James Patterson - The Jester

I had to ask: “Is anyone for meeting Stephen’s terms?” I looked around, awaiting their reply. There was only silence.

Finally, Georges picked himself up off of the ground. “I was raised to grind grain, not to soldier. But we’ve all made our choice here. We’ve each lost loved ones. My boy Alo. Your friends, Ox… Odo. What would any of their deaths mean if we turned it in now?”

“ Whose death are you speaking of?” a voice barked in the darkness.

We looked up. A huge, hulking shape came forward. At first, I thought it was an apparition.

[402] “Dear God.” The miller shook his head.

The big smith limped stiffly toward our fire. Odo’s skins were torn and smeared with blood. His bushy brown beard was matted with who knew what.

I met Odo’s eyes, which showed the horror that he had faced. I was so exhausted, I could not even get up to give him a hug. “What the hell took you so long?”

“Fucking hard to claw your way out with all those green-and-gold shits piled on top.” He sighed with an exhausted grin. “So, anything to drink?”

I finally got up, wrapped my arms around his shoulders in an adoring hug, and slapped his back. I felt his broad shoulders tense. His arms were covered in burns and one leg was bloody and raw. Someone put a mug in his hand and he drained it in a single swallow. A nod from Odo said, One more.

Then he looked up at us, our incredulous smiles. “It was a bad day today, huh?”

We stared back.

“ Well …” Odo swung his bloody leg up, the gash in his thigh causing even Ox to cringe. He took the second mug and poured it all over the wound, sucking back pain. “No mind.” He shrugged at our blank stares. “We’ll kick their asses tomorrow.”

WE PUMMELED BORÉE again and again over the next few days. Our catapults battered the walls with heavy rocks. Our sturdiest rams pounded at the gates. Charge after charge, ladders were pitched against the walls, only to be thrown aside, and the men on them killed.

The bodies of our fallen comrades piled high outside the walls. I feared we could not take the city. It was too strong, too well fortified. With each repelled charge, the hope of victory faded. Food and drinking water were growing scarce. No answer was received from the King. Our will began to crack.

This was what Stephen had relied on, I realized. All it would take was one mounted strike by his knights against our depleted ranks, and we would be finished.

I called our leaders to the dilapidated grain tower we used for strategy sessions. The mood inside was anxious. Many friends had been left on the field. A somber look was etched on every face, even Daniel’s.

I went up to the hearty Languedocian. “Ox, how many men do you have left?”

“Two hundred,” he said grimly, “of what was once three.”

“I want you to take them, then… tonight , and leave camp. And the Morrisaeys… You, Alois, I want you to take your men too.”

[404] Ox and Alois were stunned. “Give up? Let that bastard win?”

I did not reply. I stood in the center of the group, catching Odo and Alphonse’s eyes, taking in their looks of disappointment and anger.

The Languedocian shook his head. “We came a long way to fight, Hugh, not to run.”

“We too, Hugh,” Alois protested. “We’ve earned our place.”

“Yes, you have.” I nodded. “All of you have.” I turned and faced each one to convey my thanks.

“And you shall have it,” I declared, my voice coming alive. “You shall have the chance that each of your friends sought as they were cut down.”

They stared at me, lost between alarm and confusion. “Oh, shit.” Odo’s jaw dropped. “It’s another of those fucking pretexts .” He looked at me as if he were trying to gauge the weather inside. “We have Emilie to blame for this. What is the plan, Hugh?”

My face gave away nothing.

“We’re going to take this city,” I finally said, “but not as soldiers. I have tried to fight this as a military man, and as a general, but I’m really a fool… And as a fool, even the great Charlemagne would have no advantage over me.”

“I’m not sure this is a revelation I’m pleased to trust my life to.” Ox sent a skeptical gaze my way. “But I’m all ears. Tell us about this pretext of yours.”

STEPHEN WAS IN THE MIDST of stabbing a piece of breakfast ham, the morning light tumbling into his quarters, when his page called out, “Look, your lordship, to the window, quick. The rabble has fled.”

Just minutes before, the duke had woken in a sour mood. These rebels had proven more resistant than he’d imagined. In wave after wave they came at him; he could not understand their zeal to die. Plus, two weeks ago, Anne had moved to the lady’s quarters. He’d been sleeping alone.

At his page’s call, he hurried to the window. His empty stomach filled with glee. The boy was right! The rebel ranks had thinned, cut by more than half.

Those fucking Languedocians, with their arms as thick as ox legs and their horsehair vests, had fled. All that remained was a measly little force, standing around like chickens waiting to lose their heads.

And there, at the head of them, the green-and-red rooster himself, in full view. With the lance! This decimated rabble of woodchoppers and farmers was no more than mop-up work for his men.

From behind, his aides burst in. Bertrand, the chatelain, followed by Morgaine.

“Look,” Stephen cackled, “the gutless bastards have given [406] up. Look at that stupid prancing cock, standing about as if he still had something to command.”

“You said, when the opportunity arose, the little fool was mine,” Morgaine rasped.

“So I did.” Stephen beamed a gloating grin. “I did promise you that. Tell me, Bertrand, what strength do you estimate they still have?”

The chatelain scanned the field. “Barely three hundred, my liege. All on foot, with limited weapons. It should be no feat to round them up with our horsemen and achieve a quick surrender.”

“Surrender?” Stephen’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, it might be good to extend a hand and save these poor, misguided fools a bit more blood. How does that word sound to you, Morgaine? Surrender?”

“These men are soulless, my liege. We’d be doing God a service by removing their heads.”

“So what are you waiting for?” Stephen jabbed him in the chest. “The little bastard’s lance still makes an ache in your side, does it not? You heard the chatelain’s advice. Let the knights ride with you.”

“Liege, those are my men,” Bertrand interrupted. “They are our castle’s reserve.”

“You know, Bertrand,” Stephen interrupted. “That surrender thing… I’ve never been particularly keen on it. Morgaine makes a case. These men have already forfeited their souls. No reason to keep them fluttering around in this world.”

The chatelain’s stomach sank.

“The holy lance or my dignity-that was his choice, was it not?” Stephen’s eyes lit up. “Now it seems that I will have them both. Won’t I, chatelain? And Morgaine… one more thing. I know how you enjoy your work, but do not forget your real purpose out there.”

“The holy lance, my lord. My thoughts have never strayed from the prize.”

“LOOK!” A cry of alarm spread among the troops. Several men pointed toward the castle.

The gates of Borée had suddenly opened. We watched, all eyes fixed on the sight, not knowing what would emerge. Then, we heard the rumble of heavy hooves clattering over the lowered drawbridge and saw armored men atop massive crested chargers, trotting in rows of two.