Fool (english)

dropped the puff balls into a small silk pouch and handed it to me.
    “There’s the matter of payment,” said she, as I reached for the purse.

    “I’m a poor fool,” said I. “All we have between us is my scepter and a well-used shoulder of pork. I suppose I could wait while each of you takes Kent for a roll in the hay, if that will do.”
    “You will not!” said Kent.
    The hag held up a hand. “A price to be named later,” said she. “Whenever we ask.”
    “Fine, then,” said I, snatching the purse away from her.
    “Swear it,” she said.
    “I swear,” said I.
    “In blood.”
    “But-” As quick as a cat she scratched the back of my hand with her ragged talon. “Ouch!” Blood welled in the crease.
    “Let it drip in the cauldron and swear,” said the crone.
    I did as I was told. “Since I’m here, is there any chance I could get a monkey?”
    “No,” said Sage.
    “No,” said Parsely.
    “No,” said Rosemary. “We’re all out of monkeys, but we’ll put a glamour on your mate so his disguise isn’t so bloody pathetic.”
    “Go to it, then,” said I. “We must be off.”
    ACT II
    How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.
    – King Lear, Act I, Scene 4

TEN – ALL YOUR DREAD
    PLEASURES
    T he sky threatened a dismal dawn as we reached Castle Albany. The drawbridge was up.
    “Who goes there?” shouted the sentry.
    “’Tis Lear’s fool, Pocket, and his man at arms, Caius.” Caius is the name the witches gave Kent to use to bind his disguise. They’d cast a glamour on him: his beard and hair were now jet black, as if by nature, not soot, his face lean and weathered, only his eyes, as brown and gentle as a moo cow’s, showed the real Kent. I advised him to pull down the wide brim of his hat should we encounter old acquaintances.
    “Where in bloody hell have you been?” asked the sentry. He signaled and the bridge ground down. “The old king’s nearly torn the county apart looking for you. Accused our lady of tying a rock to you and casting you in the North Sea, he did.”
    “Seems a spot o’ bother. I must have grown in her esteem. Just last night she was only going to hang me.”

    “Last night? You drunken sot, we’ve been looking for you for a month.”
    I looked at Kent and he at me, then we at the sentry. “A month ?”
    “Bloody witches,” said Kent under his breath.
    “If you turn up we’re to take you to our lady immediately,” said the sentry.
    “Oh, please do, gentle guard, your lady does so love seeing me at first light.”
    The sentry scratched his beard and seemed to be thinking. “Well spoken, fool. Perhaps you lot could do with some breakfast and a wash-up before I take you to my lady.”
    The drawbridge thumped into place. I led Kent across, and the sentry met us by the inner gate.
    “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” the sentry said, directing his speech to Kent. “You wouldn’t mind waiting until eight bells to reveal the fool’s return, would you?”
    “That when you’re off watch, lad?”
    “Aye, sir. I’m not sure I want to be the bearer of the joyous news of the wayward fool’s arrival. The king’s knights have been raising rabble round the castle for a fortnight and I’ve heard our lady cursing the Black Fool as part of the cause.”
    “Blamed even in my absence?” said I. “I told you, Caius, she adores me.”
    Kent patted the sentry on the shoulder. “We’ll escort ourselves, lad, and tell your lady we came through the gate with the merchants in the morning. Now, back to your post.”
    “Thank you, good sir. But for your rough clothes, I’d take you for a gentleman.”
    “But for my clothes, I’d be one,” said Kent, his grin a dazzle amid his newly-black beard.
    “Oh, for fuck’s sake, would you two just have a gobble on each other’s knob and be done with it,” said I.
    The two soldiers leapt back as if each was on fire.

    “Sorry, just having you on,” said I, as I breezed by them and into the castle. “You poofters are such a sensitive lot.”
    “I’m not a poofter,” said Kent as we approached Goneril’s chambers.
    Midmorning. The time in between allowed us to eat, wash, do some writing, and ascertain that we had, indeed, been gone for over a month, despite it seeming only overnight to us. Perhaps that was the hags’ payment? To extract a month from our lives in exchange for the spells, potions, and prognostication-it seemed a fair price, but bloody complicated to