The knight sat alone, on one end of the banquet hall’s second table, lost in his own little world of thoughts and troubles. He glanced over to where the King sat, at the head of the largest table, between his two closest advisers. His long gray hair reached down towards his shoulders, cascading from the ornate crown that topped his head.
The man to his right was the knight’s superior, General Mortain, Commander of the King’s Army. To the king’s left sat the Minister of The Realm, Lord Walbrook, tax collector to the King. Weighed down by more than chain mail and armor, the knight could not eat, for he knew both men were coveting the crown.
The letter hidden near his breast - the treacherous, treasonous letter - it weighed far more than the iron mail that covered him. Why had he come here? Why had he not stayed in his safe comfortable shire, sheltered from the politics of the court?
He knew the answer: because he was a knight, raised to be honorable, and he could not simply stand by, knowing what he now knew. Another reason: he had come to save the king’s life.
But how? How could he accuse such high ranking men – lords in the King’s Court, and not get his head cut off? Why, one of them was his own superior, the very man he reported to in times of battle!
“Oh, m’lords, I wish I did not know anything,” he sighed to himself. “And my king, I wish you knew everything.”
His attention was distracted for a moment by the antics of the court jester, in his suit and hat of black and white stripes, eating off the General’s plate without being asked. The General did not seem happy about it, but it amused the king, so reluctantly he had to go along. The knight could just read his thoughts: As soon as this old man is gone, that jester’s going to get it!
Well, that would be one positive side effect, at least. He hated that jester. The little man was like a fly buzzing in his face, which would not cease. He supposed that since the smaller man was not strong enough to be a knight, all he had left was annoying people.
The Royal Idiot (the jester, not the king!) was speaking now. “And let us not forget our favorite glutton, Sir Roger!”
Roger cringed. Not now! He had enough to worry about, without having to relive his humiliations. Earlier that day he had fallen into a huge vat of beer, ruining the whole batch. He was not sure if the other knights avoided sitting next to him because they were embarrassed, or because they were mad at him for not letting them get drunk tonight. And now that horrible jester would not let him live it down!
The Fool hopped over to his table, resting his head on his hands in front of the knight. “Tell us, Honorable Sir Roger, why could you not restrain yourself until a wench poured it in a cup for you?”
The jester was looking into his eyes, and though he was not allowed to smile, the man seemed to take some evil delight in humiliating him. There was a triumph, a gleam in his eye. Was the man crazy? What had Roger done to him, anyway? He knew other knights that liked to make sport of him, but he had always left him well enough alone. Why couldn’t that hated clown at least return the favor?
This only made him more sure of his dislike for the man. He hated having him in his face. “Go away, you stupid ass,” he sneered, quiet enough for only one person to hear, “or I’ll cut your nose off.”
The jester merely cocked his head, didn’t seem to be affected by that threat in the least. He had heard it all before. All knights made threats; they were all the same to him.
“I wonder,” he said loudly as he turned away, “what is the greater shame: Sir Roger’s insatiable gluttony, or the fact that he has created the biggest chamber pot in the world!”
The entire banquet hall roared with laughter - at his expense. The jester had no limits; he pressed further, this time with a new target.
“I even saw His Majesty drinking it! Said it was the best ale he had ever tasted!” More howling and slapping the knees. The King loved it, clearly delighted to be mocked, roasted by his clever Fool.
“If I said that, I would be flogged!” Roger muttered sourly.
“But good General, do ye have to fling knights while testing out your catapults?” the Fool went on. “Why, I would have rather flung your good friend, Lord Walbrook! ‘Twould be a service to the kingdom!”
Roger couldn’t believe what the man was getting away with. And he was treated as a hero for it.
“But, Sir Fool,” the old king smiled happily, “what would I do without my advisers? How would I know what was best for the kingdom?”
“Trade that crown for a jester’s cap, and you will feel wiser instantly!” He was sharp-witted, Roger had to grant him that.
He abruptly excused himself, before his ignorant co-counter-conspirator could turn on him again. As he thought about it, he became more and more excited. ‘Twould be so easy! The kingdom would be saved!
(See The Jester, Thomas Fool, On Amazon)
When you have lived with the Jester as long as I have, you start to dream of wizards and dragons, you start saying things like "'tis" and "'twasn't," and finally, one night, you get bored and ask him to relate his memoirs to you. And once he knows you are interested, he just won't stop talking. The stories keep on coming. 'Tis like a curse.
This is my attempt to heap my own misery on the world. Enjoy.
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