James Patterson - The Jester

“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?”

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 of 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.’ ”

“No.” People shook their heads. “This cannot be…” They looked about, at one another, at me, with alarm.

[359] The young priest shouted over them, “In the hopes that you will adhere to this decree immediately and that your souls may be made available to once again receive the Holy Sacrament, a two-day period of enforcement is declared, citing me as the final overseer. This edict is signed His Eminence, Barthelme Abreau, bishop of Borée, representative of the Holy See.”

Borée! I thought. Stephen had done this!

A frightened hush hung over the crowd.

“This is madness.” Father Leo spoke. “These people are not heretics. They only fought for food in their mouths.”

“Then I suggest they chew quickly,” the young priest said, “and return to their farms before their souls remain hungry forever. And you as well, country priest.” He tacked the edict on the church wall.

“This is Stephen’s blackmail,” I shouted to all around. “It is the lance he wants.”

“Then give it to him,” someone yelled, “if it buys back our immortal souls.”

“I’m sorry, Hugh. I came for a fight.” Another shook his head. “But I’m not prepared to be damned for eternity.”

All around, our army looked terrified and overwhelmed. Some climbed down from the walls and meandered slowly toward the city gates.

“That’s right.” The priest nodded. “The Church welcomes you, but only if you act now. Go back to your farms and wives.”

How could I fight against this poisonous assault? These brave men thought they were doing something good when they followed me. Something that God would shine on.

I watched as a steady stream of friends and fighters passed dejectedly by me and toward the city gates. A tightening anger burrowed deep into my chest.

We had just lost the war.

THAT NIGHT, ODO FOUND ME huddled by myself in the chapel.

I was actually praying. Praying about what to do. If there was indeed a God, I did not believe He would let a bunch of scheming, well-fed pawns like Father Julian, who didn’t give a thought to whether my men lived or died, crush their resolve.

“I know we’re deep in shit,” Odo said with a snort, “if we’ve got you praying.”

“How many of our men are still left?” I asked.

“Half, maybe less. By tomorrow, who knows? Perhaps not even enough to hold the city. We still have some good ones. Georges, Alphonse, the Morrisaey boys… even Father Leo. Most of those who’ve been with us from the start.”