Fool (english)

to nobility.
    “Was a rat, was a rat, was a rat,” we sang.
    When the party died down and noble guests hung drunk over the tables, the servants piled onto the floor before the fire, Belette began to move among the revelers and tap each of his performers, calling them to gather by the door. I had fallen asleep under the table, and the little girl against my arm. He pulled me up by my hair. “You did nothing all night. I watched.” I knew there was a beating in store for when we got back to the wagon, and I was prepared for it. At least I had eaten some supper at the feast.
    But as Belette turned to drag me away he stopped, abruptly. I looked up to see the master frozen in space, a sword-point pressed into his cheek just below his eye. He let go of my hair.
    “Good thought,” said Kent, the old bull, pulling his sword back, but holding it steadily aimed, a hand’s breadth from Belette’s eye.
    There was a sound of coin on the table and Belette couldn’t help but look down, even at the peril of his life. A doeskin purse as big as a man’s fist lay before him.
    The chamberlain, a tall, severe chap who looked perpetually down his nose, stood beside Kent. He said, “Your payment, plus ten pounds, which you shall accept as payment for this boy.”
    “But-” said Belette.
    “You are a word from your mortality, sirrah,” said Lear. “Do go on.” He sat straight and regal on his throne, one hand pressed to the cheek of the little girl, who had awakened and was clinging to his leg.

    Belette took the purse, bowed deeply, and backed across the hall. The other mummers of my troupe bowed and followed him out.
    “What is your name, boy?” asked Lear.
    “Pocket, your majesty.”
    “Well, then, Pocket, do you see this child?”
    “Yes, majesty.”
    “Her name is Cordelia. She is our youngest daughter, and henceforth shall be your mistress. You have one duty above all, Pocket. That is to make her happy.”
    “Yes, majesty.”
    “Take him to Bubble,” said the king. “Have her feed and bathe him, then find him new clothes.”
    Back on the road to Gloucester, Lear said, “So, what is your will, Pocket? Would you be a traveling mummer again-trade the comfort of the castle for the adventure of the road?”
    “Apparently, I have, nuncle,” said I.
    We camped at the stream, which froze over during the night. The old man sat shivering by the fire with his rich fur cloak wrapped around him; the garment so full and the man so slight that it appeared he was being consumed by a slow but well-groomed beast. Only his white beard and the hawk nose were visible outside the cloak-two stars of fire shone back in the cape creature, his eyes.
    Snow fell around us in great wet orgies of flakes, and my own woolen cloak, which I’d pulled over my head, was sodden.
    “Have I been so unfit as a father that my daughters would turn on me so?” asked Lear.
    Why, now, did he choose to stare into the dark barrel of his soul, when he’d been content all these years to simply scoop out his desires and let the consequences wash over whomever they may? Bloody inopportune time for introspection, after you’ve given away the roof over your head. But I did not say so.
    “What would I know of proper fathering, sire? I had no father nor mother. I was reared by the Church, and I’d not give a hot squirt of piss for the lot of them.”
    “Poor boy,” said the king. “As long as I live, you shall have father and family.”
    I would have pointed out that he had himself declared his crawl to the grave commenced, and that given his performance with his daughters, I might do better to go forth an orphan, but the old man had rescued me from the life of a slave and wanderer, and given me a home in the palace, with friends and, I suppose, family of a sort. So I said, “Thank you, majesty.”
    The old man sighed heavily and said, “None of my three queens ever loved me.”
    “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lear, I’m a jester, not a bloody wizard. If you’re going to keep diving into the muck of your regrets then I’ll just hold your sword for you and you can see if you can get your ancient ass moving enough to fall on the pointy part so we can both get some bloody peace.”
    Lear laughed then-twisted old oak that he was-and patted my shoulder. “I could ask nothing more of a son than he give me laughter in my despair. I’m off to bed. Sleep in my tent, tonight, Pocket, out of the cold.”
    “Aye, sire.” I was touched by the old man’s