Christopher Moore - Fool

“My boy!” Lear called, throwing his arms wide.

I walked into his embrace, but did not return it. I found no tenderness in my heart at the sight of him, but my anger boiled still.

“Oh joy,” said Oswald, his disdain dripping like venom in his voice. “The prodigal git returns.”

“See here,” said Lear. “My men have yet to be paid. Tell my daughter I will see her.”

Oswald did not acknowledge the old man, but kept walking.

“You, sir!” roared the king. “Did you hear me?”

Oswald turned slowly, as if he’d heard his name carried in faintly on the wind. “Aye, I heard you.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Oswald picked a front tooth with the nail of his small finger. “Aye, my lady’s father.”

He smirked. The rascal had cheek, that I will give him, that or a burning desire to be catapulted cod over cap into the afterlife.

“Your lady’s father!” Lear pulled off his heavy leather hunting gauntlet and backhanded it across Oswald’s face. “You knave! You whoreson dog! You slave! You cur!”

The metal studs on Lear’s glove were beginning to draw blood where they struck Oswald. “I am none of these things. I will not be struck by you.” Oswald was backing toward the great double doors as Lear worried at him with the glove, but when the steward turned to run Kent threw out a leg and swept him off his feet.

“Or tripped, neither, you tosser!” said Kent.

Oswald rolled into a heap at the foot of one of Goneril’s guards, then scrambled to his feet and ran out. The guards pretended they’d seen nothing.

“Well done, friend,” said Lear to Kent. “Are you the one who brought my fool home?”

“Aye, he is, nuncle,” said I. “Rescued me from the darkest heart of the forest, fought off brigands, pygmies, and a brace of tigers to bring me here. But don’t let him talk his Welsh at you, one tiger was vanquished in a sluice of phlegm and mortally beaten with consonants.”

Lear looked closely now at his old friend, then shivered—guilt’s chill claws scuttling across his spine, no doubt. “Welcome, then, sir. I thank thee.” Lear handed Kent a small purse of coin. “Earnest payment for your service.”

“My thanks and my sword,” said Kent, bowing.

“What is your name?” asked Lear.

“Caius,” said Kent.

“And whence do you hail?”

“From Bonking, sire.”

“Well, yes, lad, as do we all,” said Lear, “but from what town?”

“Bonking Ewe on Worms Head,” I offered with a shrug. “Wales—”

“Fine, then, join my train,” said Lear. “You’re hired.”

“Oh, and allow me to hire you as well,” said I, removing my hat and handing it to Kent with a jingle.

“What’s this?” asked Kent.

“Who but a fool would work for a fool?”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” said Lear.

“You’ll have to get your own hat, fool,” said I to the king. “Mine is already promised.”

Captain Curan turned to conceal a smile.

“You call me a fool?”

“Oh, should I not call you fool? All your other titles you have given away, along with your land.”

“I’ll have you whipped.”

I rubbed my burning bottom. “That is the only legacy you have left, nuncle.”

“You’ve become a bitter fool in your absence,” said the king.

“And you the sweet one,” said I. “The fool who makes a jest of his own fate.”

“The boy is not altogether fool,” said Kent.

Lear turned on the old knight, but not in anger. “Perhaps,” said he, weakly, his eye drifting to the stones of the floor as if searching for an answer there. “Perhaps.”

“The lady, Goneril, Duchess of Albany!” announced one of the guards.

“Craven hose-beast!” I added, relatively certain the guard would forget that part.

Goneril breezed into the room, no notice of me, she went right to her father. The old man opened his arms but she stopped short, a sword-length away.

“Did you strike my man for chiding your fool?” Now she scowled at me.

I rubbed my bum and blew her a kiss.

Oswald peeked through the doors to the hall, as if waiting for the answer.

“I struck the knave for being impudent. I but asked him to fetch you. My fool has only just returned from being lost. This is not a time for frowns, daughter.”

“There’re no smiles for you, sire,” said I. “Not now that you’ve nothing to offer. The lady has only bile for fools and those with no title at all.”

“Quiet, boy,” said the king.

“You see,” said Goneril. “Not just your all-licensed fool, but your whole train treats my palace like a tavern and a brothel. They fight and eat all day, drink and carouse all night, and you care for nothing but your precious fool.”

“As it should be,” said Jones, albeit softly—when royal ire is raging, even the spittle sprayed from their lips can rain down death on the common puppet or person.

“I care for much, and my men are the best in the land. And they have not been paid since we left London. Perhaps if you—”

“They will not be paid!” said Goneril, and suddenly all the knights in the hall came to attention.

“When I gave you all, ’twas on the condition of you maintaining my retinue, daughter.”

“Aye, Father, and they shall be maintained, but not in your charge, and not in their full number.”

Lear was growing red-faced now, and shaking with anger as with palsy. “Speak clearly, daughter, these old ears deceive.”

Now Goneril went to her father and took his hand. “Yes, Father, you are old. Very old. Really, really, extraordinarily, mind-bogglingly—” She turned to me for a cue.

“Dog-fuckingly,” I suggested.

“—dog-fuckingly old,” said the duchess. “You are feebly, incontinently, desiccatedly, smelling-of-boiled-cabaggely old. You are brain-rottingly, balls-draggingly—”

“I’m fucking old!” said Lear.

“We’ll stipulate that,” said I.

“And,” continued Goneril, “while you, in your dotage, should be revered for your wisdom and grace, you piss on your legacy and reputation by keeping this train of ruffians. They are too much for you.”

“They are my loyal men and you have agreed to maintain them.”

“And I shall. I shall pay your men, but half will stay here at Albany, under my charge, under my orders, in soldiers’ quarters, not running about the bailey like marauders.”

“Darkness and devils,” cursed Lear. “It shall not be! Curan, saddle my horses, call my train together. I have another daughter.”

“Go to her, then,” said Goneril. “You strike my servants and your rabble makes servants of their betters. Be gone, then, but half your train shall remain.”

“Prepare my horses!” said Lear. Curan hurried out of the hall, followed by the other knights, passing the Lord Albany as he entered, the duke looking more than somewhat confused.

“Why does the king’s captain exit with such urgency?” asked the duke.

“Do you know of this harpy’s intent to strip me of my train?” asked Lear.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” said Albany. “Pray, be patient, sire. My lady?” Albany looked to Goneril.

“We do not strip him of his knights. I have offered to maintain them here, with our own force, while Father goes on to my sister’s castle. We shall treat his men as our own, with discipline, as soldiers, not as guests and revelers. They are out of the old man’s control.”

Albany turned back to Lear and shrugged.

“She lies!” said Lear, now wagging a finger under Goneril’s nose. “Thou detested viper. Thou ungrateful fiend. Thou hideous—uh—”

“Slag!” [32] Slag—British slang for slut, tramp. I offered. “Thou piteous prick-pull. Thou vainglorious virago. Thou skunk-breathed licker of dog scrotums. Do jump in, Albany, I can’t go on forever, no matter how inspired. Surely you’ve years of suppressed resentment to vent. Thou leprous spunk-catch. Thou worm-eaten—”