Christopher Moore - Fool

“It’s a compliment, love.”

“It’s disrespectful,” she said. “My name’s Emma.”

I will never understand women. The laundress, it would seem, dressed in a manner that accentuated, indeed, celebrated her bosoms—a tightly cinched waist pushing bits up until they bloomed out of a swooping neckline—yet a chap notices and the lady takes offense. I will never understand it.

“You know he’s a complete nitwit, don’t you, Emma?”

“Just the same.”

“Fine. Drool, apologize to Emma for saying how smashing her knockers are.”

“Sorry about your knockers,” said Drool, bowing his head so his laundry hat dropped back into the drink.

“Satisfied, Emma?” I asked.

“I suppose.”

“Good. Now, do you know where Captain Curan, the commander of King Lear’s knights might be?”

“Oh yes,” said Emma. “Lord Edmund and the duke consulted me this morning on all the military matters, as they are wont to do—me being a laundress and having access to all the best bloody tactics and strategies and the lot.”

“Sarcasm will make your tits fall off,” said I.

“Will not,” said she, her arm going to a support position.

“It’s a known fact,” I said, nodding earnestly, then looking to Drool, who also nodded earnestly and said, “It’s a known fact,” note for note in my voice.

“That’s bloody spooky.” Emma shuddered. “You lot can get out of my laundry.”

“Very well, then,” said I. I motioned for Drool to climb out of the cauldron. “I thank you for looking after the Natural, Emma. I wish there were something I could—”

“Kill Edmund,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“The son of a guild builder were going to marry me before I came to work here. A respected man. Edmund took me against my will and bragged about it in the village. My lad wouldn’t have me then. No one worth his salt will have me, except the bastard, and him whenever he wants. ’Tis Edmund who commanded that I wear this low frock. Says he’ll set me out with the pigs if I don’t give him service. Kill him for me.”

“But lass, I’m just a fool. A clown. A small one at that.”

“There’s more to you than that, you black-hatted rascal. I’ve seen them wicked daggers at your back, and I can see who’s pulling the strings round this castle, and it ain’t the duke or the old king. Kill the bastard.”

“Edmund beated me,” said Drool. “And she do have smashing knockers.”

“Drool!”

“Well, she do.”

“All right, then,” said I, taking the laundress’s hand. “But in time. We’ve things to accomplish first.” I bowed over her hand, kissed it, then turned on my heel and padded barefoot out of the laundry to set history.

“Heinous fuckery,” Drool whispered to the laundress with a wink.

I hid Drool in the gatehouse among the heavy chains that I had used for my escape when I pursued Lear into the storm. Getting the lummox up on the wall and to the gatehouse undetected was no small task, and he left a dripping trail on the stones until we gained the castle exterior, but the guard was light in the tempest, so most of the way we went across the top of the walls unseen. My feet felt as if they’d been set in ice by the time I came back in to a fire, but there was no other way. Drool in the tight space of the secret tunnel, with his fear of the dark was not something I would wish on an enemy. I found a woolen blanket and wrapped the lout in it to await my return.

“Guard my shoes and my satchel, Drool.”

I made my way, dodging from nook to cranny, through the kitchen, to the servants’ entrance into the great hall, hoping I might get a moment with Regan there. The hall’s massive fireplace would be an enticement for the princess on such a frigid day, for as much as she took to the activities of a dungeon, she was drawn to heat like a cat.

Because Castle Gloucester had no curtain wall, even the great hall was fitted with arrow loops, so the edifice might be defended at all levels from an attack by water. The arrow loops, while shuttered, were notoriously drafty, so arrases [40] Arrases—tapestries and carpets hung across alcoves to cut down on drafts or preserve privacy. In Hamlet, Polonius is stabbed while hiding behind an arras. were hung over the alcoves against the wind—the perfect place for a fool to watch, warm himself, and find his moment.

I slipped into the room behind a brace of serving girls and into the alcove nearest the fireplace. She was there, by the fire, in a heavy, hooded, black fur robe, only her face revealed to the world.

I pulled the tapestry aside and was about to call to her when the latch was thrown on the hall’s main doors and the Duke of Cornwall entered, wearing his usual finery with the red lion crest on his chest, but more pointedly, Lear’s crown—the one the old man had thrown on the table that fateful night at the White Tower. Even Regan seemed startled to see it on the head of her husband.

“My lord, is it prudent to wear the crown of Britain when our sister is still in the castle?”

“Right, right, we must keep up appearances as if we don’t know that Albany raises an army against us.” Cornwall took the crown off and hid it under a cushion by the hearth. “I am to meet Edmund here and lay a plan for the duke’s undoing. One hopes that your sister can be kept out of harm’s way.”

Regan shrugged. “If she throws herself under destiny’s hooves, who are we to save her brains from being pulped?”

Cornwall took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

Oh lady, thought I, push him away lest you debase your lovely lips with villainy. Then it occurred to me, and perhaps rather later than it should have, that she would no more taste villainy than a garlic eater will taste the stinking rose on another. The lady had evil on her breath already.

Even as the duke held her tight and professed his adoration of her, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve behind his back. She pushed the duke away when the bastard Edmund entered the hall.

“My lord,” said Edmund, only nodding to Regan. “Our plans for Albany must be delayed. Look at this letter.”

The duke took the parchment from Edmund.

“What?” said Regan. “What, what, what?”

“France has landed forces. He knows of unrest between ourselves and Albany and has hidden forces in coastal cities all over Britain.”

Regan snatched the parchment out of Cornwall’s hand and read it for herself. “This is addressed to Gloucester.”

Edmund bowed in false contrition. “Aye, milady, I found it in his closet and brought it here as soon as I saw its contents.”

“Guard!” called Cornwall. The great doors opened and a soldier looked in. “Bring me the Earl of Gloucester. Give no deference to his title, he is a traitor.”

I looked for a way back to the kitchen, to perhaps find Gloucester and warn him of the bastard’s treachery, but Edmund faced the alcove where I was hiding and there was no getting out undiscovered. I opened the shutter to the arrow loop. Even if I could manage to wiggle through it, the wall was a sheer drop to the lake below. I palmed the shutter closed and latched it.

The latch on the main doors clanked again and I returned to the gap between the wall and the tapestry, from which I saw Goneril enter, trailed by two soldiers who held Gloucester by the arms. The old man looked as if he had given up already and hung between the soldiers like a drowned man.

“Hang him,” said Regan, turning to warm her hands by the fire.

“What is this?” said Goneril.

Cornwall handed her the letter and stood looking over her shoulder while she read.

“Pluck out his eyes,” she said, making an effort not to look at Gloucester.