Christopher Moore - Fool

I tossed my apples around the table and said, “Two popes are shagging a camel behind a mosque, when this Saracen comes up—”

“There is only one, true pope!” shouted Cornwall, great tower of malignant smegma that he is.

“It’s a jest, you wanker,” said I. “Suspend fucking disbelief for a bit, would you?”

He was right, in a way (although not for the purpose of the camel bit). For the last year there had only been one pope, in the holy city of Amsterdam. But for the prior fifty years there had been two popes, the Retail Pope and the Discount Pope. After the Thirteenth Holy Crusade, when it was decided that to avoid future strife, the birthplace of Jesus would be moved to a different city every four years, holy shrines lost their geographical importance. There arose a great price war in the Church, with shrines offering pilgrims dispensation at varying competitive rates. Now there didn’t need to be a miracle declared on the spot; anywhere could basically be declared a holy site, and often was. Lourdes would still sell dispensation coupons with the healing waters—but also some bloke in Puddinghoe could plant some pansies and hawk, “Jesus had a wee right on this very spot when he was a lad—two pennies and a spliff of Cardiff chronic ’ill get you out o’ purgatory for an eon, mate.”

Soon a whole guild of low-priced shrine keepers around Europe named their own Pope—Boldface the Relatively Shameless, Discount Pope of Prague. The price war was on. If the Dutch pope would give you a hundred years out of purgatory for a shilling and a ferryman’s ticket, the Discount Pope would let you out for two hundred years and send you home with the femur of a minor saint and a splinter of the True Cross. The Retail Pope would offer cheesy bacon toppings on the Host with communion and the Discount Pope would counter with topless-nun night for midnight mass.

It came to a head, though, when St. Matthew appeared in a vision to the Retail Pope, telling him that the faithful were more interested in the quality of their religious experience, not just the quantity. Thus inspired, the Retail Pope moved Christmas to June when the weather wasn’t so shit for shopping, and the Discount Pope, not realizing the game had changed, responded by forgiving hell altogether for anyone who gave a priest a hand job. Without hell, there was no fear, and without fear, there was no further need for the Church to supply redemption, and more important, no means for the Church to modify behavior. The Discount faithful defected in droves, either to the Retail branch of the Church, or to a dozen different pagan sects. Why not get pissed and dance naked around a pole all Sabbath if the worst of it was a rash on the naughty bits and the dropping of the odd bastard now and then? Pope Boldface was burned in a wicker man the next Beltane and cats shat in his ashes.

So, yes, a two-pope joke was untimely, but fuck all, it was dire times, and I sallied forth, for a bit: “So the second pope says, ‘Your sister? I thought she was kosher?’”

And no one laughed. Cordelia rolled her eyes and made a raspberry sound.

The pathetic one-trumpet fanfare dribbled, the great doors were thrown open, and France and Burgundy ponced [20] Ponced—verb form of “ponce,” a gay man, meaning to walk in a gay manner. Could possibly be a real word. into the hall followed by the bastard Edmund.

“Silence, fool,” commanded Lear, with great superfluity. “Hail, Burgundy, hail, France.”

“Hail, Edmund the bloody bastard!” said I.

Lear ignored me and motioned for France and Burgundy to come before him. They were both fit, taller than me but not tall, a few years south of thirty. Burgundy had dark hair and the sharp features of a Roman. France, sandy hair and softer features. Each wore sword and dagger that I doubted had been ever drawn but for ceremony. Fucking frogs.

“Lord Burgundy,” said Lear, “you have rivaled for the hand of our youngest daughter. What dowry do you require for her?”

“No less than your highness has offered,” said the dark poofter.

“Alas, that is no more, good Burgundy. What we offered, was offered when she was dear to us. Now she has roused our anger and betrayed our love and her dowry is nothing. If you want her as she is there, take her, but there will be no dowry.”

Burgundy was stunned. He backed away, nearly stepping on France’s feet. “I’m sorry, then, sir, but I must tend to property and power in my choice of duchess.”

“She shall have neither,” said Lear.

“So be it,” said Burgundy. He nodded, bowed, and stepped back. “I am sorry, Cordelia.”

“No worry, sir,” said the princess. “If Burgundy’s heart is wed only to property and power, then it could never be to me truly. Peace be with you.”

I breathed half a sigh of relief. We might be driven from our home, but if Cordelia was driven out with us—

“I’ll take her!” said Edgar.

“You will not, you blubbering, beetle-browed, dog-buggering dolt!” I may have accidentally exclaimed.

“You will not,” said Gloucester, pushing his son back into his seat.

“Well, I will have her,” said the Prince of France. “For she is a dowry in herself.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Pocket, that’s enough,” said the king. “Guard, take him outside and hold him until our will is done.”

Two yeomen stepped up behind me and seized me under the armpits. I heard Drool moan and looked over to see him cowering behind a column. This had never happened before—nothing like it. I was the all-licensed fool! I of all people could speak truth to power—I am chief cheeky monkey to the King of Bloody Britain!

“You don’t know what you’re getting into, France. Have you seen her feet? Or perhaps that is your game, put her to work in the vineyards crushing wine grapes. Majesty, the poofter means to force servitude on her, mark my words.”

But no one heard the last of it, the yeomen had dragged me from the room and held me in the hall outside. I sought to brain one with Jones but he caught the puppet stick and tucked him in his belt at the small of his back.

“Sorry, Pocket,” said Curan, the captain of the guard, a grizzled bear in chain mail who held me by my right arm. “’Twas a direct order, and you were fast cutting your throat with your own tongue.”

“Not me,” said I. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I’d have said he’d not banish his best friend or disown his favorite daughter before this night. Hanging a fool’s an easy leap, lad.”

“Aye,” said I. “You’re right. Let me go, then.”

“Not until the king’s business is done,” said the old yeoman.

The doors came open, fanfare trickled anemic through the portal, and out came the Prince of France, on his arm, Cordelia, radiant and wearing a grim smile. I could see her jaw clenched, but she relaxed when she saw me and some of the fire of anger left her eyes.

“So, you’re off with the frog Prince?” said I.

France laughed at that, bloody buggering French fuck that he is. Is there anything so irritating as a noble who actually behaves nobly?

“Yes, I am leaving, Pocket, but there is one thing you must always remember and never forget—”

“Both at once?”

“Shut up!”

“Aye, milady.”

“You must always remember, and you must never forget, that while you are the Black Fool, the dark fool, the Royal Fool, the all-licensed fool, and the King’s Fool, you were not brought here to be those things. You were brought here to please me. Me! So when you put your titles aside, a fool still shall there reside, and now and forever, you are my fool.”

“Oh my, you are going to do well in France—they hold unpleasantness to be a virtue.”