” Stephen said, reaching out to pull her down to him, “you look like a dream from which I am not yet willing to awaken.”
“Then awaken now.” She pulled herself away. It was her duty to tend to him. Remove his boots, rinse out the damp cloth around his neck. But there was no way in hell she would let him touch her. “I have not sat alone for two years to be mounted by a pig.”
“So hand me the bowl and I will wash, then.” Stephen grinned. “I will make myself fresh as a doe.”
“I did not mean your stench,” she said.
[235] Stephen still smiled at her. He slowly removed his gloves.
The Jester Page 17