TMC Vol 1 Prelude

PRELUDE

 

I am the fool.

With no name, I am inscribed on no list.

With no voice, I may say anything I wish.

Unseen, I see all.

 

 

Already, foolish grins begin to bloom on the faces of the nobles. They think little of letting my words drift by, convinced they have heard this opening line a dozen times before. Were they to listen closely, however, they might sense the brazen boast in my tone.

I live here in this palace, basking in a rare freedom. Just today, I commented on a marquis’s conspicuously artificial wig and still walked away unscathed. To them, I am nothing but a fool—ignorant, uncouth, a creature so trivial it’s unworthy of their anger. I am a jest for all to mock, a creature as light as air.

In contrast, these exalted beings are men who, by the age of twenty, find their names written across multiple death lists. A single careless word, whispered under the influence of wine, could brand them as traitors. Should they be seen isolated among allies, they quickly become the target of hostile eyes.

Ah, the suffering that power heaps upon mankind.

We thrive on treating each other as fools.

Oh, dear Count, the tart is meant to be eaten, not thrown. Please, bear with me a little longer. Even I would find it difficult to compose a humorous verse for the recently executed.

At last, with a scathing smile, I begin to mock the mannerisms of the beheaded queen. The queen, barely nineteen at her execution, had the habit of biting her thumb when anxious. Adding a few freshly coined insults, I leave the nobles laughing uncontrollably.

I spoke with the queen once while she was still alive. After she accidentally trod on my foot, she, unaware of my lowly status, fussed over me, her eyes crinkling with genuine delight despite her poor eyesight.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry! Are you all right? My, your fine shoes have been dirtied. Isn’t tonight’s gathering simply splendid?”

She then patted her maids on the shoulder, trying to brush off their reminders of my status, and let out a tipsy giggle that I, even then, found endearing.

Yes, she was not particularly cunning. She possessed a bright countenance yet remained unaware of courtly scheming. Were it not for her family’s ambitions, she might have lived a simple life with an ordinary man. She was a girl who, amidst this vicious power struggle, genuinely loved the king. If she bore any fault, it was her innocence.

Honorable councilors, perhaps your judgment was sound. She should not begrudge her fate. To maintain a childlike heart in the royal court is indeed a grave crime, isn’t it?

The cruder my jokes grow, the louder the nobles laugh. The dead queen transforms from a guileless beauty into a seductive harlot who bewitched the king. Her innocent laughter becomes the coquettish charm of a temptress. Soon, the real her fades, leaving behind a twisted, malicious caricature. Leading the charge, I spit and fling dirt upon this image.

For now, I must despise the queen more than anyone in this world.

At that moment, the curtains part, and Princess Verona enters, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. Her golden hair and crimson gown blaze through the hall like a torch. Instantly, the atmosphere sobers, even the crudest of guests restoring their decorum to match her noble presence. We all rise, bowing in greeting to the eldest daughter of House Channing.

In her, we see the future crown resting upon her brow. She is not yet the confirmed heir, but by blood and merit, she stands unrivaled. Though we know the crown to be only a mirage, we treat it as reality.

A brutal weight of gold it will be, pressing down upon her until her last breath. Yet, for all its burden on the princess, it compels others to bow.

“Were you sharing a toast here? Had I known this would happen, I would have rushed to finish my work sooner.”

The princess’s gaze, at once deep and expansive blue eyes, sweeps over the nobles as she approaches. Her eyes carry every conceivable paradox—commanding yet just, formidable yet tender. These are the very eyes that have swayed the hearts of countless ambitious men and inspired loyalty.

Under her gaze, those she beholds feel themselves to be greater than they are. With a mere decision, she could grant anyone the illusion of receiving her boundless trust. Who, then, would not take pride in standing under the discerning eyes of the nation’s finest?

But those who have long served her know the truth. Those eyes can hold infinite trust—or boundless fury.

The nobles’ fawning is, in truth, more fear than love.

Duke Langston, known for his sycophancy, steps forward.

“We were honoring the memory of that witless queen. I still cannot fathom how such a woman came to sit at the king’s side.”

With a casual air, the princess responds, “Nor can I fathom how a father could take a wife younger than his own daughter.”

When His Majesty becomes the subject of a jest, all must remain silent unless the princess laughs first. Her laughter is the signal for others to join, igniting the room in sharp, crackling amusement.

And then, with the utmost grace, the princess acknowledges me in the far corner of the room.

“I told you, did I not, Fool? Lower yourself not on our behalf. We laugh easily over the smallest things.”

It seems the princess had heard my tasteless jokes from beyond the curtain before entering.

The nobles now wear expressions of mortified shame. Just moments ago, they had hurled pillows at me in jest, yet now they feel the stirrings of human decency.

My gratitude, dear princess, knows no bounds. But I am a jester in the royal court, and a jester must never be ashamed of his own wit. The moment he feels shame, his fate as a fool is sealed.

With a simple gesture, the princess dismisses her ladies-in-waiting.

“It is late. Return to your quarters. May you all have a pleasant night.”

Then, calling me closer, she whispers in a tone only I can hear.

“Father is in a foul mood. The palace will be noisy for some time, so play the lute by my side until I fall asleep.”

The princess strides ahead alone, and I follow, drawing my lute from my belt.

In the corridor lined with portraits of former kings, only the sound of her footsteps fills the silence. My own soft, patched shoes with thin leather soles and colorful cloth add not a whisper to the palace noise; here, I am no more than a ghost. I try to replace my presence with the gentle sounds of tuning my lute.

Once we are truly alone, the princess speaks in a quiet, yet authoritative tone.

“Regardless of what the nobles demand, do not lower yourself beyond reason. Never permit them the opportunity to grow crass. People sink to the level of their environment. Preserve a dignified air befitting one of the court.”

To speak of dignity with a mere fool—perhaps, in her eyes, I am as much a part of the court as any noble or knight. Ha, in all my twenty years, I have never heard such a grand jest.

As if it were in my power to grant or withhold anything from them. And who can guarantee they would be better men for it?

But I reply nonetheless.

“Yes, Princess.”

Gifted in both scholarship and swordsmanship, and skilled in the subtleties of social grace, the princess possesses yet another remarkable talent. What should we call it? Some say it is a silver tongue, others a golden heart. I believe it is both.

Those granted a glimpse of the princess’s dazzling vision of the future are forever captivated. Even I, weary of the nobles’ abuses, am momentarily able to forget their hopeless decadence.

The princess signals me to stop and, entering her chamber, begins to change her attire. Many would think it scandalous—a princess dressing herself! Astonishing! Could it be that royalty has hands and feet?

Yes, indeed. Our Princess Verona even sends her chief lady-in-waiting back to her quarters at night.

I sit in the corridor, practicing my lute. What kind of melody should I share with her tonight? The princess enjoys songs set to poetic verses, though she also finds pleasure in wordless hums. Occasionally, she offers critiques of my performances with terms so esoteric that I can barely comprehend them. In response, I simply listen to the sound of her voice, admiring the delicate weave of her words as if I were savoring music.

“Come in,” she commands.

Following her order, I step into her private chamber. What is a forbidden sanctuary to other men is all too familiar to me.

Tonight, my steps feel heavy, though not from mere fatigue.

It was, indeed, a demanding day, filled with invitations from one room to another, one group to the next, as I played for those in need of both solace and celebration. Whether joy or sorrow, each soul sought my presence—those who despised the queen, as well as those who loved her.

Yet, among them all, there was one closest to the late queen herself. His Majesty, the king, has yet to find comfort in my company. After all, it was the princess who stole me away to this place.

Such a merciful theft indeed.

The princess, dressed in a white nightgown, sits before her vanity, letting her hair down. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

“What are you doing there? Sit.”

“Yes.”

At this moment, I am wholly hers. All that remains is for her to enjoy.

The princess slips beneath a blanket of weasel fur, lying back.

“Sing me Cicero’s song. Do you remember? The one you wrote for her.”

Of course. Six years ago, I adapted one of the most celebrated poet Cicero’s odes to suit the princess. It seems quite fitting to sing it now.

…Let me recall.

 

Beauty fades within beauty,

Its ornaments laid bare by chance or nature’s endless cycle,

But through endless verse, you shall remain part of time,

Your winter never melting,

Your evil deeds never dimming,

Even death itself will boast of dwelling in your shadow,

For as long as man breathes and sight endures,

This poem will live on, bearing ruin unto you.*¹

 

I can almost hear the restless turning of Cicero in his grave, having taken his own life years past. Yet, if the princess finds joy in it, so be it.

“Jester.”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Sing it once more.”

As she wishes.

After my second rendition, the princess turns her gaze to the window, where moonlight filters through.

“Certainly, it feels different now. That song suited her far more.” 

I know whom she is recalling. The mere thought of that woman draws time backward, as though we’re helplessly pulled to that day six years ago—the day I first reworked Cicero’s verse.

On that day, another woman met her end: the mad queen, Catherine Blythe.

“When she died, I was genuinely elated.”

“And now?”

“Of course, I am pleased.”

“Ah, I’m not so sure about that.”

My heart quickens whenever I dare such boldness before the princess. With interest, she asks,

“What makes you think so?”

“When Your Highness is truly delighted, you laugh from re to ti.”

I gently sweep my fingers over the strings of the lute, though it is clear that no mere instrument could ever fully capture her radiant laughter.

“Like this. But tonight, you stopped at fa.”

“And you can tell them apart?”

“Certainly.”

“You’ve likely heard my laughter more often than I have. Perhaps you’re right.”

“Shall I sing Cicero’s song again?”

“No. Play whatever you wish.”

Finally, she gifts me with a smile. My task is complete. My sole purpose as her jester is to keep her smile unyielding.

For a while, I play a soft, harmonious melody. Judging by her steady breaths, she has drifted off to sleep. Silently, I rise to take my leave.

The chamber is bright tonight—the full moon is out. Perhaps that woman’s memory has invaded the princess’s thoughts for a reason.

It is a night fit for wolves to howl.