Fool (english)

eyes. His jet beard was trimmed to points. I do admire the bastard’s sense of style-simple, elegant, and evil. He owns his darkness.
    I, myself, am called the Black Fool. Not because I am a Moor, although I hold no grudge toward them (Moors are said to be talented wife-stranglers) and would take no offense at the moniker were that the case, but my skin is as snowy as any sun-starved son of England. No, I am called so because of my wardrobe, an argyle of black satin and velvet diamonds-not the rainbow motley of the run-a-day fool. Lear said: “After thy black wit shall be thy dress, fool. Perhaps a new outfit will stop you tweaking Death’s nose. I’m short for the grave as it is, boy, no need to anger the worms before my arrival.” When even a king fears irony’s twisted blade, what fool is ever unarmed?
    “Draw your weapon, fool!” said Edmund.
    “Sadly, sir, I have none,” said I. Jones shook his head in unarmed woe.

    We both were lying, of course. Across the small of my back I wore three wickedly-pointed throwing daggers-fashioned for me by the armorer to be used in our entertainments-and while I had never used them as weapons, truly flung they had spitted apples off the head of Drool, nipped plums from his outstretched fingers, and yea, even speared grapes out of the air. I had little doubt that one might find its way into Edmund’s eye and thus vent his bitter mind like a lanced boil. If he needed to know he would know soon enough. If not, well, why trouble him?
    “If not a fight, then a murder it is,” said Edmund. He lunged, his blade aimed for my heart. I sidestepped and knocked his blade away with Jones, who lost a bell from his coxcomb for his trouble.
    I hopped up onto the lip of the cauldron.
    “But, sir, why spend your wrath on a poor, helpless fool?”
    Edmund slashed. I leapt. He missed. I landed on the far side of the cauldron. Drool moaned. Mary hid in the corner.
    “You shouted bastard at me from the battlements.”
    “Aye, they announced you as bastard. You, sir, are a bastard. And a bastard most unjust to make me die with the foul taste of truth still on my tongue. Allow me a lie before you strike: You have such kind eyes.”
    “But you spoke badly of my mother as well.” He put himself between me and the door. Bloody bad planning, building a laundry with only one exit.
    “I may have implied that she was a poxy whore, but from what your father says, that, too, is not breaking the bonds of verity.”
    “What?” asked Edmund.
    “What?” asked Drool, a perfect parrot of Edmund.
    “What?” inquired Mary.
    “It’s true, you git! Your mother was a poxy whore!”
    “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, poxiness ain’t so bad,” said Shanker Mary, shining a ray of optimism on these dark ages. “Unfairly maligned, the poxy are. Methinks a spot o’ the pox implies experience. Worldliness, if you will.”
    “The tart makes an excellent point, Edmund. But for the slow descent into madness and death with your bits dropping off along the way, the pox is a veritable blessing,” said I, as I skipped just out of blade’s reach from the bastard, who stalked me around the great cauldron. “Take Mary here. In fact, there’s an idea. Take Mary. Why spend your energy after a long journey murdering a speck of a fool when you can enjoy the pleasures of a lusty wench who is not only ready, but willing, and smells pleasantly of soap?”
    “Aye,” said Drool, expelling froth as he spoke. “She’s a bloody vision of loveliness.”
    Edmund let his sword point drop and looked at Drool for the first time. “Are you eating soap?”
    “Just a wee sliver,” bubbled Drool. “They weren’t saving it.”
    Edmund turned back to me. “Why are you boiling this fellow?”
    “Couldn’t be helped,” said I. (How dramatic, the bastard, the water was barely steaming. What appeared to be boiling was Drool venting vapors.)
    “Common fuckin’ courtesy, ain’t it?” said Mary.
    “Speak straight, both of you.” The bastard wheeled on one heel and before I knew what was happening, he had the point of his blade at Mary’s throat. “I’ve been nine years in the Holy Land killing Saracens, killing one or two more makes no difference to me.”
    “Wait!” I leapt back to the lip of the cauldron, reaching to the small of my back with my free hand. “Wait. He’s being punished. By the king. For attacking me.”
    “Punished? For attacking a fool?”
    “‘Boil him alive,’ the king said.” I