Fool by Christopher Moore

church, suffer hunger until you have a big meal of barley and swill, then catch the plague and die.”
    “Hunger? Is that why they seem so wretched and unhappy?”
    “That would be one of the reasons. But there’s much to be said for hard work, disease, run-of-the-mill suffering, and the odd witch burning or virgin sacrifice, depending on your faith.”
    “If they are hungry, why don’t they just eat something?”
    “That is an excellent idea, milady. Someone should suggest that.”
    “Oh, I shall make a most excellent duchess, I think. The people will praise me for my wisdom.”
    “Most certainly, milady,” said I. “Your father married his sister, then, did he, love?”
    “Heavens no, mother was a Belgian princess, why do you ask?”
    “Heraldry is my hobby, go on.”
    Once we were inside the main curtain wall of Castle Albany, it was clear that we would go no farther. The main keep of the castle stood behind yet another curtain wall and had its own drawbridge, over a dry ditch rather than a moat. The bridge was lowering even as the king approached. Goneril walked out on the drawbridge unaccompanied, wearing a gown of green velvet, laced a bit too tightly. If the intent was to lessen the rise of her bosom it failed miserably, and brought gasps and guffaws from several of the knights until Curan raised his hand for silence.
    “Father, welcome to Albany,” said Goneril. “All hail good king and loving father.”
    She held out her arms and the anger drained from Lear’s face. He climbed down from his horse. I scampered to the king’s side and steadied him. Captain Curan signaled and the rest of the train dismounted.
    As I straightened Lear’s cape about his shoulders, I caught Goneril’s eye. “Missed you, pumpkin.”
    “Knave,” said she under her breath.
    “She was always the most fair of the three,” I said to Lear. “And certainly the most wise.”
    “My lord means to accidentally hang your fool, Father.”
    “Ah, well, if accident, there’s no fault but Fate,” said I with a grin-pert and nimble spirit of mirth that I am. “But call then for a spanking of Fate’s fickle bottom and hit it good, lady.” I winked and smacked the horse’s rump.
    Wit’s arrow hit and Goneril blushed. “I’ll see you hit, you wicked little dog.”
    “Enough of that,” said Lear. “Leave the boy alone. Come give your father a hug.”
    Jones barked enthusiastically and chanted, “A fool must hit it. A fool must hit it, hit it good.” The puppet knows a lady’s weakness.
    “Father,” said she, “I’m afraid we’ve accommodation only for you in the castle. Your knights and others will have to make do in the outer bailey. We’ve quarters and food for them by the stables.”
    “But what about my fool?”
    “Your fool can sleep in the stable with the rest of the rabble.”
    “So be it.” Lear let his eldest lead him into the castle like a milk cow by the nose ring.
    “She truly loathes you, doesn’t she?” said Kent. He was busy wrapping himself around a pork shoulder the size of a toddler-his Welsh accent actually sounding more natural through the grease and gristle than when clear.
    “Not to worry, lad,” said Curan, who had joined us by our fire. “We’ll not let Albany hang you. Will we, lads!?”
    Soldiers all around us cheered, not sure what they were cheering for, beyond the fact that they were enjoying the first full meal with ale that they’d had since leaving the White Tower. A small village was housed inside the bailey and some of the knights were already wandering off in search of an alehouse and a whore. We were outside the castle, but at least we were out of the wind, and we could sleep in the stables, which the pages and squires had mucked out on our arrival.
    “But if we’re not welcome in the great hall, then they are not welcome to the talents of the king’s fool,” said Curan. “Sing us a song, Pocket.”
    A cheer went up around the camp: “Sing! Sing! Sing!”
    Kent