TMC Vol 1 Act 1.3

Finally, His Majesty commanded me to leave. Shaking like a dog kicked by the village kids, I left the king’s chambers. My appearance was so appalling that Lord Ansley’s eyes widened in astonishment. My makeup had melted off, my hands and clothes were soaked in blood, and I was even limping.

 

“What on earth… Did His Majesty do this? Goodness… I never imagined he would go this far…”

 

“He seems to be in a much better mood now. You may go in.”

 

The chancellor, flustered and unsure, couldn’t even offer an apology. For nobles, apologizing to someone of lower status is almost anatomically impossible.

 

“Are you in much pain?”

 

“No.”

 

“Where did you get hurt?”

 

“My hand got a slight cut. It’s nothing serious.”

 

“And your leg…”

 

“I told you, it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

 

I managed a generous smile. Nobles and their pride — sometimes, I almost pity them.

 

“Are you really alright?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Even if I wasn’t, what would it change? Should I whine about it?

 

“…Very well. Then go get some rest tonight.”

 

Ah, thank you for your kind words. Perhaps you should take a load off yourself.

 

No, no, that’s not it. I really need to work on this bad habit of mine, this tendency to talk down to just anyone.

 

My humble station serves as a measure of others’ character. Those who extend kindness to someone too weak to repay them in wealth or honor — those are the rare souls of integrity you seldom find in a palace. In that regard, Lord Ansley is actually one of the better ones.

 

I quickly wiped the blood off with a handkerchief from my pocket and hastily left, before His Majesty could change his mind and summon me back in.

 

With the blood wiped from my hands and feet, the stains on my sleeves and trouser hems now looked more or less like part of my attire. Perhaps that’s why clowns often wear red in their costumes.

 

As I hobbled along for a while, I noticed a child playing down the hallway. She was a little girl of about four, with long, flowing black hair and dressed in black mourning clothes. She was none other than Princess Lux, the only offspring of Catherine Blythe and the younger daughter of the Channing royal family.

 

Children are quite fond of me. Sometimes, I even go outside the castle to put on a show for them. I’d wager I’m more popular with them than even His Majesty.

 

If I could, I’d tell them to strive to be good people before becoming good adults. To hold onto the wonder they feel watching doves fly from my hat, all the way until the end of their lives.

 

I gently placed my hand, wrapped in a blood-stained handkerchief, on the young princess’s shoulder. As she turned her head, my fingers poked her soft, plump cheek.

 

The princess burst into laughter, that shrill, joyous sound only children can make. Isn’t it precious?

 

“It’s the clown!”

 

“Fooled again, weren’t you? I told you, when someone places a hand on your shoulder, you’re supposed to shout, ‘You scoundrel!’ in a fierce voice.”

 

“No, I won’t do that.”

 

I was only trying to teach her a small trick to survive in this ruthless palace, but it seems she saw me as nothing more than a mischievous boy teaching her naughty words.

 

“What were you doing?”

 

“Drawing.”

 

“What did you draw?”

 

The princess pointed to a piece of paper on the floor, earnestly deciphering the wobbly charcoal scribbles for me.

 

“This is a butterfly, this is a flower, this is Mommy, this is Ophelia, and this is me.”

 

“You drew beautifully. They’re truly lovely.”

 

Looking down at her creation, she smiled with the satisfaction of a deity gazing at their handiwork, then stretched out her arms to be lifted.

 

“I can’t, Your Highness. I’d be executed for holding you.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No!”

 

“No, I won’t.”

 

“Yes, you will.”

 

“Yes, exactly.”

 

The princess is such a little fool.

 

She tilted her head, then laughed again. I hadn’t even said anything funny, yet she found it endlessly amusing. If only everyone in the world could live with such lightheartedness, my life would be a much easier one.

 

“Why are you dressed in black?”

 

“Ophelia.”

 

“Ophelia dressed you?”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

Speak of the devil — Lady Ophelia appeared from within the room. Her youthful face, typically gentle, was now tinged with sorrow, making her seem all the more mature. Judging by her red, swollen eyes, it seemed she’d been crying ever since the queen’s passing.

 

“Your Highness, it’s time for bed. Come inside now.”

 

She spotted me and immediately stiffened.

 

“What are you doing here…?”

 

The disgust in her gaze was nearly palpable. She knew — she knew that I’d spent the evening making crude jokes about the late queen to entertain the nobles.

 

“I… I was keeping the princess company.”

 

“That’s enough. You may go.”

 

Her voice was cold enough to freeze me to the bone. In moments like these, I feel utterly helpless. Those jokes were merely part of my livelihood as a jester; they held no personal malice.

 

But I can understand a hundredfold. My way of life is inherently vulgar and ignoble, after all. Clowns like us will never be heroes, no matter how much we wish otherwise.

 

Not yet fully resigned to that fate, I found myself calling out to Lady Ophelia, who was holding the young princess and heading back inside.

 

“Lady Ophelia.”

 

“…Yes?”

 

“My condolences regarding the queen.”

 

She looked at me in silence, then lowered her voice to reply.

 

“Thank you.”

 

From the mouth of any other person, such words would be a risky statement of political stance. But coming from the mouth of a jester, it’s a simple condolence, nothing more. The world can be so absurdly amusing.

 

Unable to pull myself away, I lingered by the door and peered into the room. Lady Ophelia was carefully folding clothes into a bag, while the princess sat on the bed, her fingers twisting as she murmured to herself. What a joy it must be to have such an adorable daughter — or even a little sister.

 

Lost in thought, I suddenly heard a presence behind me.

 

“Jester, it’s unseemly to peer in like that.”

 

It was Princess Verona, holding an armful of books and heading toward her chambers. Even on nights when the palace is bustling with festivities, she never skips her evening studies, a habit she’s held since she was young.

 

“Oh! Princess! I wasn’t peering, I was just…”

 

She hushed me with a finger to her lips, then approached closer.

 

“Do you know what they’re doing?”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“They’re preparing to leave. During the meeting, a proposal was made to annul my father’s marriage to Catherine. The legal proceedings must have concluded today. That child is no longer a princess but rather a common-born daughter.”

 

“Ah…”

 

An indescribable sadness welled within me. In the end, history would remember the queen as a temptress who ensnared the king through immoral means. And I would likely never see the young princess again.

 

Princess Verona’s gaze toward her half-sister was as cold as ice.

 

“Perhaps it’s for the best. A beast born of an unclean mother deserves nothing but slaughter. That child cannot survive in this place.”

 

She suddenly gestured toward my bruised hands and feet.

 

“You’re hurt.”

 

“Pardon? Oh, yes.”

 

“How did it happen?”

 

How could I explain that I took the brunt of a man’s grief, having lost both his wife and daughter in a single blow? The anger was so overwhelming and all-consuming that, despite my skillful attempts at evasion, there was no way I could have entirely escaped it.

 

“It’s nothing serious.”

 

“Answer me. How did it happen?”

 

“His Majesty wanted something entertaining.”

 

The princess’s expression darkened, as if she were disgusted with the world on my behalf.

 

“I sometimes can’t understand my father. How could he be a king yet act so irresponsibly? Lusting after any woman, sulking in his chambers like some spoiled child…”

 

Realizing it was futile to confide such things to a mere jester, she stopped herself mid-sentence.

 

“Come with me.”

 

And, still holding the heavy books, she led me to the royal physician’s chambers, where I was treated with a level of care and luxury beyond my status.

 

After the physician washed the wound with costly medicine, he wrapped it in bandages and brewed herbal tea with pain-relieving effects. As I forced myself to drink the bitter concoction to the last drop, a warm sensation spread through my stomach, and my mind grew hazy. The princess sat by my side, reading a book, until the treatment was complete.

 

Under the influence of the medicine, I committed the impolite act of staring at her for an extended period. My gaze traced her forehead, as white as glacial stone, paused upon her clear and sharp eyes, slid along her elegantly defined nose, and then lingered again at her crimson lips.

 

Without lifting her eyes from the book, she asked me, “What are you staring at?”

 

“Because, Your Highness… you are beautiful.”

 

You know those embarrassing memories that come back to haunt you at night? For me, this was one of them.

 

“…What did you say?”

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

At fourteen, I was a clueless brat.

 

“And a bit frightening.”

 

Just keep your mouth shut.

 

“But I think you’re kind.”

 

Oh, no.

 

“And you’re really impressive.”

 

Oh, no, no.

 

“Beautiful, frightening, kind, and impressiveee—”

 

Later, I found out that the tea the doctor gave me contained seeds of Ventrilocus, commonly used in narcotics. I later heard that the physician experienced the strange phenomenon of numerous mice bursting from his drawer; though the culprit was never caught, I believe it was a divine judgment.

 

“Enough with your nonsense,” she said.

 

“Why are you so kind to me, Your Highness?”

 

“Do you want to know?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The princess smiled with a hint of bitterness.

 

“Clowns don’t seem to desire anything from others.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Forget it,” she replied.

 

I should have just shut up and fallen asleep by then, but I felt the need to ask more.

 

“What kind of book is that?”

 

“It’s a poetry collection by Cicero. Have you heard of it?”

 

“No… not really….”

 

“Then listen to this passage. It’s quite lovely.”

 

In a low voice, the princess read one of Cicero’s love poems, a verse that sought to immortalize his beloved despite her mortality, capturing her forever on the page. For the first time, I realized that words could be sweet.

 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked.

 

“Yes. I… I love it.”

 

“If you’re going to mock her in the future, make sure to use language as refined as this.”

 

“…Pardon?”

 

A sharp malice briefly flickered in her previously calm eyes.

 

“This time, why don’t you tell me a joke?”

 

Ah, Princess… How could I refuse you? Even if you commanded me to sully the greatest beauty I had ever heard, I would follow your orders.

 

So, twisting and distorting Cicero’s charming verses, I uttered the most refined and cruel joke of my life. My throat burned from the shame of such splendid sin.

 

The princess laughed. 

 

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