Christopher Moore - Fool

The ghost pulled her gown down, tossed her hair out of her face, and grinned. “Water in the moat,” she said. “He’ll be fine. Guess I’ll be going away half-cocked, though.”

“Well, yes, but jolly good of you to take time from chain rattling and delivering portents of bloody doom to shag the beef-brained boy.”

“Not up for a spirity tumble yourself, then?” She made as if to lift her gown above her hips again.

“Piss off, wisp, I’ve got to go fish the git out of the moat. He can’t swim.”

“Not keen on flight, neither, evidently?”

No time for this. I sheathed my dagger, wheeled on my heel and started out the door.

“Not your war, fool,” said the ghost.

I stopped. Drool was slow at most things, perhaps he would be so at drowning. “The bastard has his own war?”

“Aye.” The ghost nodded, fading back to mist as she moved.

“Thou loquacious fog, thou nattering mist, thou serpent-tongued steam, for the love of truth, speak straight, and no sodding rhyme.”

But in that moment she was gone.

“Who are you?” I shouted to the empty tower.

“I shagged a ghost,” said Drool, wet, naked, and forlorn, sitting in the laundry cauldron under Castle Gloucester.

“There’s always a bloody ghost,” said the laundress, who was scrubbing the lout’s clothes, which had been most befouled in the moat. It had taken four of Lear’s men, along with me, to pull the great git from the stinking soup.

“No excuse for it, really,” said I. “You’ve the lake on three sides of the castle, you could open the moat to the lake and the offal and stink would be carried away with the current. I’ll wager that one day they find that stagnant water leads to disease. Breeds hostile water sprites, I’ll wager.”

“Blimey, you’re long-winded for such a wee fellow,” said the laundress.

“Gifted,” I explained, gesturing grandly with Jones. I, too, was naked, but for my hat and puppet stick, my own apparel having taken a glazing of oozy moat mess during the rescue as well.

“Sound the alarm!” Kent came storming down the steps into the laundry, sword unsheathed and followed closely by the two young squires he’d trounced not an hour before. “Bolt the door! To arms, fool!”

“Hello,” said I.

“You’re naked,” said Kent, once again feeling the need to voice the obvious.

“Aye,” said I.

“Find the fool’s kit, lads, and get him into it. Wolves are loosed on the fold and we must defend.”

“Stop!” said I. The squires stopped thrashing wildly around the laundry and stood at attention. “Excellent. Now, Caius, what are you on about?”

“I shagged a ghost,” said Drool to the young squires. They pretended they couldn’t hear him.

Kent shuffled forward, held back some by the alabaster grandeur of my nakedness. “Edmund was found with a dagger through his ear, pinned to a high-backed chair.”

“Bloody careless eater he is, then.”

“’Twas you who put him there, Pocket. And you know it.”

“Moi? Look at me? I am small, weak, and common, I could never—”

“He’s called for your head. He hunts the castle for you even now,” said Kent. “I swear I saw steam coming out his nostrils.”

“Not going to spoil the Yule celebration, is he?”

“Yule! Yule! Yule!” chanted Drool. “Pocket, can we go see Phyllis? Can we?”

“Aye, lad, if there’s a pawnbroker in Gloucester, I’ll take you soon as your kit is dry.”

Kent raised a startled porcupine of an eyebrow. “What is he on about?”

“Every Yule I take Drool down to Phyllis Stein’s Pawnshop in London and let him sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Jesus, then blow the candles out on the menorah.”

“But the Yule’s a pagan holiday,” said one of the squires.

“Shut up, you twat. Do you want to ruin the twit’s fun? Why are you here, anyway? Aren’t you Edmund’s men? Shouldn’t you be trying to put my head on a pike or something?”

“They’ve changed allegiance to me,” said Kent. “After the thrashing I gave them.”

“Aye,” said squire one. “We’ve more to learn from this good knight.”

“Aye,” said squire two. “And we were Edgar’s men, anyway. Lord Edmund is a scoundrel, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.”

“And, dear Caius,” said I. “Do they know that you are a penniless commoner and can’t really maintain a fighting force as if you were, say—oh, I don’t know—the Earl of Kent?”

“Excellent point, Pocket,” said Kent. “Good sirs, I must release you from your service.”

“So we won’t be paid, then?”

“My regrets, no.”

“Oh, then we’ll take our leave.”

“Fare thee well, keep your guard up, lads,” said Kent. “Fighting’s done with the whole body, not only the sword.”

The two squires left the laundry with a bow.

“Will they tell Edmund where we’re hiding?” I asked.

“I think not, but you better get your kit on just the same.”

“Laundress, how progresses my motley?”

“Steamin’ by the fire, sir. Dry enough to wear indoors, I reckon. Did I hear it right that you put a dagger through Lord Edmund’s ear?”

“What, a mere fool? No, silly girl. I’m harmless. A jab from the wit, a poke to the pride are the only injuries a fool inflicts.”

“Shame,” said the laundress. “He deserves that and worse for how he treats your dim friend—” She looked away. “—and others.”

“Why didn’t you just kill the scoundrel outright, Pocket?” asked Kent, kicking subtlety senseless and rolling it up in a rug.

“Well, just shout it out, will you, you great lummox.”

“Aye, like you’d never do such a thing, ‘Top of the morning; grim weather we’re having; I’ve started a bloody war!’”

“Edmund has his own war.”

“See, you did it again.”

“I was coming to tell you when I found the girl ghost having a go at Drool. Then the lout leapt out the window and the rescue was on. The ghost implied that the bastard might be rescued by France. Maybe he’s allied with bloody King Jeff to invade.”

“Ghosts are notoriously unreliable,” said Kent. “Did you ever consider that you might be mad and hallucinating the whole thing? Drool, did you see this ghost?”

“Aye, I had a half a laugh wif her before I got frightened,” said Drool, sadly, contemplating his tackle through the steamy water. “I fink I gots deaf on me willie.”

“Laundress, help the lad wash the death off his willie, would you?”

“Not bloody likely,” said she.

I held the tip of my coxcomb to stay any jingling and bowed my head to show my sincerity. “Really, love, ask yourself, What would Jesus do?”

“If he had smashing knockers,” added Drool.

“Don’t help.”

“Sor-ry.”

“War? Murder? Treachery?” reminded Kent. “Our plan?”

“Aye, right,” said I. “If Edmund has his own war it will completely bollocks up our plans for civil war between Albany and Cornwall.”

“All well and good, but you didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you just slay the bastard?”

“He moved.”

“So you meant to kill him?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought it through completely, but when I sent his dagger at his eye socket I believed that there might be a fatal outcome. And I must say, although I didn’t stay to revel in the moment, it was very satisfying. Lear says that killing takes the place of bonking in the ancient. You’ve killed a multitude of chaps, Kent. Do you find that to be the case?”