Fool(11)

 

“No, no, no, don’t be sorry. Don’t you dare be sorry, boy.”

 

“I’m not. I won’t be.”

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Pocket, mum.”

 

“Pocket,” she repeated, and she laughed some more. “You’ve spilled my ale, Pocket.”

 

“Aye, mum. Shall I fetch you some more?”

 

“If you don’t want the glory of my bloody godliness burning us both down, you better had, hadn’t you, friend Pocket? And when you come back, I want you to tell me a story that will make me laugh.”

 

“Yes, mum,”

 

And that was the day that my world changed.

 

 

 

“Remind me, why is it we’re not just murdering my brother?” asked Edmund. From whimpering scribblings to conspiracy to murder in the course of an hour, Edmund was a quick study when it came to villainy.

 

I sat, quill in hand, at the table in my small apartment above the great gatehouse in the outer wall of the castle. I have my own fireplace, a table, two stools, a bed, a cupboard for my things, a hook for my coxcomb and clothes, and in the middle of my room a large cauldron for heating and pouring boiling oil upon a siege force through gutters in the floor. But for the clanking of the massive chains when the drawbridge is raised or lowered, it is a cozy den in which to pursue slumber or other horizontal sport. Best of all, it is private, with a thumping big bolt on the door. Even among the nobles, privacy is rare, as conspiracy thrives there.

 

“While that is an attractive course, unless Edgar is disgraced, disinherited, and his properties willfully given to you, the lands and title could pass to some legitimate cousin, or worse, your father might set about trying to sire a new legitimate heir.”

 

I shuddered a bit then—along with, I’m sure, a dozen maidens about the kingdom—at the mental vision of Gloucester’s withered flanks, bared and about the business of making an heir upon their nubile nobility. They would be clawing at the nunnery door to escape the honor.

 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Edmund.

 

“Really, you, not think? How shocking. Although a simple poisoning does seem cleaner, the letter is the sharper sword.” If I gave the scoundrel proper rope, perhaps he could hang for both our purposes. “I can craft such a letter, subtle, yet condemning. You’ll be the Earl of Gloucester before you can get dirt shoveled on your father’s still twitching body. But the letter may not do all.”

 

“Speak your mind, fool. As much as I’d love to silence your yammering, speak.”

 

“The king favors your father and your brother, which is why they were called here. If Edgar becomes betrothed to Cordelia, which could happen before the morrow—well, with the princess’s dowry in hand, there’ll be no cause for him to resort to the treachery we are about to craft around him. You’ll be left with your fangs showing, noble Edmund, and the legitimate son will be all the richer.”

 

“I’ll see he is not betrothed to Cordelia.”

 

“How? Will you tell him horrid things? I have it on good authority that her feet are like ferryboats. They strap them up under her gown to keep them from flapping when she walks.”

 

“I will see to it that there is no marriage, little man, don’t you worry. But you must see to this letter. Tomorrow Edgar goes on to Barking to deliver the letters of credit and I’ll return to Gloucester with my father. I’ll let the letter slip to him then, so his anger has time to fester in Edgar’s absence.”

 

“Quick, before I waste parchment, promise you’ll not let Edgar marry Cordelia.”

 

“Fine, fool, promise you’ll not tell anyone that you ever penned this letter, and I will.”

 

“I promise,” said I. “By the balls of Venus.”

 

“Then, so do I,” said the bastard.

 

“All right, then,” said I, dipping my quill in ink, “although murder would be a simpler plan.” I’ve never cared for the bastard’s brother Edgar, either. Earnest and open-faced is he. I don’t trust anyone who appears so trustworthy. They must be up to something. Of course, Edmund hanging black-tongued for his brother’s murder would make for a festive chandelier as well. A fool does enjoy a party.

 

In a half-hour I had crafted a letter so wily and peppered with treachery that any father might strangle his son at the sight of it and, if childless, bastinade his own bollocks with a war hammer to discourage conspirators yet to be born. It was a masterpiece of both forgery and manipulation. I blotted it well and held it up for Edmund to see.