James Patterson - The Jester

“You will be by me?” I took her hand, searched her eyes. “You will not change your mind when we are standing against Baldwin ’s army and it is just us two?”

“It will not just be us two,” she said, crouching beside me. “I think you know that, Hugh.”

THAT DAY, I called the town together in the church. I stood at the front, in the same bloody rags I had worn in the fight, holding the lance. I took a sweeping look around the room. The place was full-the miller, Odo, even people who never went to church.

“Where have you been, Hugh?” Georges stood up in his place. “We’ve all been celebrating.”

“Yes, that lance must be holy.” Odo stood too. “Since it found you, it’s been hard to even buy you an ale.”

Everyone laughed.

“Don’t blame Hugh,” Father Leo put in. “If such a pretty maiden were visiting me, I wouldn’t waste my time drinking with you clowns, either.”

“If you had such a pretty maiden, we’d all be in church a lot more often,” Odo roared.

Everyone laughed again. Even Emilie smiled from the back.

“I do owe you an ale,” I said, acknowledging Odo. “I owe you all an ale, for your courage. We did a great thing the other day. But the ale must wait. We are not done.”

“Damn right we are not done.” Marie, the miller’s wife, stood up. “I have an inn to run, and when that fat bailiff comes back, I intend to stuff him so full of squirrel droppings he pukes himself dead.”

[302] “And I’ll be happy to serve it to him.” I smiled at Marie. “But the inn… it has to wait too.”

Suddenly everyone noticed the look on my face. The laughter settled into a hush.

“I pray I have not drawn you in against your will, but we cannot stay here. Life will not return to what it was. Baldwin has made a promise to all of you, and he will keep it. We have to march.”

“March?” Voices rang out, skeptical. “To where?”

“To Treille,” I answered. “ Baldwin will come at us with everything now. We must march against him .”

The church went silent. Then, one by one, people shouted up to the front.

“But this is our home,” Jean Dueux, a farmer, protested. “All we want is for things to go back to the way they were.”

“Things will never go back, Jean,” I said. “When Baldwin hears of this, he’ll send his henchmen to ride down upon us with the full fury of his will. He will raze the town.”

“You talk of marching against Treille,” Jocelyn, the tanner’s wife, declared. “Do you see any war horses or artillery? We’re just farmers and widows.”

“No, you are not.” I shook my head. “You’re fighters now. And in every town there are others, who have farmed and toiled their entire lives only to hand over what their liege demands.”

“And they will join us?” Jocelyn sniffed. “These others? Or will they just cheer and cross themselves as we march by?”

“Hugh is right,” Odo’s deep voice cut in. “ Baldwin will make us pay, just like the bailiff promised. It’s too late to back down.”

“He will surely take my lands anyway,” Jean moaned, “after what’s happened here.”

“H-Hugh has the lance,” Alphonse said. “It is a greater weapon than all the arrows in Treille.”

Shouts and murmurs rose around the church. Some stood in agreement, but most were afraid. I could see it in their [303] faces. Am I a soldier? Am I fit to fight? If we march, will others follow?

Suddenly a pounding was heard from the church steps outside. People froze. Everyone in town was already inside.

Then three men stepped into the doorway. They were dressed in working hides and tunics. They knelt, made the sign of the cross. “We seek Hugh,” a large one said, taking off his hat. “The one with the lance.”

“I am Hugh,” I said from the front.

The man grinned at his companions, seemingly from relief. “I am glad you truly exist. You sounded more like a fable. I’m Alois, a woodsman. We’ve come from Morrisaey.”

Morrisaey? Morrisaey was halfway between here and Treille.

“We heard about your fight,” one of the others said. “Farmers, bondsmen fighting like devils. Against our liege. We wanted to know if it was true.”

“Look around. These are your devils,” I said. Then I showed him the lance. “Here is their pitchfork.”

Alois’s eyes grew wide. “The holy lance. Word is that it changes things for us. That it’s a sign. We couldn’t just sit by and twiddle our thumbs if there was going to be a fight.”

My chest expanded. “This is good news, Alois. How many men do you have?” I was hoping it was more than these three.

“ Sixty-two ,” the woodsman shouted proudly. “Sixty-six if the fucking Freemasons don’t back down.”

I looked around the church. “Go back and tell your townsmen you are now one hundred and ten. A hundred fourteen if the fucking Masons take part.”

The man from Morrisaey grinned at his companions again. Then he turned back, “Too late for that…” he said.

He swung the church doors open wide. I saw a crowd in the square. Everyone rushed out of their seats to look and saw woodsmen carrying axes, farmers with hoes and spades, ragged-looking peasants carting hens and geese. Alois smiled. “Already brought ’em.”

THAT WAS HOW IT BEGAN, that first day.

Barely a hundred of us, farmers, tailors, and shepherds, makeshift weapons in hand, food and other supplies carted behind. We started on the road toward Treille.

But by the next town we were two hundred, people kneeling before the lance, grabbing their belongings. By Sur le Gavre we were three hundred, and at the crossroad between north and south, a hundred more were waiting, clubs and hoes and wooden shields in hand.

I marched at the front, carrying the lance. I could not believe these folk had come to follow me, in a fool’s suit, yet at every corner, more joined us.

They knelt-husbands, wives-kissing the lance, and Christ’s blood, singing praise and vowing the nobles would crush them no longer. Banners were hoisted, with the purple and white lions of Treille upside down or with the crest slashed and tattered.

It was like the hermit’s march all over again. The hope and promise that had captured my soul more than two years before. Simple men-farmers and serfs and bondmen-banded together to raise up their lives. Believing that the time had finally come. That if we stood up with the might of numbers, no matter how long the odds, we could be free.

[305] “Are you tired of being shat on?” went the refrain as we wound past a watching goatherd.

“Aye,” came the reply. “I’ve been tired my whole life.”

“And what would you risk,” another would shout, “to gain your freedom?”

“All I have. Which is nothing. Why do you think I’m here?”

The ranks swelled with people from all corners of the forest. “ Follow the lance ” was the cri de coeur. “ The lance held by the fool .”

By St. Felix, we had grown to seven hundred strong. By Montres, we had lost count. We could no longer feed them; we had no more stocks or provisions. I knew we could not stand a drawn-out siege, yet people continually joined.

Near Moulin Vieux, Odo edged his way up to the front. Behind us was a column of peasants at least a thousand strong.

The big smith grinned, walking alongside me. “You have a plan, don’t you, Hugh?” He eyed me warily.

“Of course I have a plan. You think I brought all these folks along for a picnic in the woods?”

“Good.” He sighed. He dropped back into the ranks. “Never doubted…”