James Patterson - The Jester

The Tafur pressed closer and I stumbled, trying to scamper away. I crawled along the bank of the river, knowing my death was only seconds away. Stephen would end up with the holy lance after all.

Black Cross stood in front of me. There was no escaping him now. He put up his visor and let me see his awful, scarred face.

He sniffed. “Your soul is already lost. I only do God’s dirty work by delivering your corpse to Him.”

For a moment I blinked, disoriented, the sun glinting off his armor. I felt in another place, Antioch, staring up at the Turk, sucking in the last, precious breaths of my life.

Once again, the craziest urge took hold of me.

I began to laugh. I did not know at what. That I had come full circle, back to the moment of my death? That despite all my hope, life in the duchy would remain as it was? That I would die in the patchwork clothing of a fool?

Something crazy had come into my head. A line from a stupid joke. I don’t know why it seemed funny to me, but I could not help myself. I was a fool, wasn’t I?

“ It sure is deep ,” I said. Then I started to laugh again, twisting up my legs and rolling on my side.

“You die witless, jester. Tell me, what image is so funny that you will carry it to your grave?”

[414] “Oldest joke in the book.” I caught my breath. I did not know if it was cunning or total lunacy that was in control. “Two men pissing off a bridge. Each trying to prove to the other who’s bigger. One rolls out his pecker. ‘Bbrrr … this water’s cold,’ he says. ‘Yeah,’ goes the other, ‘and it sure is deep .’ ”

Black Cross looked blank, not understanding. He stood on the bank of the river, ready to dispatch me to Hell.

“It sure is deep,” I said again, this time a renewed certainty in my voice.

It was only a flash, but I was sure I saw on his face the subtle recognition that all was not what it seemed , that he had misjudged something.

Before he could figure it out, I kicked my legs and struck him squarely in the midsection. The blow sent him stumbling to the very edge of the riverbank.

Black Cross struggled to keep his balance. And he did! He smiled disdainfully, as if to say, You little man. That’s all you have?

Then his boots could not hold the ground. He teetered, his armor dragging him backward. And still his look was not of peril but merely annoyance. Little man , little problems.

But then he began to fall. A clang of metal the armor dragging him, picking up speed like a boulder until he rolled, grasping at rocks and weeds, all the way down the embankment and tumbled into the river.

He slid under the surface. I am certain that what flashed through his mind was that he would pick himself up and climb back and finish me off. Moments passed. I could not believe what was happening myself. The Tafur did not rise. A gloved hand broke the surface and thrashed in the air, struggling for something to grasp on to.

More time passed. Air bubbles rose to the surface. His glove flailed back and forth. But the Tafur never rose again. Black Cross was done, drowned, dead.

[415] I forced myself to crawl over to the edge of the embankment. The fighting had wound down. Stephen’s men were kneeling, groaning, hands in the air. Some of our men were beginning to cheer, hoisting their swords above their heads.

Then they were all cheering, jubilant faces reflecting the same incredible thing. We had won! Stephen was defeated. We had actually won!

All around, people came rushing up to me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Finally, tears bit at my eyes, tears of joy and exhaustion. People shouted my name as if I were a hero.

I reached behind me for the holy lance. With whatever strength was left in my body, I thrust it high into the air.

Toward Heaven.

EMILIE DID NOT hear cheering. Why?

She knew a fierce battle was under way. She’d heard the pounding gallop of horsemen leaving the city, the walls shaking with their strides.

Oh , God , she thought, that could only mean Stephen had attacked. Hugh’s army was now fighting for its life.

Emilie could not bring herself to look out the window of her cell. How could God let this ruthless bastard win? Fight , Hugh , fight. But she knew the odds were against him.

She waited for the roar, close by, announcing victory. It would tell her Stephen’s killers had done their job. That Hugh was dead.

But there was no roar.

After the first rumble of horsemen there was only the clash of metal, the gnashing din of battle, far-off cries. Then, in the distance, a trail of cheers. Why were the ranks on the wall so silent? She finally pulled herself up on her mat.

No cheering… Could Hugh have won? Was it possible?

Suddenly the bolt jangled and the door was flung open.

Stephen was there, his eyes fierce. Two soldiers followed him into the cell.

She forced a smile. “I hear no cheers coming from the walls, my lord. Why do I think the battle has not gone your way?”

[417] “For both of us.” Stephen snorted and seized her arm. “There’s a noose in the courtyard that awaits your pretty neck. Tomorrow morning, you traitorous bitch!”

“You have no right to pass such judgment.” Emilie tried to twist away. “You sentence me to death on what charge?”

“Sedition, abetting the rebels, fucking a heretic…” Stephen listed them with a shrug.

“Have you lost your mind? Is there no honor left in you? Have you bargained everything with the Devil for a piece of metal? That lance?”

“The lance,” Stephen said, his eyes flashing, “is worth more to me than you and your fool, and all the pitiful ‘honorable’ souls left in France.”

Emilie shouted, “You will not beat him, Stephen, whether you hang me or not. He came for you as one man; now an army stands behind him. You cannot stop him, not with all your titles and mercenaries, no matter how many men.”

“Yes, yes, your ruddy little fool. Oh, now you’ve really got my knees knocking.” Stephen laughed.

“He will come for me.”

Stephen shook his head and sighed. “Sometimes I think the two of you actually deserve each other. Of course the fool will come for you, my pathetic girl. That’s precisely what I’m counting on.”

THE REALIZATION SETTLED over the men that the battle was finally over. No more fighting. No more blood.

They looked around, stunned and elated. Those who had lived sought out friends and embraced them. Georges and the Languedocians, Odo and Father Leo, Alphonse and Alois, farmers and Freemasons, jubilant just to be alive.

I led our men back to the castle walls, exhausted, out of fight. But as conquerors!

The same defenders who had pushed aside our attacks now sullenly watched us, arms at rest. Stephen’s captured knights were pushed to the front, stripped of their armor, and forced to kneel. A cry rose up. Not a cry of victory but a single, steady voice that grew in power until all joined in.

“ Submit , submit ,” they chanted.

Finally, from a parapet above the front gate, Stephen appeared, dressed in a ceremonial purple cloak. He surveyed our ranks contemptuously, as if he could not believe this ragtag rabble had beaten back his troops.

“What happens now?” I asked Daniel.

“You must talk with him. Stephen has to comply or his knights will lose their heads. He is bound by honor.”

“Go on.” Odo pushed me forward. “Tell the bastard he can keep his fucking grain. See if there’s any ale in there.”