A King and a Jester

King just wants to be entertained

“Do you know why I asked you here today, jester?” the king asked, letting his booming voice echo about the dining hall.

Sitting at the other end of the table at the far end of the hall, the jester shrugged his shoulders. Bells twinkled when he did. “No, your greatness. Would you like me to juggle or perhaps tell a naughty limerick?”

The jester’s voice was squeaky and insignificant, but the acoustics in the dining hall were such that he was heard without any great strain from the king. Had they been closer, the jester would have been able to see his king smile sadly. “No, jester. I wish for neither of those things.”

“Name it, lord of lords, and it shall be done,” the jester offered confidently.

“Come,” the king commanded, “sit next to me and we shall hold council.”

The jester had never been asked to approach the king’s end of the dining hall before. At least not when there wasn’t a feast on. He was humbled. “Surely I am not worthy to dine so near your highness.”

“Jester,” the king said gently, but sternly.

The Jester nodded briefly, the bells on his colorful hat jingling as he did. “It is my most esteemed honor, king of all.”

The jester hopped from his seat and tumbled from one end of the hall to the other, ending the routine with an expertly performed cartwheel. The king looked at him with a mixture of humor and impatience.

“Please sit,” he said, pointing to a chair to his right. The jester obeyed.

Before the king could speak to the jester further, a small contingent of servants emerged from a nearby door laden with steaming dishes of food and cool pitchers of spiced wine. The servants took a moment to serve the food and pour the wine, and then scurried back to the kitchen.

“Have you heard the rumors that have been circulating, jester,” the king asked after they were alone once more.

“Nay, sire,” answered the jester with a twinkling shake of the head.

The king took a roasted potato and put it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

“The birds whisper that you bear me ill will,” the king continued. “They say you wish to see me put to pasture, sent to the clearing.”

The jester shook his head furiously. “Never, sire. Never would I wish such things upon you. You are my king, my lord, my life. I swear my fealty to you with undying devotion. I would happily give my life to protect you in any way I can, lowly jester though I am.”

The king seemed to ease upon hearing those words. “I was sure they were simple fabrications, lies to push you out of favor. Many would see your head on a pike, as I’m sure you already know full well.”

The jester laughed heartily. “A jester isn’t doing his job if people don’t want to kill him, my lord.”

“Say true,” the king cried, and picked up his goblet of wine. “Please, drink with me, jester. I wish to wash away the bad taste these vicious lies have put in my mouth.”

The jester scooped his goblet up as well and held it high. “To your health, sire.”

“To yours, jester,” replied the king. He drank deeply from the goblet, wine pouring down his chin. The cool liquid tasted like strawberries and cinnamon. But there was something else, something almost imperceptible. The wine’s aftertaste was far bitterer than it should have been, almost steely.

“Something wrong, highness?” the jester asked upon seeing the king’s face.

The king spat on the floor. “I think this wine has soured. Pray you did not already partake.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sire,” the jester said slyly. “You couldn’t pay me enough money to drink poisoned wine.”

The king looked at the jester with alarm. “Poison?” he choked. He could now feel it coursing through his veins. The dining hall was beginning to blur.

“Yes, you fool,” the jester laughed. His voice had changed to a deep rasp. “Look upon me while you still draw breath, king of kings. Your fool has become your unmaking. Your death comes at the hands of Figaro.”

The jester turned assassin stood from his seat and pulled a single raven’s feather from his breast pocket. He tucked it firmly in the king’s collar before taking off the silly hat and tossing it on the table. The king slumped forward onto the table, the life that once commanded armies and wooed women had left him.

Taking a roasted turkey leg for the road, Figaro, the master of the assassin’s guild, left the castle and faded into the night.