Fool Chapter 2

TWONOW, GODS, STAND UP FOR BASTARDS11I found fraud in the wash drawing resolving a wank, sp let oning bang-up gouts of git-seed across the laundry walls, floors, and ceiling, giggling, as young Shanker flaming(a) shame wagged her tits at him over a steam cauldron of the poofs shirts.Put those away, tart, weve a show to do.I was just giving im a laugh.If you wanted to show charity you could hold bonked him mediocre and t filmherd be a lot less cleaning to do.Thatd be a sin. Besides, Id as soon crop a gatemans halberd as try to get a weapon that girth up me.Drool handle himself dry and sat rase on the floor splay-legged, huffing wish well a great drip bellows. I tried to help the lout repack his tackle, scarcely getting him into a codpiece against his firm en consequentlyiasm was kindred trying to pound a bucket over a bulls head a scenario I thinking comical enough to perhaps work into the act to dark, should things get slake.Nothing stopping you from givin the lad a straitlaced cleavage toss, crashing(a) shame. You had em out and all soaped up, a couple of jumps and a tickle and hed sport carried water for you for a fortnight.He already does. And I dont even want that thing near me. A congenital, he is. Theres devils in his jizm.Devils? Devils? Theres no devils in there, lass. Chock full o nitwits, to be sure, hardly no devils. A Natural was either blessed or cursed, never just an accident of nature, as the name imp restd.Sometime during the week, Shanker bloody shame had g oneness Christian on us, despite existence a most egregious slut. You never knew any longer who you were dealing with. Half the kingdom was Christian, the other half paid tribute to the old gods of Nature, who were always exhibit promise on the moonrise. The Christian theology with his day of rest was strong with the peasants come Sunday, but by Thursday when there was drinking and fucking to be done, Nature had her kit off, legs aloft, and a flagon of ale in for ea ch one hand, taking converts for the Druids as fast as they could come. They were a solid majority when the holiday was about, dancing, drinking, shagging the virgins, and sharing the harvest, but on the human sacrifice or burn-down-the-Kings-forest days, there was none but crickets cavorting round the Stonehenge the singers having forsaken Mother Earth for draw Church.Pretty, say Drool, trying to wrestle dressing control of his tool. Mary had commenced to stirring the laundry but had overlook to pull her dress up. Had the gits attention hostage, she did.Right. Shes a bloody vision of loveliness, lad, but youve buffed yourself to a gleam already and weve work to do. The castles awash in intrigue, subterfuge, and crime theyll be wanting-comic relief between the flattery and the murders.Intrigue and villainy? Drool displayed a gape-toothed grin. Imagine soldiers dumping hogsheads of spittle through the crenellations atop the castle wall thus is Drools grin, as earnest in expre ssion as it is damp in execution a slurry of unafraid cheer. He loves intrigue and villainy, as they play to his most special ability.Will there be conceal?There depart most certainly be hiding, say I, as I shouldered an break loose testicle into his cod.And listening?Listening of cavernous proportions we shall hang on every word as God on Popes p spearers.And fuckery? Will there be fuckery, Pocket?Heinous fuckery most foul, lad. Heinous fuckery most foul.Aye, thats the dogs bollocks,12 then(prenominal) said Drool, slapping his thigh. Did you nail, Mary? Heinous fuckery afoot. Aint that the dogs bollocks?Oh yeah, the dogs bloody B. it is, love. If the saints are smilin on us, maybe one of them nobles leave hang your wee mate there like they been threatening.Two fools well-hung wed have then, wouldnt we? said I, elbowing my apprentice in the ribs.Aye, two fools well-hung, wed have, wouldnt we? said Drool, in my voice, tone to none coming out his great old salt as like he d caught an echo on his tongue and coughed it right prickle. Thats the oafs gift not entirely trick he mimic perfectively, he endure recall whole conversations, hours long, recite them back to you in the archetype speakers voices, and not comprehend a single word. Hed first been gifted to Lear by a Spanish duke because of his torrential dribbling and the ability to break wind that could darken a room, but when I discovered the Naturals keener talent, I took him as my apprentice to teach him the manly art of mirth.Drool laughed. Two fools well-hung Stop that I said. Its unsettling. Unsettling indeed, to hear your own voice sluicing pitch-perfect out of that mountain of lout, stripped of wit and washed of irony. Two long time Id had Drool under my wing and I was still not inured to it. He meant no harm, it was patently his nature.The anchoress at the abbey had taught me of nature, making me recite Aristotle It is the mark of an educated man, and a tribute to his culture, that he look for preciseness in a thing only as its nature allows. I would not have Drool reading Cicero or crafting clever riddles, but under my tutelage he had become more than median(a) at tumbling and juggling, could belch a song, and was, at court, at least as entertaining as a trained bear, with slightly less proclivity for have the guests. With guidance, he would make a proper fool.Pocket is sad, said Drool. He patted my head, which was wildly irritating, not only because we were face-to-face me standing, him sitting bum-to-floor but because it rang the bells of my comb in a most melancholy manner.Im not sad, said I. Im angry that youve been lost all morning.I werent lost. I were right here, the whole time, having three laughs with Mary.Three? Youre lucky you two didnt burst into flames, you from friction and her from bloody thunderbolts of Jesus.Maybe four, said Drool.You do look the lost one, Pocket, said Mary. Face like a grief orphan whats been dumped in the gutter with the chamber pots.Im preoccupied. The king has kept no company but Kent this populate week, the castle is brimming with backstabbers, and theres a girl-ghost rhyming ominous on the battlements.Well, theres always a bloody ghost, aint there? Mary fished a shirt out of the cauldron and bobbed it across the room on her paddle like she was out for a stroll with her own sodden, steaming ghost. Youve got no cares but making everyone laugh, right?Aye, slaphappy as a breeze. Leave that water when youre done, would you, Mary? Drool indispensabilitys a dunking.NoooooooHush, you rear endt go in front the court like that, you smell of shit. Did you sleep on the dung heap again last night?It were warm.I clouted him a good one on the crown with Jones. Warms not all, lad. If you want warm you can sleep in the great hall with everyone else.He aint allowed, offered Mary. Chamberlain13 says his snoring frightens the dogs.Not allowed? Every commoner who didnt have quarters slept on the floor in th e great hall strewn about willy-nilly on the stalking and rushes nearly dog-piled before the fireplace in winter. An enterprising fellow with night horns aloft and a predisposal to mouse might find himself accidentally sharing a blanket or a tumble with a sleepy and possibly willing wench, and then be banished for a fortnight from the halls friendly warmth (and indeed, I owe my own modest apartment above the barbican14 to such nocturnal proclivity), but put out for snoring? Unheard of. When nights inky cape light ups oer the great hall, a gristmill it becomes, the machines of mens confidential information grind their dreams with a frightful roar, and even Drools great gears fall undistinguished among the chorus. For snoring? Not allowed in the hall? BalderdashAnd for having a wee on the stewards wife, Mary added.It were dark, explained Drool.Aye, and even in daylight she is slowly mistaken for a privy, but have I not tutored you in the control of your fluids, lad?Aye, and wit h great success, said Shanker Mary, rolling her midriffs at the spunk-frosted wall.Ah, Mary, well said. Lets make a pact If you do not make attempts at wit, I will refrain from becoming a soap-smelling prick-pull. What say ye?You said you desire the smell of soap.Aye, well, speaking of smell. Drool, fetch some buckets of cold water from the well. We need to cool this kettle down and get you bathed.NoooooooJones will be very unhappy with you if you dont hurry, said I, brandishing Jones in a disapproving and somewhat threatening manner. A hard master is Jones, bitter, no doubt, from being raised as a wight on a stick.A half-hour later, a miserable Drool sat in the steaming cauldron, fully-clothed, his natural broth having turned the lye-white water to a rich, brown oaf-sauce. Shanker Mary stirred about him with her paddle, being careful not to stir him beyond suds to lust. I was quizzing my student on the coming nights entertainments.So, because Cornwall is on the sea, we shall po rtray the duke how, dear Drool? As a sheep-shagger, said the despondent giant.No, lad, thats Albany. Cornwall shall be the fish-fucker.Aye, sorry, Pocket.Not a worry, not a worry. Youll still be sodden from your bath, I suspect, so well work that into the jest. Bit of sloshing and squishing will but add to the merriment, and if we can thus imply that Princess Regan is herself, a fishlike consort, well I cant think of anyone who wont be am employ.Cepting the princess, said Mary.Well, yes, but she is very literal-minded and often has to be explained the thrust of the jest a time or two before lending her appreciation.Aye, remedial thrustings the let off for Regans stubborn wit, said the puppet Jones.Aye, remedial thrustings the remedy for Regans stubborn wit, said Drool in Joness voice.Youre dead men, sighed Shanker Mary.Youre a dead man, knave said a mans voice from behind me.And there stood Edmund, bastard son of Gloucester, blocking the only exit, sword in hand. dressed all in b wishing, was the bastard a simple silvery brooch secured his cape, the hilts of his sword and dagger were silver dragon heads with emerald eyes. His jet beard was trimmed to points. I do admire the bastards 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 spite 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 argyll 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. maybe a new outfit will stop you tweaking Deaths nose. Im short for the grave as it is, boy, no need to anger the worms before my arrival. When even a king fears ironys twisted blade, what fool is ever unarmed? mountain your weapon, fool said Edmund.Sadly, sir, I h ave 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 extended fingers, and yea, even speared grapes out of the air. I had little doubt that one might find its way into Edmunds eye and thus vent his bitter mind like a lanced boil. If he ask 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 yelled bastard at me from the battlements.Aye, they announced you as bastard. You, sir, are a bastard. And a bastard most unsportsmanlike 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.Its true, you git Your mother was a poxy whoreBeggin your pardon, sir, poxiness aint 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 blades reach from the bastard, who stalked me around the great cauldron. Take Mary here. In fact, theres 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. Shes 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 werent saving it.Edmund turned back to me. Why are you boiling this fellow?Couldnt be helped, said I. (How dramatic, the bastard, the water was barely steaming. What appeared to be boiling was Drool venting vapors.) gross fuckin courtesy, aint 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 h is blade at Marys throat. Ive been nine years in the Holy Land cleansing 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. Hes being punished. By the king. For attack me.Punished? For attacking a fool?Boil him alive, the king said. I jumped down to Edmunds side of the cauldron moved toward the doorway. Id needed a clear line of sight, and should he move, I didnt want the blade to hit Mary.Everyone knows how fond the king is of his dark little fool, said Mary, nodding enthusiastically.Bollocks shouted Edmund, as he pulled the sword back to slash.Mary screamed. I flipped a dagger in the air, caught it by the blade, and was readying to send it to Edmunds heart when something hit him in the back of the head with a thud and he went bum over eyebrows into the wall, his blade clang across the floor to my feet.Drool had stood up in the cauldron and was holding Marys laundry p addle a bit of dark hair and bloody scalp clung to the bleached wood.Did you see that, Pocket? Smashing fall he did. All of it a pantomime to Drool.Edmund was not moving. As far as I could see, he was not breathing either.Gods bloody balls, Drool, youve kilt the earls son. Well all be hung, now.But he were going to hurt Mary.Mary sat on the floor by Edmunds prostrate body and began stroking his hair on a spot where there was no blood. I was going to shag him docile, too.He would have killed you without a thought.Ah, blokes have their tempers, dont they? Look at him, hes a fair form of a fellow, innit he? And rich, too. She took something from his pocket. Whats this?Well done, lass, not so much as a comma between grief and robbery, and much the better when hes still so fresh his fleas have not sailed to livelier ports. The Church wears well on you.No, Im not robbing. Look, its a letter.Give it here.You can read? The tarts eyes widened as if I had confessed the ability to turn lead i nto gold.I was raised in a nunnery, wench. I am a walking library of learning bound in decorous leather and suitable for stroking at your service, should you fancy a bit of culture to go with your lack of breeding, or vice versa, of course.Then Edmund gasped and stirred.Oh fuckstockings. The bastards alive.