Christopher Moore - Fool

“Most are smaller, in fact.”

“May I touch it?”

“If you feel you must.”

“Well, would you look at that.”

“See, now you’ve angered it.”

“Where in God’s name have you been?” she said. “Father’s been a madman looking for you. He and his captain have gone out on patrol every day and well into the evening, leaving the rest of his knights to wreak havoc on the castle. My lord has sent soldiers as far as Edinburgh asking after you. I should have you drowned for all the worry you’ve caused.”

“You did miss me, didn’t you?” I cradled the silk purse at my belt, wondering when best to spring the spell. And once she was bewitched, how exactly would I use the power?

“He was supposed to be in Regan’s care, but by the time he moves his bloody hundred knights all the way to Cornwall it will be my turn again. I can’t abide the rabble in my palace.”

“What does Lord Albany say?”

“He says what I tell him to say. It’s all intolerable.”

“Gloucester,” said I, offering the very model of a non sequitur wrapped in an enigma.

“Gloucester?” asked the duchess.

“The king’s good friend is there. It’s mid-way between here and Cornwall, and the Earl of Gloucester daren’t deny the request of the dukes of both Albany and Cornwall. You wouldn’t be leaving the king without care, yet you wouldn’t have him underfoot, either.” With the witches’ warning about Drool in danger there, I was determined for all the drama to descend on Gloucester. I sat down on the floor near her feet, held Jones across my knees, and waited, both I and the puppet wearing jolly grins.

“Gloucester…” said Goneril, letting a bit of a smile seep out. She really could be lovely when she forgot she was cruel.

“Gloucester,” said Jones, “the dog’s bollocks of western bloody Blighty.”

“Do you think he’ll agree to it? It’s not how he laid out his legacy.”

“He won’t agree to Gloucester, but he’ll agree to go to Regan’s by way of Gloucester. The rest will be up to your sister.” Should I have felt myself a traitor? No, the old man brought this on himself.

“But if he doesn’t agree, and he has all these men?” She looked me in the eye now. “It’s too much power in the hands of the feeble.”

“And yet, he had all the power of the kingdom not two months ago.”

“You’ve not seen him, Pocket. The legacy and banishment of Cordelia and Kent was just the beginning. Since you went away he’s gotten worse. He searches for you, he hunts, he rails about his days as a soldier of Christ one minute, then calls to the gods of Nature the next. With a fighting force of that size—if he should feel that we’ve betrayed him—”

“Take them,” said I.

“What? I couldn’t.”

“You have seen my apprentice, Drool? He eats with his hands or with a spoon, we dare not let him have a knife or fork, lest the points imperil all.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Pocket. What of Father’s knights?”

“You pay them? Take them. For his own good. Lear with his train of knights is like a child running with a sword. Are you cruel to relieve him of deadly force, when he is neither strong enough, nor wise enough to wield it? Tell Lear he must dismiss fifty of his knights and their attendants and keep them here. Tell him they will be at his beck and call when he is in residence.”

“Fifty? Just fifty?”

“You must leave some for your sister. Send Oswald to Cornwall with your plan. Have Regan and Cornwall make haste to Gloucester so they are there upon Lear’s arrival. Perhaps they can bring Gloucester into the fold. With Lear’s knights dismissed, the two whitebeards can reminisce about their glory days and crawl together to the grave in peaceful nostalgia.”

“Yes!” Goneril was becoming breathless now, excited. I’d seen it before. It wasn’t always a good sign.

“Quickly,” said I, “send Oswald to Regan while the sun is high.”

“No!” Goneril sat forward quickly, her bosom nearly spilling out of her gown, which captured my attention more than her fingernails digging into my arm.

“What?” said I, the bells of my coxcomb but a finger’s breath from jingling her décolletage. [30] Décolletage —the road to Hooterville; cleavage. From the fucking French.

“There is no peace for Lear in Gloucester. Haven’t you heard? The earl’s son Edgar is a traitor.”

Had I heard? Had I heard? Of course, the bastard’s plan was afoot. “Of course, lady, where do you think I’ve been?”

“You’ve been all the way to Gloucester?” She was panting now.

“Aye. And back. I’ve brought you something.”

“A present?” She showed the delighted, wide grey-green eyes she’d had when she was a girl. “Perhaps I won’t hang you, but punishment is due you, Pocket.”

Then the lady grabbed me and pulled me across her lap, face-down. Jones rolled to the floor beside me. “Lady, perhaps—”

Smack! “There, fool, I’ve hit it. Hit it. Hit it. Hit it. So give it. Give it. Give it.” A smack with every iamb. [31] Iamb—in poetry, a metrical foot consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. Hit IT , Give IT .

“Bloody hell, you insane tart!” I squirmed. My ass burned with her handprint.

Smack! “Oh good God!” said Goneril. “Yes!” She wiggled under me now.

Smack!

“Ouch! It’s a letter! A letter,” said I.

“I’ll see your little bum as red as a rose!”

Smack!

I squirmed in her lap, turned, grabbed her bosoms and pulled myself upright until I was sitting in her lap. “Here.” I pulled the sealed parchment out of my jerkin and held it out.

“Not yet!” said she, trying to roll me over and get back to smacking my bum.

She honked my codpiece.

“You honked my codpiece.”

“Aye, give it up, fool.” She tried to get a hand under my codpiece.

I reached into the silk purse and retrieved one of the puffballs as I tried to keep my manhood out of her grasp. I heard a door open.

“Surrender the willie!” said the duchess.

She had it then, there was nothing I could do. I squoze the puffball under her nose.

“It’s from Edmund of Gloucester,” said I.

“Milady?” said Oswald, who was standing in the doorway.

“Let us down, pumpkin,” said I. “The catch-fart needs his task set.”

It all smacked of history.

The game had progressed further that first day, when Oswald first interrupted us, all those years ago, but it had begun, as always, with one of Goneril’s query sessions.

“Pocket,” said she, “since you were raised in an abbey, I should think you know much about punishment.”

“Aye, lady. I had my share, and it didn’t end there. I still endure an inquisition almost daily in these very chambers.”

“Gentle Pocket, surely you jest?”

“That is part of the job, mum.”

She stood then, and dismissed the ladies from her solar with a minor tantrum. When they were gone she said, “I’ve never been punished.”

“Aye, lady, well, you’re Christian, there’s always time.” I’d left the Church with a curse after they walled up my anchoress and I was leaning heavily pagan at the time.

“No one is allowed to strike me, so there’s always been a girl to take my punishment for me. My spankings.”

“Aye, mum, as it should be. Spare the royal withers and all.”

“And I feel funny about it. Just last week I mentioned during mass that Regan might be a bit of a cunt, and my whipping girl was soundly spanked for it.”

“Might as well have whipped her for your calling the sky blue, eh? A beating for talking truth, of course you felt funny about it.”