Fool (english)

Birmingham, before you are slaughtered.”
    “Everyone jump on,” said big hat, and the actors did as directed. “Fare thee well, fool!” Then he snapped the reins and drove off, the wagon’s wheels bouncing in the ruts of the road.
    Lear’s train parted and watched as the team pulled the wagon by at a gallop.
    “What was that?” asked Lear when I returned.
    “Wagonload of knobs,” said I.
    “Why do they hurry, so?”

    “We commanded it so, nuncle. Half their troupe is ill with fever. We want them nowhere near your men.”
    “Oh, good show, then, lad. I thought you might be missing the life and were going to join their troupe.”
    I shuddered at the thought. It had been a cold December day like this when I’d first come to the White Tower with my mummer troupe. We were decidedly not thespians, but singers, jugglers, and acrobats, and I a special asset because I could do all three. Our master was a crooked Belgian named Belette, who bought me from Mother Basil for ten shillings and the promise to feed me. He spoke Dutch, French, and a very broken English, so I don’t know how he managed to secure the White Tower for a performance that Christmas, but I was told later that the troupe that was supposed to have performed had suddenly taken ill with stomach cramps and I suspect that Belette poisoned them.
    I had been with Belette for months, and except for the beatings and cold nights sleeping under a wagon, I had received little but my daily bread, the occasional cup of wine, and the skills of knife-throwing and sleight of hand as it could be applied to purse cutting.
    We were led into the great hall at the tower, which was filled with nobles reveling and feasting on platters of food such as I had never seen. King Lear sat at the center of the main table, flanked by two beautiful girls about my age, who I would later find out were Regan and Goneril. Beside Regan sat Gloucester, his wife, and their son Edgar. The intrepid Kent sat on the other side next to Goneril. Under that table, at Lear’s feet, a little girl was curled up, watching the celebration-wide-eyed, like a frightened animal, clinging to a rag doll. I must confess, I thought the child might be deaf or even simpleminded.
    We performed for perhaps two hours, singing songs of the saints during dinner, then moving on to bawdier fare as the wine flowed and the guests loosened their hold on propriety. By late in the evening everyone was laughing, the guests were dancing with the performers, and even the commoners who lived in the castle had joined the party, but the little girl remained under the table, making not a sound. Not a smile, not an eyebrow raised in delight. There was light there behind those crystal-blue eyes-this was not a simpleton-but she seemed to be staring out of them from afar.
    I crawled under the table and sat next to her. She barely acknowledged my presence. I leaned in close and nodded toward Belette, who stood by a column near the center of the hall, leering lecherously at the young girls who frolicked about him. I could see the little girl spied the scoundrel, too. Ever so softly, I sang a little song the anchoress had taught me, with the lyrics changed a bit to adapt to the situation.
    “Belette was a rat, was a rat, was a rat, was a rat,
    Belette was a rat, was a rat, was a rat, was a rat,
    Belette was a rat who ate his tail.”
    And the little girl pulled back and looked at me, as if to see if I had really sung such a thing. And I sang on:
    “Belette was a rat, was a rat, was a rat,
    Belette was a rat, was a rat, was a rat,
    Belette was a rat, who drowned in a pail.”
    And the little girl cackled-a broken, little-girl yodel of a laugh that rang of innocence and joy and delight.
    I sang on, and ever so softly, she sang with me,
    “Belette was a rat, was a rat, was a rat,
    Belette was a rat-”
    And we were no longer alone under the table. There was another pair of crystal-blue eyes, and behind them a white-haired king. The old king smiled and squeezed my biceps. And before the other guests noticed that the king was under the table, he sat back up on his throne, but he reached down and lay a hand across the little girl’s shoulder and the other upon mine. It was a hand reached across a vast chasm of reality-from the highest position of ruler of the realm, to a lowborn orphan boy who slept in the mud under a wagon. I thought it must have been how a knight felt when the king’s sword touched his shoulder, elevating him