The Jester, by Rosie Copeland

Masqueraders, by Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta (Spain) 1875-78

​The Jester
 
By this time of the night, Cindy had drunk a little too much port. She wished her godmother had given her a fan to complete her outfit. It would sure come in handy right now, what with the alcohol, the latex mask and the attentions of the court jester.

As the night had gone on, his jokes had got funnier and funnier. At least, to her ears. That he was neglecting his duties in entertaining the Prince to flirt with her he’d worry about tomorrow. Cindy was by far the prettiest girl at the ball, a vision of loveliness in cream and pink, just like a frosted cake, and he was dying to see what colour her hair was under that silver costume wig. 

The jester could tell her nose was dainty and her eyes a beautiful aquamarine, which matched her fur-trimmed cape, fringed by dark eyelashes. He suspected she wasn’t a natural blonde or redhead for that reason, but it didn’t matter to him. He quite liked a raven-haired beauty.

When Prince George walked past, the jester leaned in and whispered to Cindy a rumour that a servant had caught the Prince dressed in the queen's gowns on at least two occasions. She giggled hysterically, and the Prince, who had a prickling sensation at the back of his neck that he was being laughed at, turned and approached the jester.

He was enraged. “Have you no pantomime for your king’s entertainment tonight, jester?”

The jester winked at Cindy and said, “Of course. One moment.” He stood unsteadily, having consumed twice as much port as she had. He wanted to impress her. Thinking quickly, he asked her for her cape. “Why yes, of course,” said Cindy, sounding surprised.

He staggered past the court’s guests to make his way to the front of the orchestra.

Excited twitters ran through the crowd who’d heard the exchange. The jester was a popular member of the court, his wit and comedy legendary, and they’d not seen much of him all night.

He put the voluminous cape on, wrapped a nearby silk curtain tassel around his waist and pranced about on his tiptoes, mimicking the walk of a lady in high heels holding up the hem of her skirts.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I present to you Princess Georgina of the Court of King Rupert III,” he parodied.

There were audible gasps as the jester, in fine form now, pranced and pirouetted around on his mock heels, giggling like a young girl and feigning swooning.

Cindy, who’d just heard about the Prince’s predilection for wearing feminine attire, suddenly jumped to her feet. “It’s nearly midnight. I must meet my carriage,” she said to no one.

She dared not try to retrieve her cape, so with no one to witness, for they were all watching the jester in varying degrees of humour and horror, she slipped away through the ballroom door.

“Enough!” roared the prince.

It took the jester a couple of minutes to notice that no one was laughing anymore despite the nervous giggles that had first accompanied his parody. Then he noticed Cindy was no longer seated at the table. Only a silver slipper with a pink bow remained.

He sobered up quickly after the guards threw buckets of icy cold water over him in the dungeons. But he would not sign an apology. His performance had been the pinnacle of his career. As they beat him to a pulp, he hoped Cindy wasn’t cold without her cape. 

His last memory of her as he slipped out of consciousness was of her delicate scent: spices like cloves and cinnamon used in pumpkin pie.

Rosie Copeland

Rosie Copeland lives in New Zealand by the sea with her husband and cat. Mayhem, The Ekphrastic Review, Ethelzine, Frazzled Lit, and Tarot, among others, have published her work, and she has been a finalist in several poetry and fiction competitions. Rosie has also been anthologized which is not as painful as it sounds!