Christopher Moore - Fool

“That’s not what she said,” said I.

“Yes, it is. It’s what she always says,” said the scribe.

“Aye,” said the steward.

“Aye, it is,” said the priest.

“Sí,” said the Spaniard.

“Well, she never says that to me,” said I.

“Oh,” said the stable boy. “Then it’s ‘Prance, you twig-dicked little pony,’ is it?”

“Possibly,” said I.

“She never says that to me,” said the yeoman with the pointy beard.

Then there was a moment of silence, while all who had spoken looked around at one another, then furiously avoided eye contact and found spots on the floor of great interest.

“Well,” said Regan, chewing a fingernail as she spoke, “there is a chance that, uh, I was having a dream.”

“Then the fool did not take your virtue?” asked Lear.

“Sorry,” said Regan sheepishly. “It was but a dream. No more wine at lunch for me.”

“Release the fool!” said Lear.

The crowd booed.

I walked out of the hall side by side with Regan.

“He might have hung me,” I whispered.

“I’d have shed a tear,” said she with a smile. “Really.”

“Woe to you, lady, should you leave that rosebud asterisk of a bum-hole unguarded on our next meeting. When a fool’s surprise comes unbuttered, a Pocket’s pleasure will a princess punish.”

“Oooo, do tease, fool, shall I put a candle in it so you can find your way.”

“Harpy!”

“Rascal!”

“Pocket, where have you been?” said Cordelia, who was coming down the corridor. “Your tea has gone cold.”

“Defending big sister’s honor, sweetness,” said I.

“Oh bollocks,” said Regan.

“Pocket dresses the fool, but he is ever our hero, isn’t he, Regan?” said Cordelia.

“I think I’m going to be ill,” said the elder princess.

“So, love,” said I, rising from my perch on the torture machine and reaching into my jerkin. “I’m pleased you feel that way about Lord Edmund, for he has sent me with this letter.”

I handed her the letter. The seal was dodgy, but she wasn’t looking at the stationery.

“He’s smitten with you, Regan. In fact, so smitten he tried to cut off his own ear to deliver with this missive, to show you the depth of his affection.”

“Really? His ear.”

“Say nothing at the Yule feast, tonight, lady, but you’ll see the bandage. Mark it as a tribute of his love.”

“You saw him cut his ear?”

“Yes, and stopped him before the deed was done.”

“Was it painful, do you think?”

“Oh yes, lady. He has already suffered more than have others in months of knowing you.”

“That’s so sweet. Do you know what the letter says?”

“I was sworn not to look upon pain of death, but come close—”

She leaned close to me and I squeezed the witch’s puffball under her nose. “I believe it speaks of a midnight rendezvous with Edmund of Gloucester.”

A warm wind blew in from the west, completely cocking up the Yule. Druids like snow round Stonehenge during the festival, and burning down the forest is all the more satisfying if there’s a chill in the air. As it was, it looked like we’d have rain for the feast. The clouds rolling over the horizon looked like they’d been born of a summer storm.

“Them look like summer storm clouds,” said Kent. We were hiding in the barbican above the gate, looking out over the walled village of Gloucester and the hills beyond. I’d been hiding since my encounter with Edmund. Evidently the bastard was somewhat put out with me.

We could see Goneril and her train entering the outer gates. She rode with a dozen soldiers and attendants, but noticeably, the Duke of Albany was not with her.

A sentry on the wall called out the approach of the Duchess of Albany. Gloucester and Edmund appeared in the courtyard, followed by Regan and Cornwall. Regan was working to keep her eyes off of Edmund’s bandaged ear.

“This should be interesting,” said I. “They swarm like vultures over a corpse.”

“Britain’s the corpse,” said Kent. “And we baited her to be torn apart.”

“Nonsense, Kent. Lear’s the corpse. But ambitious scavengers do not wait for his death to begin their dining.”

“You’ve a deeply wicked side, Pocket.”

“Truth has a deeply wicked side, Kent.”

“There’s the king,” said Kent. “No one attends him. I should go to him.”

Lear shuffled into the courtyard wearing his heavy fur cape.

“Like looking down on a lubricious chess set, isn’t it? The king moves in tiny steps, with no direction, like a drunkard trying to avoid the archer’s bolt. The others work their strategies and wait for the old man to fall. He has no power, yet all power moves in his orbit and to his mad whim. Do you know that there’s no fool piece on the chessboard, Kent?”

“Methinks the fool is the player, the mind above the moves.”

“Well, that’s a scratchy spot of cat wank.” I turned to the old knight. “But bloody well said. Go to Lear, then. Edmund won’t dare molest you, and Cornwall must pretend some contrition for throwing you into the stocks. The princesses will be burning bright for Edmund’s eye, and Gloucester—well, Gloucester proffers hospitality before jackals, he is well occupied.”

“What will you do?”

“I seem to have rendered myself undesirable, as impossible as that sounds. I need to find us a spy—someone more stealthy, devious, and underhanded than my own sweet nature allows.”

“Good luck with that,” said Kent.

“I loathe you, I despise you, I curse your existence and the foul demons that spawned you. You sicken me with anger and bilious hatred.”

“Oswald,” said I. “You’re looking well.” Drool and I had intercepted him in a corridor.

There is an unwritten edict, that when negotiating with an enemy, one does not reveal his knowledge of that enemy’s agenda, even unto death. It’s a point of honor, of sorts, but I see it as petty play-acting, and I had no intention of indulging in it with Oswald. Yet, I had need of his spidery talents, so some finesse was required.

“I would give an arm to see you hang, fool,” said Oswald.

“Oh, an excellent starting point,” said I. “Don’t you think, Drool?”

“Aye, Pocket,” said Drool, who loomed between Oswald and me, a thick table leg unsuccessfully concealed behind his back. Oswald might make as to draw his sword, but Drool would have beaten his brains into bloody marmalade before the blade cleared its scabbard. Unspoken, but understood. “Smashing good start,” said the giant.

“So, Oswald, let us go from there. Say you get what you want. Say you lose an arm, and I am hanged, how then is life better for your fine self? Your quarters more comfortable? Wine taste better, will it?”

“It’s unlikely, but let’s explore the possibilities, shall we?”

“Very well,” said I. “You first. Sever an arm and Drool here will hang me. You have my word.”

“You have my word,” said Drool, in my voice.

“Stop wasting my time, fool. My lady is arriving and I need to go to her.”

“Ah, there’s the rub, Oswald. What you want. What do you really want.”

“You could never know.”

“Your lady’s approval?”

“I have that.”

“Ah, that’s right, your lady’s love.”

Oswald became still then, as if I had taken the breath from the corridor in which we stood. To prove such was not the case, I pressed on.

“You want your lady’s love, her respect, her power, her submission, her bottom in the air before you, her begging for satisfaction and mercy—that about it?”