Christopher Moore - Fool

On the fifteenth day of our march, outside of Lint-upon-Tweed, they ate my horse.

“Rose, Rose, Rose—would a horse by any other name taste so sweet?” the knights chanted. They thought themselves clever, slinging such jests while spraying roasted bits of my mount from their greasy lips.

The dull always seek to be clever at the fool’s expense, to somehow repay him for his cutting wit, but never are they clever, and often are they cruel. Which is why I may never own things, never care for anyone, nor show desire for anything, lest some ruffian, thinking he is funny, take it away. I have secret desires, wants, and dreams, though. Jones is a fine foil, but I should like someday to own a monkey. I would dress him in a tiny jester’s suit, of red silk, I think. I would call him Jeff, and he would have his own scepter, that would be called Tiny Jeff. Yes, I should very much like a monkey. He would be my friend—and it would be forbidden to murder, banish, or eat him. Foolish dreams?

We were met at the gate of Castle Albany by Goneril’s steward, adviser, and chief toady, that most pernicious twat, Oswald. I’d had dealings with the rodent-faced muck-sucker when he was but a footman at the White Tower, when Goneril was still princess at court, and I, a humble jongleur, was found wandering naked amid her royal orbs. But that tale is best left for another time, the scoundrel at the gate impedes our progress.

Spidery in appearance as well as disposition, Oswald lurks even when in the open, lurking being his natural state of locomotion. A fine black fuzz he wears for a beard, the same is on his head, when his blue tartan tam is humbled at his heart, which it was not that day. He neither removed his hat nor bowed as Lear approached.

The old king was not pleased. He stopped the train an arrow-shot from the castle and waved me forward.

“Pocket, go see what he wants,” said Lear. “And ask why there is no fanfare for my arrival.”

“But nuncle, [24] Nuncle—archaic, uncle. ” said I. “Shouldn’t the captain of the guard be the one—”

“Go on, fool! A point is to be made about respect. I send a fool to meet this rascal and put him in his place. Spare no manners, remind the dog that he is a dog.”

“Aye, majesty.” I rolled my eyes at Captain Curan, who almost laughed, then stopped himself, seeing that the king’s anger was real.

I pulled Jones from my satchel and sallied forth, my jaw set, as determined as the prow of a warship.

“Hail, Castle Albany,” I called. “Hail, Albany. Hail, Goneril.”

Oswald said nothing, did not so much as remove his hat. He looked past me to the king, even when I was standing an arm’s length from him.

I said: “King of bloody Britain here, Oswald. I’d suggest you pay proper respect.”

“I’ll not lower myself to speak with a fool.”

“Primping little whoreson wanker, innit he?” said the puppet Jones.

“Aye,” said I. Then I spotted a guard in the barbican, looking down on us. “Hail, Cap’n, seems someone’s emptied a privy on your drawbridge and the steaming pile blocks our way.”

The guard laughed. Oswald fumed.

“M’lady has instructed me to instruct you that her father’s knights are not welcome in the castle.”

“That so? She’s actually talking to you, then?”

“I’ll not have an exchange with an impudent fool.”

“He’s not impudent,” said Jones. “With proper inspiration, the lad sports a woody as stout as a mooring pin. Ask your lady.”

I nodded in agreement with the puppet, for he is most wise for having a brain of sawdust.

“Impudent! Impudent! Not impotent!” Oswald frothing a bit now.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so,” said Jones. “Yes, he’s that.”

“To be sure,” said I.

“Aye,” said Jones.

“Aye,” said I.

“The king’s rabble shall not be permitted in the castle.”

“Aye. That so, Oswald?” I reached up and patted his cheek. “You should have ordered trumpets and rose petals scattered on our path.” I turned and waved the advance to the train, Curan spurred his horse and the column galloped forward. “Now get off the bridge or be trampled, you rat-faced little twat.”

I strode past Oswald into the castle, pumping Jones in the air as if I was leading cadence for war drummers. I think I should have been a diplomat.

As Lear rode by he clouted Oswald on the head with his sheathed sword, knocking the unctuous steward into the moat. I felt my anger for the old man slip a notch.

Kent, his disguise now completed by nearly three weeks of hunger and living in the outdoors, fell in behind the train as I had instructed. He looked lean and leathery now, more like an older version of Hunter than the old, overfed knight he had been at the White Tower. I stood to the side of the gate as the column entered and nodded to him as he passed.

“I’m hungry, Pocket. All I had to eat yesterday was an owl.”

“Perfect fare for witch finding, methinks. You’re with me to Great Birnam Wood tonight, then?”

“After supper.”

“Aye. If Goneril doesn’t poison the lot of us.”

Ah, Goneril, Goneril, Goneril—like a distant love chant is her name. Not that it doesn’t summon memories of burning urination and putrid discharge, but what romance worth the memory is devoid of the bittersweet?

When I first met her, Goneril was but seventeen, and although betrothed to Albany from the age of twelve, she had never seen him. A curious, round-bottomed girl, she had spent her entire life in and around the White Tower, and she’d developed a colossal appetite for knowledge of the outside world, which somehow she thought she could sate by grilling a humble fool. It started on odd afternoons, when she would call me to her chambers, and with her ladies-in-waiting in attendance, ask me all manner of questions her tutors had refused to answer.

“Lady,” said I, “I am but a fool. Shouldn’t you ask someone with position?”

“Mother is dead and Father treats us like porcelain dolls. Everyone else is afraid to speak. You are my fool, it is your duty to speak truth to power.”

“Impeccable logic, lady, but truth be told, I’m here as fool to the little princess.” I was new to the castle, and did not want to be held accountable for telling Goneril something that the king didn’t wish her to know.

“Well, Cordelia is having her nap, so until she wakes you are my fool. I so decree it.”

The ladies clapped at the royal decree.

“Again, irrefutable logic,” said I to the thick but comely princess. “Proceed.”

“Pocket, you have traveled the land, tell me, what is it like to be a peasant?”

“Well, milady, I’ve never been a peasant, strictly speaking, but for the most part, I’m told it’s wake early, work hard, suffer hunger, catch the plague, and die. Then get up the next morning and do it all again.”

“Every day?”

“Well, if you’re a Christian—on Sunday you get up early, go to church, suffer hunger until you have a big meal of barley and swill, then catch the plague and die.”

“Hunger? Is that why they seem so wretched and unhappy?”

“That would be one of the reasons. But there’s much to be said for hard work, disease, run-of-the-mill suffering, and the odd witch burning or virgin sacrifice, depending on your faith.”

“If they are hungry, why don’t they just eat something?”

“That is an excellent idea, milady. Someone should suggest that.”

“Oh, I shall make a most excellent duchess, I think. The people will praise me for my wisdom.”

“Most certainly, milady,” said I. “Your father married his sister, then, did he, love?”

“Heavens no, mother was a Belgian princess, why do you ask?”