James Patterson - The Jester

I whispered beneath my breath, so only I could hear. “I meant you.”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I rose before the sun. I took the calfskin pouch that was next to my bed and slipped out of the inn.

Next to the woodshed, I found a few scattered tools. I took a shovel. The cocks had not yet crowed.

A few other early risers fluttered about their chores. A carter was heading out with his mule. By the baker’s hut, the smell of fresh baking bread perfumed the air.

I headed for the knoll overlooking our village.

I had dreamed of this so many times since Sophie had died in my arms. Bringing her home. The thought that her soul was incomplete, with no rites or blessings, tormented me. Now her life would be complete. She would rest here forever.

By the ford in the stream I began to climb a steep hill. The morning was alive with birds chirping in the soft light. The sun tried to burn through the mist. I climbed for a few minutes; soon I was above the town. I looked back over the waking valley. The little huts had begun to show life. I saw the square and the inn. Emilie was sleeping there.

On top of the hill, I went to a spot near a spreading elm where my son’s grave was.

I knelt and put the calfskin pouch down. Then I began to [266] dig. I made a space in the ground next to Phillipe. Tears gathered in my eyes as a heavy drum pounded inside my chest.

“At last you’re home, Sophie,” I whispered. “You and Phillipe.”

I opened the pouch and held the box with the C. Then I scattered her ashes into the dug-up earth and covered them up again. I stood there at her grave and looked back over the awakening town.

You are finally home , Sophie. Your soul can rest.

STEPHEN OF BORÉE SAT STOLIDLY on the high-backed chair in his court. A crowd of toadying favor-seekers stood in line as his bailiff brought him up to date on a new tax. Behind him, the seneschal readied a report on the status of his demesne. His thoughts were a thousand miles away.

An incompleteness jabbed at Stephen. Since he had been back, the business of his estates, his holdings, things that had once meant everything to him, now seemed trivial, worthless. These functionaries droned on and on, but he could not fix. His mind was a brooding pit that focused on a single, far-off point of light.

The prize. The treasure.

It haunted him, invaded his dreams. This holy relic miraculously preserved for centuries in the tombs of the Holy Land. He longed for it with an avarice he had felt for no woman. Something that had touched Him. He woke in the night dreaming about it, his body covered in sweat. His lips grew dry just thinking of its touch.

With such a prize in hand, Borée would be among the most powerful duchies in Europe. What a cathedral he would build to house its glory. What was the worth of the meager bones of his own patron saint, resting in his reliquary? It was nothing compared to this prize. People would come from all over the [268] world to make pilgrimages to Borée. No cleric would be greater than him, or closer to God.

And he knew who had it.

A furor built in Stephen’s chest. His underlings were lathering on, blabbering about his holdings, his wealth. It was all rubbish-insignificant. He felt as if he were about to explode.

“ Get out ,” he stood and screamed. The bailiff and the seneschal looked at him, surprised. “Get out! Leave me be! You go on about this new tax, or a new flock of sheep. Your eyes are fixed on the ground. I am dreaming of everlasting life.”

He swept his hand across the table in front of him, and a tray of wine goblets clattered to the floor. Everybody scurried, fleeing their places as if the whole structure were about to collapse.

Only Norbert, his jester, remained, clinging to the base of his chair and shaking like a man in seizure, trying to make him laugh.

“It is no use, Norbert. Do not waste your jest. Let it be.”

“It is no jest.” Norbert shook, lips trembling. “Your chair is on my hand.”

Finally Stephen grunted back a smile and the loyal jester rolled away, shaking his swollen hand.

A servant nervously approached to clear the mess. Stephen waved him away. His eyes followed the trail of spilled wine until they came to rest upon someone’s boot.

Who is so presumptuous as to approach? Stephen thought. He looked up at the face of Morgaine, the leader of his Tafur guard. Black Cross.

“Have you come to taunt me, Morgaine, with news of another village laid waste without my prize?”

“No, I have come to cheer you, my lord, with news that I know where the treasure is.”

Stephen’s eyes widened. “Where?”

“Your cousin, the lady Emilie, has led me right to it,” Black Cross said with a pinched smile.

[269] “Emilie?” Stephen’s face twitched. “What has Emilie to do with this prize? She is in Toulon.”

“She is not in Toulon,” Black Cross said. He whispered close. “But in a little pisshole in the duchy of Treille, Veille du Père.”

“Veille du Père? I know that name. I thought you had already sacked-”

“Yes.” Morgaine nodded, seeing Stephen come to understand. “She is with the innkeeper as we speak. And so is the treasure.”

TO MY AMAZEMENT AND DELIGHT, Emilie did not leave as soon as she had delivered her gift. She stayed on for the next few days. I was in heaven.

I showed her the work we were doing to fortify the town. The perimeter defenses of sharpened stakes, strong enough to repel a sudden charge; the battle stations high in the trees, from where we could rain arrows and stones on any attackers. She saw the passion with which I urged my friends and neighbors to resist. And she heartily approved.

In between, I treated her to the best sights of our village. The lily pond in the woods where I liked to swim. A field high in the hills where sunflowers ran wild in the summer. And she helped me at the inn. I showed her how to fit logs into a support column with pegs and joints. She helped me hoist up a log as a support beam. Then we carved her initials into the wood: Em. C .

I knew this fantasy would have to come to an end. Soon she would leave. Yet she seemed comfortable. So I allowed myself to pretend. That Emilie would not be missed and looked for. That it was safe here, free from attack. That something unthinkable was happening between us.

It was on a warm afternoon a few days later that I tossed down my tools before noon. “Come.” I took Emilie by the [271] hand. “It’s not a day to be working. I want to show you a beautiful place. Please, my lady.”

I took her up into the hills, past the knoll where Sophie and Phillipe lay. The sun beat deliciously against our skin. High above town, an open meadow stretched out, the tall grass golden under the blue sky.

“It’s gorgeous,” Emilie exclaimed, her eyes soaking in every burst of blue and flash of gold.

She flung herself down in the field and fanned her arms and legs into the shape of a star. “Come here, Hugh, this is heaven.” She patted the grass next to her.

I lay down beside her. Her soft blond hair fell off her shoulders, and I could see the hint of breasts peeking from the neckline of her dress. My blood was running wild, and it terrified me for obvious reasons.

“Tell me,” I said, propping myself up on my elbow, “what does the C stand for?”

“The C?”

“Your family name… It was on the box you gave me, and the initials we carved into the inn. I know nothing about you. Who you are. Where you are from. Your family.”