“Well done, friend,” said Lear to Kent. “Are you the one who brought my fool home?”
“Aye, he is, nuncle,” said I. “Rescued me from the darkest heart of the forest, fought off brigands, pygmies, and a brace of tigers to bring me here. But don’t let him talk his Welsh at you, one tiger was vanquished in a sluice of phlegm and mortally beaten with consonants.”
Lear looked closely now at his old friend, then shivered—guilt’s chill claws scuttling across his spine, no doubt. “Welcome, then, sir. I thank thee.” Lear handed Kent a small purse of coin. “Earnest payment for your service.”
“My thanks and my sword,” said Kent, bowing.
“What is your name?” asked Lear.
“Caius,” said Kent.
“And whence do you hail?”
“From Bonking, sire.”
“Well, yes, lad, as do we all,” said Lear, “but from what town?”
“Bonking Ewe on Worms Head,” I offered with a shrug. “Wales—”
“Fine, then, join my train,” said Lear. “You’re hired.”
“Oh, and allow me to hire you as well,” said I, removing my hat and handing it to Kent with a jingle.
“What’s this?” asked Kent.
“Who but a fool would work for a fool?”
“Watch your tongue, boy,” said Lear.
“You’ll have to get your own hat, fool,” said I to the king. “Mine is already promised.”
Captain Curan turned to conceal a smile.
“You call me a fool?”
“Oh, should I not call you fool? All your other titles you have given away, along with your land.”
“I’ll have you whipped.”
I rubbed my burning bottom. “That is the only legacy you have left, nuncle.”
“You’ve become a bitter fool in your absence,” said the king.
“And you the sweet one,” said I. “The fool who makes a jest of his own fate.”
“The boy is not altogether fool,” said Kent.
Lear turned on the old knight, but not in anger. “Perhaps,” said he, weakly, his eye drifting to the stones of the floor as if searching for an answer there. “Perhaps.”
“The lady, Goneril, Duchess of Albany!” announced one of the guards.
“Craven hose-beast!” I added, relatively certain the guard would forget that part.
Goneril breezed into the room, no notice of me, she went right to her father. The old man opened his arms but she stopped short, a sword-length away.
“Did you strike my man for chiding your fool?” Now she scowled at me.
I rubbed my bum and blew her a kiss.
Oswald peeked through the doors to the hall, as if waiting for the answer.
“I struck the knave for being impudent. I but asked him to fetch you. My fool has only just returned from being lost. This is not a time for frowns, daughter.”
“There’re no smiles for you, sire,” said I. “Not now that you’ve nothing to offer. The lady has only bile for fools and those with no title at all.”
“Quiet, boy,” said the king.
“You see,” said Goneril. “Not just your all-licensed fool, but your whole train treats my palace like a tavern and a brothel. They fight and eat all day, drink and carouse all night, and you care for nothing but your precious fool.”
“As it should be,” said Jones, albeit softly—when royal ire is raging, even the spittle sprayed from their lips can rain down death on the common puppet or person.
“I care for much, and my men are the best in the land. And they have not been paid since we left London. Perhaps if you—”
“They will not be paid!” said Goneril, and suddenly all the knights in the hall came to attention.
“When I gave you all, ’twas on the condition of you maintaining my retinue, daughter.”
“Aye, Father, and they shall be maintained, but not in your charge, and not in their full number.”
Lear was growing red-faced now, and shaking with anger as with palsy. “Speak clearly, daughter, these old ears deceive.”
Now Goneril went to her father and took his hand. “Yes, Father, you are old. Very old. Really, really, extraordinarily, mind-bogglingly—” She turned to me for a cue.
“Dog-fuckingly,” I suggested.
“—dog-fuckingly old,” said the duchess. “You are feebly, incontinently, desiccatedly, smelling-of-boiled-cabaggely old. You are brain-rottingly, balls-draggingly—”