The Jester

by James Patterson

  This was so cruel. My eyes welled with stinging tears. I could not lose her. Not now, after so much had happened. I swallowed hard, struggling to read the end:

  You have been my true love since I saw you that very first day. I know I shall say that to you when we see each other again. I hold up my palm. Remember the words,

  In all the world…

  Emilie

  [342] A sharp pain lanced through me, bleeding out the joy and triumph of all that had taken place. I had won the day. But I had lost the woman I loved.

  Chapter 118

  “WHO IS THERE?” a cranky voice barked from behind the door. “Speak to me!”

  Emilie hunched inside her dark hood. The familiar testiness was like an old friend, and it made her smile. “Have your wits become as dull as your jokes, Norbert?” she called back.

  Slowly the door to the jester’s chamber cracked open. Norbert peeked out, his tunic open to his chest and his hair tousled and awry.

  At first, he regarded the huddled shape suspiciously. Then, as she removed the hood, his eyes opened wide. “Lady Emilie!”

  Norbert glanced down the corridor to make sure she was alone, then spread his arms and embraced her. “It’s a beautiful sight to see you.”

  Emilie squeezed him back. “It’s good to see you too, jester.”

  Norbert hurried her inside his room. He shut the door, then frowned. “It’s a beautiful sight, my lady, but not necessarily to see you here. You’ve taken a great risk to come back. But tell me quick-you’ve been with Hugh?”

  Emilie brought him up to date. First, on the raid on Veille du Père and the existence of the lance. “The very staff you sent to Hugh.” Then, of the incredible events that followed. The townspeople who had risen up with him. Treille. With each piece of [344] news, the jester’s eyes grew more incredulous, his cackles of delight more unrestrained.

  When she told him of Baldwin’s capture, he danced around and fell back on his mat, kicking his legs with glee. “I knew that boy was a gift from God, but this…”

  He lifted himself back up, his laughter subsiding. He studied her face, the rosy cast of her cheeks. “But tell me, my lady… why are you here now?”

  Emilie lowered her eyes. “For my mistress. It is my duty.”

  “Your mistress! Then you have traveled a long way and at much risk for no end. Things are much changed here. The duke dreams of killing Hugh with the zeal of a dog slobbering over a cooking roast. Does anyone know you have arrived?”

  “I mingled with a party of monks returning from pilgrimage. I came to you first.”

  “That is wise. Your last running off is exposed. It is assumed you were with Hugh. If not for Lady Anne’s protest, Stephen’s guards would be looking for you too.”

  Emilie’s face lit up. “I knew she would be true. I was right about Anne.”

  Chapter 119

  IT TOOK SEVERAL DAYS to completely secure Treille. There were a few stubborn knights still loyal to Baldwin. And word of a purported reprisal from one of the duke’s supposed allies. But no reprisal came.

  Treille was ours.

  Now there was the matter of what to do with it.

  There was the issue of the duke’s treasury, which had been fattened on the backs of those who now occupied his city. And vast stores of grain and livestock had to be redistributed fairly.

  A debate raged between those who had been with us from the start and those who joined later about what to do. Georges said give out the keys to the grain holds. Let each man leave with a sack and a hen. Alois said why stop there. Raid the treasury. Redistribute all the money. Put a noose to the bastard!

  I wished Emilie were there. I had no skill to govern, nor the urge. I did not know exactly what to do, or what was right.

  It was only a matter of time before I would lose my army. The ranks were growing impatient. They wanted to go back to their homes. “It’s harvest time,” they said. “When do we get what we were promised?”

  And not just food and money. They needed laws to protect them. The right to choose: where to live, whom they would serve. If a man was pledged to a lord, need his children and [346] their children be bound by the same pledge? Someone had to rule on such things.

  One night, I found a sheaf of paper, Baldwin’s seal, and a vial of viscous, red-tinged ink. I sat down and started to write the most important letter of my life.

  To His Majesty, Philip Capet, Ruler of France,

  I pray God grants me the words by which to write this, for I am a humble townsman. A bondman, in fact, thrust into a larger role.

  I am said to be the leader of a group of brave men. Some call it a rabble; I call it an outpouring. An outpouring of farmers, tanners, woodsmen-all your servants-who have risen up against our liege lord after repeated cruel and unnecessary attacks.

  I write from Treille, Your Majesty, where I sit at Duke Baldwin’s own table, his lordship held prisoner, while I await word from you as to what to do next.

  We are not traitors, far from it. We bound together to fight cruel injustice, and only when it threatened our safety and well-being. We bound together to demand laws, so that rape and murder could not be committed on us freely, and property destroyed without cause. We bound together to free ourselves from a servitude without end.

  Is it such an incredible dream, Sire, that all God’s men, common and noble alike, should be governed by just laws?

  Many who marched with us have served Your Majesty in wars, or taken up the Cross of His Holiness in the ongoing struggle against the Turk. We ask only what we have been promised for such service: the right to a fair tax; the right to grievance and recompense for harsh penalties forced upon us; the right to face an assailant at trial, noble or not; the right to own land, fairly paid to our lord, for years of labor and toil.

  [347] We have done all this with little bloodshed. We have acted in peace and respect. But our ranks grow weary. Please send us word, Your Majesty, of your conviction on such matters.

  In return for your judgment, I offer you the only tribute I have-but, I think, a worthy one: the most holy treasure in all of Christendom, thrust into my possession in Antioch.

  The very Lance that pierced the Lord Jesus Christ upon the Cross.

  It is a treasure worth having, yet amazing as it is, it is not nearly as great as the hearts of these men who serve you.

  We await your answer,

  In faith, Your humble servant,

  Hugh De Luc, Innkeeper, Veille du Père.

  I waited for the ink to dry.

  A tightness pulled at my chest. So many had died. Sophie, Matthew, my baby son. Nico, Robert, the Turk. All to get me here?

  The lance was leaning against the table. What if I had died in that church at the hands of the Turk? I thought. What if none of this had taken place?

  Finally I folded the parchment and bound it with the duke’s own seal. I saw that my hands trembled.

  A most miraculous thing had just taken place. I, a bondman, a jester by trade, a man without a home, without a denier to his name…

  I had just addressed a letter to the King of France.

  Part Five . SIEGE

  Chapter 120

  STEPHEN, DUKE OF BORÉE, winced as the physician applied another repulsive leech to his back. “If you bleed me any more, physician, there will be more of me in these suckers than left in me.”

  The physician went about his work. “You complain of ill humor, my lord, yet you complain of the cure as well.”

  Stephen sniffed. “All the leeches in the world couldn’t bleed me enough to raise my mood.”

  Ever since the failure of Morgaine’s raid, Stephen had been hurled into a biting melancholy. His most trusted and ruthless men had been routed. Worse, he had lost his best chance to grab the lance. Then, to make matters worse, the arrogant little pest had the gall to march on Treille. It made his choler boil to a fever pitch.

  Then, only yesterday, he had received the incredible news that the fool had actually taken Treil
le; that Baldwin, idiot of idiots, had surrendered his own castle.

  Stephen grimaced, feeling his humors sucked out of him by these slimy little slugs.

  So the lance was still to be had! He thought of calling a Crusade to liberate Treille, to capture the prize that had been pilfered by the deserter and return it to its rightful place. Borée, of [352] course. But who knew where it would end up then? Paris or Rome or even back in Antioch.

  At that moment, things got even worse-Anne walked in. She looked at him, prone, covered with welts, and held back a smile of amusement. “You asked for me, my lord?”

  “I did. Physician, give me a word with my wife.”

  “But the leeching, my lord, it is not over…”

  Stephen jumped up, swatting the slimy little creatures off his back. “You have the hand of an executioner, doctor, not a healer. Get these creatures out of here. From now on I’ll handle my ill temper my own way.”

  Anne regarded him with a slight smile. “I’m surprised these slimy things offend you so, since you are akin in so many ways.”

  She came over and ran her hand along his back, mottled with fiery red welts. “From the look of this, your ill temper must have been most severe. Shall I apply the salve?”

  “If you are not too offended to touch me.” Stephen kept her eye.

  “Of course not, husband.” She dipped her hands in the thick white ointment, applying it liberally to the welts on his back. “I am quite used to offense. What was it you needed of me?”

  “I hoped to inquire into the well-being of your cousin Emilie. That her visit to her aunt went well.”

  “I suspect so.” Anne spread the salve. “She seems quite rosy.”

  Rosy… Both of them knew the bitch never went within fifty miles of the old hen, her aunt.

  “I would like to talk with her,” he said, “and hear the details of her visit.”

  “These leeches seem to have dug particularly deep,” Anne said, applying pressure to one sore. Stephen jumped. His head spun. “All this leisure here does not seem to suit you, husband. Perhaps you should return to the Holy Land for some more amusement. Regarding Emilie, I’m afraid she is too weary to [353] provide much detail. Weary …” she said, pressing again, “yet rosy, as I say.”

  “Enough.” Stephen seized her arm. “You know I do not need to ask for your permission.”

  “You do not.” Anne glared. “But you also know she remains under my protection. And even you, my scheming husband, must know what price you will have to pay if any harm comes to her.”

  She dug the edge of her nail into a particularly swollen welt, Stephen almost jumping off the table.

  He raised his arm as if to strike. Anne did not flinch. Instead, she merely looked at him, detestation firing her eyes. Then she slowly eased into a smile. “I am here, husband, if you wish to strike. Or I can call one of the housemaids, if you find my face too rough.”

  “I shall not be mocked,” Stephen said, brushing her away, “within my own house.”

  “Then perhaps it would be wise to move.” Anne smiled sharply.

  “Get out,” he shouted, passing his hand within an inch of her face. “Do not pretend, Anne, that your little vow of protection gives me even a moment of hesitation. In the end, you will regret such mockery. You, and the pink-cheeked whore that waits on you, and the lowborn fool she is so wont to fuck.”

  Chapter 121

  “YOUR GRACE!” Stephen knelt to kiss the ruby ring of Barthelme, bishop of Borée, even though he thought him the most air-filled, well-fed functionary in France. “So good of you to join me on such short notice. Please, sit here by me.”

  Bishop Barthelme was a corpulent, owl-eyed man with a sagging jowl that seemed to sink almost undetectably into his massive purple robe. Stephen wondered how such a man could take a step, or climb a stair, or even perform his sacraments. He knew the bishop did not like being summoned. He thought he was too good for this diocese and longed for a larger position. In Paris, or even Rome.

  “You have taken me from my sext for this?” the bishop wheezed.

  At Stephen’s nod, a young page filled two silver cups with ale.

  “It’s called alembic.” Stephen raised his goblet. “It is brewed by monks near Flanders.”

  The bishop managed a smile. “If it’s God’s work, then I feel I have not strayed too far.”

  They both took a deep draft. “Aaah.” The cleric licked his lips. “It is most sweet. Tastes of apples and mead. Yet I feel you did not call me to hear my opinion of your ale.”

  “I have asked you here today,” Stephen said, “because there is a hole torn in my soul which you can help mend.”

  [355] Barthelme nodded and listened.

  Stephen leaned close. “You have heard of this uprising in the south, where a jester has led a rabble of peasants.”

  Barthelme smirked. “I know a stupider man does not exist than Baldwin, so it is not so far-fetched that he was outfoxed by a fool. Yet reports say this man was your fool once, your lordship?”

  Stephen put down his cup and glared through the bishop’s haughty smile. “Let me get to the point, Your Grace. Do you know what this jester carries with him, that is the source of his appeal?”

  “The message of a better life. The freedom from bondage,” the bishop said.

  “It is not his message that I speak of, but his staff.”

  The cleric nodded. “I have heard that he parades around with a spear purported to be the holy lance. But these petty prophets are always claiming this or that… holy water from the baptism of Saint John, burial shrouds of the Virgin Mary.”

  “So this does not concern you?” Stephen asked. “That a trumped-up country boy uses the name of our Lord to incite rebellion?”

  “These local prophets.” The bishop sighed. “They come and go like the frost, every year.”

  Stephen leaned forward. “And it does not concern you that this peasant marches around with the word of Christ, inciting the rabble to overthrow their lieges?”

  “It sounds like you are the one who is worried, Stephen. Besides, I have heard it is not grace this lad is seeking, but grain.”

  A smile etched onto the cleric’s face, the smile of a gambling man with knowledge of the outcome. “What do you want, Stephen, for the church to fight your battles? Shall we contact Rome and declare a holy crusade against a fool?”

  “What I want, Your Grace, is to strike these ignorant puppets where they most ache. More than their bellies or their [356] desires, or their silly dreams of this precious freedom they long to taste.”

  Barthelme waited for him, quizzically.

  “Their souls, Your Grace. I want to crush their souls. And you are the man who can do it for me.”

  The bishop put down his drink. His expression shifted from amusement to concern. “Just what is it you want me to do?”

  Chapter 122

  NO REPLY CAME from the King, and day by day, the ranks grew more tired and impatient. These were not soldiers, prepared to occupy a city like Treille. They were farmers, tradesmen, husbands, and fathers. They longed to go home.

  Lookouts were scattered along the road to the north, but each day, no answer came.

  Why? If Emilie had contacted him? If she was able. And what if she was not?

  Then one day the lookouts did spot a party traveling south toward the castle. I was in the great room. Alphonse burst in. “H-Hugh, a party of riders is approaching. It looks like it could be from the King!”

  We rushed to the city walls as fast as our legs would carry us. I climbed the ramparts and watched the party approach, my heart racing. From the north, six riders at full gallop. Knights, carrying a banner, but not in the purple and gold of the royal flag.

  But with a cross upon it. Knights pledged to the Church.

  They escorted a rider in the center of their group, in the dark robes of a cleric.

  We drew open the outer gates, and the party rode into the courtyard. A crowd gathered in the square. All o
f us-Odo, Georges, the Morrisaey men. Many grinned optimistically.

  [358] “Is this good or bad?” Alphonse asked.

  “I think it’s good,” Father Leo said. “The King wouldn’t send a priest to rebuke us. You’ll see.”

  The gaunt, clear-eyed priest slowly dismounted. He wasted no time and faced the crowd. “I am Father Julian, emissary to his eminence Bishop Barthelme. I bear an urgent decree.”

  “I am Hugh,” I said. I bowed and made the sign of the cross to show respect.

  “My message is for all to hear,” the priest said, passing his eyes right over me. He removed a folded document from his robe and held it aloft.

  “ ‘Occupiers of Treille,’ ” the cleric began in a loud, clear voice. “ ‘Farmers, woodsmen, tradesmen, bondmen and free, all followers of the man known as Hugh De Luc… a deserter from the Army of the Cross, which still valiantly fights to free the Holy Land…’ ”

  A flash of worry chilled my blood. The crowd grew still.

  “ ‘His eminence the Bishop Barthelme Abreau rebukes you for your false rebellion and urges you, this day, the seventeenth of October, 1098, to disband at once, to renounce all claims and territory seized from Duke Baldwin of Treille, and to return to your villages at once or face the full consequence of your actions: immediate and total excommunication from the Church of Rome and the separation from Grace, forever, for your eternal souls.’ ”

  The priest paused to observe the look of shock that was on every face, including mine.

  “ ‘His eminence insists,’ ” he continued, “ ‘that you repudiate all teachings and promises of the heretic, Hugh De Luc; deny the legitimacy of and confiscate any relics or symbols claimed to be of holy origin in his possession; and discredit all claims, made that present him as an agent of our Lord Jesus Christ.’ ”