James Patterson - The Jester

“He will not,” Baldwin replied. “Relax, Norcross. Our new fool has managed to get under your skin. A good laugh, not a killing, should soothe the wound.”

“He insults me, my lord. I stand for that from no man.”

“This is no man.” Baldwin cackled. “He is but a fool. And he provides us much entertainment.”

“I have served you well.” The red-faced knight seethed. “I demand to fight the fool.”

“You will not.” Lady Heloise rose. “The fool has acted on my bidding. If anything untimely happens to him, I will know the author. You may feel safe, Hugh.”

Norcross exhaled a deep, frustrated breath, the object of all eyes in the room. Slowly he let his massive sword slip back into its sheath.

“Next time, fool,” he said, “the laugh will be mine.” He went back to his seat, never once removing his stare from me.

“You have picked an adversary who is not one to anger.” Baldwin chuckled as he ate his lamb. He tossed some bits of fat off his plate to the floor. “Here. Help yourself.”

I looked across the room at Norcross. I knew I had made an enemy for life.

But so had he.

I HAD NO TIME to waste. I set out to find Sophie. She was alive. I knew it.

My confrontation with Norcross had given me instant status among the castle staff. I was given a name, Hugh the Brave, or, I was told, with respect to Norcross’s wrath, Hugh the Brief. People who I sensed served the duke only out of fear or obligation came and whispered their support. I was able to make a few useful friends.

There was Bette the cook, a chubby, red-faced woman with a sharp tongue who kept the kitchen running like a spotless ship. And Jacques, the upstairs valet du chambre, who took meals next to me in the kitchen. Even a cheerful sergeant at arms at the court, Henri, who chuckled at my jokes.

I questioned all of them, asking if they had heard of a fair, blond woman held captive in the castle, keeping my reasons close to the vest. No one had. “Checked the brothels?” The sergeant winked. “Once the nobles have no use for ’em, they’d be sent there.” So I did. I made the rounds, pretending to be a choosy customer. But, thank God, no one fitting Sophie’s description was among the poor whores at Treille.

“You look a little drawn in the face, for a jester,” Bette, the cook, observed one morning as she pounded out her dough. “Your lost sweetheart again?”

[144] I wished I could take her into my confidence. “Not mine, Bette, but a friend’s,” I lied. “Someone asked me to inquire.”

“A friend’s , you say.” The cook eyed me skeptically. She seemed to play with me. “Is she highborn or common?”

I looked up from my bowl. “How would a rogue like me know anyone highborn?” I grinned. “Except you, perhaps…”

“Oh yes, me…” Bette cackled. “I’m the duke’s own blood. That’s why I slave in this hearth until dark every day.”

She laughed and went about her chores. But when she returned lugging a pot, she crept behind me and said confidingly, “Perhaps it’s the Tavern you want, love.”

I looked up. “The Tavern?”

She reached on her tiptoes for a bowl of garlic heads high on a shelf. “ The dungeons ,” she said under her breath. “They’re always filled with mouths to feed. At least for a short while. We call them la Taverne. Everyone goes in on their own two feet, but usually it takes a team of four to carry them out.”

I looked to thank her, but Bette quickly breezed to the other side of the kitchen, peeling the garlic for her soup.

The Tavern. For days afterward, I spied on it in the courtyard while taking my daily stroll. A heavy iron door, always guarded by at least two soldiers from Baldwin ’s reserve. Once or twice, I sauntered over, trying to warm up the guards. I did a little magic trick, tossed some balls in the air, twirled my staff. I never got as much as a snicker.

“Bug off, fool,” one guard barked at me. “No one here even remembers how to laugh.”

“You want a peek,” another barked, “I’m sure Norcross’ll find you a room.”

I hurried away, pretending his very name had sent me trembling. But I continued plotting. How to get in? Who could help me? I tried the chamberlain. I even tried to play my liege, Baldwin. One day, after court, I sidled up to him. “Time for a drink, my lord. How about I buy you one… in la Taverne?”

[145] Baldwin laughed and said to his coterie, “Fool wants a drink so bad, he’s willing to risk the pox to get it.”

One night, as I took my meal in the kitchen, Bette sat down with me. “You are a strange sort, Hugh. All day you’re smiles and tricks. But at night you sulk and brood like a lost lover. Why do I think this loss you feel is not a friend’s?”

I could no longer hide my sadness. I had to trust someone. “You are right, Bette. It’s my wife I seek. She was taken from my village. By raiding knights. I know she is here. I can feel it in my blood.”

Bette did not show surprise. She only smiled. “I knew you were no fool,” she said. “And I can be a friend,” she added, “if you need one.”

“I need one more than you can know,” I said, desperate. “But why ?”

“Be sure, not for your silly tricks, Hugh, or your flattery.” Bette’s expression changed, grew warmer. “Geoffrey and Isabel, Hugh… They are my cousins. Why do you think I always saved you the best scraps of meat? You don’t think you’re that funny, do you? I owe you their lives, Hugh.”

I grasped her hands. “ La Taverne, Bette. I have to get in. I’ve tried everything, but there’s no way.”

“No way?” The cook stared at me a long time, searching my intentions. “For a fool, maybe. Only a fool would want to get into la Taverne. But there’s a saying here. The best way to end up in the soup is to ask the cook!”

IT WAS CHILLY for a summer night in Borée. A breeze blew over the gardens. The lady Emilie huddled in her cloak. At her side was the jester, Norbert.

Emilie had tried to read her book of chansons de geste that night, but the pages turned emptily, her thoughts drifting into space like wisps of smoke. The rhymes of poets and the tales of imaginary heroes no longer captivated her. Her heart ached with a confusion she had never known before. It always came back to one thing. One face.

What is happening to me? she wondered. I feel I am going mad, Norbert had noticed it. The jester had knocked on her door earlier that night. “I know laughter, my lady, and to know that, I must know melancholy too.”

“So you are a jester and now a physician too?” She pretended to scold him.

“It takes no physician to see what ails you, lady. You miss the lad, don’t you?”

With anyone else, she would have bitten her tongue. “I do miss him, jester. I cannot lie.”

The jester sat across from her. “You’re not alone. I miss him too.”

This was something new for Emilie. She was used to feeling that men were like flies, nuisances, always buzzing around her, [147] too concerned with their boasting and their deeds to be taken seriously. But this was different. How had it happened? She had only known Hugh for weeks. His life was a world apart from hers, yet she knew everything about him. Most likely, she would never see him again.

“I feel I have sent him on this quest,” she told Norbert. “And now I wish I could bring him back.”

“You did not send him, lady. And with all respect, he is not yours to bring back.”

No, Norbert was right. Hugh was not hers. She had only stumbled upon him.

So she huddled in the garden that night. She needed to feel the air on her face. Somehow, out here, under the same moon, she felt closer to him. I don’t know if I will ever see you again , Hugh De Luc. But I pray I do. Somehow , some way.