Christopher Moore - Fool

The knave who dares to harm a fool.”

I could only see Edmund by the glow of the spirit, but he was moving crablike toward the door that led out onto the west wall, reaching frantically for the latch. Then he threw the bolt and was through the door in an instant. Light filled my little apartment and I could again view the Thames through the slits in the stone.

“Well rhymed, wisp,” said I to the empty air. “Well rhymed.”

“Don’t despair, lad,” I said to Taster. “It’s not as grim as it looks. The bastard will stay Edgar and I’m relatively sure that France and Burgundy are buggering each other and would never let a princess come between them—although I’ll wager they’d borrow her wardrobe were it not guarded—so the day is saved. Cordelia will remain in the White Tower to torment me as always.”

We were in an antechamber off the great hall. Taster sat, head in hands, looking paler than normal, a mountain of food piled before him on the table.

“The king doesn’t like dates, does he?” asked Taster. “Not likely he’ll eat any of the dates that were brought as gifts, right?”

“Did Goneril or Regan gift them?”

“Aye, a whole larder they brought with them.”

“Sorry, lad, you’ve work ahead, then. How it is you’re not as fat as a friar, with all you’re required to eat, is beyond me.”

“Bubble says I must have a city of worms living up my bum, but that ain’t it. I’ve a secret, if you won’t tell anyone—”

“Go on lad, I’m hardly paying attention.”

“What about him?” He nodded to Drool, who was sitting in the corner petting one of the castle cats.

“Drool,” I called, “is Taster’s secret safe with you?”

“As dim as a snuffed candle, he is,” said the git in my voice. “Telling a secret to Drool is like casting ink in the night sea.”

“See there,” said I.

“Well,” said Taster, looking around as if anyone would want to be in our miserable company. “I’m sick a lot.”

“Of course you are, it’s the bloody Dark Ages, everyone has the plague or the pox. It’s not like you’re leprous and dropping fingers and toes like rose petals, is it?”

“No, not sick like that. I just vomit nearly every time I eat.”

“So you’re a little chunder-monkey. Not to worry, Taster, you keep it down long enough for it to kill you, don’t you?”

“I reckon.” He nibbled at a stuffed date.

“Duty done, then. All’s well that ends well. But back to my concerns: Do you think France and Burgundy are poofters, [19] Poofter—homosexual. or are they, you know, just fucking French?”

“I’ve never even seen them,” Taster said.

“Oh, quite right. What about you, Drool? Drool? Stop that!”

Drool pulled the damp kitten out of his mouth. “But it were licking me first. You said it was only proper manners—”

“I was talking about something completely different. Put the cat down.”

The heavy door creaked open and the Earl of Kent slipped into the room, as stealthy as a church bell rolling down stairs. Kent’s a broad-shouldered bull of a fellow, and while he moves with great strength for his grandfather years, Grace and Subtlety remain blushing virgins in his retinue.

“There you are, boy.”

“What boy?” said I. “I see no boy here.” True, I only stand to Kent’s shoulder, and it would take two of me and a suckling pig to balance him on a scale, but even a fool requires some respect, except from the king, of course.

“Fine, fine. I just wanted to tell you not to make sport of feebleness nor age tonight. The king’s been brooding all week about ‘crawling unburdened to the grave.’ I think it’s the weight of his sins.”

“Well, if he weren’t so dog-fuckingly old there would be no temptation toward mirth, would there? Not my fault, that.”

Kent grinned then. “Pocket, you would not willfully hurt your master.”

“Aye, Kent, and with Goneril and Regan and their lords in the hall there’ll be no need to jest geriatric. Is that why the king has kept company only with you this week, brooding upon his years? He hasn’t been planning on marrying off Cordelia then?”

“He’s spoken of it, but only as part of his entire legacy, of property and history. He seemed set on a course to hold the kingdom steady when I last left him. He bade me leave while he gave private audience to the bastard, Edmund.”

“He’s talking to Edmund? Alone?”

“Aye. The bastard drew on his father’s years of service for the favor.”

“I must go to the king. Kent, stay here with Drool, if you would. There’s food and drink to hold you. Taster, show good Kent the best of those dates. Taster? Taster? Drool, shake Taster, he appears to have fallen asleep.”

Fanfare sounded then, a single anemic trumpet, the other three trumpeters having recently succumbed to herpes. (A sore on the lip is as bad as an arrow in the eye to a trumpeter. The chancellor had them put down, or maybe they’d just been made drummers. They weren’t blowing bloody fanfare, that’s all I’m saying.)

Drool put down his kitten and climbed to his feet.

“With grave offense to daughters three,

Alas, the king a fool shall be,” said the giant in a lilting female voice.

“Where did you hear that, Drool? Who said that?”

“Pretty,” said Drool, massaging the air with his great meaty paws as if caressing a woman’s breasts.

“Time to go,” said Kent. The old warrior threw open the door into the hall.

They stood all around the great table—round after the tradition of some long forgotten king—the center open to the floor where servants served, orators orated, and Drool and I performed. Kent took his place near the king’s throne. I stood with some yeomen to the side of the fire and motioned for Drool to find a place to hide behind one of the stone pillars that supported the vault. Fools do not have a place at the table. Most times I served at the foot of the king, providing quips, criticisms, and brilliant observations through the meal, but only after he had called for me. Lear had not called for a week.

He came into the room head up, scowling at each of his guests until his eye lit on Cordelia and he smiled. He motioned for everyone to sit and they did.

“Edmund,” said the king, “fetch the princes of France and Burgundy.”

Edmund bowed to the king and backed toward the main entrance of the hall, then looked to me, winked, and motioned for me to come join him. Dread rose in my chest like a black serpent. What had the bastard done? I should have cut his throat when I’d had the chance.

I sidled down the side wall, the bells on the tips of my shoes conspicuously unhelpful in concealing my movement. The king looked to me, then away, as if the sight of me might cause rot on his eye.

Once through the door Edmund pulled me roughly aside. The big yeoman at the threshold lowered the blade of his halberd an inch and frowned at the bastard. Edmund released me and looked bewildered, as if his own hand had betrayed him.

(I bring food and drink to the guards when they are on post during feasts. I believe it is written in the Obfuscations of St. Pesto: “In nine cases out of ten, a large friend with a poleax shall truly a blessing be.”)

“What have you wrought, bastard?” I whispered with great fury and no little spit.

“Only what you wanted, fool. Your princess will have no husband, that I can assure, but even your sorceries won’t keep you safe if you reveal my strategy.”