Fool (english)

honor,” said I. “I’m sure I have an odor about me. I must confess, I was sans trou today in the kitchen, while awaiting my laundry, and Bubble had left a casserole out on the floor to cool, and it did trip me and I fell prick-deep in gravy and goo-but I was on my way to chapel at the time.”
    “You put your dick in my lunch?” said Lear. Then to the bailiff, “The fool put his dick in my lunch?”
    “No, in your beloved daughter,” said Regan.
    “Quiet, girl!” barked the king. “Captain Curan, send a guard to watch the bread and cheese before the fool has his way with it.”
    It went on like that, with things looking rather grim for me as the evidence mounted against me, peasants taking the opportunity to describe the most lecherous acts they could imagine a wicked fool might perpetrate on an unsuspecting princess. I thought testimony of the sturdy stable boy particularly damning at first, but eventually it led to my acquittal.
    “Read that back, so the king may hear the true heinous nature of the crime,” said my prosecutor, who I believe butchered cattle for the castle as his normal vocation.
    The scribe read the stable boy’s words: “Yes, yes, yes, ride me, you crashing tree-cocked stallion.”

    “That’s not what she said,” said I.
    “Yes, it is. It’s what she always says,” said the scribe.
    “Aye,” said the steward.
    “Aye, it is,” said the priest.
    “Si,” said the Spaniard.
    “Well, she never says that to me,” said I.
    “Oh,” said the stable boy. “Then it’s ‘Prance, you twig-dicked little pony,’ is it?”
    “Possibly,” said I.
    “She never says that to me,” said the yeoman with the pointy beard.
    Then there was a moment of silence, while all who had spoken looked around at one another, then furiously avoided eye contact and found spots on the floor of great interest.
    “Well,” said Regan, chewing a fingernail as she spoke, “there is a chance that, uh, I was having a dream.”
    “Then the fool did not take your virtue?” asked Lear.
    “Sorry,” said Regan sheepishly. “It was but a dream. No more wine at lunch for me.”
    “Release the fool!” said Lear.
    The crowd booed.
    I walked out of the hall side by side with Regan.
    “He might have hung me,” I whispered.
    “I’d have shed a tear,” said she with a smile. “Really.”
    “Woe to you, lady, should you leave that rosebud asterisk of a bum-hole unguarded on our next meeting. When a fool’s surprise comes unbuttered, a Pocket’s pleasure will a princess punish.”
    “Oooo, do tease, fool, shall I put a candle in it so you can find your way.”
    “Harpy!”
    “Rascal!”
    “Pocket, where have you been?” said Cordelia, who was coming down the corridor. “Your tea has gone cold.”

    “Defending big sister’s honor, sweetness,” said I.
    “Oh bollocks,” said Regan.
    “Pocket dresses the fool, but he is ever our hero, isn’t he, Regan?” said Cordelia.
    “I think I’m going to be ill,” said the elder princess.
    “So, love,” said I, rising from my perch on the torture machine and reaching into my jerkin. “I’m pleased you feel that way about Lord Edmund, for he has sent me with this letter.”
    I handed her the letter. The seal was dodgy, but she wasn’t looking at the stationery.
    “He’s smitten with you, Regan. In fact, so smitten he tried to cut off his own ear to deliver with this missive, to show you the depth of his affection.”
    “Really? His ear.”
    “Say nothing at the Yule feast, tonight, lady, but you’ll see the bandage. Mark it as a tribute of his love.”
    “You saw him cut his ear?”
    “Yes, and stopped him before the deed was done.”
    “Was it painful, do you think?”
    “Oh yes, lady. He has already suffered more than have others in months of knowing you.”
    “That’s so sweet. Do you know what the letter says?”
    “I was sworn not to look upon pain of death, but come close-”
    She leaned close to me and I squeezed the witch’s puffball under her nose. “I believe it speaks of a midnight rendezvous with Edmund of Gloucester.”

FIFTEEN – IN A LOVER’S EYE
    A warm wind blew in from the west, completely cocking up the Yule. Druids like snow round Stonehenge during the festival, and burning down the forest is all the more satisfying if there’s a chill in the air. As it was, it looked like we’d have rain for the feast. The clouds rolling over the horizon looked like they’d been born of a summer storm.
    “Them