Kent, his disguise now completed by nearly three weeks of hunger and living in the outdoors, fell in behind the train as I had instructed. He looked lean and leathery now, more like an older version of Hunter than the old, overfed knight he had been at the White Tower. I stood to the side of the gate as the column entered and nodded to him as he passed.
“I’m hungry, Pocket. All I had to eat yesterday was an owl.”
“Perfect fare for witch finding, methinks. You’re with me to Great Birnam Wood tonight, then?”
“After supper.”
“Aye. If Goneril doesn’t poison the lot of us.”
Ah, Goneril, Goneril, Goneril—like a distant love chant is her name. Not that it doesn’t summon memories of burning urination and putrid discharge, but what romance worth the memory is devoid of the bittersweet?
When I first met her, Goneril was but seventeen, and although betrothed to Albany from the age of twelve, she had never seen him. A curious, round-bottomed girl, she had spent her entire life in and around the White Tower, and she’d developed a colossal appetite for knowledge of the outside world, which somehow she thought she could sate by grilling a humble fool. It started on odd afternoons, when she would call me to her chambers, and with her ladies-in-waiting in attendance, ask me all manner of questions her tutors had refused to answer.
“Lady,” said I, “I am but a fool. Shouldn’t you ask someone with position?”
“Mother is dead and Father treats us like porcelain dolls. Everyone else is afraid to speak. You are my fool, it is your duty to speak truth to power.”
“Impeccable logic, lady, but truth be told, I’m here as fool to the little princess.” I was new to the castle, and did not want to be held accountable for telling Goneril something that the king didn’t wish her to know.
“Well, Cordelia is having her nap, so until she wakes you are my fool. I so decree it.”
The ladies clapped at the royal decree.
“Again, irrefutable logic,” said I to the thick but comely princess. “Proceed.”
“Pocket, you have traveled the land, tell me, what is it like to be a peasant?”
“Well, milady, I’ve never been a peasant, strictly speaking, but for the most part, I’m told it’s wake early, work hard, suffer hunger, catch the plague, and die. Then get up the next morning and do it all again.”
“Every day?”
“Well, if you’re a Christian—on Sunday you get up early, go to church, suffer hunger until you have a big meal of barley and swill, then catch the plague and die.”
“Hunger? Is that why they seem so wretched and unhappy?”
“That would be one of the reasons. But there’s much to be said for hard work, disease, run-of-the-mill suffering, and the odd witch burning or virgin sacrifice, depending on your faith.”
“If they are hungry, why don’t they just eat something?”
“That is an excellent idea, milady. Someone should suggest that.”
“Oh, I shall make a most excellent duchess, I think. The people will praise me for my wisdom.”
“Most certainly, milady,” said I. “Your father married his sister, then, did he, love?”
“Heavens no, mother was a Belgian princess, why do you ask?”
“Heraldry is my hobby, go on.”
Once we were inside the main curtain wall[25] of Castle Albany, it was clear that we would go no farther. The main keep of the castle stood behind yet another curtain wall and had its own drawbridge, over a dry ditch rather than a moat. The bridge was lowering even as the king approached. Goneril walked out on the drawbridge unaccompanied, wearing a gown of green velvet, laced a bit too tightly. If the intent was to lessen the rise of her bosom it failed miserably, and brought gasps and guffaws from several of the knights until Curan raised his hand for silence.
“Father, welcome to Albany,” said Goneril. “All hail good king and loving father.”
She held out her arms and the anger drained from Lear’s face. He climbed down from his horse. I scampered to the king’s side and steadied him. Captain Curan signaled and the rest of the train dismounted.
As I straightened Lear’s cape about his shoulders, I caught Goneril’s eye. “Missed you, pumpkin.”
“Knave,” said she under her breath.
“She was always the most fair of the three,” I said to Lear. “And certainly the most wise.”
“My lord means to accidentally hang your fool, Father.”
“Ah, well, if accident, there’s no fault but Fate,” said I with a grin—pert and nimble spirit of mirth that I am. “But call then for a spanking of Fate’s fickle bottom and hit it good, lady.” I winked and smacked the horse’s rump.
Wit’s arrow hit and Goneril blushed. “I’ll see you hit, you wicked little dog.”
“Enough of that,” said Lear. “Leave the boy alone. Come give your father a hug.”
Jones barked enthusiastically and chanted, “A fool must hit it. A fool must hit it, hit it good.” The puppet knows a lady’s weakness.
“Father,” said she, “I’m afraid we’ve accommodation only for you in the castle. Your knights and others will have to make do in the outer bailey.[26] We’ve quarters and food for them by the stables.”
“But what about my fool?”
“Your fool can sleep in the stable with the rest of the rabble.”
“So be it.” Lear let his eldest lead him into the castle like a milk cow by the nose ring.
“She truly loathes you, doesn’t she?” said Kent. He was busy wrapping himself around a pork shoulder the size of a toddler—his Welsh accent actually sounding more natural through the grease and gristle than when clear.
“Not to worry, lad,” said Curan, who had joined us by our fire. “We’ll not let Albany hang you. Will we, lads!?”
Soldiers all around us cheered, not sure what they were cheering for, beyond the fact that they were enjoying the first full meal with ale that they’d had since leaving the White Tower. A small village was housed inside the bailey and some of the knights were already wandering off in search of an alehouse and a whore. We were outside the castle, but at least we were out of the wind, and we could sleep in the stables, which the pages and squires had mucked out on our arrival.
“But if we’re not welcome in the great hall, then they are not welcome to the talents of the king’s fool,” said Curan. “Sing us a song, Pocket.”
A cheer went up around the camp: “Sing! Sing! Sing!”
Kent raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, lad, your witches will wait.”
I am what I am. I drained my flagon of ale, set it by the fire, then whistled loudly, jumped up, did three somersaults and laid out into a back-flip, wherefrom I landed with Jones pointed at the moon, and said, “A ballad, then!?”
“Aye!” came the cheer.
And ever so sweetly, I crooned the lilting love song “Shall I Shag My Lady Upon the Shire?” I followed that with a bit of a narrative song by way of a troubadour tradition: “The Hanging of Willie Wagging William.” Well, everyone likes a story after supper, and by the one-eyed balls of the Cyclops, that one got them clapping, so I slowed it down a bit with the solemn ballad, “Dragon Spooge Befouled My Bonny Bonny Lass.” Bloody inconsiderate to leave a train of fighting men fighting back tears, so I danced my way around the camp while singing the shanty “Alehouse Lilly (She’ll Bonk You Silly).”
I was about to say good night and head out when Curan called for silence and a road-worn herald wearing a great golden fleur-delis on his chest entered the camp. He unrolled his scroll and read.
“Hear ye, hear ye. Let it be known that King Philip the Twenty-seventh of France is dead. God rest his soul. Long live France. Long live the king!”
No one “long lived the king” back at him and he seemed disappointed. Although one knight did murmur “So?” and another, “Good bloody riddance.”
25
Curtain wall—the outer wall of a castle compound, usually surrounding all of the buildings.