“What about jokes, then? The lady said you could make me laugh. You must know some fabulous jokes.”
“I know a few,” I said.
Norbert folded his arms. “So, go ahead, boy. Bowl me over. Make me laugh until I piss myself.”
Now I was eager to take the dare, eager to show the jester up. This I could surely do. I thought through my best inventory. “There’s the one about the peasant who is so lazy that as he watches a gold coin drop from the money bag of a knight riding by . . .”
“Knowit,” Norbert interrupted. “He says to his friend, ‘If he comes back the same way, this just might be our lucky day.’”
“Then there’s the one about the traveler and the whorehouse,” I began. “A traveler is walking down the road. . . .”
“Knowit,” the jester snapped again. “The sign says, ‘Congratulations, you’ve just been screwed.’”
I went through two other tales that never failed to stir a laugh. “Knowit,” he said to both. He seemed to know them all. Emilie held back a laugh.
“So that’s it? That’s your entire repertoire?” The jester shook his head. “Can you at least rhyme? A dour king cannot ignore, refusedly, a spicy tale about his wife if it is told amusedly.
“This stuff is easy, right? Hump your back, hop around like an ape, everyone rolls over in stitches. C’mon, Red, you must have something decent. You want a pretext? Well, I want to be a mentor. I want to be a mentor.” He pranced around and whined like a spoiled child. “You know, maybe on second thought, you would have an easier time storming Baldwin’s castle than making them laugh.”
In a fit of vexation, I searched the room. This was no sport to me. No stupid audition. This was about the fate of my wife. Then, in the corner of the jester’s cell, I spotted a ball and chain.
“That.” I pointed.
“What? Wanna play catch?” Norbert asked haughtily.
“No, jester. Fetch me the chain.” I remembered something I had seen on the Crusade. A captured Saracen did a trick to amuse his captors; it worked so well they kept him alive.
“Bind me with it,” I said. “Wrap it all the way around, tight as you can. I will extricate myself.”
This brought a worried look from Emilie. The chain was heavy. Wound too tight, it could squeeze the air out of a man.
“Your poison.” Norbert shrugged.
He went over and dragged the heavy chain back to me. I took several deep breaths, as I had seen the Saracen do when he performed the trick. Then the jester began to wrap. Slowly, heavily, the chain squeezed me. I lifted my arms and he wrapped it around my shoulders. And for good luck, between my legs.
“Your rubicund friend has a knack to kill himself.” Norbert chuckled.
“Please be careful,” Emilie said.
I pushed out my chest as expansively as I could as the jester circled it with the chain. I had to enlarge myself. I had to hold my breath. I had seen this done. I had questioned the Turk about it myself. I only hoped I could re-create the effect now.
“Time’s a wasting,” Norbert said after the chain was secure. He stood back.
The links felt heavy on my shoulders. Slowly, I released the captured air from my lungs. The slightest wiggle room developed around my chest. It was only a finger’s breadth or two.
Then I was able to shift my shoulders back and forth. Then gradually my arms. Every grueling minute advanced like an hour. The weight of the chains pressed me to the floor. My hands were pinned behind my back, but finally I pulled one free. I twisted it like a snake through an opening up around my shoulders.
Emilie gasped. The jester looked on, finally interested in me.
It took all of my strength to get an arm free. My stomach and leg still ached from the boar’s attack. Each exertion was grueling, but gradually, with the arm free, I was able to unwrap the chain. From between my legs, from under my arms, from around my chest. Layer after layer came off. Then I freed my other arm.
As I kicked off the final loop, Emilie screeched a happy cry.
I doubled over, drenched in sweat. I looked up at my mentor.
Norbert drummed his fingers along the side of his face. He smiled at Emilie. “I think we can work with that.”
Chapter 36
I STUDIED WITH NORBERT for nearly a fortnight, until my wounds finally healed completely. My days were spent juggling, tumbling, and watching him perform in front of the court, and my nights with the telling and retelling of jokes and rhymes.
Step by step, I learned the jester’s trade.
Much of it came easily to me. I had been a jongleur and was used to entertaining. And I had always been agile. We practiced forward flips and handstands; in return, I taught him the trick with the chain. A hundred times, Norbert held out his arm, like a bar, at waist height, while I strained to flip my body over it. At first, I hit my head on the straw mat again and again, and groaned in pain. “You find new ways to injure yourself, Red,” my mentor would say, shaking his head.
Then slowly, surely, my confidence began to grow. I began to clear Norbert’s arm, though sometimes falling to my seat. On my last day, I made it over, my feet landing in the precise spot from where I had sprung. I met his eyes. Norbert’s face lit up in a monumental smile.
“You’ll do all right.” He nodded.
At last, my education was complete. There was an urgency to things; the image of Sophie was never far from my thoughts. If I had any hope of finding her alive, I had to go now.
At the end of our final session, Norbert dragged over a heavy wooden trunk. “Open it, Hugh. It’s a gift from me.”
I lifted the top and pulled out a set of folded clothes. Green leggings and red tunic. A floppy pointed cap. A colorful patchwork skirt.
“Emilie made it,” the jester said proudly, “but to my design.”
I looked at the jester’s costume warily.
Norbert grinned. “Afraid to play the fool, eh? Your pride’s your enemy, then, not Baldwin.”
I hesitated. I knew I had to play the role, for Sophie, but it was hard to see myself wearing this outfit. I held the tunic up to me, sizing it against my chest.
“Put it on, then,” Norbert insisted, smacking me on the shoulder. “You’ll be a chip off the old block.”
I removed a set of bells from the trunk.
“For the cap,” said Norbert. “No liege wants to be snuck up on by his fool.”
The uniform I suppose I had to wear, but there was no way I could see myself tinkling about. “These, I must leave with you.”
“No bells . . . ?” the jester exclaimed. “No clubfoot, no hunch of the spine?” Again, he slapped my shoulders. “You are indeed the new breed.”
I put aside my own tunic and leggings and slipped into the jester’s outfit. Piece by piece, I felt a new confidence take over my body. I had worn the robes of a young goliard, the garb of a soldier in the Crusade. Now this . . .
I looked at myself up and down and broke into a wide smile. I felt a new man! I was ready.
“Brings tears to my eyes.” Norbert feigned growing misty. “The lack of limp bothers me some — a jester needs a good strut. Oh, but you will appeal to the ladies!”
I sprang into a forward flip, stuck it, and bowed with pride.
“You are done, then, Hugh,” the jester said. He tugged at my tunic and skirt to adjust the fit. “Just one thing more . . . It is not enough, boy, to simply make them laugh. Any fool can make a man laugh. Just fall on your face. The mark of a true jester is to gain the trust of the court. You may speak in rhyme, or in gibberish for all I care, but somehow you must touch something true. It is not enough to win your lord’s laughter, lad. You must also win his ear.”
“I’ll win Baldwin’s ear,” I promised. “Then I’ll cut it off and bring it back to you.”
“Good. We’ll make a soup of it!” the jester roared. He pulled my hand soundly, as if trying to force me off my mark, then looked at me with some welling in his eyes.
“You are sure of thi
s, Hugh? Of going to all this risk? It would be a shame to waste this valuable teaching on a corpse. You’re sure your wife lives?”
“I feel it with all my heart.” I looked into his eyes.
He raised his bushy brows and smiled. “So go, then, lad. . . . To the sails . . . Find your beloved. You are a dreamer, boy, but, yikes, what good jester isn’t?” He winked and stuck out his tongue. “Give her a lick for me.”
Chapter 37
IT WAS A COOL MORNING as the sun broke through the mist, low in the sky. Emilie met me on the stone road outside the castle gate. “You rise early, Hugh De Luc.”
“And you, lady. I’m sorry to have brought you out so early in the morn.”
She smiled bravely. “It is for a good purpose, I hope.”
“I hope so too,” I said.
She had on her brown cloak, which she always wore for matins. She cinched the collar against the mist. I stood before her in my ridiculous jester’s outfit. I did a sprightly hop and a jump that made her laugh.
“I hear it is you I have to thank for the new duds.” I bowed.
“What thanks?” She curtsied. “A jester could not do his work without looking the part. Besides, your other clothes reeked of a particular smelly beast.”
I smiled, fixing on her soft green eyes. “I feel the fool in front of you, my lady.”
“Not to me. You look quite dashing, if I say so.”
“The dashing jester . . . Not what is normally thought of as right.”
Emilie’s eyes glistened. “Did I not tell you, Hugh, that I have a penchant for not doing what is considered right?”
“You did tell me.” I nodded.
We stood and stared at each other for a long while, the space empty of words. A rush of feelings rose in my chest. This beautiful girl had done so much for me. If not for her, I would have been dead, a bloody mound on the side of the road. I reached my hand out to hers. There was a spark between us, a warmth against the cool of the morning.
I let my hand linger, longer than I could have dreamed. She did not pull away. “I owe you so much, Lady Emilie. I fear I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
“You owe me nothing,” she said, her chin raised, “but to be on your quest and to complete it safely.”
I didn’t know what else to say. For me there had only been Sophie. Each night I went to sleep with my mind dancing with a thousand images of our lives together, my hands aching to touch her skin once more. I loved my wife, and yet, this woman had done so much. And gotten nothing in return. I wanted to take her in my arms and let her know how I felt. The strongest surge swelled inside me; it gave me a trembling in every bone in my body.
“I hope with all my heart your Sophie is alive,” Emilie finally said.
“She is alive. I know it.”
My hand was still cupping hers. When I finally pulled it away, I felt a loss — but also a small object pressed inside my palm, wrapped in a linen cloth.
“This was in your clothes,” Emilie said, “when I first found you on the road.”
I unwrapped it. The breath froze in my chest. It was the broken comb with the painted edge I had found in the cinders of our inn. Sophie’s comb.
Emilie’s eyes were liquid and courageous, her voice strong. She took my hand. “Go find her, Hugh De Luc. I truly believe that is what you were saved for.”
I nodded. I squeezed her hand back with all my might. “In all the world, I hope to see you again, my lady.”
“In all the world, I hope to see you again too, Hugh De Luc. It pains me that you leave.”
I let her go and tossed my sack upon my back. I picked up my staff and started south, on the true road to Treille.
I took a skip and a hop and twirled around to take a final look at Emilie. She was still watching me and smiled bravely. I wondered, with all the worlds that separated us, how I had deserved such a lovely friend.
“Good-bye,” I whispered under my breath.
I thought I saw her lips move too. “Good-bye, Hugh.”
Chapter 38
THE ARMORED RAIDERS SWEPT DOWN upon the sleeping manor. It was a large stone house in a neighboring duchy, miles from the nearest town.
I will make them pay, Black Cross promised. No man is bold enough to steal from God. Especially not the true relics of Christendom.
At first, there was a yip of dogs as the massive chargers thundered out of the calm night. Then torches lit up the darkness and everything went ablaze.
The horsemen set fire to the stables, horses bucking and neighing in fright. A few terrified workers who had been sleeping there ran out and were mowed down by the blades of hard metal charging by.
The manor burst alive with light. Six dark knights dismounted and two of them crashed through the heavy wooden door with their axes. Black Cross burst inside with his men.
The knight of the manor appeared in a doorway inside. His name was Adhémar. All France knew of this old man, this renowned fighter, who still stood with a strength that spoke of his past. Behind him, his wife huddled in a bed gown. The knight had donned his tunic. It bore the purple-and-gold fleur-de-lis of the King.
“Who are you?” Adhémar challenged the raiders. “What do you want here?”
“A piece of gold, old man. From your last campaign,” said Black Cross.
“I am no banker, intruder. My last campaign was in service to the Pope.”
“Then it should not be so hard to remember. What we seek was plundered from a tomb in Edessa.”
“Edessa?” The old knight’s eyes flicked from intruder to intruder. “How do you know this?”
“The noble Adhémar’s fame is well-known,” Black Cross said.
“Then you also know I fought with William at Hastings. That I wear the Gold Fleur, awarded to me by King Philip himself. That I have defended the faith at Acre and Antioch, where my blood still lies.”
“We know all of this.” Black Cross smiled. “In fact, that is why we are here.”
He signaled to one of his men, who bound the arms of the knight’s wife. Adhémar moved to defend her, but he was pinned by the blade of a sword to his neck.
“You insult me, intruder. You show no face or colors. Who are you? Who has sent you? Tell me, so I will know you when I meet you in Hell.”
“Know this,” Black Cross said, and lifted his helmet, revealing the dark cross burned into the side of his neck.
The old knight fell silent with recognition.
“Take us to the relic,” Black Cross said.
His henchmen dragged the couple through their house, the knight’s wife screaming futilely at her captors. They went through a stone arch leading to a rear courtyard, where there was a small chapel. Inside was a bronze altar with a crucifix hanging above.
“In Edessa, you looted the tomb of a Christian shrine. In the reliquary, there were crosses and vestments and coins. There was also a gold box. In it were ashes. That is all we came for. Just a box filled with ash . . .”
Black Cross grabbed a war ax from one of his cohorts and raised it over the knight’s head. The knight closed his eyes. As the knight’s wife shrieked, Black Cross swung the ax in a mighty arc, narrowly missing the knight, smashing the stone floor beneath the altar. The rock crumbled under the mighty blow.
Beneath the masonry, a hidden space came into view. Inside was a gold ark wrapped in cloth. One of Black Cross’s men knelt and lifted it. He smashed the valuable chest as if it were a trinket.
He lifted out a simple wooden box. He opened the lid and gazed awestruck at the dark sand inside.
“It is blasphemy that you should hold such a thing in His name.” The old knight glared.
Black Cross’s eyes lit up with rage. “Then we shall let Him decide.”
Black Cross scanned the broken chapel, his gaze coming to rest on the crucifix hanging on the wall. “Such a spirited faith, brave knight. We must make sure such faith is recognized for all to see.”
Chapter 39
MY JOURNEY TO TREILLE TOO
K SIX DAYS. The first two, the road was busy with travelers — peddlers dragging their carts, workers with tools and other belongings, pilgrims heading back home.
By the third day, the villages grew smaller, and so did the traffic.
By the fourth, at dusk, I huddled under a tree for a stingy meal of bread and cheese. I could not rest long. Treille was but a good day’s walk away now, and the anticipation of reaching there and finding Sophie beat through my blood like a restless drum.
I decided to travel a bit farther, until darkness completely set in.
I heard voices up ahead. Then shouts, and a woman’s cries. I came upon a merchant family — husband, wife, and son — in the midst of being attacked by two robbers.
One of the scavengers grabbed a prize, a ceramic bowl. “Look what I have, Shorty. A piss bowl.”
“Please,” the merchant begged, “we have no money. Take the wares if you must.”
The one called Shorty sneered. “Let’s have a trade. You can have your piss bowl back for a stab at your wife.”
The blood pounded in my veins. I did not know these people. And I had my own pressing needs in Treille. But I couldn’t stand by and watch them be robbed and possibly murdered.
I put down my pack and crept closer behind some brush. Finally, I stepped out from my cover.
Shorty’s eyes fell upon me. He was stumpy and barrel-chested, balding on top, but very muscular. I knew I made a ridiculous sight in my leggings and skirt.
“Let them be,” I said. “Leave them and go.”
“What do we have here?” The fierce outlaw grinned toothlessly. “A pretty fairy come out of the woods.”
“You heard the man.” I came closer with my staff. “Take what you have. You can sell it in the next town. That’s what I would do.”
Shorty stood up, hardly about to buckle under a threat delivered by someone in a jester’s suit. “‘What I would do,’ eh, big shot? What I would do is run off now. Your bad jokes aren’t needed here.”
“Let me try another,” I said, stepping forward. “How about this one? Name the sexual position that produces the ugliest children.”