“What have you wrought, bastard?” I whispered with great fury and no little spit.
“Only what you wanted, fool. Your princess will have no husband, that I can assure, but even your sorceries won’t keep you safe if you reveal my strategy.”
“My sorceries? What? Oh, the ghost.”
“Yes, the ghost, and the bird. When I was crossing the battlement, a raven called me a tosser and shat on my shoulder.”
“Right, my minions are everywhere,” said I, “and you’re right to fear my canny mastery of the heavenly orbs and command of spirits and whatnot. But lest I unleash something unpleasant upon you, tell me, what did you say to the king?”
Edmund smiled then, which I found more unsettling than his blade. “I heard the princesses speaking amongst themselves about their affections for their father earlier in the day, and was enlightened to their character. I merely hinted to the king that he might ease his burden with the same knowledge.”
“What knowledge?”
“Go find out, fool. I’m off to fetch Cordelia’s suitors.”
And he was away. The guard held the door and I slipped back into the hall and to a spot near the table.
The king, it seemed, had only then finished a roll call of sorts, naming each of his friends and family at court, proclaiming his affection for each, and in the cases of Kent and Gloucester, recalling their long history of battles and conquests together. Bent, white-haired, and slight is the king, but there is a cold fire in his eye still—his visage puts one in mind of a hunting bird fresh unhooded and set for its kill.
“I am old, and my burdens of responsibility and property weigh heavily on me, so to avoid conflict in the future, I propose to divide my kingdom among younger strengths now, so I may crawl to the grave light of heart.”
“What better than a light-hearted grave crawl?” I said softly to Cornwall, villainous twat that he is. I crouched between him and his duchess, Regan. Princess Regan: tall, fair, raven-haired, with a weakness for plunging red velvet gowns and another for rascals, both grievous faults had they not played out so pleasurably for this teller of tales.
“Oh, Pocket, did you get the stuffed dates I sent you?” Regan asked.
And generous to a fault as well.
“Shhhhhh, bunny cunny,” I shushed. “Father is speaking.”
Cornwall drew his dagger and I moved along the table to Goneril’s side.
Lear went on: “These properties and powers I will divide between my sons-in-law, the Duke of Albany and the Duke of Cornwall, and that suitor who takes the hand of my beloved Cordelia, but so I may determine who shall have the most bounteous share, I ask of my daughters: Which of you loves me most? Goneril, my eldest born, speak first.”
“No pressure, pumpkin,” I whispered.
“I have this, fool,” she snapped, and with a great smile and no little grace, she made her way around the outside of the round table and to the opening at the center, bowing to each of the guests as she went. She is shorter and rather more round than her sisters, more generously padded in bosom and bustle, her eyes a grey sky short of emerald, her hair a yellow sun short of ginger. Her smile falls on the eye like water on the tongue of a thirst-mad sailor.
I slid into her chair. “A handsome creature is she,” I said to the Duke of Albany. “That one breast, the way it juts a bit to the side—when she’s naked, I mean—does that bother you at all? Make you wonder what it’s looking at over there—bit like a wall-eyed man you think is always talkin’ to someone else?”
“Hush, fool,” Albany said. He is nearly a score years older than Goneril, goatish and dull, methinks, but somewhat less of a scoundrel than the average noble. I do not loathe him.
“Mind you, it’s obviously part of the pair, not some breast-errant off on a quest of its own. I like a bit of asymmetry in a woman—makes me suspicious when Nature’s too evenhanded—fearful symmetry and all. But it’s not like you’re shaggin’ a hunchback or anything—I mean, once she’s on ’er back it’s hard to get either one of them to look you in the eye, innit?”
“Shut up!” barked Goneril, having turned her back on her father—which one is never supposed to do—in order to scold me. Bloody clumsy etiquette that.
“Sorry. Go on,” said I, waving her on with Jones, who jingled gaily.
“Sir,” she addressed the king, “I love you more than words can say. I love you more than eyesight, space, and liberty. I love you beyond anything that can be valued, rich or rare. No less than life itself, with grace, health, beauty, and honor. As much as any child or father has loved, so I love thee. A love that takes my breath away and makes me scarcely able to speak. I love you above all things, even pie.”