TMC Vol 1 Act 1.4

My chaotic boyhood passed by somehow, and I became a young man of twenty.

 

While one’s limbs might grow just by eating and sleeping, the skills needed for jesting must be cultivated with care. One must be ever-attuned to the court’s shifting tastes, mastering the language and preferences of esteemed individuals.

 

Despite growing craftier by the day, I didn’t go out of my way to shake off the label of the ignorant jester. No, it was precisely because I’d become shrewd that I started to reap benefits from that label. Watching others, one by one, disappear amid webs of intrigue taught me something: fools might be laughed at, but they’re never seen as a threat.

 

That label wasn’t a curse but a gift. After all, who else but I could get away with making lewd jokes at a royal ball or throwing sarcastic remarks at His Majesty and live to tell the tale?

 

So, I played the fool even more recklessly, reinforcing that image. Once I’d given up hope of being treated as a human, my goal became simply to survive, thin and stretched, for as long as I could.

 

Perhaps it was because I spent my youth serving dissolute nobles rather than mingling with peers, but the only legacy of these six years is a few inches in height and a deep-seated cynicism. By now, even a starving lion wouldn’t bother to eat me. That’s the reason jesters wear such gaudy clothes: like poisonous plants flaunting their colors, we’re warning the world of the bitterness in our hearts.

 

Princess Verona graciously overlooked the breach of etiquette I’d committed under the influence that day. However, there was an unbearable glint in her eyes, as if she struggled to suppress laughter whenever she saw me afterward.

 

And it was all due to those blasted puffweed seeds! Admittedly, Her Highness is beautiful, but she’s far above someone like me offering his opinions on her looks. Besides, her unexpected kindness caught me so off guard that I… well…

 

Ahem. No excuses; I’m simply in the wrong.

 

Princess Verona has become an outstanding leader, commanding the nobles with resolute decisions and eloquent words. Unlike His Majesty, she has maintained a strategically beneficial relationship with the church. By now, as noon approaches, she’s likely studying the art of rhetoric in her study.

 

The palace is peaceful as always. Servants dust the curtains, and knights hone their swordsmanship in the training yard. Under a clear sky and shining sun, a jester like me…

 

“Hey, you! Jester!”

 

…should’ve stayed in bed, it seems.

 

Lord Ansley is rushing down the hall, his robes flying behind him. I have only two options in this case: let him catch me or bolt in the same direction.

 

I’m already running.

 

“Wait! You rascal! Can’t you just stay still?”

 

When Lord Ansley loses his composure like this, it almost always has something to do with His Majesty. After six years of reading the moods in this palace, I can gauge the situation from the sound of their breathing alone.

 

I allow myself to be caught after a respectable amount of fleeing. I’m a man who knows when to surrender.

 

“Fine. I understand. I’m sorry. Please, let go.”

 

“Cunning rogue.”

 

Even as he pants, clutching his knee, Lord Ansley doesn’t release his grip on my arm. Judging by his strength, the matter must be serious.

 

“Is His Majesty in a foul mood?”

 

“Indeed, and you’re as astute as ever.”

 

“What’s the issue this time?”

 

“No idea. Just follow me.”

 

I promptly sat on the floor. I was taught not to follow strangers.

 

“Oh! My right heel suddenly…”

 

“What is it now?”

 

“Ever since I stepped on that glass shard ages ago, it’s been like this.”

 

“You sprinted just fine earlier. What nonsense is this?”

 

“That’s why I asked what’s bothering His Majesty.”

 

“It’s none of your concern.”

 

“And yet, I went ignorantly along with him last time, and look what happened to my foot.”

 

Lord Ansley sighs, rubbing his temples, unsure if he’s more frustrated with me or His Majesty, before grudgingly answering.

 

“This morning, the Cardinal visited His Majesty.”

 

“That was the carriage outside, then?”

 

“Indeed. Since then, His Majesty hasn’t left his quarters.”

 

“Old habits die hard, I see.”

 

“Now, come along.”

 

I follow without protest. Whenever His Majesty is like this, Lord Ansley fetching me is no different from an officer grabbing his shield before battle.

 

Last year, the Cardinal came for a three-hour lecture session with His Majesty. We call that day “Bloody Monday.” I nearly coughed up blood trying to lift His Majesty’s spirits afterward.

 

To the church, His Majesty is a wayward child; to His Majesty, the church is a perpetual thorn in his side. Think of it as a rebellious son and a strict father—a rather disconcerting arrangement, given that His Majesty is well past forty and still battling this phase.

 

Historically, conflicts between the church and the monarchy are ancient, but of late, they often clash over women. Since the church-endorsed marriage to Lady Monil of Pembroke, His Majesty’s romantic inclinations have frequently been the source of scandal, beginning, most notably, with Catherine Blythe.

 

Lord Ansley sometimes clicks his tongue, saying that Catherine must’ve taken His Majesty’s heart with her when she left. Since her death, he’s never been the same.

 

But why did the church despise Catherine Blythe? It wasn’t due to her words or actions. What stirred them most was her very origin—a prostitute. Yes, that’s what you call social ascent.

 

In any case, I wonder why the Cardinal visited this time.

 

The door to His Majesty’s chambers is firmly shut. When knocking yields no response, Lord Ansley kicks it open with all his might—a feat he can afford with me as his scapegoat.

 

The door crashes open with a loud bang, and smoke fills the air, along with the sultry sound of laughter. Dim lights cast languid silhouettes across the room.

 

Striding in, Lord Ansley throws open the curtains. His Majesty, draped languidly on the bed and surrounded by voluptuous figures, winces as daylight floods the room. The women, lost in pleasure, scramble to cover themselves with sheets.

 

Lord Ansley, meticulous as ever, retrieves each discarded article of clothing like a farmer gathering stray sheaves, tossing them to the women. Only after escorting every last one of them out does he spare a moment for a scolding.

 

“Are you still carrying on like this? There’s a meeting in twenty minutes! You need to prepare!”

 

His Majesty mutters in a hoarse voice, rubbing his eyes.

 

“Lower your voice. My head aches.”

 

“Who were those women this time?”

 

“They’re actresses from Cicero’s tragedy. Don’t you know? The redhead plays the girl who goes mad and drowns herself in a lake; the brunette, the one who marries her husband’s killer…”

 

“No time to watch such plays, what with all the paperwork I’ve been handling for you.”

 

“In the end, they all die anyway. Quite dull. Had the writer been alive, I’d have commanded him to rewrite it.”

 

His Majesty lazily reaches for a hookah pipe on the table, but Lord Ansley, fully alert, grabs it first.

 

“Please, drop those puffweed seeds. Is this why we signed a trade deal with Canid?”

 

“Both the church and you are endlessly bothersome.”

 

His Majesty’s irritated gaze shifts to me.

 

“Why do you keep bringing that rascal along?”

 

My moment has arrived. Unlike before, I no longer fear performing before His Majesty. There’s only one person in this world I truly fear.

 

“Your Majesty, could you at least pretend to be glad? I saved your life, after all.”

 

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

 

“You couldn’t get out because the door was locked.”

 

“Impossible. Foolish wretch.”

 

“Then why are you still here at this hour? The meeting’s in twenty minutes.”

 

“…Get out.”

 

“Every time you’re at a loss for words, you just curse.”

 

The obedient fourteen-year-old boy is long gone. To survive without being discarded as trash after being used by the wicked adults, one must grow shameless.

 

At last, His Majesty rises and gathers his clothes, dressing with a quiet, deliberate resolve. Lord Ansley, without a word, pulls a screen from the wardrobe, shielding the bed from view. They carry on their conversation, indifferent to my presence in the room.

 

“Have you given it any thought?” Ansley inquires.

 

“Thought to what?” His Majesty’s voice is distant.

 

“The matter of succession! You’ve delayed it far too long.”

 

“…Something must be done about it, I suppose.”

 

“Then will you follow the Church’s recommendation and consider Princess Verona…?”

 

“No. It cannot be her.”

 

Ah, I see what this is about.

 

His Majesty has evaded the question of succession for years, fabricating excuse after excuse. He claims there is no candidate worthy of his vision—yet, who would believe such a claim, with someone as qualified as Princess Verona at hand?

 

The King always dances around a firm decision, while the princess, time and again, falls just shy of the throne. Too young, they said. Unfit, as she is unmarried. Too volatile in nature, a dangerous choice. No one truly believes these reasons are valid, yet His Majesty stubbornly clings to them.

 

Even now, his defiance seems to be reaching its limits. The Church’s demands grow more insistent by the day, and the nobles’ support leans heavily toward Princess Verona.

 

Why, then, is he so adamant about keeping his daughter from the throne? His obstinacy only further invites questions among his loyalists.

 

The King dons his regalia, crowning himself with the royal diadem—a symbol that shone brighter in the days of past sovereigns, it seems.

 

“She resembles him too much,” he mutters.

 

“Who, Your Majesty?”

 

“My brother.”

 

Ah. So that is the heart of it.

 

Believe it or not, Tristan V, the current ruler of Winsland, once was merely the timid, overlooked younger son of the royal house. It was his elder brother, Klaus Channing, who had inherited the throne.

 

King Klaus was gifted in both arms and wisdom, possessing the keen discernment and commanding presence of a true sovereign. His only flaw, if one could call it that, was a near-maniacal fervor for war, leaving crimson tides in his wake. Yet, as he was always victorious, rapidly expanding the kingdom’s territory, many regarded it as a virtue rather than a vice.

 

It was under King Klaus’ reign that Winsland entered a golden age. His centralization of power subdued both nobles and clergy alike. Back then, even the highest lords dared not challenge the throne’s authority. Vassals, eager to curry favor, abandoned their own estates to linger in the capital, reduced to mere courtiers.

 

But those days are long past.

 

What does it mean for the former king to have been an elder brother rather than a father? Many implications come to mind, but here it suggests only one truth: our esteemed Tristan V claimed the throne by spilling the blood of his kin.

 

Burdened by his brother’s overpowering legacy, the King incited rebellion, rallying discontented nobles. He promised to curtail their taxation, limit the crown’s rights to arbitrary levies, allow them limited private armies, and even establish a parliament to curb royal authority with a constitution. Elated, the nobles set aside their mutual rivalries, coming together to embrace this enticing offer.

 

And thus, His Majesty secured his throne. But as time passed, the influence of the nobility began to swell. In short, it’s a chaotic stage where both the King and the aristocrats act on whimsy, while I am left as the sole unfortunate soul to serve them all.

 

His Majesty dealt with his brother’s corpse as though disposing of a heinous criminal, casting it into a mountain grave. He even decreed that historians portray Klaus as a tyrant, no exceptions allowed.

 

By all objective measures, His Majesty is the victor. But then, why does he not appear triumphant?

 

They say a frail heart conjures ghosts.

 

It seems His Majesty is still pursued by those who have long departed from this world. 

 

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