I wrote this because I was a bit stuck with my Fifth Year story. I have lots of plots lined up, but I have to think of ways to link them to the bit I've just written. I hate adjoining bits…
Baron Northlaston watched disdainfully as the jester, clad merrily in red and green stripes with a little bow tie to match, juggled equally festive coloured balls in the air. The jester, Peeves, was not very good at juggling and repeatedly dropped them. It was very frustrating to watch.
Knocking back the beginning of his fourth goblet of ale, the Baron sighed. 'Peeves!'
'Yes, sir?' Peeves stared insolently at him, letting the juggling balls fall heavily onto the stone floor of the manor.
'I am tired of watching you make a literal fool of yourself. Go to your chamber. I expect you to be ready to leave by tomorrow.' He turned to his courtiers. 'I shall need a new jester.'
Peeves looked flabbergasted as the courtiers rushed off. Baron Northlaston was used to having his servants obey his every whim, and today was no exception – though it hardly took six men to arrange for an entertainer.
Peeves trudged up to his chamber, a humble little room at the top of a short staircase. The four-poster bed, even with its shabby, moth-eaten drapes, looked far too grand for the rest of the furniture – a rough, splintered wooden stool and a similar table, a tiny, rusted metal cupboard and a little wooden drying rack for his clothes. This room held the things that were out of place elsewhere in the manor, and was too small for them to fit properly. It did not take long for the jester to gather all of his things. He decided to go for one last look around the house.
An experienced conman, Peeves had turned to entertaining when he came very close to being caught. He should have been hung along with his partner, of course, but he had, by some extraordinary means, escaped justice. Still in his possession was one souvenir of their failed criminal venture: his juggling balls. Armed with only these, he had attempted to make his name as a jester, and had ended up here.
But his lack of skill had caught him out. It had been sheer luck that had gained him this job; whilst practising, he had thrown the balls particularly well and it was his fortune that placed one of the Baron's courtiers nearby. He had been brought to the manor to display his trade, but had not been needed until tonight's banquet.
Down in the hall, Baron Northlaston was chewing absent-mindedly on a leg of lamb. Normally he was not the most pleasant of dining companions, but after five glasses of ale his manners had completely dissolved. His guests, however, were mostly inebriated themselves, and paid no attention to the Baron's poor etiquette.
The room around him hazy, the Baron called off the feast. Guests trundled around bemoaning the short length of the dining, but he did not care. Bed called to him. Swaying slightly, he ascended the stairs.
The Baron's chamber was an enormous room, furnished in shiny dark wood and smooth red velvet. It was fit for a king; and indeed, distant relative of the king Baron Northlaston was. The gold door handle turned as he placed his hand upon it. But he could hear a furtive, muttering voice. It was coming from inside his chamber!
'Got to be quick, Peevsie, can't have Sir coming in and disturbing you at your work… no, Sir can't have anything taken from him… throw Peeves out on the streets, he would, with nothing to his name… well, he's given me quite enough to make myself comfortable, yes he has…'
Peeves the jester was lifting a handful of creamy white pearls so that they caught the light from the candles on the chandelier; from his pockets trailed strings of other jewels, chains encrusted with sapphires, rubies and onyx. In his other hand the jester held a black silk bag which the Baron knew contained silver and gold jewelled rings. Peeves froze on hearing the Baron make his entrance.
'Steal from me, would you?' the Baron roared. The alcohol in his system distorted the shifty little man; he saw an evil imp, come to rob him of his wealth. He drew the broad silver dagger from his belt and advanced.
Peeves had no chance to defend himself as the Baron brought the dagger down upon him, time after time. The hapless jester did not even have a chance to speak. He fell to the ground, but the Baron continued to pour blows on him until he was sure. Then, without even washing the fresh blood from his hands, he retired and slept.
The Baron awoke in the morning, heavy-headed. He breathed in a foul odour – he smelled blood. Where was it coming from?
As he dragged his lazy body from the bed, he saw a red-stained heap on the floor. Turning it over, he was revolted to see the corpse of Peeves the jester – and looking down at himself, he saw blood, blood staining his hands and his clothes. He scrubbed his palms desperately together, but the blood would not shift. He remembered nothing.
The Baron sank to the ground and moaned.
His courtiers tried in vain to save him. They put him to bed, bathed his hands in warm water and nursed him for days – but the madness had descended upon him and it was too late. Baron Northlaston died less than a month after he murdered a not-quite-innocent jester.
Both men, having died in unpleasant and disturbing circumstances, rose after their deaths; Peeves, a mischievous and crafty man in life, became a poltergeist in death. The Baron became a simple ghost, but with a difference – his ghostly attire was forever doused with silver blood. They drifted, meeting up now and again, and ended up in the same place. But we all know about that.