James Patterson - The Jester

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.

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 Treille; 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.”

“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.”