Mazzini had seen a hundred purported relics like this, but the tremendous power of this one gripped and unnerved him. A reverent force gave him the urge to kneel on the stone floor.

Finally, that’s what he did-as if he were in the presence of Jesus Christ.

“I waited until your arrival to place a call to Cardinal Perrault in Paris,” said Lacaze.

“Forget Perrault.” Mazzini looked up, moistening his dry lips. “We are going to call the Pope.”

Alberto Mazzini couldn’t take his eyes off the incredible artifact on the plain white sheet. This was more than just the crowning moment of his career. It was a miracle.

“There’s just one more thing,” said Ms. Lacaze.

“What?” Mazzini mumbled. “What one more thing?”

“The local lore, it always said a precious relic was here. Just never that it belonged to a duke. But to a man of far more humble origins.”

“What sort of lowborn man would come into such a prize? A priest? Perhaps a thief?”

“No.” Renée Lacaze’s brown eyes widened. “Actually, a jester.”

Part One . THE ORIGINS OF COMEDY

Chapter I

Veille du Père, a village in southern France, 1096

The church bells were ringing.

Loud, quickening peals-echoing through town in the middle of the day.

Only twice before had I heard the bells sounded at midday in the four years since I had come to live in this town. Once, when word reached us that the King’s son had died. And the second, when a raiding party from our lord’s rival in Digne swept through town during the wars, leaving eight dead and burning almost every house to the ground.

What was going on?