Fool (18 page)

“Gloucester was being deferential to your Christian beliefs as it was, love. The holiday is Saturnalia for him and Edmund, proper orgy it is. So perhaps there’s a present for you yet to be unwrapped.”

She smiled then. “Perhaps. Edmund was so coy at the feast-barely looking my way. Fear of Cornwall, I suppose. But you were right, his ear was bandaged.”

“Aye, lady, and I’m to tell you that he’s a bit modest about it. He may not wish to be fully seen.”

“But I saw him at the feast.”

“Aye, but he’s hinted that there may have been other self-punishment performed in your honor and he’s shy.”

A joyous child at Christmas she suddenly was-visions of a bloke lashing himself dancing in her head.

“Oh, Pocket, do let me in.”

And so I did. I opened the door, and slipped the storm lantern from her grasp as she passed. “Ah, ah, ah, love. No more light than that one candle. He’s ever so shy.”

I heard Edmund’s voice say from behind the tapestry, “Oh, my sweet lady, Regan, thou art more fair than moonlight, more radiant than the sun, more glorious than all the stars. I must have you or I shall surely die.”

I slowly closed and latched the door.

“No, my goddess, undress there,” said Edmund’s voice. “Let me watch you.”

I’d been all evening coaching Drool on what to say and exactly how to say it. Next he would comment on her loveliness, then ask her to blow out the single candle on the table and join him behind the tapestry, at which point he was to unceremoniously snog her soggy and shag her silly.

It sounded rather like what I’d guess would be the auditory effect of a bull elk trying to balance a wildcat on a red-hot poker. There was no little bit of yowling, growling, squealing, and screeching going on by the time I saw the second light coming up the stairs. I could see by the shadow that the lantern bearer was leading with a drawn sword. Oswald had been true to his treacherous nature, just as I had calculated.

“Put down that blade, you git, you’ll put someone’s eye out.”

The Duke of Cornwall rounded the stairs with blade lowered, a bewildered look on his face. “Fool?”

“What if a child was running down the stairs?” I said. “Awkward explaining to Gloucester why his beloved toddler grandson was wearing a yard of Sheffield steel through his gizzard.”

“Gloucester doesn’t have a grandson,” said Cornwall, surprised, I think, that he was engaged in this discussion.

“That doesn’t diminish the need for basic weapons safety.”

“But I’m here to slay you.”

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

“Because you are shagging my lady.”

There was a great bellow from the tower room, followed by a female feral screech. “Was that pain or pleasure, would you say?” I asked.

“Who is in there?” Cornwall raised his sword again.

“Well, it is your lady, and she is most certainly being shagged, by the bastard Edmund of Gloucester, but prudence would have you stay your blade.” I laid Jones across the duke’s wrist and pushed his sword hand down. “Unless you care nothing for being King of Britain.”

“What are you on about, fool?” The duke very much wanted to do some killing, but his ambition was trumping his bloodlust.

“Oh ride me, you great, tree-cocked rhinoceros!” screamed Regan from the next room.

“She still says that?” I asked.

“Well, usually it’s ‘tree-cocked stallion,’” said Cornwall.

“She does get good wear out of a metaphor.” I put my hand on his shoulder for comfort. “Aye, a sad surprise, for you, I’ll wager. At least when a man, after looking into his soul, finally stoops to fuck a snake, he hopes at least not to see pairs of boots already lined up outside her burrow.”

He shook me off. “I’ll kill him!”

“Cornwall, you are about to be attacked. Even now Albany prepares to take all of Britain for his own. You’ll need Edmund and the forces of Gloucester to prevail against him, and when you do, you’ll be king. If you go in that room now, you will kill a horn-beast, but you will lose a kingdom.”

“God’s blood,” said Cornwall. “Is this true?”

“Win the war, good sirrah. Then kill the bastard at your leisure, when you can take your time and do it right. Regan’s honor is, well, malleable, is it not?”

“You’re sure about this war?”

“Aye. It’s why you need to take Lear’s remaining knights and squires, just as Goneril and Albany took the others. And you mustn’t let Goneril know you know. Even now your lady is assuring Gloucester’s allegiance to your side.”

“Really? That’s why she’s shagging Edmund?”

It hadn’t occurred to me until I’d said it, but it really did work quite nicely. “Oh yes, my lord, her enthusiasm is inspired by her fierce loyalty to you.”

“Of course,” said Cornwall, sheathing his sword. “I should have seen it.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t kill Edmund when it’s over,” said I.

“Absolutely,” said the duke.

When Cornwall was gone and some time after the first bell had rung for the watch, I knocked on the door and peeked my head in.

“Lord Edmund,” said I. “There’s a stirring in the duke’s tower. Perhaps you should say your farewells.”

I held Regan’s storm lantern at the crack of the door so she could find her way out, and a few moments later she stumbled out of the solar with her gown on backward, her hair in knots, and a slick of drool running in a river between and over her breasts. Overall, in fact, she looked quite slippery.

She was dazed and limping in a way that seemed she couldn’t quite figure which side to favor, and she was dragging one shoe by its strap around her ankle.

“Lady, shall I get your other shoe?”

“Sod it,” she said, waving drunkenly, or what seemed like drunkenly, almost falling down the stairs. I steadied her, helped her get her gown turned around, swabbed her down a bit with her skirt, then took her arm and helped her down the stairs.

“He’s quite a bit larger close up than he appears across the room.”

“That so?”

“I shan’t sit down for a fortnight.”

“Ah, sweet romance. Can you make it to your quarters, kitten?”

“I think so. You’re clever, Pocket-start thinking of excuses for Edmund if I’m not able to get out of bed tomorrow.”

“My pleasure, kitten. Sleep well.”

I made my way back upstairs where Drool was standing trouserless by the candle, still sporting enough of an erection to bludgeon a calf senseless.

“Sorry, I came out, Pocket, it were dark.”

“No worries, lad. Good show.”

“She were fit.”

“Aye. Quite.”

“What’s a rhinoceros?”

“It’s like a unicorn with armored bollocks. It’s a good thing. Chew these mint leaves and let’s get you wiped down. Practice your Edmund lines while I look for a towel.”

When the watch rang the second bell, the scene was set. Another storm lantern illuminated the stairs and cast a buxom shadow up the wall.

“Pumpkin!”

“What are you doing here, worm?”

“Just keeping watch. Go in, but leave your lantern with me. Edmund is shy about the injury he has inflicted on himself in your honor.”

Goneril grinned at the prospect of the bastard’s pain and went in.

A few minutes passed before Oswald crept up the stairs.

“Fool? You’re still alive?”

“Aye.” I held my hand up to my ear. “But listen to the children of the night-what music they make.”

“Sounds like a moose trying to shit a family of hedgehogs,” said the scoundrel.

“Oh, that’s good. I was thinking more of moo cow being beaten with a flaming goose, but you may have it. Ah, who’s to say? We should leave, good Oswald, and give the lovers their privacy.”

“Did you not meet with Princess Regan?”

“Oh, we changed the rendezvous to the fourth bell of the watch, why?”

SIXTEEN – A STORM RISING

The storm blew in during the night. I was eating my breakfast in the kitchen when a row erupted in the courtyard. I heard Lear bellow and left to attend him, leaving my porridge with Drool. Kent intercepted me in the corridor.

“So the old man lived through the night?” said I.

“I slept at his door,” said Kent. “Where were you?”

“Trying to see two princesses ruthlessly shagged and starting a civil war, thank you, and with no proper supper, neither.”

“Fine feast,” said Kent. “Ate till I nearly burst just to see the king went unpoisoned. Who is bloody St. Stephen, anyway?”

Then I saw Oswald coming down the corridor.

“Good Kent, go see that the daughters don’t kill the king, and that Cornwall doesn’t kill Edmund, and that the sisters don’t kill each other, and if you can help it, don’t kill anyone. It’s too early for killing.”

Kent hurried off as Oswald reached me.

“So,” said Oswald, “you lived through the night?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” I asked.

“Well, because I told Cornwall of your rendezvous with Regan and I expected him to slay you.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Oswald, show a little guile, would you? The state of villainy in this castle is rubbish, what with Edmund being pleasant and you being straightforward. What’s next, Cornwall starts feeding orphans while bloody bluebirds fly out of his bum? Now, let’s try it again, see if you can at least keep up a pretense of evil. Go.”

“So, you lived through the night?” said Oswald.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” I asked.

“Oh, no reason, I was worried about you.”

I clouted Oswald on the ear with Jones. “No, you nitwit, I’d never believe you’re concerned for my welfare-you’re a right weasel, aren’t you?”

He made to reach for his sword and I hit his wrist a vicious blow with Jones’s stick end. The villain leapt back and rubbed his bruised wrist.

“Despite your incompetence, our agreement stands. I need you to consult with Edmund. Give him this letter from Regan.” I handed him the letter I’d written at first light. Regan’s hand was easy to duplicate. She dotted her i’s with hearts. “Don’t break the seal, it professes her devotion for him, but instructs him to show no outward affection for her. You must also caution him against showing any deference to your lady Goneril in front of Regan. And because I know the intrigue confuses you, let me map out your interest here. Edmund will dispatch your Lord Albany, thus releasing your lady to other affections, only then will we reveal to Cornwall that Edmund has cuckolded him with Regan, and the duke will dispatch the bastard, at which time, I will cast the love spell on Goneril, sending her into your own ferrety arms.”

“You could be lying. I tried to have you killed. Why would you help me?”

“Excellent question. First, I, unlike you, am not a villain, therefore I can be expected to proceed with a modicum of integrity. And, second, I wish to visit revenge on Goneril for how she has treated me, her younger sister, Cordelia, and King Lear. I can think of no better punishment for her than pairing her with the man-shaped tower of excrement that is yourself.”

“Oh, that’s reasonable,” said Oswald.

“Off you go, then. See that Edmund doesn’t show deference.”

“I might slay him myself, for violating my lady.”

“No, you won’t, you’re a coward. Or had you forgotten?”

Oswald started to quiver then with anger, but he did not try to reach for his sword.

“Run along, mate, Pocket’s got a bumload of foolin’ yet to do.”

A randy hand of wind groped the courtyard, sending the sisters’ skirts tossing and snapping their hair in their faces. Kent crouched and clung to his great broad-brimmed hat to keep it from being carried away. The old king held his fur cape tight around him and squinted against the dust, while the Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Gloucester stood by the great gate for shelter-the duke content, it seemed, to let his duchess do the talking. I was relieved to see that Edmund was not in attendance, so I danced into the courtyard, bells a-jingle, song in heart.

“Hi ho!” said I. “Everyone get a proper bonking for the Saturnalia, did they?”

The two sisters looked at me blankly, as if I might have been speaking Chinese or dog, and they had not, overnight, each received rousing repeated bonkings from an enormous donkey-donged nitwit. Gloucester looked down, embarrassed, I suppose, over abandoning his own pantheon for St. Stephen, and a wholly bollocks holy holiday feast. Cornwall sneered.

“Ah,” said I. “Then a crispy biscuit baby Jesus cornu-bloody-copia of Christmas cheer, was it? Silent night, camels and wise men-frankenstein, gold, and myrrh all around then?”

“Sodding Christian harpies want to take away my knights,” said Lear. “I’ve already lost half my train to you, Goneril, I’ll not lose the rest.”

“Oh, yes, sire,” said I. “Christianity is their fault. I forgot that the wind blew out of a pagan sky for you today.”

Regan stepped forward then, and yes, she was walking a bit bow-legged. “Why do you need to keep fifty men, Father? We’ve plenty of servants to tend to you.”

“And,” said Goneril, “they will be under our charge, so there will be no discord within the walls of our homes.”

“I’m of my sister’s mind on this,” said Regan.

“You’re always of your sister’s mind,” said Lear. “An original thought would crack your feeble skull like a thunderbolt, you craven vulture.”

“That’s the spirit, sire,” said I. “Treat them like bins of used nappies and watch them come around. A wonder they’ve turned out so delightful with fathering of that quality.”

“Take them, then, you flesh-tearing harpies! Would that I could drag your mother from her tomb and accuse her of most grievous adultery, for you cannot be issue from my loins and treat me so.”

I nodded and lay my head on Goneril’s shoulder. “Evidently the adultery comes from Mum’s side of the family, pumpkin-the bitterness and stunning bosoms are from Papa.”

She pushed me aside, despite my wisdom.

Lear was losing all control now, trembling as he shouted impotently at his daughters, looking weaker and more slight with every word. “Hear me, gods! If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts against their father, then touch me with noble anger, and stain not my man’s cheeks with women’s weapons, the water drops.”

“Those aren’t tears on your cheeks, nuncle,” said I. “It’s raining.”

Gloucester and Cornwall looked away, embarrassed for the old man. Kent had his hands on the king’s shoulders and was trying to lead him gently out of the rain. Lear shrugged him off and stormed up to his daughters.

“You unnatural hags! I will have such revenges on you both that the world-er, I will do such things that I don’t even know yet, but they will be horrible-the very terrors of the earth! But I’ll not weep! I’ll not. Even if my heart shall break into a hundred thousand shards, I shall not weep. O fool, I shall go mad!”

“Aye, nuncle, smashing good start you’re off to.” I tried to put an arm around Lear’s shoulders, but he elbowed me away.

“Rescind your orders, harpies, or I shall leave this house.” He made for the great gate.

“It is for your own good, Father,” said Goneril. “Now, cease this ranting and come inside.”

“I gave you all!” screeched Lear, waving a palsied claw at Regan.

“And you took your bloody time giving it, too, you senile old fuck,” said Regan.

“She came up with that one all on her own, nuncle,” said I, looking on the bright side.

“I will go,” threatened Lear, another step toward the gate. “I’m not having you on. I’ll head right out that door.”

“Pity,” said Goneril.

“Shame, really,” said Regan.

“Here I go. Right out that gate. Never to return. All alone.”

“Ta,” said Goneril.

“Au revoir,”
said Regan, in nearly perfect fucking French.

“I mean it.” The old man was actually through the gate now.

“Close it,” said Regan.

“But, lady, it’s not fit for man nor beast out there,” said Gloucester.

“Fucking close it!” said Goneril. She ran forward and pushed the great iron lever by the gatehouse with all her might. The heavy, iron-clad portcullis slammed down, the points just missing the old king as they set in the ports a foot deep in the stone.

“I’ll go,” said Lear, through the grate. “Don’t think I won’t.”

The sisters left the courtyard for the shelter of the castle. Cornwall followed them and called for Gloucester to come along.

“But this storm,” said Gloucester, watching his old friend through the bars. “No one should be out in this storm.”

“He brought it on himself,” said Cornwall. “Now, come along, good Gloucester.”

Gloucester pulled himself away from the grate and followed Cornwall into the castle, leaving just Kent and me standing in the rain in only our woolen cloaks. Kent looked tortured over the old man’s fate.

“He’s alone, Pocket. It’s not even noon and the sky is as dark as midnight. Lear is outside and alone.”

“Oh buggering bugger,” said I. I looked at the chains leading up to the top of the gatehouse, the beams that protruded from the walls, the crenellations at the top to protect the archers. Damn the anchoress and Belette for my monkey-training as an acrobat. “I’ll go with him. But you have to hide Drool from Edmund. Talk to the laundress with the smashing knockers, she’ll help. She fancies the lad, no matter what she says.”

“I’ll go get help to crank up the gate,” said Kent.

“Not to worry. You look after the Natural, and watch your back for Edmund and Oswald. I’ll return with the old man when I can.” And with that I shoved Jones down the back of my jerkin, ran and leapt onto the massive chain, spidered up it hand over hand, swung up onto one of the beams that protruded from the stone above, then hopped from beam to beam until I could find a handhold in the stone-and scurried up another story to the top of the wall. “Sorry sodding fortress,” I shouted to Kent with a wave. In a wink I was over the wall and down the drawbridge chains on the other side to the ground below.

The old man was already at the gates of the walled village, nearly disappearing amid the rain, tottering out onto the heath in his fur cape, looking like an ancient sodden rat.

ACT III

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

–
King Lear,
Act V, Scene 3, Regan