Christopher Moore - Fool

“No, that’s a disgusting thought.”

“And yet, with Lear lies your loyalty.”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” said Kent, sitting down now on an overturned wooden tub. “Who do I serve? Why am I here?”

“You are here, because, in the expanding ethical ambiguity of our situation, you are steadfast in your righteousness. It is to you, my banished friend, that we all turn—a light amid the dark dealings of family and politics. You are the moral backbone on which the rest of us hang our bloody bits. Without you we are merely wiggly masses of desire writhing in our own devious bile.”

“Really?” asked the old knight.

“Aye,” said I.

“I’m not sure I want to keep company with you lot, then.”

“Not like anyone else will have you, is it? I need to see Regan before my bastard ear piercing poisons our cause. Will you take her a message, Kent—er, Caius?”

“Will you put on your trousers, or at least your codpiece?”

“Oh, I suppose. That had always been part of the plan.”

“Then I will bear your message to the duchess.”

“Tell her—no, ask her—if she still holds the candle she promised for Pocket. Then ask her if I may meet her somewhere private.”

“I’m off, then. But try to manage not to get murdered while I’m gone, fool.”

“Kitten!” said I.

“You poxy little vermin,” said Regan, in glorious red. “What do you want?”

Kent had led me to a chamber far in the bowels of the castle. I couldn’t believe that Gloucester would house royal guests in an abandoned dungeon. Regan must have somehow found her own way here. She had an affinity for such places.

“You received the letter from Goneril, then?” I asked.

“Yes. What is it to you, fool?”

“The lady confided in me,” said I, bouncing my eyebrows and displaying a charming grin. “What is your thought?”

“Why would I want to dismiss father’s knights, let alone take them into my service? We have a small army at Cornwall.”

“Well, you’re not at Cornwall, are you, love?”

“What are you saying, fool?”

“I’m saying that your sister bade you come to Gloucester to intercept Lear and his retinue, and thus stop him from going to Cornwall.”

“And my lord and I came with great haste.”

“And with a very small force, correct?”

“Yes, the message said it was urgent. We needed to move quickly.”

“So, when Goneril and Albany arrive, you will be away from your castle and nearly defenseless.”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

“Let me ask you, lady, where do you think the Earl of Gloucester’s allegiance lies?”

“He is our ally. He has opened his castle to us.”

“Gloucester, who was nearly usurped by his eldest son—you think he sides with you?”

“Well, with Father, then, which is the same thing.”

“Unless Lear is aligned with Goneril against you.”

“But she relieved him of his knights. He ranted about it for an hour after his arrival, called Goneril every foul name under the sun, and praised me for my sweetness and loyalty, even overlooking my throwing his messenger into the stocks.”

I said nothing. I removed my coxcomb, scratched my head, and sat on some dusty instrument of torture to observe the lady by torchlight and watch her eyes as the rust ground off the twisted gears of her mind. She was simply lovely. I thought about what the anchoress had said about a wise man only expecting so much perfection in something as its nature allows. I thought that I might, indeed, be witnessing the perfect machine. Her eyes went wide when the realization hit.

“That bitch!”

“Aye,” said I.

“They’ll have it all, she and Father?”

“Aye,” said I. I could tell her anger didn’t arise from the betrayal, but from not having thought of it first. “You need an ally, lady, and one with more influence than this humble fool can provide. Tell me, what do you think of Edmund the bastard?”

“He’s fit enough, I suppose.” She chewed a fingernail and concentrated. “I’d shag him if my lord wouldn’t murder him—or come to think of it, maybe because he would.”

“Perfect!” said I.

Oh Regan, patron saint of Priapus, [38] Priapus—a Greek god whose lust was so strong he was cursed with a permanent erection that was so large he was unable to move. The medical condition priapism is named for him. the most slippery of the sisters: in disposition preciously oily, in discourse, deliciously dry. My venomous virago, my sensuous charmer of serpents—thou art truly perfection.

Did I love her? Of course. For even though I have been accused of being an egregious horn-beast, my horns are tender, like the snail’s—and never have I hoisted the horns of lust without I’ve taken a prod from Cupid’s barb as well. I have loved them all, with all my heart, and have learned many of their names.

Regan. Perfect. Regan.

Oh yes, I loved her.

She was a beauty to be sure—there was none in the kingdom more fair; a face that could inspire poetry and a body that inspired lust, longing, larceny, treachery, perhaps even war. (I am not without hope.) Men had murdered each other in competition for her favors—it was a hobby with her husband, Cornwall. And to her credit, while she could smile as a bloke bled to death with her name on his lips, she was not tight-fisted with her charms. It only added to the tension around her that someone was going to be shagged silly in the near future, and how much more thrilling if his life hung by a thread as he did the deed. In fact, the promise of violent death might be to the princess Regan like the nectar of Aphrodite herself, now that I think of it.

Why else would she have called for my death all those years ago, when I had so diligently served her, after Goneril had left the White Tower to wed Albany. It had begun, it seems, with a bit of jealousy.

“Pocket,” said Regan. She was perhaps eighteen or nineteen at the time, but unlike Goneril, had been exploring her womanly powers for years on various lads about the castle. “I find it offensive that you gave personal counsel to my sister, yet when I call you to my chambers I get nothing but tumbling and singing.”

“Aye, but a song and a tumble seem all that’s needed to lift the lady’s spirits, if I may say so.”

“You may not. Am I not fair?”

“Extremely so, lady. Shall I compose a rhyme to your beauty? A ravishing tart from Nantucket—”

“Am I not as fair as Goneril?”

“Next to you, she is less than invisible, just a shimmering envious vacuum, is she.”

“But do you, Pocket, find me attractive—in a carnal way—the way you did my sister? Do you want me?”

“Ah, of course, lady, from the morning I wake, I have but one thought, one vision: of your deliciousness, under this humble and unworthy fool, writhing naked and making monkey noises.”

“Really, that’s all you think about?”

“Aye, and occasionally breakfast, but it’s only seconds before I’m back to Regan, writhing, and monkey noises. Wouldn’t you like to have a monkey? We should have one around the castle, don’t you think?”

“So all you think of is this?” And with that, she shrugged off her gown, red as always, and there she stood, raven-haired and violet-eyed, snowy fair and finely fit, as if carved by the gods from a solid block of desire. She stepped out of the pool of bloodred velvet and said, “Drop your puppet stick, fool, and come here.”

And I, ever the obedient fool, did.

And oh it led to many months of clandestine monkey noises: howling, grunting, screeching, yipping, squishing, slapping, laughing, and no little bit of barking. (But there was no flinging of poo, as monkeys are wont to do. Only the most decent, forthright monkey sounds as are made from proper bonking.) I put my heart into it, too; but the romance was soon crushed beneath her cruel and delicate heel. I suppose I shall never learn. It seems a fool is not so often taken as a medicine for melancholy, as for ennui, incurable and recurring among the privileged.