Fool (17 page)

“Oh bollocks,” said Regan.

“Pocket dresses the fool, but he is ever our hero, isn’t he, Regan?” said Cordelia.

“I think I’m going to be ill,” said the elder princess.

“So, love,” said I, rising from my perch on the torture machine and reaching into my jerkin. “I’m pleased you feel that way about Lord Edmund, for he has sent me with this letter.”

I handed her the letter. The seal was dodgy, but she wasn’t looking at the stationery.

“He’s smitten with you, Regan. In fact, so smitten he tried to cut off his own ear to deliver with this missive, to show you the depth of his affection.”

“Really? His ear.”

“Say nothing at the Yule feast, tonight, lady, but you’ll see the bandage. Mark it as a tribute of his love.”

“You saw him cut his ear?”

“Yes, and stopped him before the deed was done.”

“Was it painful, do you think?”

“Oh yes, lady. He has already suffered more than have others in months of knowing you.”

“That’s so sweet. Do you know what the letter says?”

“I was sworn not to look upon pain of death, but come close-”

She leaned close to me and I squeezed the witch’s puffball under her nose. “I believe it speaks of a midnight rendezvous with Edmund of Gloucester.”

FIFTEEN – IN A LOVER’S EYE

A warm wind blew in from the west, completely cocking up the Yule. Druids like snow round Stonehenge during the festival, and burning down the forest is all the more satisfying if there’s a chill in the air. As it was, it looked like we’d have rain for the feast. The clouds rolling over the horizon looked like they’d been born of a summer storm.

“Them look like summer storm clouds,” said Kent. We were hiding in the barbican above the gate, looking out over the walled village of Gloucester and the hills beyond. I’d been hiding since my encounter with Edmund. Evidently the bastard was somewhat put out with me.

We could see Goneril and her train entering the outer gates. She rode with a dozen soldiers and attendants, but noticeably, the Duke of Albany was not with her.

A sentry on the wall called out the approach of the Duchess of Albany. Gloucester and Edmund appeared in the courtyard, followed by Regan and Cornwall. Regan was working to keep her eyes off of Edmund’s bandaged ear.

“This should be interesting,” said I. “They swarm like vultures over a corpse.”

“Britain’s the corpse,” said Kent. “And we baited her to be torn apart.”

“Nonsense, Kent. Lear’s the corpse. But ambitious scavengers do not wait for his death to begin their dining.”

“You’ve a deeply wicked side, Pocket.”

“Truth has a deeply wicked side, Kent.”

“There’s the king,” said Kent. “No one attends him. I should go to him.”

Lear shuffled into the courtyard wearing his heavy fur cape.

“Like looking down on a lubricious chess set, isn’t it? The king moves in tiny steps, with no direction, like a drunkard trying to avoid the archer’s bolt. The others work their strategies and wait for the old man to fall. He has no power, yet all power moves in his orbit and to his mad whim. Do you know that there’s no fool piece on the chessboard, Kent?”

“Methinks the fool is the player, the mind above the moves.”

“Well, that’s a scratchy spot of cat wank.” I turned to the old knight. “But bloody well said. Go to Lear, then. Edmund won’t dare molest you, and Cornwall must pretend some contrition for throwing you into the stocks. The princesses will be burning bright for Edmund’s eye, and Gloucester-well, Gloucester proffers hospitality before jackals, he is well occupied.”

“What will you do?”

“I seem to have rendered myself undesirable, as impossible as that sounds. I need to find us a spy-someone more stealthy, devious, and underhanded than my own sweet nature allows.”

“Good luck with that,” said Kent.

“I loathe you, I despise you, I curse your existence and the foul demons that spawned you. You sicken me with anger and bilious hatred.”

“Oswald,” said I. “You’re looking well.” Drool and I had intercepted him in a corridor.

There is an unwritten edict, that when negotiating with an enemy, one does not reveal his knowledge of that enemy’s agenda, even unto death. It’s a point of honor, of sorts, but I see it as petty play-acting, and I had no intention of indulging in it with Oswald. Yet, I had need of his spidery talents, so some finesse was required.

“I would give an arm to see you hang, fool,” said Oswald.

“Oh, an excellent starting point,” said I. “Don’t you think, Drool?”

“Aye, Pocket,” said Drool, who loomed between Oswald and me, a thick table leg unsuccessfully concealed behind his back. Oswald might make as to draw his sword, but Drool would have beaten his brains into bloody marmalade before the blade cleared its scabbard. Unspoken, but understood. “Smashing good start,” said the giant.

“So, Oswald, let us go from there. Say you get what you want. Say you lose an arm, and I am hanged, how then is life better for your fine self? Your quarters more comfortable? Wine taste better, will it?”

“It’s unlikely, but let’s explore the possibilities, shall we?”

“Very well,” said I. “You first. Sever an arm and Drool here will hang me. You have my word.”

“You have my word,” said Drool, in my voice.

“Stop wasting my time, fool. My lady is arriving and I need to go to her.”

“Ah, there’s the rub, Oswald. What you want. What do you really want.”

“You could never know.”

“Your lady’s approval?”

“I have that.”

“Ah, that’s right, your lady’s love.”

Oswald became still then, as if I had taken the breath from the corridor in which we stood. To prove such was not the case, I pressed on.

“You want your lady’s love, her respect, her power, her submission, her bottom in the air before you, her begging for satisfaction and mercy-that about it?”

“I am not so base as you, fool.”

“And yet the very reason you hate me is that I have been to that place.”

“You have not. She has not loved you, nor respected you, nor given you power. You were an amusement at best.”

“Yet I know the way there, my coal-hearted friend. I know the way a servant might find such favor.”

“She could never. I am of common blood.”

“Oh, I’m not saying I could make you duke, only that you would be her lord in body, heart, and mind. You know her weakness for scoundrels, Oswald. Did you yourself not pimp your lady to Edmund?”

“I did not. I only delivered a message. And Edmund is heir to an earldom.”

“Just this bloody week he is. And don’t act as if you don’t know what was in that message. I have the power, Oswald, given me by three witches in the Great Birnam Wood, to put a spell upon your lady so she will adore and desire you.”

Oswald laughed, not something he did often. His face was not fit for it and he looked like he had something caught in his back teeth. “What kind of fool do you think me? Out of the way.”

“And all you have to do is what your lady would have you do anyway, serve her desires,” said I. I needed to make my case quickly. “She is bewitched already, you know? You were there.”

Oswald had been backing away from Drool, off to find another route to the courtyard and Goneril, when he stopped.

“You were there, Oswald. At Albany. Goneril was having a grab at my tackle and you came in. You’d just come through the door, I heard it. I had this purse in my hand.” I held up the silk pouch the witches had given me. “Remember?”

“I was there.”

“And I handed your lady a letter and said it was from Edmund of Gloucester. Remember?”

“Aye. And she dumped you on your arse.”

“Right you are. And sent you here, to deliver a message to Edmund. Had she ever made a note of the bastard before, Oswald? You are with her nearly every waking moment. Had she noted him before?”

“No. Not once. She gave some notice to Edgar, but not the bastard.”

“Exactly. She is bewitched to love Edmund, and I can do the same for you. You’ll die a frustrated toady any other way, Oswald. I’ve one more spell left.”

Oswald took careful steps back to me, like he was walking a wire rather than the stone floor of a castle corridor. “Why wouldn’t you use it for yourself?”

“Well, for one, you would know, and I presume you would not be slow to inform Lord Albany, who would quickly have me hanged. And second, I had three such spells, and I have used one for myself already.”

“Not the Duchess of Cornwall?” I could tell Oswald was aghast at the idea, yet there was an excitement in his eye.

I showed him a sly grin and flicked the bells of my hat with Jones. “I’ve a rendezvous with her this very night after the Yule feast-midnight, in the abandoned North Tower.”

“You dastardly little monster!”

“Oh sod off, Oswald. Would you have a princess of your own or not?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Almost nothing,” said I. “But it will take some strength of character for you to see this through. First, you must counsel your lady to keep peace with her sister, and convince her to relieve Lear of the remainder of his force. Then, you must have your lady rendezvous with Edmund at the second bell of the watch.”

“Two in the bloody morning?”

“Watch how she leaps at the chance. She’s bewitched, remember. It is critical that she ally herself with the house of Gloucester, even if it is in secret. I know that will be difficult for you, but you must endure it. If you are going to have the lady and her power, someone will have to dispatch the Duke of Albany-someone who will be of no loss when hanged. The bastard Edmund is perfect for the part, is he not?”

Oswald nodded, his eyes getting larger with my every word. His whole life he had carried messages and run errands for Goneril, but at last he could see reward in sight for being intrigue’s pawn. Fortunately, the possibility blinded him to reason. “When will the lady be mine?”

“When all is in place, catch-fart, when all is in place. What do you know of a military force coming from France?”

“Why, nothing.”

“Then skulk and eavesdrop. Edmund knows of such a force, or he has constructed a rumor. Find out what you can. Find out, but do not speak to Edmund of his rendezvous with your lady, he thinks it a secret.”

Oswald stood to his full height (he’d been bending over to talk face-to-face with me). “What do you gain from this, fool?”

I had hoped he wouldn’t ask. “Like you, even with love, there are those who would stand in the way of my happiness. I need you and those affected by your deeds to help them out of my way.”

“You would kill the Duke of Cornwall?”

“He is one, but no matter who loves me, I am bound to Lear-I am his slave.”

“So you would kill the king, too? No worries, fool, I can do that. You have a deal.”

“Fuckstockings!” said I.

“Jolly good show, Pocket,” said Kent. “Go looking for a messenger and end up setting a bloody assassin loose on the king. A born diplomat, you are.”

“Sarcasm is very unattractive in the elderly, Kent. I couldn’t very well call him off, my sincerity would have been questioned.”

“You weren’t being sincere.”

“Well, conviction then. Just stay by Lear during the Yule feast and don’t let him eat anything unless you’ve eaten it first. If I know Oswald, he’ll try to slay the king using the most cowardly means.”

“Or not at all.”

“What?”

“What makes you think Oswald was telling you the truth any more than you were telling it to him?”

“I’m counting on his lying to a degree.”

“But to what degree?”

I paced in a circle around our little tower room. “What a wimpled wagon of nun wank this is. I’d rather juggle fire blindfolded. I’m not built for these dark dealings-I’m better suited for laughter, children’s birthdays, baby animals, and friendly bonking. The sodding witches got it wrong.”

“And yet, you’ve set a civil war in motion and sent an assassin after the king,” said Kent. “Grand ambition for a children’s birthday clown, don’t you think?”

“You’ve become bitter in your dotage, you know?”

“Well, perhaps my duties as food taster will end my bitterness.”

“Just keep the old man alive, Kent. Since the Yule feast is still on, I take it dear Regan didn’t tell Lear that she was taking his knights yet.”

“The lady tried to make peace between Goneril and her father. She only served to calm the old man enough that he agreed to come to the feast.”

“Good. No doubt she’ll make her move on the morrow.” I grinned. “If she’s well enough.”

“Wicked,” said Kent.

“Justice,” said I.

Regan came up the spiral stairs alone. The single candle she carried in a storm lantern cast her shadow tall up the stone wall like the very specter of a shaggable death. I stood outside the solar door, candelabra in one hand, the door latch in the other.

“Happy Christmas, kitten,” said I.

“Well, that feast was complete crap, wasn’t it? Bloody Gloucester, pagan twat, calling it the feast of St. Stephen instead of Christmas. There’s no presents on the feast of bloody Stephen. Without presents I’d rather celebrate Yule for the winter solstice; at least then you get to sacrifice a pig and build a cracking huge fire.”