I looked to Edmund. “You’ve my word, bastard. But you’ve also my word that if any harm comes to the Natural, I’ll see to it that ghosts ride you into your grave.”
A flash of fear showed in Edmund’s eye then, but he fought it down and affected his usual swaggering smirk. “His life is on your word, little man.”
The bastard turned and strutted down the corridor. Drool looked back, a big tear welling in his eye as he realized what was happening. I waved him on.
“I’d have taken the other two if you’d dirked him,” said Curan. The other guard nodded in agreement. “Evil bastard was asking for it.”
“Well, now you fucking tell me,” said I.
Another guard hurried out of the hall then, and seeing it was only the fool with his captain, reported, “Captain, the king’s food taster. He’s dead, sir.”
Three friends had I.
SIX
FRIENDSHIP AND THE ODD BONK
Life is loneliness, broken only by the gods taunting us with friendship and the odd bonk. I admit it, I grieved. Perhaps I am a fool to have expected Cordelia to stay. (Well, yes, I am a fool—don’t be overly clever, eh? It’s annoying.) But for most of my manly years she had been the lash on my back, the bait to my loins, and the balm of my imagination—my torment, my tonic, my fever, my curse. I ache for her.
There is no comfort in the castle. Drool gone, Taster gone, Lear gone mad. At best, Drool was little more company than Jones, and decidedly less portable, but I worry for him, great child that he is, stumbling about in the circle of so many villains and so much sharp metal. I miss his gape-toothed smile, filled as it was with forgiveness, acceptance, and often, cheddar. And Taster, what did I know of him, really? Just a wan lad from Hog Nostril on Thames. Yet when I needed a sympathetic ear, he provided, even if he was oft distracted from my woes by his own selfish dietary concerns.
I lay on my bed in the portislodge staring out the cruciform arrow loops at the grey bones of London, stewing in my misery, yearning for my friends.
For my first friend.
For Thalia.
The anchoress.
On a chill autumn day at Dog Snogging, the third time I was allowed to bring food to the anchoress, we became fast friends. I was still in awe of her, and merely being in her presence made me feel base, unworthy, and profane, but in a good way. I passed the plate of rough brown bread and cheese through the cross in the wall with prayers and a plea for her forgiveness.
“This fare will do, Pocket. It will do. I’ll forgive you for a song.”
“You must be a most pious lady and have great love for the Lord.”
“The Lord is a tosser.”
“I thought the Lord was a shepherd?”
“Well, that, too. But a bloke needs hobbies. Do you know ‘Greensleeves’?”
“I know ‘Dona Nobis Pacem.’”
“Do you know any pirate songs?”
“I could sing ‘Dona Nobis Pacem’ like a pirate.”
“It means give us peace, in Latin, doesn’t it?”
“Aye, mistress.”
“Bit of a stretch then, innit, a pirate singing give us bloody peace?”
“I suppose. I could sing you a psalm, then, mistress.”
“All right, then, Pocket, a psalm it is—one with pirates and loads of bloodshed, if you have it.”
I was nervous, desperate for approval from the anchoress, and afraid that if I displeased her I might be struck down by an avenging angel, as seemed to happen often in scripture. Try as I might, I could not recall any piraty psalms. I cleared my throat and sang the only psalm I knew in English:
“The Lord is my tosser, I shall not want—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” said the anchoress. “Doesn’t it go, ‘the Lord is my shepherd’?”
“Well, yes, mistress, but you said—”
And she started to laugh. It was the first time I heard her truly laugh and it felt as if I was getting approval from the Virgin herself. In the dark chamber, just the single candle on my side of the cross, it seemed like her laughter was all around me, embracing me.
“Oh, Pocket, you are a love. Thick as a bloody brick, but such a love.”
I could feel the blood rise in my face. I was proud and embarrassed and ecstatic all at once. I didn’t know what to do, so I fell to my knees and prostrated myself before the arrow loop, pushing my cheek against the stone floor. “I’m sorry, mistress.”