Fool(12)

 

“I’ll need your dagger, sir,” said I.

 

Edmund reached for the letter and I danced away from him. “First the knife, good bastard.”

 

Edmund laughed. “Take my dagger, fool. You’re no safer, I still have my sword.”

 

“Aye, which I handed you myself. I need your dagger to razor the seal off that letter of credit so I may affix it to this missive of ours. You’ll need to break it only in your father’s presence, as if you yourself are only then discovering your brother’s black nature.”

 

“Oh,” said Edmund.

 

He gave me the knife. I performed the deed with sealing wax and candle and handed the blade back with the letter. (Could I have used one of my own knives for the task? Of course, but it was not time for Edmund to know of them.)

 

The letter was barely in his pocket before Edmund had drawn his sword and had it leveled at my throat. “I think I can assure your silence better than a promise.”

 

I didn’t move. “So, you lament being born out of favor, what favor will you court by killing the king’s fool? A dozen guards saw you come in here.”

 

“I’ll take my chances.”

 

Just then the great chains that ran through my room began to shake, rattling as if a hundred suffering prisoners were shackled to them rather than a slab of oak and iron. Edmund looked around and I scampered to the far side of the room. Wind rushed through the arrow loops that served as my windows and extinguished the candle I had used for the sealing wax. The bastard spun to face the arrow loops and the room went dark, as if a cape had been thrown over the day. The golden form of a woman shimmered in the air at the dark wall.

 

The ghost said,

 

“A thousand years of torture rule,

 

 

 

 

 

The knave who dares to harm a fool.”

 

I could only see Edmund by the glow of the spirit, but he was moving crablike toward the door that led out onto the west wall, reaching frantically for the latch. Then he threw the bolt and was through the door in an instant. Light filled my little apartment and I could again view the Thames through the slits in the stone.

 

“Well rhymed, wisp,” said I to the empty air. “Well rhymed.”

 

 

 

 

 

FOUR

 

 

THE DRAGON AND HIS WRATH [18]

 

 

 

 

“Don’t despair, lad,” I said to Taster. “It’s not as grim as it looks. The bastard will stay Edgar and I’m relatively sure that France and Burgundy are buggering each other and would never let a princess come between them—although I’ll wager they’d borrow her wardrobe were it not guarded—so the day is saved. Cordelia will remain in the White Tower to torment me as always.”

 

We were in an antechamber off the great hall. Taster sat, head in hands, looking paler than normal, a mountain of food piled before him on the table.

 

“The king doesn’t like dates, does he?” asked Taster. “Not likely he’ll eat any of the dates that were brought as gifts, right?”

 

“Did Goneril or Regan gift them?”

 

“Aye, a whole larder they brought with them.”

 

“Sorry, lad, you’ve work ahead, then. How it is you’re not as fat as a friar, with all you’re required to eat, is beyond me.”

 

“Bubble says I must have a city of worms living up my bum, but that ain’t it. I’ve a secret, if you won’t tell anyone—”

 

“Go on lad, I’m hardly paying attention.”

 

“What about him?” He nodded to Drool, who was sitting in the corner petting one of the castle cats.

 

“Drool,” I called, “is Taster’s secret safe with you?”

 

“As dim as a snuffed candle, he is,” said the git in my voice. “Telling a secret to Drool is like casting ink in the night sea.”

 

“See there,” said I.

 

“Well,” said Taster, looking around as if anyone would want to be in our miserable company. “I’m sick a lot.”

 

“Of course you are, it’s the bloody Dark Ages, everyone has the plague or the pox. It’s not like you’re leprous and dropping fingers and toes like rose petals, is it?”

 

“No, not sick like that. I just vomit nearly every time I eat.”

 

“So you’re a little chunder-monkey. Not to worry, Taster, you keep it down long enough for it to kill you, don’t you?”

 

“I reckon.” He nibbled at a stuffed date.

 

“Duty done, then. All’s well that ends well. But back to my concerns: Do you think France and Burgundy are poofters,[19] or are they, you know, just fucking French?”