Christopher Moore - Fool

Gloucester was wandering around outside the castle, just beyond the drawbridge, coming dangerously close to tumbling into the moat. The storm was still raging and bloody rain streamed down the earl’s face from his empty eye sockets.

Drool caught the old man by the back of his cloak and lifted him like he was a kitten. Gloucester struggled and waved about in horror, as if he’d been snatched up by some great bird of prey instead of an enormous nitwit.

“There, there,” said Drool, trying to calm the old man the way one might try to settle a frightened horse. “I gots you.”

“Bring him away from the edge and set him down, Drool,” said I. “Lord Gloucester, this is Pocket, Lear’s fool. We’re going to take you to shelter and bandage your wounds. King Lear will be there, too. Just take Drool’s hand.”

“Get away,” said the earl. “Your comforts are in vain. I am lost. My sons are scoundrels, my estate is forfeit. Let me fall in the moat and drown.”

Drool set the old man down and pointed him toward the moat. “Go on, then, milord.”

“Grab him, Drool, you wooden-headed ninny!”

“But he told me to let him drown, and he’s an earl with a castle and the lot, and you’re only a fool, Pocket, so I got to do what he says.”

I strode forth, grabbed Gloucester and led him away from the edge. “He’s not an earl anymore, lad. He has nothing but his cloak to protect him from the rain, like us.”

“He’s got nothing?” said Drool. “Can I teach him to juggle so he can be a fool?”

“Let’s get him to shelter and see that he doesn’t bleed to death first, then you can give him fool lessons.”

“We’re going to make a fool of ye,” said Drool, clapping the old man on the back. “That’ll be the dog’s bollocks, won’t it, milord?”

“Drown me,” said Gloucester.

“Being a fool is ever so much better than being an earl,” said Drool, far too cheery for a cold-dismal day of post-maiming. “You don’t get a castle but you make people laugh and they give you apples and sometimes one of the wenches or the sheeps will have a laugh with you. It’s the mutt’s nuts, [42] The mutt’s nuts—informal for the dog’s bollocks. it is.”

I stopped and looked at my apprentice. “You’ve been having a laugh with sheep?”

Drool rolled his eyes toward the slate sky. “No, I—we have pie sometimes, too, when Bubble makes it. You’ll like Bubble. She’s smashing.”

Gloucester seemed to lose all his will then, and let me lead him through the walled town, taking weak, halting steps. As we passed a long, half-timbered building I took to be barracks I heard someone call my name. I looked to see Curan, Lear’s captain, standing under an awning. He waved us over and we stood with our backs hard to the wall to try to escape the rain.

“Is that the Earl of Gloucester?” asked Curan.

“Aye,” said I. I told Curan what had transpired inside the castle and out on the heath since I’d last seen him.

“God’s blood, two wars. Cornwall dead. Who is master of our force, now?”

“Mistress,” said I. “Stay with Regan. The plan is as before.”

“No, it’s not. We don’t even know who her enemy is, Albany or France.”

“Aye, but your action should be the same.”

“I’d give a month’s wages to be behind the blade that slays that bastard Edmund.”

At the mention of his son, Gloucester started wailing again. “Drown me! I will suffer no more! Give me your sword that I may run upon it and end my shame and misery!”

“Sorry,” I said to Curan. “He’s been a bit of a weepy little Nancy to be around since they ripped his eyes out.”

“Well, you might bandage him up. Bring him in. Hunter’s still with us. He’s right handy with a cauterizing iron.”

“Let me end this suffering,” wailed Gloucester. “I can no longer endure the slings and arrows—”

“My lord Gloucester, would you please, by the fire-charred balls of St. George, shut the fuck up!”

“Bit harsh, innit?” said Curan.

“What, I said ‘please.’”

“Still.”

“Sorry, Gloucester, old chap. Most excellent hat.”

“He’s not wearing a hat,” said Curan.

“Well, he’s blind, isn’t he? If you hadn’t said anything he might have enjoyed his bloody hat, mightn’t he?”

The earl started wailing again. “My sons are villains and I have no hat.” He made to go on, but Drool clamped his great paw over the old man’s mouth.

“Thanks, lad. Curan, do you have any food?”

“Aye, Pocket, we can spare as much bread and cheese as you can carry, and one of the men can scare up a flask of wine, too, I’ll wager. His lordship has been most generous in providing us with fare,” Curan said for the benefit of Gloucester. The old man began struggling against Drool’s grip.

“Oh, Curan, you’ve set him off again. Hurry, if you please. We’ve got to find Lear and head to Dover.”

“Dover it is, then? You’ll join with France?”

“Aye, bloody King Jeff, great froggy, monkey-named, woman-stealing ponce that he is.”

“You’re fond of him, then?”

“Oh do piss off, captain. Just see to it that whatever force Regan might send after us doesn’t catch us. Don’t mutiny, just make your way to Dover east, then south. I’ll take Lear south, then east.”

“Let me come with you, Pocket. The king needs more protection than two fools and a blind man.”

“The old knight Caius is with the king. You will serve the king best by serving his plan here.” Not strictly true, but would he have done his duty if he thought his commander a fool? I think not.

“Aye, then, I’ll get your food,” said Curan.

When we arrived at the hovel, Tom O’Bedlam stood outside, naked in the rain, barking.

“That barking bloke is naked,” said Drool, for once not singing praise to St. Obvious, as we were actually traveling with a blind fellow.

“Aye, but the question is, is he naked because he’s barking, or is he barking because he’s naked?” I asked.

“I’m hungry,” said Drool, his mind overchallenged.

“Poor Tom is cold and cursed,” said Tom between barking fits, and for the first time seeing him in daylight and mostly clean, I was taken aback. Without the coat of mud, Tom looked familiar. Very familiar. Tom O’Bedlam was, in fact, Edgar of Gloucester, the earl’s legitimate son.

“Tom, why are you out here?”

“Poor Tom, that old knight Caius said he had to stand in the rain until he was clean and didn’t stink anymore.”

“And did he tell you to bark and talk about yourself in the third person?”

“No, I thought up that bit on my own.”

“Come inside, Tom. Help Drool with this old fellow.”

Tom looked at Gloucester for the first time and his eyes went wide and he sank to his knees. “By the cruelty of the gods,” said he. “He’s blind.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Be steadfast, Edgar, your father needs your help.” In that moment a light came into his eye like a spark of sanity returning and he nodded and stood up, taking the earl’s arm. Shall a madman rise to lead the blind.

“Come, good sir,” said Edgar. “Tom is mad, but he is not beyond aiding a stranger in distress.”

“Just let me die!” said Gloucester, trying to push Edgar away. “Give me a rope so I may stretch my neck until my breath is gone.”

“He does that a lot,” I said.

I opened the door, expecting to see Lear and Kent inside, but the hovel was empty, and the fire had died down to embers. “Tom, where is the king?”

“He and his knight set out for Dover.”