James Patterson - The Jester

We crept through the narrow opening. A dim light appeared up ahead. “Come, quick,” I heard a voice say on the other end. I did not know where I was or whom I was heading toward. I prayed this was not an ambush.

The tunnel was not long, only the length of a building. We came out into a torch-lit room, arms assisting us as we jumped.

Those arms belonged to a man in a deep blue robe with a white beard. I immediately recognized him: Auguste, the physician who had healed me after I was attacked by the boar. This was his hospital. People in the throes of disease reclined on mats or leaned half-naked against stone walls.

Auguste led us down a hall into a large adjoining chamber. A study. The walls were lined with heavy manuscripts, scrolls all about.

I had barely enough time to thank Auguste for his help before the physician scurried off, shutting us in. My heart beat nervously.

“What is next?” I turned to the Moor.

“What’s next,” said a voice from the shadows, “is to pray that [425] holy lance of yours has a fraction of the powers it’s said to-if you intend to save the life of the woman you love.”

I spun to see a shape in a hood emerge from a corner. I did not know whether to raise my knife or bow.

I was staring at Lady Anne.

A DRUM BEAT SOLEMNLY in the courtyard outside the castle. An anxious crowd had begun to form, eager to see what was happening.

Usually, before a thief or a murderer took the rope, people gathered around laughing and gossiping as if they were going to a feast. Peddlers hawked cakes and candles; children played hide-and-seek through the crowd, hoping for a front-row vantage point from which to taunt or spit.

But today the mood was different. Everyone knew they were going to see something they had never seen before.

A noble was going to be hanged.

A noble woman.

High above the courtyard, I hid on a castle ledge, crouched in a nook the Moor had found for me. In the square, I spotted Odo in the crowd near the gallows. And Ox, balancing two pails on his shoulders, making his way in the direction of the main gate.

On the walls, soldiers lined the ramparts, poised in case the rebels charged. A bonfire burned in the square, its flames fanned by a whipping wind. The fire was for Emilie’s body, once she was dead.

A flourish of horns shattered the restive quiet. Murmurs buzzed through the crowd. It was time! The door to the donjon opened.

[430] A detachment of soldiers marched out, Emilie at their center.

“There she is,” someone shrieked.

“I beg you, pray, lady,” a woman wailed. “God’s Heaven is great. If he finds room for us, he will for you.”

My heart was pounding against my ribs just to see Emilie after such a long time.

She wore a plain cotton smock and a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her blond hair was pinned and fell about her neck. She didn’t look noble, just as brave as I had ever seen her.

Oh God, how I wanted to catch her eye, call out to her. Let her know that I was here.

The drumbeat began again. The crowd grew hushed.

“Let her go,” someone finally yelled. “We have no fight with her.”

Emilie stopped for a moment, a smile of kindness on her face, but a soldier pushed her toward the scaffold.

The crowd hollered to save her life, even as a masked hangman pulled her by the arms up the stairs and led her to the noose. I knew how frightened she must be; I knew how her heart must be fluttering. I glanced at Odo: Hold! The same to Ox. How I wanted to rise and shout the words I am here!

Then the horns sounded again-this time the duke’s flourish. From the entrance to the castle Stephen appeared, flanked by his lackeys, the bailiff and the chamberlain.

The bailiff pulled out a scroll and began to read: “ ‘In accordance with the laws of the Duchy of Borée and sanctioned, heretofore, by the Archbishop of the Diocese and the Holy See, it is willed that all known abettors and caregivers to the heretic rebels will be deemed agents of corruption to both Duchy and Church, and therefor be hanged by the neck until dead, and their body burned, as is the law.’ ”

“Let her live,” a voice shouted from the crowd. “It’s Stephen’s neck that fits the noose, not hers.”

[431] Stephen’s face reddened. “Where is your jester now, lady?” He stepped up to the gallows and said to all, “I have given him a chance to spare her life, to spare the City more blood, and yet he does not appear. Lady Emilie, you have only these weak-willed women to speak for you.”

“Your deeds speak, for me,” Emilie said. “I pray he does not come.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “We will wait, but only a few moments more.”

Odo looked at me with readiness. Now , his eyes said. We must strike now . I gave him no signal.

Suddenly a lookout called from the walls, “My lord, it is the jester’s army. Their arms are down. They submit .”

Stephen’s face lit with joy. “Be sure, sergeant. Submit or attack? There must be no tricks.”

“No, the sergeant is right,” confirmed the chatelain from the ramparts. “They carry their banners down. They do submit. And the jester , he is at the head of them.”

From my perch, I could make out rows of my men approaching with their arms at bay. And Alphonse, in my patchwork skirt and cap, at the head.

“The fool’s stupidity amazes even me.” Stephen smirked, bounding up the steps and peering over the wall. “He lays down everything for a woman. What chivalry! Come forth, jester,” Stephen called beyond the wall. “We will open the gates. I have something you will want to see.”

He signaled to his gatekeepers to draw up the portcullis. Two men hoisted the heavy metal gate skyward.

At the same time, Stephen ordered, “Hangman, secure the noose.”

The crowd gasped in protest. Something vile was about to occur. The masked executioner fitted the rope around Emilie’s neck and positioned her body over the trap.

“Stay away,” Emilie shouted to the men approaching outside [432] the gate. A black hood was placed over her head. “Please, Hugh, go back. Go back!”

Stephen laughed out loud. “Sorry to disappoint you, lady. It seems he is every bit the fool he is reputed to be.”

I could no longer restrain myself. I looked to Odo in the crowd, and to Ox hovering by the opening gate. Across the way, I spotted the Moor on a balcony above the square.

I signaled them. Now!

But suddenly Stephen shouted, “It is not him!” He strained over the wall, his eyes bulging. “It’s a trick! The jester is not there! Close the gates!”

THE MOOR’S ARROW streaked across the square, striking one of the gatekeepers in the back. He slumped to his knees.

Ox threw off his pails and jammed a rod in the pulley, bringing the heavy portcullis to a stop. He ran his knife into the back of the other gatekeeper, who was struggling to bring the gate down.

A swarm of my men, Alphonse in the lead, rushed inside. They overwhelmed the soldiers at the gate as arrows rained down on them. Soon they were battling Stephen’s men hand-to-hand.

Stephen leaped down from the walls and ran toward the scaffold and Emilie. “Where is your fool?” he asked her. “He lets you die? He does not come for you?”

He gave the nod to his hangman. Then Odo pushed his way past two guards. He plunged his knife into the hangman’s gut, hurling him off the scaffold. He went to Emilie.

“He does come, Stephen,” I called. I held up the lance. Our eyes locked in a hateful exchange. “I am here, my lord. Norbert told me you were a jester short.”