A Jester’s Heart — Maya Salfarlie
short story ☆
short story ☆
A love not returned is the cruelest fate; consume yourself in the pleasures of the heart, and you will seal your fate. A belief this jester shared to survive the noble court. Expensive silks adorned the rich, wide-hipped corsets that strained the women’s waists, and long shirts with embroidered, colorful vests were worn by men to show their status and house. The jester was a silent figure. One who is responsible for making an audience laugh and cry until their stomachs feel inside out, until their throats feel dry. A jester’s job is to stand close to royalty and provide laughter. The power of humor works in more ways than one.
He once made a joke about a duchess from the desert lands of Jaharna cheating with a Baron’s son from this kingdom, Beniath in the Northwest. Of course, he is only a jester.
He only jests.
Chaos ignited, and to his pleasure, it brought him good pay. The king, impressed by his joke, gave him a promotion along with his pay. The treasure the king long kept. The Jester was assigned to a lady of blue blood born from a common womb; it mattered not to him her origins. What mattered to him was whether he could make her laugh along with his jokes and tunes.
He started his joke: “A noble lady whose skirt runs high above her ankle schemes to secure her husband’s loyalty to keep her pampered.” is freshly-powdered face and red painted cheeks that mocked blush were ready on display. His lips curved up as he twirled in his discolored, red-and-blue motley, bells jingling away. The woman held up a hand.
“Lost is the humor of our King. Dry is the laughter he offers to bring.”
Offended, this jester’s smile faltered. Never in his years as a jester, from age ten to his current twenty-five, did he ever experience such harsh criticism. The Jester bowed, “I am not to your liking. How unfortunate for me.”
“You are to the liking of the king and his followers. You cling to him like a flea.”
“A flea?” His smile was lost. Her smile was found.
“Ah, so the Jester can frown?” She stood from her vanity, refusing the pale makeup and rosy, burning lip tint most ladies wore in court. Her bare face was clearly preferred.
Her brown eyes peered over her shoulder. “Mighty is one’s ego, but easily can it be shot down. Laughter reaches an audience once you know who they are. Your knowledge is lacking, despite who you are.”
The first noble to never crawl into his web of laughter, never lend over a listening ear. She was deaf to his whispers of vulgar humor. It was entertaining. He made himself a challenge: to make this solitary woman laugh until she is in tears.
He observed her from afar whenever he could leave the king’s side. The King asked for constant updates on the woman staying in the west wing, and the jester answered the same. “She will not laugh at all.”
“A woman who does not laugh has no soul. How am I to marry this woman? Only the gods know.” The King slouched on his throne, brushing his hair back from his face. The Jester did not understand the King's desire for her to laugh. He could marry, have his heirs, and the kingdom would last. Nevertheless, for his own survival, he listened to the king. He kept his eyes on the woman who refused to laugh or wear her jeweled engagement ring. Her eyes were dull compared to the night he first met her. She always stayed indoors, staring out her windows. If she felt like taking a stroll, she’d be outside with the morning gown she slept in, bare feet and all. He would follow her in silence and open his mouth to try and joke, but she would speak instead, “Nature beneath the feet soothes the troubled mind.”
She was peculiar to say the least.
He had not learned her name was Naniki till she wrote a letter in silence, her signature surprisingly neat compared to her lifestyle. The Jester almost gave up until he caught her watching a spat between a duchess and her daughter. The daughter did not think her dress was suitable to see the Duke of Erin Orchester, the king’s brother. Her mother made a fuss about how the bigger the gown, the more graceful the lady.
Though stifled and covered by her hand, the Jester heard it clearly enough. Naniki was laughing at the nobles’ useless banter over a gown. The Jester knew now how to make her laugh, and so he confronted her before bed. Her coiled dark brown curls were drowned in coconut oil and sectioned into four. A practice he had never seen in this kingdom, but once again, he did not need to care for such details that drew him in.
His bells jingled as he approached her, his hip popped out, and his hands went to his waist. His cheeks puffed, and he stopped breathing to make his face pinkish-red. “A lady in a pink dress covered in frills stomped about, wanting to coil her hair.”
Silence on Naniki's end.
The jester grabbed a shawl and put it over his head, blinking his eyelashes repeatedly. “Trivial attempts as she displays herself in Little Bo-Peep’s apparel.”
It did not earn him a laugh, but it did earn him a crack of a smile. That was enough for him to gloat in success, but pause. The fire glimmered against her dark skin as her hand attempted to cover her captivating smile. The Jester realized what she had done: a bond was forming. She was climbing each wall protecting his heart, one by one.
He wished her goodnight and took his leave, calming his racing heartbeat. “I am a jester. Love is nothing but a dream.”
Reporting the news to the king in his study, the Jester’s heart ached hearing the satisfying hum. The King ordered him to continue. A jester listens, never refuses.
Rising and falling, suns and moons pass. Each day was a new task, a new person to make laugh. As he flocked amongst the wealthy, he gathered material for Naniki. Every morning, her appearance was always a mess. He would greet her, stepping side to side, waving while he batted his eyelashes with a teasing look in his eyes.
“The sun has risen! Such clear skies. Has a storm entered your chambers, or have you and the King found passion at midnight?”
She grimaced and physically pushed him out of her chambers, the Jester not even having time to refute. He was more impressed by her strength hidden under that oversized nightgown.
“What an odd woman,” he’d say to himself.Under that commentary, however, was a gentle tone. His makeup hid the blood rushing to his cheeks, and the bells hid his loud, excited heartbeat—or was it only he who could hear it? He surely hoped so.
The King may have had his head if his heart beat loud enough.
A passing emotion. Nothing to fret.
He took a deep breath, releasing himself from the woman’s love spell, and left.
Inciting laughter is only a part of a jester’s job– it included much more. He must deliver bad news, be the whisper in the King’s ear, and point out the flaws of the stuck-up nobles. He is not expected to be involved in politics, but as an entertaining figure in high society. A passerby. Chanting these tasks to himself as he may, the pounding in his heart remained.
During the Queen Dowager’s afternoon tea, the ladies gossiped nonstop. Their tongues spewed venomous rumors about other noblewomen– some present at the table–and laughed off the passive-aggressive comments. The Jester stood, turning and shaking his finger. “Now, now, ladies. Play nice! A nobleman does not need a snake that bites.”
“Tell that to the woman that my son will soon marry.” The Queen Dowager sighed. The tea seemed bitter now.
A young noblewoman patted the queen dowager. “I am sure his majesty’s sight will soon clear. A woman such as her knows not of this land.”
“A queen?” Another woman scoffed. “A concubine is much more befitting.”
They all giggled, lifting the spirits of the Queen Dowager. The Jester in the background gazed coldly on the audacity these women had. The Jester needed to join in and stop them, yet he seethed in the background, his thoughts going mad. The Queen Dowager went to sip her tea, her hand pulling the cup back. “Our tea has gone cold!”
The Jester’s gaze never changed. “How funny is that?”
Nightfall did not take long. He soon needed to report to Naniki’s side. He caught her under the moonlight, walking into the rose garden maze nearby. Barefoot, Naniki ventured away. The Jester found himself losing composure, worrying she might step on a thorn, her chocolate skin pierced, and her body contorted into pain. He followed suit, his feet rushing through the maze.
“I am chasing her simply for my duty,” he thought to himself, but his heart, his face paling at the fear of her lost in sight, said much differently. Reaching the clearing in the center of the maze, a water fountain bubbled with a small pool beneath it. He watched from afar, as she stepped light and sloppy.
She was dancing.
Well, she was attempting to at least.
She slipped, almost falling into the pool of water. The jester caught her in time, his hand holding her waist for dear life. Naniki was not surprised to see him here, but she was surprised at his boldness, that he would touch what is not his.
“You are quite bold for a jester.”
The Jester never let her go. “I jest about scandals and regions of the body.”
“All that and your head stays intact.”
“I am talented, I know.”
Naniki slipped away from the Jester’s hold, the feeling wrong and cold. This time, the Jester was not alone in such a feeling. Naniki’s wild curls were free and blew in the soft night breeze. The Jester had no jacket to offer, so he bowed, extending his hand. “This jester is out of place, but worries for the lady who has strayed away. Dance with me?”
“And what becomes of this?”
“The warmth of two comes in many ways.”
Two fast-beating hearts sped in that moment. Naniki took his hand and curtsied clumsily.
The Jester and the Princess Royal were both stealing each other’s hearts. They danced the night away, her “two left feet” making her stumble over some of the steps. He would catch her every time. The Jester couldn’t help but stare deeply into her eyes, her lips more appealing, the yearning to lean in growing.
“Does this jester have a name?” Naniki put her arms around his neck. The Jester paused. He had long been reft of his name. No one had called him by it since he was a boy. And yet, the desire to hear it from her lips was too much.
“Cyprian.” The Jester whispers, a name sounding foreign yet familiar.
“Cyprian…” Nakini whispered his name, the name itself feeling like a trance pulling her forward.
“My lady–”
“Naniki.” She corrected him suddenly, her eyes shutting, face leaning in slowly, and breath close to his lips.
“Naniki…” Cyprian whispered, their lips slowly locking. He dared not let her go, this moment everlasting. The way she clung to him was enough for him to understand she felt the same. Their lips moved in sync, hands moving down to clasp each other. Warmth spread through their bodies, the cold night long forgotten.
They cursed the need for air as they slowly pulled back and looked at each other. At that moment, he was no longer a jester. He was Cyprian. His eyes were no longer observant and scheming but soft and yearning. Hers no longer held boredom and suffering, but conflicted emotions of yearning and regret.
A man should guard his heart, keep a tougher layer of skin; the walls should stay guarded, never to let anyone in. Naniki climbed and broke in, taking his heart for her own. In a way, Cyprian did the same to her, except her heart was hesitant to be whisked away.
Nevertheless, both explored in this new chapter, the Jester now split into two. Working for the royal court as the Jester, while the one who visited Naniki every morning and night was Cyprian.
The King always wanted reports on her condition. As a jester sent by the King, he wass mandated to tell the truth…if he were loyal. The Jester became a mask, his tongue spewing lies. “Not a sound of laughter.”
A lie told every afternoon.
Nightfall was the two lovers’ bliss. He continued his manner as a jester until he reached her chambers and shut the door. She threw him a wet rag. “Once in my chambers, you are a jester no more.”
Cyprian grinned, wiping off his face, the white powder and red circled paint gone. His tan face and forest green eyes stared at Naniki, her arms inviting him. “Does a man keep a lady waiting?”
“A good man does.”
“Hmph. A foolish man speaks to me.”
He laughed, taking Naniki’s hand and pulling her into his arms. “A foolish man you love.”
No words were said further, only the passion of lips connecting, the warmth of the fireplace, not the only one present. They held each other, his hand never leaving hers, and hers never leaving his. Cyprian vowed one day to take her away from this place and see beyond the palace.
Naniki always would pull back, changing the subject. “How long will you be a jester?”
“Until I die, I suppose.”
“No other path calls your name?”
“No other path opens for a commoner with nothing to his name.” He held her hand tightly. “The story of the Jester, recruited as a boy. All the hungry boy needed to do was trip on cobblestone, hit his head, and bleed. It brought the king joy.”
“How horrid!”
“Naniki, perhaps…you are my path.”
A vow made. One day they’d marry and run away.
That promise soon shattered when he found her chambers empty, heard her yelling from afar. The guillotine was in the town square, his love facing the angry crowd. Cyprian’s task to make Naniki laugh was suddenly done. The King deemed Naniki a witch, her heart cold.
Naniki, on her knees in her nightgown, accepted fate.
Cyprian reached up, crying for her.
Down goes the King’s hand. Down goes the blade.
The Jester’s head stays intact.
Hers does not.
A jester works for nobility; never can he become one.
Without her life, Cyprian was gone.
All that remained was the Jester standing on the dirtied cobblestone streets.
Maya Salfarlie is a Psychology BA graduate with a passionate interest in literature, graduating from the College of Staten Island. In her academic years, she has had her previous work published in the literature department's "Lost In Thought" magazine. In her free time, she gets lost her writings and spins records to listen to some tunes.
