Copyright © 2003 by James Patterson
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First eBook Edition: March-2003
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2783-6
Contents
Copyright
Prologue: The find
Part One: The origins of comedy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two:Black cross
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Part Three: Among friends
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Part Four: Treasure
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Part Five: Part Five
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Part Six: Last rights
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Epilogue
Sources
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
The
Jester
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Prologue
THE FIND
WEARING A BROWN TWEED SUIT and his customary dark tortoiseshell sunglasses, Dr. Alberto Mazzini pushed through the crowd of loud and agitated reporters blocking the steps of the Musée d’Histoire in Borée.
“Can you tell us about the artifact? Is it real? Is that why you’re here?” a woman pressed, shoving a microphone marked CNN in his face. “Have tests been performed on the DNA?”
Dr. Mazzini was already annoyed. How had the press jackals been alerted? Nothing had even been confirmed about the find. He waved off the reporters and camera operators. “This way, Docteur,” one of the museum aides instructed. “Please, come inside.”
A tiny dark-haired woman in a black pantsuit was waiting for Mazzini inside. She looked to be in her mid-forties and appeared to almost curtsy in the presence of this prestigious guest.
“Thank you for coming. I am Renée Lacaze, the director of the museum. I tried to control the press, but . . .” she shrugged. “They smell a big story. It is as if we’ve found an atom bomb.”
“If the artifact you’ve found turns out to be authentic,” Mazzini replied flatly, “you will have found something far greater than a bomb.”
As the national director of the Vatican Museum, Alberto Mazzini had lent the weight of his authority to every important find of religious significance that had been unearthed over the past thirty years. The etched tablets presumed to be from the disciple John dug up in western Syria. The first Vericot
te Bible. Both now rested among the Vatican treasures. He had also been involved in the investigation of every hoax, hundreds of them.
Renée Lacaze led Mazzini along the narrow fifteenth-century hall inlaid with heraldic tile.
“You say the relic was unearthed in a grave?” Mazzini asked.
“A shopping mall . . .” Lacaze smiled. “Even in downtown Borée, the construction goes night and day. The bulldozers dug up what must have once been a crypt. We would have completely missed it had not a couple of the sarcophagi split open.”
Ms. Lacaze escorted her important guest into a small elevator and then up to the third floor. “The grave belonged to some long-forgotten duke who died in 1098. We did acid and photoluminescence tests immediately. Its age looks right. At first we wondered, why would a precious relic from a thousand years earlier, and half the world away, be buried in an eleventh-century grave?”
“And what did you find?” Mazzini asked.
“It seems our duke actually went to fight in the Crusades. We know he sought after relics from the time of Christ.” They finally arrived at her office. “I advise you to take a breath. You are about to behold something truly extraordinary.”
The artifact lay on a plain white sheet on an examiner’s table, as humble as such a precious thing could be.
Mazzini finally removed his sunglasses. He didn’t have to hold his breath. It was completely taken away. My God, this is an atom bomb!
“Look closely. There is an inscription on it.”
The Vatican director bent over it. Yes, it could be. It had all the right markings. There was an inscription. In Latin. He squinted close to read. “Acre, Galilee . . .” He examined the artifact from end to end. The age fit. The markings. It also corresponded to descriptions in the Bible. Yet how did it come to be buried here? “All this, it does not really prove anything.”
“That’s true, of course.” Renée Lacaze shrugged. “But Docteur . . . I am from here. My father is from the valley, my father’s father, and his. There have been stories here for hundreds of years, long before this grave tumbled open. Stories every schoolchild in Borée was raised on. That this holy relic was here, in Borée, nine hundred years ago.”
Mazzini had seen a hundred purported relics like this, but the tremendous power of this one gripped and unnerved him. A reverent force gave him the urge to kneel on the stone floor.
Finally, that’s what he did — as if he were in the presence of Jesus Christ.
“I waited until your arrival to place a call to Cardinal Perrault in Paris,” said Lacaze.
“Forget Perrault.” Mazzini looked up, moistening his dry lips. “We are going to call the Pope.”
Alberto Mazzini couldn’t take his eyes off the incredible artifact on the plain white sheet. This was more than just the crowning moment of his career. It was a miracle.
“There’s just one more thing,” said Ms. Lacaze.
“What?” Mazzini mumbled. “What one more thing?”
“The local lore, it always said a precious relic was here. Just never that it belonged to a duke. But to a man of far more humble origins.”
“What sort of lowborn man would come into such a prize? A priest? Perhaps a thief?”
“No.” Renée Lacaze’s brown eyes widened. “Actually, a jester.”
Part One
THE ORIGINS OF COMEDY
Chapter 1
Veille du Père, a village in southern France, 1096
The church bells were ringing.
Loud, quickening peals — echoing through town in the middle of the day.
Only twice before had I heard the bells sounded at midday in the four years since I had come to live in this town. Once, when word reached us that the King’s son had died. And the second, when a raiding party from our lord’s rival in Digne swept through town during the wars, leaving eight dead and burning almost every house to the ground.
What was going on?
I rushed to the second-floor window of the inn I looked after with my wife, Sophie. People were running into the square, still carrying their tools. “What’s going on? Who needs help?” they shouted.
Then Antoine, who farmed a plot by the river, galloped over the bridge aboard his mule, pointing back toward the road. “They’re coming! They’re almost here!”
From the east, I heard the loudest chorus of voices, seemingly raised as one. I squinted through the trees and felt my jaw drop. “Jesus, I’m dreaming,” I said to myself. A peddler with a cart was considered an event here. I blinked at the sight, not once but twice.
It was the greatest multitude I had ever seen! Jammed along the narrow road into town, stretching out as far as the eye could see.
“Sophie, come quick, now,” I yelled. “You’re not going to believe this.”
My wife of three years hurried to the window, her yellow hair pinned up for the workday under a white cap. “Mother of God, Hugh . . .”
“It’s an army,” I muttered, barely able to believe my eyes. “The Army of the Crusade.”
Chapter 2
EVEN IN VEILLE DU PÈRE, word had reached us of the Pope’s call. We had heard that masses of men were leaving their families, taking the Cross, as nearby as Avignon. And here they were . . . the army of Crusaders, marching through Veille du Père!
But what an army! More of a rabble, like one of those multitudes prophesied in Isaiah or John. Men, women, children, carrying clubs and tools straight from home. And it was vast — thousands of them! Not fitted out with armor or uniforms, but shabbily, with red crosses either painted or sewn onto plain tunics. And at the head of this assemblage . . . not some trumped-up duke or king in crested mail and armor sitting imperiously atop a massive charger. But a little man in a homespun monk’s robe, barefoot, bald, with a thatched crown, plopped atop a simple mule.
“It is their awful singing the Turks will turn and run from,” I said, shaking my head, “not their swords.”
Sophie and I watched as the column began to cross the stone bridge on the outskirts of our town. Young and old, men and women; some carrying axes and mallets and old swords, some old knights parading in rusty armor. Carts, wagons, tired mules and plow horses. Thousands of them.
Everyone in town stood and stared. Children ran out and danced around the approaching monk. No one had ever seen anything like it before. Nothing ever happened here!
I was struck with a kind of wonderment. “Sophie, tell me, what do you see?”
“What do I see? Either the holiest army I’ve ever seen or the dumbest. In any case, it’s the worst equipped.”
“But look, not a noble anywhere. Just common men and women. Like us.”
Below us, the vast column wound into the main square and the queer monk at its head tugged his mule to a stop. A bearded knight helped him slide off. Father Leo, the town’s priest, went up to greet him. The singing stopped, weapons and packs were laid down. Everyone in our town was pressed around the tiny square. To listen.
“I am called Peter the Hermit,” the monk said in a surprisingly strong voice, “urged by His Holiness Urban to lead an army of believers to the Holy Land to free the holy sepulchre from the heathen hordes. Are there any believers here?”
He was pale and long nosed, resembling his mount, and his brown robes had holes in them, threadbare. Yet as he spoke, he seemed to grow, his voice rising in power and conviction.
“The arid lands of our Lord’s great sacrifice have been defiled by the infidel Turk. Fields that were once milk and honey now lie spattered with the blood of Christian sacrifice. Churches have been burned and looted, sainted sites destroyed. The holiest treasures of our faith, the bones of saints, have been fed to dogs; cherished vials filled with drops of the Savior’s own blood, poured into heaps of dung like spoiled wine.”
“Join us,” many from the ranks called out loudly. “Kill the pagans and sit with the Lord in Heaven.”
“For those who come,” the monk named Peter went on, “for those who put aside their earthly possessio
ns and join our Crusade, His Holiness Urban promises unimaginable rewards. Riches, spoils, and honor in battle. His protection for your families who dutifully remain behind. An eternity in Heaven at the feet of our grateful Lord. And, most of all, freedom. Freedom from all servitude upon your return. Who will come, brave souls?” The monk reached out his arms, his invitation almost irresistible.
Shouts of acclamation rose throughout the square. People I had known for years shouted, “I . . . I will come!”
I saw Matt, the miller’s older son, just sixteen, throw up his hands and hug his mother. And Jean the smith, who could crush iron in his hands, kneel and take the Cross. Several other people, some of them just boys, ran to get their possessions, then merged with the ranks. Everyone was shouting, “Dei leveult!” God wills it!
My own blood surged. What a glorious adventure awaited. Riches and spoils picked up along the way. A chance to change my destiny in a single stroke. I felt my soul spring alive. I thought of gaining our freedom, and the treasures I might find on the Crusade. For a moment I almost raised my hand and called out, “I will come! I will take the Cross.”
But then I felt Sophie’s hand pressing on mine. I lost my tongue.
Then the procession started up again. The ranks of farmers, masons, bakers, maids, whores, jongleurs, and outlaws hoisting their sacks and makeshift weapons, swelling in song. The monk Peter mounted his donkey, blessed the town with a wave, then pointed east.
I watched them with a yearning I thought had long been put behind me. I had traveled in my youth. I’d been brought up by goliards, students and scholars who entertained from town to town. And there was something that I missed from those days. Something my life in Veille du Père had stilled but not completely put aside.
I missed being free, and even more than that, I wanted freedom for Sophie and the children we would have one day.
Chapter 3
TWO DAYS LATER, other visitors came through our town.
There was a ground-shaking rumble from the west, followed by a cloud of gravel and dust. Horsemen were coming in at a full gallop! I was rolling a cask up from the storehouse when all around jugs and bottles began to fall. Panic clutched at my heart. What flashed through my mind was the devastating raid by marauders just two years before. Every house in the village had been burned or sacked.
There was a shriek, and then a shout. Children playing ball in the square dived out of the way. Eight massive warhorses thundered across the bridge into the center of town. On their huge mounts, I saw knights wearing the purple-and-white colors of Baldwin of Treille, our liege lord.