It was Anne. Out there in the dark with a man. He didn’t look like a knight. More like a monk. In robes. But with a sword.
Emilie thought she had stumbled across something she should not have seen. Anne was angry. She’d never heard her mistress’s tone this hard.
“You know what my husband wants,” she said. “Find it!”
Chapter 48
A FEW DAYS LATER, as I took my evening meal, Bette the cook winked and drew me aside. “There’s a way,” she said. “If you still want to see the Tavern.”
“How?” I asked, leaning in close. “And how soon?”
“It’s not exactly a state secret, jester. People have to eat, don’t they? Guards, soldiers . . . even prisoners. Every day my kitchen brings the evening meal to the dungeon. Who would mind if it was brought by the fool?”
My eyes lit up. The fool doing errands for the cook. It could work.
“I will give it a try,” Bette said. “The rest is up to you. If your wife is there, Hugh, it will take more than luck to get her out. Just don’t bring the duke’s awful wrath down on me.”
I took her hand and squeezed it. “I would bring nothing down upon you except my gratitude. I owe you much, Bette.”
“I told you, I owe you my cousins’ lives.”
“But somehow, I think it is more than what I did for Geoffrey, Isabel, and Thomas on the road here.”
She smiled and tossed a turnip into the pot. “Baldwin is our liege.” She sniffed. “But he can never rule our hearts. I see why you have come. I can see you are in love. These hands may be rough and ugly, but I am not so removed from matters of the heart.”
I began to blush. “Am I so transparent?”
“Don’t worry, love, no one else would notice. They’re too busy grabbing their sides and laughing at your silly jokes.”
I raised an onion the way one would raise a mug to make a toast. “We will keep each other’s trust, Bette.”
She lifted a turnip. We tapped them together.
“I feel a headache coming on.” She frowned. “Tomorrow eve. Be here at dusk.
“And something else, Hugh. You asked if a woman was being held in the cells. I checked. There is a lady staying in the Tavern. One who might fit your wife’s description. Fair-haired. And she keeps talking about an infant.”
These words . . . They were like the most exquisite magic for my soul. What was only a hope for so long now sprang free. Sophie was here! I knew it now. I would see her tomorrow night. At last!
I hugged Bette, almost knocking the poor woman into her pot of soup.
Chapter 49
ALL THE NEXT DAY I WAITED FOR DUSK TO FALL. Time passed with agonizing slowness. To make things worse, Baldwin called for me to entertain him while he got new boots measured by a shoemaker. What scum he was. I had to keep him amused while I thought of plunging a dagger into his heart.
Yet all the while I could barely count the time. I kept repeating Bette’s words to myself. I went over in my mind what I would do. How I would pull this off. I dreamed of Sophie’s face — the face I had known since I was a child. I imagined us back at our inn. Rebuilding it from scratch . . . Starting our life again. Having another child.
I sat on my bare mat as the afternoon wound down, watching the sun descend. Finally, the light from the slats above my space grew dim. It was dusk. . . . It was finally time to see Sophie.
I made my way down to the kitchen. Bette was bustling about, complaining to the staff, a damp cloth pressed to her head for effect. “I’ve got to lie down. I’ve got the duke’s meals still to prepare. Who will carry over the soup to the Tavern? Hugh, what luck,” she said, spotting me. “Will you be a dear?”
“I am but two hands,” I joked to the staff, “and one . . .” I wiggled a finger and sniffed with a wrinkled nose. “. . . I use for scratching.”
“That’s all I need.” Bette led me away. “Just make sure the other stays out of the soup.”
She took a covered pot from the hearth and announced, “Give it to Armand, the jailer. And give him that jug of wine. You’ve done me a good turn, fool.” Then she gripped me conspiratorially by the arm. “I wish you luck, Hugh. Be careful. It’s a bad place you go to now. It is hell.”
I carried the pot and the jug of wine across the courtyard. My arms trembled a bit. Two guards stood at the door of the keep, different ones than those who had booted me away the other day.
“Ding, ding, ding . . . dinner bell,” I announced ceremoniously.
“Who the hell are they putting to work in the kitchen now?” one of them asked.
“I do it all . . . jokes to dessert. The duke’s expenses must be trimmed.”
“The duke must be bankrupt if he sent you,” the other guard said.
To my relief, they didn’t question me. One opened the heavy door. “If you had nicer tits, I’d carry it down for you.” He sniffed.
The door slammed shut behind me. I felt a tremor of relief. I was in!
I stood in a narrow stone corridor lit only by candles. A narrow stairway leading down.
A draft hit me, then noises — the clang of iron, someone calling out, a high-pitched wail. I stepped down cautiously, my heart nearly bounding out of my chest, my neck beaded with cold sweat.
I descended one step at a time, the pot clanging against the narrow walls, the wine jug pressed to my chest.
The fearsome noises intensified. The smell grew horrible, like burned flesh. It made me think of Civetot.
I winced. Poor Sophie. If she was here, I had to get her out. Tonight.
Finally, the passageway leveled off into a low, dungeonlike setting. The foul stink of excrement was all around. There was shouting from within, like that of mad people, terrifying moans and shrieks. I saw a hearth, and in it iron instruments, their tips white with heat.
My stomach grew hollow. Suddenly I did not know what to do — if I found her.
Two soldiers sat straddling a wooden tabletop, stripped down to sleeveless tunics and skirts. A swarthy one with hulking, imposing shoulders snickered at the sight of me. “We must be fucked. Look who brings our dinner.”
“You’re Armand?” I lugged the pot over.
He shrugged. “And if you’re the new chef, the duke’s really got it in for these poor bastards. Where’s Bette?”
“Down with a headache. She sent me instead.”
“Just set it here. There’s a pot from this afternoon you can take back up.”
I placed the pot on the table by a stack of wooden bowls. “How many guests tonight . . . in la Taverne?”
“What’s it to you?” the other asked.
“Never been down here before.” I looked around, ignoring him. “Cheery. You mind if I take a look?”
“This isn’t a marketplace, fool. You’ve done your chore. Now bug off.”
My chance was slipping away. I felt I only had a moment more to make my case. “C’mon, let me take in their food. I spend my day making silly jokes and spinning around like a top. Let me take a look. I’ll bring them their bowls.”
I placed the wine jug on the table in front of him. “Anyway, you guys really want to touch that slop?”
Armand slowly pulled the jug toward him. He took a swig of wine, then passed it along.
“What the hell.” He shrugged and winked at his partner. “Why not give the jester’s dick its rise. Take what you want in there. It’s free for the asking.”
Chapter 50
I TURNED A CORNER IN THE DUNGEON and then I could make out the cells. The odor here was beyond belief, nearly unbearable. My God, Sophie . . .
I finally set down the soup pot and started to work. These people had to be fed, and while I did the task, I would search for Sophie in every dark corner.
I began sloshing thin, murky gruel into bowls. My heart beat like a warning bell swung furiously back and forth.
I carried two bowls to the first cell. My hands were trembling. Soup splattered on the floor.
At first glance, the cell s
eemed to be empty. It was like a cave opening, dug out of solid rock, just a few feet deep. No light or sound, just the reek of human filth. A wet rat slithered out in front of my eyes.
Then, in the back, I saw the glow of eyes. They flickered, tremulous and afraid. From out of the shadow — a head. Hairless, gaunt, a sunken face covered with runny sores.
The prisoner crawled toward me, wild-eyed. “I mus’ be dead if it’s a fool come for me.”
“Better a fool than Saint Peter.” I knelt and shoved a bowl under the bars.
His thin, palsied hand darted out and grabbed the wooden bowl. A momentary sadness ran through me. I had no idea what he had done to put him here. In Treille, there was no reason to assume he was guilty of anything.
But I was not here for him. . . .
In the next cell was curled a Moor. He was naked and filthy; rats nibbled at sores on his legs. He muttered in a tongue I did not understand. He barely looked up at me, glassy-eyed. “Take heart, old man.” I passed the bowl under the bars. “Your time is almost up.”
I moved on to the next cells, not even going back for more soup. As with the first, the captives looked more like hunted animals than men. They groaned, peered out at me with beaten, yellow eyes. I took a breath against the urge to violently retch.
Then, from farther along, came a wail. A woman! My body tensed. Sophie? I did not know if I could go on.
“There’s your date, fool,” Armand brayed from his post. “Feel free to slip inside if she suits you. She has a magical tongue.”
I clenched my fists and made my way toward the woman’s cries. Inside my belt, I grasped the hilt of my knife. If this was Sophie, I would surely kill the guards. Norcross too.
The woman’s wail echoed again. “Go to her, fool. The bitch doesn’t like to be stood up,” yelled Armand.
I held my breath and stepped in front of the woman’s cell. The stench was worse here. Unbearable. Why was that?
She was crouched in a tight ball deep in the cell. A beam of light slanted across her hair, which was long and straggly. She seemed to clutch a doll or toy, whimpering like an abandoned child herself. “My baby,” she said, no more than a whisper. “Please . . . my baby needs milk.”
I could barely see her. I could not make out her age or her face. I gathered myself and said, “Is that you, Sophie?” Fear shot through me. My breath froze. To be kept like this — it would be better if she was dead.
The woman sputtered out nearly incoherent phrases. “Poor baby,” she muttered. “Baby needs milk.” Then something that sounded like . . . Phillipe.
Oh, God. I froze. I stepped closer to the bars. What had they done to her? “Sophie,” I called. My tongue grew dry on her name. It seemed her shape, her hair. Please, turn toward me. Let me see.
“Little one needs milk . . .” she mumbled again. “What can I do? Breasts are dry.”
Tears welled in my eyes. I still could not see. “Sophie,” I said again.
I rammed myself up against the bars. “Baby needs milk,” I heard her say again, then suddenly she emitted an ear-splitting, wrenching howl. It was like a blade running through me.
I reached out, and her eyes finally caught sight of me. The breath froze in my chest. Her strawlike hair was falling over her face. But her eyes locked on mine. Yellow. Veins running through them. The nose flat and pocked.
Oh, God! It was not her.
My legs buckled. It was not her. Part of me was giddy with joy; another, crestfallen and disappointed.
“My baby . . .” the woman called, pleading. She held out the doll for me to see.
Oh, God. I recoiled. It was no doll. It was real. A tiny newborn child, bound in a caul, clearly dead, stillborn.
“How can I help you?” I whispered. “How?”
“Can’t you see?” she pushed the infant toward me. “The child needs milk.”
“Let me help.”
“Milk!” the woman shrieked. “Feed him.”
There was nothing I could do. The poor woman was raving mad.
I stared for a moment more, then flung myself back down the corridor toward the stairs.
The jailers laughed as I went by. “Leaving so soon, fool?” cried Armand. “What, no jokes?”
I bolted out of the dungeon and up the stairs.
Chapter 51
I RAN IN A COLD SWEAT BACK TO THE CASTLE and my alcove under the stairs. There, I threw myself on my mat. My breath raced panicked and wild.
It was not her.
My beloved Sophie must be dead after all.
For the first time, I knew what had been understood all along by the people in my town, Sophie’s brother, even Norbert, my mentor. There was no hope. She had been ripped from her child, raped, and left to die on the road. I knew it now, the darkest lesson in my life.
I buried my head in my hands. This silly charade was over. I had clung to a hope and now that hope was dashed. I must go. I ripped off my jester’s hat and threw it onto the floor. I was no jester. Just a fool! A bigger fool had never lived.
I sat there for a long time. Letting the truth sink in.
I heard footsteps near my bed, then a voice. “Is that you, Hugh?”
I raised my head . . . to see Estella, the chamberlain’s wife.
She had winked at me in court. Many times. She’d grabbed at me and teased. Tonight, she had a loose shawl covering her shoulders; thick auburn hair, which I had only seen braided and pinned until now, fell all about her neck. Her eyes were round and mischievous. And her timing — couldn’t have been worse!
“The hour is late, my lady. I am not at work.”
“Perhaps I did not come for work,” Estella said, stepping into my bed-space. She let her shawl drop, revealing a loosely fitted bodice.
“What striking red hair,” she whispered. “Now how is it such a fiery fool can look so sad?”
“Please, my lady, I am not one for jokes this night. I’ll be funny again in the morning.”
“I don’t need to laugh right now, Hugh. Let me feel you in another way.”
She sat down beside me. Close. Her body was scented with fresh lavender and lilies. She reached out and stroked my face. I moved away from her touch.
“I have never seen such hair.” She seemed fixed on it. “It is the color of a flame. What are you really like, Hugh, when you are free of all those jokes?”
She pushed herself even closer. I felt the fullness of her breasts against my chest. One of her legs straddled mine.
“Please, my lady.”
But Estella pressed on. She wiggled her shoulders, letting her blouse fall to her waist. Her breasts tumbled forward. Then I felt the hot tip of her tongue dance on my neck.
“I bet other parts of you contain the same fire as your hair. Touch me, Hugh. If you do not, I’ll tell the duchess you tried to grope under my dress. A commoner touching a noble’s wife . . . Not a role you want to play.”
I was in a trap. If I resisted her molestations, I would be charged with molesting her. She nibbled at me. Then her hand entered my tunic, probing for my cock.
At that moment I felt the tip of a blade digging into my neck. I held very still. A male voice boomed, “What mischief have I stumbled onto?”
Chapter 52
THE KNIFE SLOWLY DREW BACK and I turned to face Norcross. The monster was grinning down at me.
Norcross dug the blade in again, and I felt the warmth of blood trickling down my neck.
“A nasty situation, fool. The lady Estella is the wife of the duke’s chamberlain, a member of the court. You must be mad to wag your dick at such a lady.”
Panic pumped through my chest as I realized I had been set up. “I did nothing, my lord.” My heart pounded wildly.
“The little dick had no urge.” Estella sighed. “It appears our fool’s only ardor is in his hair.”
Norcross grabbed me by the tunic and raised me, blade under my chin. Suddenly the bastard’s eyes lit up with recognition.
“His hair . . . I do know you fr
om somewhere else. Where, fool? Tell me.”
I saw that I was doomed. I shot a glare back in his face. “My wife . . . What did you do to Sophie?”
“Your wife.” The knight sniffed. “What would I do with the wife of a lowly fool? Except fuck her.”
I lunged toward him, but he gripped me by the hair, and with the leverage of his arms and the blade stuck firmly under my chin, forced me down, slowly, to my knees. “Listen good, fool. I have seen you. But where? Where have I seen your face before?’
“Veille du Père.” I spat out the words.
“That little shithole.” Norcross snorted.
“You burned our inn. You killed my wife and child, Phillipe.”
He was thinking back. The tiniest smile cracked his lips. “I do remember now. . . . You were the little red squirrel who tried to stop me from dunking the miller’s son.”
Norcross’s smile widened. “And what of the vaunted Hugh? The jester of jesters who studied under Norbert at Borée?” His grin deepened into a roaring laugh. “You? You are an innkeeper! A fraud.”
I pressed toward him again, but his blade stabbed into my neck. I felt it cut skin. “You took my wife. You hurled my son into flames.”
“If I did, all the merrier, you lowly worm.” Norcross shrugged. Then he winked at Estella. “I can see you are greatly offended, my lady. Go now and report the affront.”
She righted her blouse and scurried away. “I will, my lord. Thank you for coming when you did.” She ran out of the room. “Guards . . .” I heard her shout echo. “Help me! Guards!”
Norcross turned back to me. His eyes were hard-set and victorious. “What do you say, fool? It seems the laugh is mine after all.”
Chapter 53
I WAS HURLED, HANDS BOUND, into a dark, empty cell on the castle’s first floor. There I nervously passed the night.
I knew my fate was sealed. Lady Estella would play the offended role, just as she had played me last night. Norcross, the vindicated hero. It would be my word against that of nobles. All the laughter in the world couldn’t save me now.