Christopher Moore - Fool

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Cordelia of late,” said Regan, basking glorious in the gentle glow of the afterbonk (your narrator in a sweaty puddle on the bedside floor, having been summarily ejected after rendering noble service). “I am jealous.”

“She’s a little girl,” said I.

“But when she has you, I cannot. She’s my junior. It’s not acceptable.”

“But, lady, it’s my duty to keep the little princess smiling, your father has commanded it. Besides, if I am otherwise engaged you can have that sturdy fellow you fancy from the stable, or that young yeoman with the pointy beard, or that Spanish duke or whatever he is that’s been about the castle for a month. Does that bloke speak a word of English? I think he may be lost.”

“They are not the same.”

I felt my heart warm at her words. Could it be real affection?

“Well, yes, what we share is—”

“They rut like goats—there’s no art to it, and I weary of shouting instructions to them, especially the Spaniard—I don’t think he speaks a word of English.”

“I’m sorry, milady,” said I. “But that said, I must away.” I stood and gathered my jerkin from under the wardrobe, my leggings from the hearth, my codpiece from the chandelier. “I’ve promised to teach Cordelia about griffins and elves over tea with her dolls.”

“You’ll not,” said Regan.

“I must,” said I.

“I want you to stay.”

“Alas, parting is such sweet sorrow,” said I. And I kissed the downy dimple at the small of her back.

“Guard!” called Regan.

“Pardon?” I inquired.

“Guard!” The door to her solar opened and an alarmed yeoman looked in. “Seize this scoundrel. He hath ravaged your princess.” She had conjured tears, in that short span of time. A bit of a wonder, she was.

“Fuckstockings,” said I, as two stout yeomen took me by the arms and dragged me down to the great hall in Regan’s wake, her dressing gown open and flowing out behind her as she wailed.

It seemed a familiar motif, yet I did not feel the confidence that comes with rehearsal. Perhaps it was that Lear was actually holding court before the people when we entered the great hall. A line of peasants, merchants, and minor noblemen waited as the king heard their cases and made judgments. Still in his Christian phase, he had been reading about the wisdom of Solomon, and had been experimenting with the rule of law, thinking it quaint.

“Father, I insist you hang this fool immediately!”

Lear was taken aback, not only by the shrillness of his daughter’s demand, but by the fact that she stood frontally bare to all the petitioners and made no effort to close her red gown. (Tales would be told of that day, of how many a plaintiff, having seen the snowy-skinned princess in all her glory, did hold his grievance pitiful, indeed, his life worthless, and went home to beat his wife or drown himself in the mill pond.)

“Father, your fool hath violated me.”

“That’s a fluttering bottle of bat wank, sire,” said I. “Begging your pardon.”

“You speak rashly, daughter, and you appear frothing-dog mad. Calm yourself and state your grievance. How hath my fool offended?”

“He hath shagged me roughly, against my will, and finished too soon.”

“By force? Pocket? He isn’t eight stone on a feast day—he couldn’t shag a cat by force.”

“That’s not true, sire,” said I. “If the cat is distracted with a trout, then—well, uh, nevermind—”

“He violated my virtue and spoiled my virginity,” said Regan. “I insist you hang him—hang him twice, the second time before he’s finished choking from the first—that’ll be fitting justice.”

I said: “What has put vengeance in your blood, princess? I was just going to tea with Cordelia.” Since the little one wasn’t present, I hoped invoking her name might awaken the king to my cause, but it only seemed to incense Regan.

“Forced me down and used me like a common tart,” said Regan, adding rather more pantomime than the petitioners in the hall could bear. Several began to beat their fists to their heads, others grabbed at their groins and sank to their knees.

“No!” said I. “I’ve had many a wench by stealth, a few by guile, a number by charm, a brace by mistake, the odd harlot for coin, and, when all else has failed, I’ve made do by begging, but by God’s blood, none by force!”

“Enough!” said Lear. “I’ll hear no more. Regan, close your robe. As I have decreed, we are a kingdom of laws. There shall be a trial, and if the rascal is found guilty, then I’ll see him hanged twice myself. Make way for a trial.”

“Now?” asked the scribe.

“Yes, now,” said Lear. “What do we need? A couple of chaps to do the prosecuting and defending, grab a few of those peasants for witnesses, and with due process, habeas corpus, fair weather and whatnot, we’ll have the fool dangling black-tongued before tea. Will that suit you, daughter?”

Regan closed her robe and turned away coyly. “I suppose.”

“And you, fool?” Lear winked at me, none too subtly.

“Aye, majesty. A jury, perhaps, chosen from that same group as the witnesses.” Well, one has to make an effort. From their reaction I would be acquitted, on a “who could blame” him basis: justifiable shaggicide, they’d call it. But no.

“No,” said the king. “Bailiff read the charges.”

The bailiff obviously hadn’t written up charges, so he unrolled a scroll on which was written something entirely unconnected to my case, and faked it: “The Crown states that on this day, October fourteenth, year of Our Lord, one thousand, two hundred, and eighty-eight, the fool known as Pocket, did with forethought and malice, shag the virgin princess Regan.”

There was cheering from the gallery, a little scoffing from the court.

“There was no malice,” said I.

“Without malice, then,” said the bailiff.

At this point, the magistrate, who normally functioned as a castle steward, whispered to the bailiff, who normally was the chamberlain. “The magistrate wishes to know how was that?”

“’Twas sweet, yet nasty, your honor.”

“Note that the accused hath stated that it was [sweet and nasty], thereby admitting his guilt.”

More cheering.

“Wait, I wasn’t ready.”

“Smell him,” said Regan. “He reeks of sex, like fish and mushroom and sweat, doesn’t he?”

One of the peasant witnesses ran forth and sniffed my bits mercilessly, then looked to the king, nodding.

“Aye, your honor,” said I. “I’m sure I have an odor about me. I must confess, I was sans trou today in the kitchen, while awaiting my laundry, and Bubble had left a casserole out on the floor to cool, and it did trip me and I fell prick-deep in gravy and goo—but I was on my way to chapel at the time.”

“You put your dick in my lunch?” said Lear. Then to the bailiff, “The fool put his dick in my lunch?”

“No, in your beloved daughter,” said Regan.

“Quiet, girl!” barked the king. “Captain Curan, send a guard to watch the bread and cheese before the fool has his way with it.”

It went on like that, with things looking rather grim for me as the evidence mounted against me, peasants taking the opportunity to describe the most lecherous acts they could imagine a wicked fool might perpetrate on an unsuspecting princess. I thought testimony of the sturdy stable boy particularly damning at first, but eventually it led to my acquittal.

“Read that back, so the king may hear the true heinous nature of the crime,” said my prosecutor, who I believe butchered cattle for the castle as his normal vocation.

The scribe read the stable boy’s words: “Yes, yes, yes, ride me, you crashing tree-cocked stallion.”