James Patterson - The Jester

“In that case…” I patted him on the shoulder and flashed him a glimpse of a plate of gold engraved with Stephen’s crest that I intended to give him as a memento. “No need to leave with this.”

Ox looked around and then tucked it in his saddle pouch. “I guess I’ll have to teach them some proper manners.” He grinned.

I embraced him, patting the warrior warmly on his broad back.

“Look us up, jester, if you ever have the urge to return that lance.” He winked. He slapped his horse and signaled his men forward.

[441] I watched until the last of them had disappeared through the city gates. Stephen was being buried later that day. That was one last thing I had to do.

A few of my men were there as the coffin was brought to the cathedral. It was not a service befitting a duke who had died in battle. Only Anne, their son, Emilie, and I were inside the church with the bishop.

The duke’s coffin was carried into a crypt deep inside the castle and placed in a marble sarcophagus. In this dark, narrow space, well below ground, lay the remains of past bishops and members of the ruling family. There was barely enough air to fuel a torch.

The blessing was simple and quick. What was there to say?

That Stephen had bargained his honor away for greed and power. That he had been a shit to his wife and an indifferent father to his son. That he had plundered the Holy Land in search of loot.

The bishop of Borée, the same who had excommunicated us, muttered through a quick prayer, his eyes darting toward the lance. Emilie looked on, holding my hand. When the blessing was done, Anne bent over the casket and planted a dry kiss upon Stephen’s cheek.

Then a final blessing was said. Anne led her son out of the crypt, the bishop stumbling close behind.

“Give me a moment,” I said to Emilie.

She seemed not to understand.

“I need to say something for my wife and son.”

She finally nodded and left me. Just Stephen and I .

I looked at his deep-set eyes, his turned-down hawk nose. “If there ever was a bastard in this world, you are it,” I said. “May you rest in Hell, you prick.” I closed the coffin.

I held the holy lance in my palms. It brought back memories of all those whose lives had been changed by it. Maybe years from now someone would find it, I thought. In a different time, when it would be celebrated for what it was. Something miraculous, close to God.

[442] You were a hell of a good walking stick. I smiled. But as a relic, you brought more blood than peace.

I placed the holy lance inside the sarcophagus. Then I moved the heavy lid into place and looked away.

The crypt attendant came back and I nodded for him to go about his duty. I stayed and watched, saying good-bye to Sophie, Phillipe, and the Turk who had spared me in Antioch.

The sarcophagus was sealed for good and pushed into the wall, where it fitted almost seamlessly into the stone, then mortar was smoothed in the cracks.

It would lie there forever.

Or until it was needed again.

CHURCH BELLS WERE RINGING.

As I came out of the crypt, Emilie rushed up, excited. “We have visitors, Hugh! Archbishop Velloux is arriving at the gates.”

“Velloux…?” I did not know the name.

“From Paris.”

Paris ! I did not know if this was good or bad. The Church had excommunicated us. If this was upheld, all we had fought for could be lost. No matter what Anne vowed to rectify, without the Church we were outcasts, more dead than alive.

I hobbled into the courtyard. Anne stood by expectantly. Bishop Barthelme too. From all about, my men gathered around the courtyard: Odo, Georges, Alphonse, Father Leo.

The archbishop of Paris! This was a humbling thing.

As the portcullis was raised, a column of soldiers in crimson surcoats galloped two by two into the courtyard.

Behind them, an ornate carriage drawn by six strong steeds.

It bore the cross of Rome, insignia of the Holy See.

My heart was leaping out of my chest. Emilie squeezed my hand. “I have a good feeling,” she whispered.

I wished I could say I did as well.

A captain of the guard jumped off his mount and placed a stool in front of the carriage door. When it opened, two priests [444] wearing scarlet skullcaps emerged. Then, a moment behind them, the archbishop, about sixty by my estimate, his hair gray and thinned, wearing a crimson robe and a large gold cross around his neck.

“Your Eminence,” Bishop Barthelme exclaimed. He and his priests dropped to one knee. Slowly, everyone around them did the same. “This is a great honor. I pray you did not have too unsettling a trip.”

“We would not have,” the archbishop curtly replied, “were it not that on your word we went first to Treille, expecting to find a rebellion there, ‘heretics and thieves.’ Yet instead we found only peace and order. And, remarkably, no lord. I am told there was a battle fought here.”

“There was, Your Grace,” the bishop said.

“Well, you look no worse for wear, Barthelme,” the archbishop observed. “Obviously the Church still functions. Show me, where are all these dreaded lost souls?”

“Why, they are here,” the bishop said, stabbing his finger toward my men. “ And here .” He pointed at me.

The archbishop looked closely at us. “These men seem quite benign, for apostates and heretics.”

The bishop’s face turned white. A few snickers were heard around the square.

“The duke felt…”

“The duke obviously felt,” Velloux interrupted, “that the Church’s laws were available, as were you, to enact his personal bidding.”

For the first time, the tightened bowstring that was my chest began to relax.

“Your Grace.” Anne stepped forward and knelt. “Your presence is most welcome, but there are matters of civil law that also need to be addressed.”

A voice called from out of the carriage. “That is why I came along, my dear.”

[445] A stately figure emerged, wrapped in a purple cloak embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis. Each of the soldiers immediately dropped to a knee.

“ Your Highness,” Anne exclaimed, her face blanched. She immediately rose and curtsied, eyes fastened to the ground. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Words I could scarcely believe.

“ The King …”

The entire square dropped to one knee. The King! He had answered my call. I had to blink twice to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

Then I heard something that stunned me even more.

“Father!” Emilie exclaimed.

FATHER! Did I hear right? My body slammed to a halt. I know that my jaw hung wide.

The King’s eyes were drawn to Emilie. I could not tell if he was pleased or stern. “Has your absence from the court made you forget, child, who it is you address?”

“No, my lord,” Emilie replied. She knelt and averted her eyes. Then she lifted them, twinkling with amusement. “Father…” She exhaled and smiled.

“So.” The King signaled for us to rise. “Show me the misguided fool who I am told is responsible for this unrest.”

Emilie shot forward, clasping my arm. “You are mistaken, Father. It is not Hugh who is responsible but-”

“Quiet,” the King interrupted, his voice raised. “I was referring to Stephen , the supposed duke, not your damned jester,” he said.

Emilie, her eyes moist, broke into a blushing smile. She took my hand.

“The duke is dead, my lord.” Anne came forward. “He died, realizing his shame, by his own hand.”

“By his own hand…” The King glanced at the archbishop and snorted. “Then it is he , after all is done, who is withheld from God’s grace. As for the rest of you heretics…” He turned [447] and faced my men. “Consider yourselves restored. I speak for Archbishop Velloux when I give you back your souls.”