Free Fool (english) by Christopher Moore Page A

nearly through the center of the arrow cross-she looked like one of the angel-faced gargoyles that flanked the main doors of Dog Snogging, except they always seemed to be weeping and she was grinning. “So, didn’t go to confession today, did you?”

    I shuddered. “No, mum, I worked in the scriptorium most of the day.”
    “Pocket, I think I would prefer you not call me mum, if it’s not too much to ask. Given the new level of our friendship it seems-oh, I don’t know-unsavory.”
    “Yes, m-uh-mistress.”
    “Mistress I can work with. Now, pass me my supper and see if you can fit your face in the opening the way that I have.”
    Thalia’s cheekbones were wedged in the arrow loop, which was little wider than my hand.
    “Doesn’t that hurt?” I’d been finding abrasions on my arms and various bits all day from our adventure the night before.
    “It’s not the flaying of St. Bart, but, yes, it stings a bit. You can’t confess what we did, or what we do, love? You know that, right?”
    “Then am I going to have to go to hell?”
    “Well-” She pulled back, rolled her eyes as if searching the ceiling for an answer. “-not alone. Give us our supper, lad, and get your face in the loop, I have something to teach you.”
    And so it went for weeks and months. I went from being a mediocre acrobat to a talented contortionist, and Thalia seemed to regain some of the life that I had thought sure she’d lost. She was not holy in the sense that the priests and nuns taught, but she was full of spirit and a different kind of reverence. More concerned with this life, this moment, than an eternity beyond the reach of the cross in the wall. I adored her, and I wanted her to be out of the chamber, in the world, with me, and I began to plan her escape. But I was but a boy, and she was bloody barking, so it was not meant to be.
    “I’ve stolen a chisel from a mason who passed by on his way to work on the minster at York. It will take some time, but if you work on a single stone, you might escape in summer.”
    “You are my escape, Pocket. The only escape I can ever allow myself.”

    “But we could run off, be together.”
    “That would be smashing, except I can’t leave. So, hop up and get your tackle in the cross. Thalia’s a special treat for you.”
    I never seemed to make my point once my tackle went in the cross. Distracted, I was. But I learned, and while I was forbidden confession-and to tell the truth, I didn’t feel that badly about it-I began to share what I had learned.
    “Thalia, I must confess to you, I have told Sister Nikki about the little man in the boat.”
    “Really? Told her or showed her?”
    “Well, showed her, I reckon. But she seems a bit thick. She kept making me show her over and over-asked me to meet her in the cloisters to show her again after vespers tonight.”
    “Ah, the joy of being slow. Still, it’s a sin to be selfish with one’s knowledge.”
    “That’s what I thought,” said I, relieved.
    “And speaking of the little man in the boat, I believe there is one on this side of the loop who has been naughty and requires a thorough tongue-lashing.”
    “Aye, mistress,” said I, wedging my cheeks into the arrow loop. “Present the rascal for punishment.”
    And so it went. I was the only person I knew who had calluses on his cheekbones, but I had also developed the arms and grip of a blacksmith from suspending myself with my fingertips wedged between the great stones to extend my bits through the arrow loop. And thus I hung, spread spiderlike across the wall, my business being tended to, frantic and friendly, by the anchoress, when the bishop entered the antechamber.
    (The bishop entered the antechamber? The bishop entered the antechamber? At this point you’re going coy on us, euphemizing about parts and positions when you’ve already confessed to mutual violation with a holy woman through a bloody arrow slot? Well, no.)

    The actual sodding Bishop of Bloody York entered the