James Patterson - The Jester

I gave him a weak smile. “Still trusting me?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Let’s just say, if they’re making their bet with God, they trust the holy lance more than they trust that slimy church mouse.”

I pulled the lance from the bench next to me and cradled it in my palms.

“So…?” Odo said. “That thing providing any answers? What is next?”

“What is next,” I replied, “is that it’s me Stephen wants, or at [361] least this… not your souls. This edict is a challenge: ‘Come face me if you have the will.’ I’ve no choice but to go.”

“Go?” Odo laughed. “You’re going to march on Borée with what we’ve got left?”

“No, my friend.” I shook my head. “I’m going to march on Borée alone .”

It seemed to take Odo a second to decide whether to object or roll his eyes. “You’re going to Borée? Just you and that spear?”

“You see what he’s telling me, Odo? He has burned villages to get this lance. He killed my wife and child. He has Emilie now. What else can I do?”

“We can wait. Keep Baldwin under guard until word comes. The King will surely stop this lunacy.”

“This is the King’s word.” I shook my head. “The King is noble. He will side with Baldwin and Stephen without even hearing our claims. These men are pledged to him. They raise armies to fight his wars. We… what do we raise, hens?”

“Even a king can be swayed by a good omelet.” The big smith chuckled. Then he looked at me plainly. “I am with you, Hugh, until the end.”

I grabbed his wrist. “No more, Odo. You’ve been a loyal friend, all of you. You’ve trusted me more than any fool could ever ask for.” I shot him a smile. “But now I have to face this. This thing … it has brought me mostly pain. But some things-seeing the town stand up, feeling the pride as we marched on Treille, Baldwin ’s face-they’ve been a joy.”

“You’ve become quite a bad philosopher since you put on that skirt,” Odo commented.

“Maybe… but I go alone.”

Odo didn’t answer, just took a deep breath and smiled. Then he looked around. “So this is what it’s like on the inside of a church. The seats are hard and there’s nothing to eat. I don’t see the attraction.”

[362] “That makes two of us.” I grinned in reply. We sat a moment, draped in silence.

“So where would we be,” I asked, “if I hadn’t wandered off that day on the Crusade? If I had never left, and Sophie and Phillipe were still alive. And Father Leo was preaching dull sermons. And you still put in an honest day’s work.”

Odo checked the window for the angle of the sun. “I figure, hoisting an ale. Listening to your stupid jokes.”

I stood up, patted him on the back. “Then let’s do that, friend. I’m sure there’s a cellar here. And I still know a few you haven’t heard.”

AT DAWN THE NEXT MORNING, I pulled on my tattered jester’s tunic, said good-bye to my old friends who had been with me from the start, put the sacred lance under my arm, and left.

Georges, Odo, Father Leo, and Alphonse met me by the city gates. I urged them not to buckle, but to remain and hold the city. That what we had done was right and would one day be honored.

But what I had to do now was right too. And I had to face it, alone, whatever the cost.

As I prepared to mount my horse, I gave Georges and Odo heartfelt hugs. “God bless you both,” I said. I thanked them for following me, for believing. For taking the chance. In their strong, silent embraces and held-back tears, I felt the grip of a sadness that we might never see one another again.

Then I mounted the horse and, glancing back with a wink and a smile, headed down the hill. I vowed not to look back again.

At the base of the hill, with the gates closed and Treille rising behind me, I broke the promise to myself. I stared back at the tall, foreboding walls, the high, unscalable towers. The town that could not be taken. I couldn’t help but utter a laugh. A spark of pride warmed my blood. Serfs and bondmen had seized [364] their liege’s castle without even fighting a battle. Baldwin ’s apoplectic face rose up in my mind-and for that single moment, it had all been worth it.

But now Baldwin was behind me. One final challenge lay ahead. It was with the person who had burned our village, who had killed my wife and child. Who now held the one I loved. I knew this battle was no longer simply about rights and freedom. It had narrowed to something deeper, personal.

I turned my back on Treille a final time and kicked my mount upon its way.

My mind was set on Borée.

STEPHEN’S BOOT HEELS sounded loudly as he pushed into a small, squalid room near the rear of the barracks. Hunched silently in a dark corner, its occupant turned, a man who was filthy and covered with sores.

“Come, Morgaine.” Stephen threw the door wide open. “Your moment is here again. I need to make use of your talents. You are still a knight, are you not?”

The dishonored knight slowly lifted his muscular frame off the floor. Tattered, soiled cloth still hid the spot where the lance had pierced his side, and the tiny cubicle reeked of putrefaction.

“I am here to serve you, my liege.”

“Good,” Stephen said. “You must air this place out. Your hygiene is odious anyway, Morgaine, but these days a latrine would smell less foul.”

“It is unavoidable, my liege. The stench keeps the memory of my wound awake in my mind, and the lowly bastard who gave it to me.”

“I’m glad your memory is fresh,” Stephen said. “For if God grants, you will have a second chance for vengeance.”

The Tafur’s eyes lit up. “Each breath I force myself to take is in hope of such a moment. How?”

[366] “Events, larger than you can contemplate, bring the fool back to me.”

“The fool! He comes to Borée? You know this?”

“Do you think I would soil these boots in this pit of infection for any other reason? Now, get up. I will have the physician mask that stench.”

The Tafur pulled his war tunic off the floor, still torn and bloodstained at the spot where the jester’s lance had ripped through. He moistened his lips the way a famished man would awaiting, impatiently, a fresh roast.

“The thought of vengeance has made you alive again, warrior.” Stephen grinned. His instincts had been good. He’d been right to save this drooling beast and not lop off his head when he crawled back without the lance.

“I will gut him,” the Tafur said, grinding his teeth, “and let my sores drip in his wound so that he may die knowing the contagion that he inflicted on me.”

“That’s the spirit.” Stephen slapped him on the shoulder, then looked at his own hand with distaste. He leaned close to the wounded warrior, as if they were drinking mates, then dug the hilt of his own sword sharply into Morgaine’s side. He gasped.

“This time make sure you come away with the lance.” Stephen sniffed.

“But first, there is other work to be done,” Stephen said, returning to his earlier tone. “In your absence, all sorts of scum have come to Borée. That is why I need you. Whom else am I to trust?”

“Just tell me what you need done.”

“Good.” Stephen’s look brightened. “That’s what I hoped to hear. You seem like a man who could use some entertainment, Morgaine. How about we order some up? Let us call upon the jester, Norbert. You know Norbert, don’t you, Morgaine? Why don’t we see if we can prod him to make us laugh?”

[367] Morgaine nodded, and Stephen knew he understood perfectly. It wouldn’t matter whose blood was on his blade, as long as it led to the fool.