Fool (english)

Regan like the nectar of Aphrodite herself, now that I think of it.
    Why else would she have called for my death all those years ago, when I had so diligently served her, after Goneril had left the White Tower to wed Albany. It had begun, it seems, with a bit of jealousy.
    “Pocket,” said Regan. She was perhaps eighteen or nineteen at the time, but unlike Goneril, had been exploring her womanly powers for years on various lads about the castle. “I find it offensive that you gave personal counsel to my sister, yet when I call you to my chambers I get nothing but tumbling and singing.”
    “Aye, but a song and a tumble seem all that’s needed to lift the lady’s spirits, if I may say so.”
    “You may not. Am I not fair?”
    “Extremely so, lady. Shall I compose a rhyme to your beauty? A ravishing tart from Nantucket -”
    “Am I not as fair as Goneril?”
    “Next to you, she is less than invisible, just a shimmering envious vacuum, is she.”

    “But do you, Pocket, find me attractive-in a carnal way-the way you did my sister? Do you want me?”
    “Ah, of course, lady, from the morning I wake, I have but one thought, one vision: of your deliciousness, under this humble and unworthy fool, writhing naked and making monkey noises.”
    “Really, that’s all you think about?”
    “Aye, and occasionally breakfast, but it’s only seconds before I’m back to Regan, writhing, and monkey noises. Wouldn’t you like to have a monkey? We should have one around the castle, don’t you think?”
    “So all you think of is this?” And with that, she shrugged off her gown, red as always, and there she stood, raven-haired and violet-eyed, snowy fair and finely fit, as if carved by the gods from a solid block of desire. She stepped out of the pool of bloodred velvet and said, “Drop your puppet stick, fool, and come here.”
    And I, ever the obedient fool, did.
    And oh it led to many months of clandestine monkey noises: howling, grunting, screeching, yipping, squishing, slapping, laughing, and no little bit of barking. (But there was no flinging of poo, as monkeys are wont to do. Only the most decent, forthright monkey sounds as are made from proper bonking.) I put my heart into it, too; but the romance was soon crushed beneath her cruel and delicate heel. I suppose I shall never learn. It seems a fool is not so often taken as a medicine for melancholy, as for ennui, incurable and recurring among the privileged.
    “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Cordelia of late,” said Regan, basking glorious in the gentle glow of the afterbonk (your narrator in a sweaty puddle on the bedside floor, having been summarily ejected after rendering noble service). “I am jealous.”
    “She’s a little girl,” said I.
    “But when she has you, I cannot. She’s my junior. It’s not acceptable.”
    “But, lady, it’s my duty to keep the little princess smiling, your father has commanded it. Besides, if I am otherwise engaged you can have that sturdy fellow you fancy from the stable, or that young yeoman with the pointy beard, or that Spanish duke or whatever he is that’s been about the castle for a month. Does that bloke speak a word of English? I think he may be lost.”
    “They are not the same.”
    I felt my heart warm at her words. Could it be real affection?
    “Well, yes, what we share is-”
    “They rut like goats-there’s no art to it, and I weary of shouting instructions to them, especially the Spaniard-I don’t think he speaks a word of English.”
    “I’m sorry, milady,” said I. “But that said, I must away.” I stood and gathered my jerkin from under the wardrobe, my leggings from the hearth, my codpiece from the chandelier. “I’ve promised to teach Cordelia about griffins and elves over tea with her dolls.”
    “You’ll not,” said Regan.
    “I must,” said I.
    “I want you to stay.”
    “Alas, parting is such sweet sorrow,” said I. And I kissed the downy dimple at the small of her back.
    “Guard!” called Regan.
    “Pardon?” I inquired.
    “Guard!” The door to her solar opened and an alarmed yeoman looked in. “Seize this scoundrel. He hath ravaged your princess.” She had conjured tears, in that short span of time. A bit of a wonder, she was.
    “Fuckstockings,” said I, as two stout yeomen took me by the arms and dragged me down to the great hall in Regan’s wake, her dressing gown open and flowing out behind her as she wailed.
    It seemed a familiar motif, yet I did