Christopher Moore - Fool

“Heraldry is my hobby, go on.”

Once we were inside the main curtain wall [25] Curtain wall—the outer wall of a castle compound, usually surrounding all of the buildings. of Castle Albany, it was clear that we would go no farther. The main keep of the castle stood behind yet another curtain wall and had its own drawbridge, over a dry ditch rather than a moat. The bridge was lowering even as the king approached. Goneril walked out on the drawbridge unaccompanied, wearing a gown of green velvet, laced a bit too tightly. If the intent was to lessen the rise of her bosom it failed miserably, and brought gasps and guffaws from several of the knights until Curan raised his hand for silence.

“Father, welcome to Albany,” said Goneril. “All hail good king and loving father.”

She held out her arms and the anger drained from Lear’s face. He climbed down from his horse. I scampered to the king’s side and steadied him. Captain Curan signaled and the rest of the train dismounted.

As I straightened Lear’s cape about his shoulders, I caught Goneril’s eye. “Missed you, pumpkin.”

“Knave,” said she under her breath.

“She was always the most fair of the three,” I said to Lear. “And certainly the most wise.”

“My lord means to accidentally hang your fool, Father.”

“Ah, well, if accident, there’s no fault but Fate,” said I with a grin—pert and nimble spirit of mirth that I am. “But call then for a spanking of Fate’s fickle bottom and hit it good, lady.” I winked and smacked the horse’s rump.

Wit’s arrow hit and Goneril blushed. “I’ll see you hit, you wicked little dog.”

“Enough of that,” said Lear. “Leave the boy alone. Come give your father a hug.”

Jones barked enthusiastically and chanted, “A fool must hit it. A fool must hit it, hit it good.” The puppet knows a lady’s weakness.

“Father,” said she, “I’m afraid we’ve accommodation only for you in the castle. Your knights and others will have to make do in the outer bailey. [26] Bailey—courtyard inside a castle wall. We’ve quarters and food for them by the stables.”

“But what about my fool?”

“Your fool can sleep in the stable with the rest of the rabble.”

“So be it.” Lear let his eldest lead him into the castle like a milk cow by the nose ring.

“She truly loathes you, doesn’t she?” said Kent. He was busy wrapping himself around a pork shoulder the size of a toddler—his Welsh accent actually sounding more natural through the grease and gristle than when clear.

“Not to worry, lad,” said Curan, who had joined us by our fire. “We’ll not let Albany hang you. Will we, lads!?”

Soldiers all around us cheered, not sure what they were cheering for, beyond the fact that they were enjoying the first full meal with ale that they’d had since leaving the White Tower. A small village was housed inside the bailey and some of the knights were already wandering off in search of an alehouse and a whore. We were outside the castle, but at least we were out of the wind, and we could sleep in the stables, which the pages and squires had mucked out on our arrival.

“But if we’re not welcome in the great hall, then they are not welcome to the talents of the king’s fool,” said Curan. “Sing us a song, Pocket.”

A cheer went up around the camp: “Sing! Sing! Sing!”

Kent raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, lad, your witches will wait.”

I am what I am. I drained my flagon of ale, set it by the fire, then whistled loudly, jumped up, did three somersaults and laid out into a back-flip, wherefrom I landed with Jones pointed at the moon, and said, “A ballad, then!?”

“Aye!” came the cheer.

And ever so sweetly, I crooned the lilting love song “Shall I Shag My Lady Upon the Shire?” I followed that with a bit of a narrative song by way of a troubadour tradition: “The Hanging of Willie Wagging William.” Well, everyone likes a story after supper, and by the one-eyed balls of the Cyclops, that one got them clapping, so I slowed it down a bit with the solemn ballad, “Dragon Spooge Befouled My Bonny Bonny Lass.” Bloody inconsiderate to leave a train of fighting men fighting back tears, so I danced my way around the camp while singing the shanty “Alehouse Lilly (She’ll Bonk You Silly).”

I was about to say good night and head out when Curan called for silence and a road-worn herald wearing a great golden fleur-delis on his chest entered the camp. He unrolled his scroll and read.

“Hear ye, hear ye. Let it be known that King Philip the Twenty-seventh of France is dead. God rest his soul. Long live France. Long live the king!”

No one “long lived the king” back at him and he seemed disappointed. Although one knight did murmur “So?” and another, “Good bloody riddance.”

“Well, you British pig dogs, Prince Jeff is now king,” said the herald.

We all looked at each other and shrugged.

“And Princess Cordelia of Britain is now Queen of France,” the herald added, rather huffy now.

“Oh,” said many, realizing at last at least a glancing relevance.

“Jeff?” said I. “The bloody frog prince is called Jeff?” I strode to the herald and snatched the scroll out of his hand. He tried to take it back and I clouted him with Jones.

“Calm, lad,” said Kent, taking the scroll from me and handing it back to the herald. “Merci,” said he to the messenger.

“He took my bloody princess and my monkey’s name!” said I, taking another swing with Jones, which missed its mark as Kent was dragging me away.

“You should be pleased,” said Kent. “Your lady is the Queen of France.”

“And don’t think she’s not going to rub my nose in that when I see her.”

“Come, lad, let’s go find your witches. We’ll want to be back by morning in time for Albany to accidentally hang you.”

“Oh, she’d like that, wouldn’t she?”

So why is it that we are going to Great Birnam Wood to look for witches?” asked Kent as we made our way across the moor. There was only a slight breeze but it was bloody cold, what with the mist and the gloom and my despair over King Jeff. I pulled my woolen cape around me.

“Bloody Scotland,” said I. “Albany is possibly the darkest, dampest, coldest bloody crevice in all of Blighty. Sodding Scots.”

“Witches?” reminded Kent.

“Because the bloody ghost told me I’d find my answers here.”

“Ghost?”

“The girl ghost at the White Tower, keep up, Kent. Rhymes and riddles and such.” I told him of the “grave offense to daughters three” and the “madman rising to lead the blind.”

Kent nodded as if he understood. “And I’m along because…”

“Because it is dark and I am small.”

“You might have asked Curan or one of the others. I’m reticent about witches.”

“Nonsense. They’re just like physicians, only without the bleeding. Nothing to fear.”

“In the day, when Lear was still Christian, we did not do well by witches. I’ve had a cartload of curses cast on me.”

“Not very effective, though, were they? You’re child-frighteningly old and still strong as a bull.”

“I am banished, penniless, and live under the threat of death upon discovery of my name.”

“Oh, good point. Brave of you to come, then.”

“Aye, thanks, lad, but I’m not feeling it. What’s that light?”

There was a fire ahead in the wood, and figures moving around it.

“Stealthy, now, good Kent. Let us creep up silently and see what is to be seen before revealing ourselves. Now, creep, Kent, you crashing great ox, creep.”