Fool(29)

 

“Don’t grovel, Kent, it doesn’t wear well on the aged. A swift sword and a strong shield are allies I can well use with scoundrels and traitors weaving intrigue about like the venomous spider-whore of Killarney.”

 

“Spider-whore of Killarney? I’ve never heard of her?”

 

“Aye, well, sit on that downed tree and eat your lunch. I’ll spin the tale for you like it was web from her own bloody bum.”

 

“You’ll fall behind the column.”

 

“Sod the column, that tottering old tosspot so slows them they’ll be leaving a snail trail soon. Sit and listen, greybeard. By the way have you ever heard of Great Birnam Wood?”

 

“Aye, it’s not two miles from Albany.”

 

“Really? How do you feel about witches?”

 

 

 

 

 

EIGHT

 

 

A WIND FROM FUCKING FRANCE

 

 

 

 

Hunter was right, of course, he wasn’t able to feed Lear’s train. We imposed on villages along the way for fare and quarter, but north of Leeds the villages had suffered bad harvests and they could not bear our appetites without starving themselves. I tried to foster good cheer among the knights, while keeping distance from Lear—I had not forgiven the old man for disowning my Cordelia and sending away Drool. Secretly I relished the soldiers’ complaints about their lack of comfort, and made no real effort to dampen their rising resentment for the old king.

 

On the fifteenth day of our march, outside of Lint-upon-Tweed, they ate my horse.

 

“Rose, Rose, Rose—would a horse by any other name taste so sweet?” the knights chanted. They thought themselves clever, slinging such jests while spraying roasted bits of my mount from their greasy lips.

 

The dull always seek to be clever at the fool’s expense, to somehow repay him for his cutting wit, but never are they clever, and often are they cruel. Which is why I may never own things, never care for anyone, nor show desire for anything, lest some ruffian, thinking he is funny, take it away. I have secret desires, wants, and dreams, though. Jones is a fine foil, but I should like someday to own a monkey. I would dress him in a tiny jester’s suit, of red silk, I think. I would call him Jeff, and he would have his own scepter, that would be called Tiny Jeff. Yes, I should very much like a monkey. He would be my friend—and it would be forbidden to murder, banish, or eat him. Foolish dreams?

 

We were met at the gate of Castle Albany by Goneril’s steward, adviser, and chief toady, that most pernicious twat, Oswald. I’d had dealings with the rodent-faced muck-sucker when he was but a footman at the White Tower, when Goneril was still princess at court, and I, a humble jongleur, was found wandering naked amid her royal orbs. But that tale is best left for another time, the scoundrel at the gate impedes our progress.

 

Spidery in appearance as well as disposition, Oswald lurks even when in the open, lurking being his natural state of locomotion. A fine black fuzz he wears for a beard, the same is on his head, when his blue tartan tam is humbled at his heart, which it was not that day. He neither removed his hat nor bowed as Lear approached.

 

The old king was not pleased. He stopped the train an arrow-shot from the castle and waved me forward.

 

“Pocket, go see what he wants,” said Lear. “And ask why there is no fanfare for my arrival.”

 

“But nuncle,[24]” said I. “Shouldn’t the captain of the guard be the one—”

 

“Go on, fool! A point is to be made about respect. I send a fool to meet this rascal and put him in his place. Spare no manners, remind the dog that he is a dog.”

 

“Aye, majesty.” I rolled my eyes at Captain Curan, who almost laughed, then stopped himself, seeing that the king’s anger was real.

 

I pulled Jones from my satchel and sallied forth, my jaw set, as determined as the prow of a warship.

 

“Hail, Castle Albany,” I called. “Hail, Albany. Hail, Goneril.”

 

Oswald said nothing, did not so much as remove his hat. He looked past me to the king, even when I was standing an arm’s length from him.

 

I said: “King of bloody Britain here, Oswald. I’d suggest you pay proper respect.”

 

“I’ll not lower myself to speak with a fool.”

 

“Primping little whoreson wanker, innit he?” said the puppet Jones.

 

“Aye,” said I. Then I spotted a guard in the barbican, looking down on us. “Hail, Cap’n, seems someone’s emptied a privy on your drawbridge and the steaming pile blocks our way.”

 

The guard laughed. Oswald fumed.