“So all you think of is this?” And with that, she shrugged off her gown, red as always, and there she stood, raven-haired and violet-eyed, snowy fair and finely fit, as if carved by the gods from a solid block of desire. She stepped out of the pool of bloodred velvet and said, “Drop your puppet stick, fool, and come here.”
And I, ever the obedient fool, did.
And oh it led to many months of clandestine monkey noises: howling, grunting, screeching, yipping, squishing, slapping, laughing, and no little bit of barking. (But there was no flinging of poo, as monkeys are wont to do. Only the most decent, forthright monkey sounds as are made from proper bonking.) I put my heart into it, too; but the romance was soon crushed beneath her cruel and delicate heel. I suppose I shall never learn. It seems a fool is not so often taken as a medicine for melancholy, as for ennui, incurable and recurring among the privileged.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Cordelia of late,” said Regan, basking glorious in the gentle glow of the afterbonk (your narrator in a sweaty puddle on the bedside floor, having been summarily ejected after rendering noble service). “I am jealous.”
“She’s a little girl,” said I.
“But when she has you, I cannot. She’s my junior. It’s not acceptable.”
“But, lady, it’s my duty to keep the little princess smiling, your father has commanded it. Besides, if I am otherwise engaged you can have that sturdy fellow you fancy from the stable, or that young yeoman with the pointy beard, or that Spanish duke or whatever he is that’s been about the castle for a month. Does that bloke speak a word of English? I think he may be lost.”
“They are not the same.”
I felt my heart warm at her words. Could it be real affection?
“Well, yes, what we share is—”
“They rut like goats—there’s no art to it, and I weary of shouting instructions to them, especially the Spaniard—I don’t think he speaks a word of English.”
“I’m sorry, milady,” said I. “But that said, I must away.” I stood and gathered my jerkin from under the wardrobe, my leggings from the hearth, my codpiece from the chandelier. “I’ve promised to teach Cordelia about griffins and elves over tea with her dolls.”
“You’ll not,” said Regan.
“I must,” said I.
“I want you to stay.”
“Alas, parting is such sweet sorrow,” said I. And I kissed the downy dimple at the small of her back.
“Guard!” called Regan.
“Pardon?” I inquired.
“Guard!” The door to her solar opened and an alarmed yeoman looked in. “Seize this scoundrel. He hath ravaged your princess.” She had conjured tears, in that short span of time. A bit of a wonder, she was.
“Fuckstockings,” said I, as two stout yeomen took me by the arms and dragged me down to the great hall in Regan’s wake, her dressing gown open and flowing out behind her as she wailed.
It seemed a familiar motif, yet I did not feel the confidence that comes with rehearsal. Perhaps it was that Lear was actually holding court before the people when we entered the great hall. A line of peasants, merchants, and minor noblemen waited as the king heard their cases and made judgments. Still in his Christian phase, he had been reading about the wisdom of Solomon, and had been experimenting with the rule of law, thinking it quaint.
“Father, I insist you hang this fool immediately!”
Lear was taken aback, not only by the shrillness of his daughter’s demand, but by the fact that she stood frontally bare to all the petitioners and made no effort to close her red gown. (Tales would be told of that day, of how many a plaintiff, having seen the snowy-skinned princess in all her glory, did hold his grievance pitiful, indeed, his life worthless, and went home to beat his wife or drown himself in the mill pond.)
“Father, your fool hath violated me.”
“That’s a fluttering bottle of bat wank, sire,” said I. “Begging your pardon.”
“You speak rashly, daughter, and you appear frothing-dog mad. Calm yourself and state your grievance. How hath my fool offended?”
“He hath shagged me roughly, against my will, and finished too soon.”
“By force? Pocket? He isn’t eight stone on a feast day—he couldn’t shag a cat by force.”
“That’s not true, sire,” said I. “If the cat is distracted with a trout, then—well, uh, nevermind—”