Christopher Moore - Fool

“But we could run off, be together.”

“That would be smashing, except I can’t leave. So, hop up and get your tackle in the cross. Thalia’s a special treat for you.”

I never seemed to make my point once my tackle went in the cross. Distracted, I was. But I learned, and while I was forbidden confession—and to tell the truth, I didn’t feel that badly about it—I began to share what I had learned.

“Thalia, I must confess to you, I have told Sister Nikki about the little man in the boat.”

“Really? Told her or showed her?”

“Well, showed her, I reckon. But she seems a bit thick. She kept making me show her over and over—asked me to meet her in the cloisters to show her again after vespers tonight.”

“Ah, the joy of being slow. Still, it’s a sin to be selfish with one’s knowledge.”

“That’s what I thought,” said I, relieved.

“And speaking of the little man in the boat, I believe there is one on this side of the loop who has been naughty and requires a thorough tongue-lashing.”

“Aye, mistress,” said I, wedging my cheeks into the arrow loop. “Present the rascal for punishment.”

And so it went. I was the only person I knew who had calluses on his cheekbones, but I had also developed the arms and grip of a blacksmith from suspending myself with my fingertips wedged between the great stones to extend my bits through the arrow loop. And thus I hung, spread spiderlike across the wall, my business being tended to, frantic and friendly, by the anchoress, when the bishop entered the antechamber.

(The bishop entered the antechamber? The bishop entered the antechamber? At this point you’re going coy on us, euphemizing about parts and positions when you’ve already confessed to mutual violation with a holy woman through a bloody arrow slot? Well, no.)

The actual sodding Bishop of Bloody York entered the sodding antechamber with Mother sodding Basil, who bore a brace of sodding storm lanterns.

And so I let go. Unfortunately, Thalia did not. It appeared that her grip, too, had been strengthened by our encounters on the wall.

“What the hell are you doing, Pocket?” said the anchoress.

“What are you doing?” asked Mother Basil.

I hung there, more or less suspended to the wall by three points, one of them not covered by shoes. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” said I. I was finding it somewhat difficult to think.

“Give us a little slack, lad,” said Thalia. “This is meant to be more of a dance, not a tug-of-war.”

“The bishop is out here,” said I.

She laughed. “Well, tell him to get in the queue and I’ll tend to him when we’re finished.”

“No, Thalia, he’s really out here.”

“Oh toss,” said she, releasing my knob.

I fell to the floor and quickly rolled onto my stomach.

Thalia’s face was at the arrow loop. “Evening, your grace.” A big grin there. “Fancy a spot of stony bonking before vespers?”

The bishop turned so quickly his miter went half-past on his head. “Hang him,” he said. He snatched one of Mother Basil’s lanterns and walked out of the chamber.

“Bloody brown bread you serve tastes like goat scrotum!” Thalia called after. “A lady deserves finer fare!”

“Thalia, please,” I said.

“Not a comment on you, Pocket. Your serving style is lovely, but the bread is rubbish.” Then to Mother Basil. “Don’t blame the boy, Reverend Mother, he’s a love.”

Mother Basil grabbed me by the ear and dragged me out of the chamber.

“You’re a love, Pocket,” said the anchoress.

Mother Basil locked me in a closet in her chambers, then mid-way through the night, opened the door and handed in a crust of bread and a chamber pot. “Stay here until the bishop is on his way in the morning, and if anyone asks, you’ve been hung.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” said I.

She came to get me the next morning and hustled me out through the chapel. I’d never seen her so distraught. “You’ve been like a son to me, Pocket,” she said, fussing about me, strapping a satchel and other bits of kit on me. “So it’s going to pain me to send you off.”

“But, Reverend Mother—”

“Hush, lad. We’ll take you to the barn, hang you in front of a few farmers, then you’re off to the south to meet up with a group of mummers [21] Mummers—traveling entertainers, often associated with winter solstice celebrations, but could be anything from acrobats to a theatrical troupe. who will take you in.”

“Beggin’ pardon, mum, but if I’m hung, what will mummers do with me, a puppet show?”

“I’ll not really hang you, just make it look good. We have to, lad, the bishop ordered it.”

“Since when does the bishop order nuns to hang people?”

“Since you shagged the anchoress, Pocket.”

At the mention of her I broke away from Mother Basil, ran through the abbey, down the old corridor and into the antechamber. The arrow cross was gone, completely bricked up and mortared in. “Thalia! Thalia!” I called. I screamed and beat the stones until my fists bled, but not a sound came from the other side of the wall. Ever.

The sisters pulled me away, tied my hands, and took me to the barn where I was hanged.

Am I to be forever alone? The anchoress told me it might be so, trying to comfort me when I felt pushed aside by the sisters of Dog Snogging.

“You’re gifted with wit, Pocket, but to cast jibe and jest you must stand separate from the target of your barbs. I fear you may become a lonely man, even in the company of others.”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it is why I am such an accomplished horn-beast and eloquent crafter of cuckoldry. I seek only succor and solace beneath the skirts of the soft and understanding. And so, sleepless, did I make my way to the great hall to find some comfort among the castle wenches who slept there.

The fire still blazed, logs the size of oxen set in before bed. My sweet Squeak, who had oft opened her heart and whatnot to a wayfaring fool, had fallen asleep in the arms of her husband, who spooned her mercilessly as he snored. Shanker Mary was not to be seen, no doubt servicing the bastard Edmund somewhere, and my other standard lovelies had fallen into slumber in proximity too close to husbands or fathers to admit a lonely fool.

Ah, but the new girl, just in the kitchen a fortnight, called Tess or Kate or possibly Fiona. Her hair was jet and shone like oiled iron; milky skin, cheeks brushed by a rose—she smiled at my japes and had given Drool an apple without his asking. I am relatively sure that I adored her. I tiptoed across the rushes that lined the floor (I had left Jones in my chamber, his hat bells no help in securing stealthy romance), lay down beside her, and introduced my personage to the nether of her blanket. An affectionate nudge at the hip woke her.

“Hello,” said she.

“Hello,” said I. “Not a papist, are you, love?”

“Christ, no, Druid born and raised.”

“Thank God.”

“What are you doing under my blanket?”

“Warming up. I’m terribly cold.”

“No you’re not.”

“Brrrr. Freezing.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“All right, then. I’m just being friendly.”

“Would you stop prodding me with that?”

“Sorry, it does that when it’s lonely. Perhaps if you petted it.”

Then, praised be the merciful goddess of the wood, she petted it, tentatively, almost reverentially at first, as if she sensed how much joy it could bring to all who came in contact with it. An adaptable lass, not given to fits of hysteria or modesty—and soon a gentle surety in her grip that betrayed some experience in the handling of manly bits—simply lovely she was.