Christopher Moore - Fool

“I am not so base as you, fool.”

“And yet the very reason you hate me is that I have been to that place.”

“You have not. She has not loved you, nor respected you, nor given you power. You were an amusement at best.”

“Yet I know the way there, my coal-hearted friend. I know the way a servant might find such favor.”

“She could never. I am of common blood.”

“Oh, I’m not saying I could make you duke, only that you would be her lord in body, heart, and mind. You know her weakness for scoundrels, Oswald. Did you yourself not pimp your lady to Edmund?”

“I did not. I only delivered a message. And Edmund is heir to an earldom.”

“Just this bloody week he is. And don’t act as if you don’t know what was in that message. I have the power, Oswald, given me by three witches in the Great Birnam Wood, to put a spell upon your lady so she will adore and desire you.”

Oswald laughed, not something he did often. His face was not fit for it and he looked like he had something caught in his back teeth. “What kind of fool do you think me? Out of the way.”

“And all you have to do is what your lady would have you do anyway, serve her desires,” said I. I needed to make my case quickly. “She is bewitched already, you know? You were there.”

Oswald had been backing away from Drool, off to find another route to the courtyard and Goneril, when he stopped.

“You were there, Oswald. At Albany. Goneril was having a grab at my tackle and you came in. You’d just come through the door, I heard it. I had this purse in my hand.” I held up the silk pouch the witches had given me. “Remember?”

“I was there.”

“And I handed your lady a letter and said it was from Edmund of Gloucester. Remember?”

“Aye. And she dumped you on your arse.”

“Right you are. And sent you here, to deliver a message to Edmund. Had she ever made a note of the bastard before, Oswald? You are with her nearly every waking moment. Had she noted him before?”

“No. Not once. She gave some notice to Edgar, but not the bastard.”

“Exactly. She is bewitched to love Edmund, and I can do the same for you. You’ll die a frustrated toady any other way, Oswald. I’ve one more spell left.”

Oswald took careful steps back to me, like he was walking a wire rather than the stone floor of a castle corridor. “Why wouldn’t you use it for yourself?”

“Well, for one, you would know, and I presume you would not be slow to inform Lord Albany, who would quickly have me hanged. And second, I had three such spells, and I have used one for myself already.”

“Not the Duchess of Cornwall?” I could tell Oswald was aghast at the idea, yet there was an excitement in his eye.

I showed him a sly grin and flicked the bells of my hat with Jones. “I’ve a rendezvous with her this very night after the Yule feast—midnight, in the abandoned North Tower.”

“You dastardly little monster!”

“Oh sod off, Oswald. Would you have a princess of your own or not?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Almost nothing,” said I. “But it will take some strength of character for you to see this through. First, you must counsel your lady to keep peace with her sister, and convince her to relieve Lear of the remainder of his force. Then, you must have your lady rendezvous with Edmund at the second bell of the watch.”

“Two in the bloody morning?”

“Watch how she leaps at the chance. She’s bewitched, remember. It is critical that she ally herself with the house of Gloucester, even if it is in secret. I know that will be difficult for you, but you must endure it. If you are going to have the lady and her power, someone will have to dispatch the Duke of Albany—someone who will be of no loss when hanged. The bastard Edmund is perfect for the part, is he not?”

Oswald nodded, his eyes getting larger with my every word. His whole life he had carried messages and run errands for Goneril, but at last he could see reward in sight for being intrigue’s pawn. Fortunately, the possibility blinded him to reason. “When will the lady be mine?”

“When all is in place, catch-fart, when all is in place. What do you know of a military force coming from France?”

“Why, nothing.”

“Then skulk and eavesdrop. Edmund knows of such a force, or he has constructed a rumor. Find out what you can. Find out, but do not speak to Edmund of his rendezvous with your lady, he thinks it a secret.”

Oswald stood to his full height (he’d been bending over to talk face-to-face with me). “What do you gain from this, fool?”

I had hoped he wouldn’t ask. “Like you, even with love, there are those who would stand in the way of my happiness. I need you and those affected by your deeds to help them out of my way.”

“You would kill the Duke of Cornwall?”

“He is one, but no matter who loves me, I am bound to Lear—I am his slave.”

“So you would kill the king, too? No worries, fool, I can do that. You have a deal.”

“Fuckstockings!” said I.

“Jolly good show, Pocket,” said Kent. “Go looking for a messenger and end up setting a bloody assassin loose on the king. A born diplomat, you are.”

“Sarcasm is very unattractive in the elderly, Kent. I couldn’t very well call him off, my sincerity would have been questioned.”

“You weren’t being sincere.”

“Well, conviction then. Just stay by Lear during the Yule feast and don’t let him eat anything unless you’ve eaten it first. If I know Oswald, he’ll try to slay the king using the most cowardly means.”

“Or not at all.”

“What?”

“What makes you think Oswald was telling you the truth any more than you were telling it to him?”

“I’m counting on his lying to a degree.”

“But to what degree?”

I paced in a circle around our little tower room. “What a wimpled wagon of nun wank this is. I’d rather juggle fire blindfolded. I’m not built for these dark dealings—I’m better suited for laughter, children’s birthdays, baby animals, and friendly bonking. The sodding witches got it wrong.”

“And yet, you’ve set a civil war in motion and sent an assassin after the king,” said Kent. “Grand ambition for a children’s birthday clown, don’t you think?”

“You’ve become bitter in your dotage, you know?”

“Well, perhaps my duties as food taster will end my bitterness.”

“Just keep the old man alive, Kent. Since the Yule feast is still on, I take it dear Regan didn’t tell Lear that she was taking his knights yet.”

“The lady tried to make peace between Goneril and her father. She only served to calm the old man enough that he agreed to come to the feast.”

“Good. No doubt she’ll make her move on the morrow.” I grinned. “If she’s well enough.”

“Wicked,” said Kent.

“Justice,” said I.

Regan came up the spiral stairs alone. The single candle she carried in a storm lantern cast her shadow tall up the stone wall like the very specter of a shaggable death. I stood outside the solar door, candelabra in one hand, the door latch in the other.

“Happy Christmas, kitten,” said I.

“Well, that feast was complete crap, wasn’t it? Bloody Gloucester, pagan twat, calling it the feast of St. Stephen instead of Christmas. There’s no presents on the feast of bloody Stephen. Without presents I’d rather celebrate Yule for the winter solstice; at least then you get to sacrifice a pig and build a cracking huge fire.”

“Gloucester was being deferential to your Christian beliefs as it was, love. The holiday is Saturnalia [39] Saturnalia—the celebration of the winter solstice in the Roman pantheon, paying tribute to Saturn, the “sower of seeds.” Celebration of Saturnalia involved much drunkenness and indiscriminate shagging. Observed in modern times by the ritual of the “office Christmas party.” for him and Edmund, proper orgy it is. So perhaps there’s a present for you yet to be unwrapped.”