Christopher Moore - Fool

“Shut up, fool,” said Lear.

“Sorry, sirrah, I thought you were losing your momentum.”

“How could I have given preference to this villainess over my sweet Cordelia?” asked Lear.

“Doubtless that question was lost worse in the wood than I, seeing as it has only caught up with you now, sire. Shall we take cover against the impact of the revelation that you’ve awarded your kingdom to the best liars of your loins?” Who would have thought it, but I’d felt more charity toward the old man before he realized his folly. Now—

He turned his eyes skyward and began to invoke the gods:

With that the old man spat at Goneril’s feet and stormed out of the hall.

“I think he took that as well as could reasonably be expected,” said I. I was ignored, despite my positive tone and sunny smile.

“Oswald!” called Goneril. The smarmy steward slithered forth. “Quickly, take the letter to my sister and Cornwall. Take two of the fastest horses and alternate them. Do not rest until it is in her hand. And then take you to Gloucester and deliver that other message as well.”

“You have given me no other message, lady,” said the worm.

“Yes, right, come with me. We shall draft a letter.” She led Oswald out of the great hall leaving the Duke of Albany looking to me for some sort of explanation.

I shrugged. “She can be a whirlwind of tits and terror when she puts her mind to a purpose, can’t she, sir?”

Albany didn’t seem to notice my comment, somewhat forlorn, he looked. His beard seemed to be greying with worry as he stood there. “I don’t approve of her treatment of the king. The old man has earned more respect. And what of these messages, to Cornwall and Gloucester?”

I started to speak, thinking it a perfect opportunity to mention her newfound affection for Edmund of Gloucester, my recent session of bawdy discipline with the duchess, and a half-dozen metaphors for illicit shagging that had come to mind while the duke mused, when Jones said:

“What?” said I. Whenever Jones has spoken before it has been in my own voice—smaller and muted sometimes, from the art of throwing it, but my voice alone, unless Drool is mimicking the puppet. And it is I who works the little ring and string that move Jones’s mouth. But this was not my voice, and I had not moved the puppet. It was the voice of the girl ghost from the White Tower.

“Don’t be tedious, Pocket,” said Albany. “I’ve no patience for puppets and rhymes.”

Jones said:

And like a shooting star cutting brilliant across the ignorant night of my mind, I saw the ghost’s meaning.

I said: “I know not what the lady sends to Cornwall, good Albany, but while I was this last month in Gloucester, I heard soldiers talk of Cornwall and Regan gathering forces by the sea.”

“Gathering an army? Whatever for? With gentle Cordelia and Jeff now on the throne in France, it would be folly to cross the channel. We’ve a safe ally there.”

“Oh, they aren’t gathering forces against France, they are gathering forces against you, my lord. Regan would be queen of all of Britain. Or so I heard said.”

“You heard this from soldiers? Under whose flag, these soldiers?”

“Mercenaries, lord. No flag but fortune for them, and the word was there is coin aplenty for a free lance fighter in Cornwall. I have to be off. The king will need someone to whip for your lady’s rude announcements.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” said Albany. He had a spark of decency in him, really, and somehow Goneril had not yet been able to smother it. Plus, he seemed to have forgotten about accidentally hanging me.

“Don’t worry for me, good duke. You have worries of your own. Someone must take a hit for your lady, let it be this humble fool. Pray, tell her I said that someone must always hit it. Fare thee well, duke.”

And merrily I was off, bottom stinging, to let slip the dogs of war. Hi ho!

Lear sat on his horse outside Castle Albany, howling at the sky like a complete lunatic.

“May Nature’s nymphs bring great lobster-sized vermin to infest the rotted nest of her woman bits, and may serpents fix their fangs in her nipples and wave there until her poisoned dugs [33] Dugs—breasts, teats. go black and drop to the ground like overripe figs!”

I looked at Kent. “Built up a spot of steam, hasn’t he?” said I.

“May Thor hammer at her bowels and produce flaming flatulence that wilts the forest and launches her off the battlements into a reeking dung heap!”

“Not really adhering to any particular pantheon, is he?” said Kent.

“Oh, Poseidon, send your one-eyed son to stare into her bituminous heart and ignite it with flames of most hideous suffering.”

“You know,” said I, “the king seems to be leaning rather heavily on curses, for someone with his unsavory history with witches.”

“Aye,” said Kent. “Seems to have steered his wrath toward the eldest daughter, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” said I. “Sure, sure, that could be it, I suppose.”

We heard horses galloping and I pulled Kent back from the drawbridge as two riders, leading a train of six horses, thundered across.

“Oswald,” said Kent.

“With extra horses,” said I. “He’s gone to Cornwall.”

Lear broke with his cursing and watched the riders take out across the moor. “What business has that rascal in Cornwall?”

“He carries a message, nuncle,” said I. “I heard Goneril order him to report her mind to her sister, and for Regan and her lord to go to Gloucester and not to be in Cornwall when you arrive.”

“Goneril, thou foul monstress!” said the king, clouting himself on the forehead.

“Indeed,” said I.

“Oh, evil monstress!”

“To be sure,” said Kent.

“Oh, pernicious monstress, perfect in her perfidy!”

Kent and I looked at each other, knowing not what to say.

“I said,” said Lear, “most pernicious monstress, perfect in her perfidy!”

Kent mimed a set of generous bosoms on himself and raised an eyebrow as if to ask, “Boobs?”

I shrugged as if to say, “Aye, boobs sounds right.”

“Aye, most pernicious perfidy indeed, sire,” said I.

“Aye, most bouncy and jiggling perfidy,” [34] Perfidy—treachery, definitely not bosoms. said Kent.

Then, as if coming out of a trance, Lear snapped to attention in his saddle. “You, Caius, have Curan saddle a fast horse for you. You must go to Gloucester, tell my friend the earl that we are coming.”

“Aye, my lord,” said Kent.

“And Caius, see that my apprentice Drool comes to no harm,” said I.

Kent nodded and went back across the drawbridge. The old king looked down to me.

“Oh, my pretty Black Fool, where from fatherly duty did I stray that such ingratitude should rise in Goneril like mad fever?”

“I am only a fool, my lord, but making a guess, I’d say the lady may have in her delicate youth required more discipline to shape her character.”