“Well, fine then,” said I. “We’ll send the letter, skip lunch, and go right to siring the heir. I’m feeling full of tiny princes, bustling to get out into the world and start plotting against one another.” I thrust my cod at her to show the palpable urgency of our progeny.

“No, that’s why I must send you,” she said, ignoring my eloquent gesture of prince pumpage. “No letter, dispatch, or herald can be even remotely as annoying as you. Only you can shame them for just how badly they bollixed up the last bloody Crusade. Only you, my darling fool, can convey just how ridiculous—and bloody inconvenient—I find their call to battle.”

“Moi?” said I, in perfect fucking French.

“Toi, mon amour,” said she, in the teasing tongue of the frog. She kissed me lightly on the eyebrow and danced across our bedchamber to a heavy table where lay paper, ink, and quill.

“The kingdom is going to shit. I need my loyal knights here as a show of strength against those who would usurp me. You need to make it clear to the Venetians that I have no intention of joining yet another holy Crusade, nor will anyone from any of my lands, or, if I can manage it, our allies. And I want you to wear your motley. I want my message to come from a fool.”

“But I am your king.”

“No you’re not.”

“The royal consort?” I ventured.

“I have, in my weaker moments, shagged a fool,” said she, her head bowed in shame.

“And married the same,” said I.

“I don’t think we should dwell on that, love. Go to them. Speak my mind. Dwell in their palaces, drink their wine, learn their secrets, and leave them flustered, frustrated, and insulted, as I know only you can do.”

“But, lamb, sending a fool to the pope—”

“Oh, bugger the pope!”

“I think he already has someone to do that.”

“No, you needn’t worry about Rome. It’s Venice that’s behind this. Genoa has just kicked nine shades of shit out of them and they need to raise money. They think a holy war will rebuild their navy and reopen the trade routes they’ve lost to the Genoans, but they’ll not do it on the fortune of Cordelia. Go to Venice. And take Drool and Jeff with you.”

“Salting the earth of all decorum, are we then?”

“Yes. Take your great drooling ninny and your monkey and your acid wit and inflict them upon the court of the doge. They dare not turn you away. And when you return, we will make an heir.”

“I am your humble servant, milady,” said I. “But we’ve still an hour before lunch, and—”

“Cry havoc, and let slip the trousers of most outrageous bonkilation!” said the queen, throwing off the sash of her gown and stepping out of it. “Off with your kit, fool!”