Fool by Christopher Moore Page A

raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, lad, your witches will wait.”
    I am what I am. I drained my flagon of ale, set it by the fire, then whistled loudly, jumped up, did three somersaults and laid out into a back-flip, wherefrom I landed with Jones pointed at the moon, and said, “A ballad, then!?”
    “Aye!” came the cheer.
    And ever so sweetly, I crooned the lilting love song “Shall I Shag My Lady Upon the Shire?” I followed that with a bit of a narrative song by way of a troubadour tradition: “The Hanging of Willie Wagging William.” Well, everyone likes a story after supper, and by the one-eyed balls of the Cyclops, that one got them clapping, so I slowed it down a bit with the solemn ballad, “Dragon Spooge Befouled My Bonny Bonny Lass.” Bloody inconsiderate to leave a train of fighting men fighting back tears, so I danced my way around the camp while singing the shanty “Alehouse Lilly (She’ll Bonk You Silly).”
    I was about to say good night and head out when Curan called for silence and a road-worn herald wearing a great golden fleur-delis on his chest entered the camp. He unrolled his scroll and read.
    “Hear ye, hear ye. Let it be known that King Philip the Twenty-seventh of France is dead. God rest his soul. Long live France. Long live the king!”
    No one “long lived the king” back at him and he seemed disappointed. Although one knight did murmur “So?” and another, “Good bloody riddance.”
    “Well, you British pig dogs, Prince Jeff is now king,” said the herald.
    We all looked at each other and shrugged.
    “And Princess Cordelia of Britain is now Queen of France,” the herald added, rather huffy now.
    “Oh,” said many, realizing at last at least a glancing relevance.
    “Jeff?” said I. “The bloody frog prince is called Jeff?” I strode to the herald and snatched the scroll out of his hand. He tried to take it back and I clouted him with Jones.
    “Calm, lad,” said Kent, taking the scroll from me and handing it back to the herald. “Merci,” said he to the messenger.
    “He took my bloody princess and my monkey’s name!” said I, taking another swing with Jones, which missed its mark as Kent was dragging me away.
    “You should be pleased,” said Kent. “Your lady is the Queen of France.”
    “And don’t think she’s not going to rub my nose in that when I see her.”
    “Come, lad, let’s go find your witches. We’ll want to be back by morning in time for Albany to accidentally hang you.”
    “Oh, she’d like that, wouldn’t she?”

NINE – TOIL AND TROUBLE
    So why is it that we are going to Great Birnam Wood to look for witches?” asked Kent as we made our way across the moor. There was only a slight breeze but it was bloody cold, what with the mist and the gloom and my despair over King Jeff. I pulled my woolen cape around me.
    “Bloody Scotland,” said I. “Albany is possibly the darkest, dampest, coldest bloody crevice in all of Blighty. Sodding Scots.”
    “Witches?” reminded Kent.
    “Because the bloody ghost told me I’d find my answers here.”
    “Ghost?”
    “The girl ghost at the White Tower, keep up, Kent. Rhymes and riddles and such.” I told him of the “ grave offense to daughters three ” and the “ madman rising to lead the blind .”
    Kent nodded as if he understood. “And I’m along because…”
    “Because it is dark and I am small.”
    “You might have asked Curan or one of the others. I’m reticent about witches.”
    “Nonsense. They’re just like physicians, only without the bleeding. Nothing to fear.”
    “In the day, when Lear was still Christian, we did not do well by witches. I’ve had a cartload of curses cast on me.”
    “Not very effective, though, were they? You’re child-frighteningly old and still strong as a bull.”
    “I am banished, penniless, and live under the threat of death upon discovery of my name.”
    “Oh, good point. Brave of you to come, then.”
    “Aye, thanks, lad, but I’m not