“Yes, the message said it was urgent. We needed to move quickly.”
“So, when Goneril and Albany arrive, you will be away from your castle and nearly defenseless.”
“She wouldn’t dare.”
“Let me ask you, lady, where do you think the Earl of Gloucester’s allegiance lies?”
“He is our ally. He has opened his castle to us.”
“Gloucester, who was nearly usurped by his eldest son—you think he sides with you?”
“Well, with Father, then, which is the same thing.”
“Unless Lear is aligned with Goneril against you.”
“But she relieved him of his knights. He ranted about it for an hour after his arrival, called Goneril every foul name under the sun, and praised me for my sweetness and loyalty, even overlooking my throwing his messenger into the stocks.”
I said nothing. I removed my coxcomb, scratched my head, and sat on some dusty instrument of torture to observe the lady by torchlight and watch her eyes as the rust ground off the twisted gears of her mind. She was simply lovely. I thought about what the anchoress had said about a wise man only expecting so much perfection in something as its nature allows. I thought that I might, indeed, be witnessing the perfect machine. Her eyes went wide when the realization hit.
“That bitch!”
“Aye,” said I.
“They’ll have it all, she and Father?”
“Aye,” said I. I could tell her anger didn’t arise from the betrayal, but from not having thought of it first. “You need an ally, lady, and one with more influence than this humble fool can provide. Tell me, what do you think of Edmund the bastard?”
“He’s fit enough, I suppose.” She chewed a fingernail and concentrated. “I’d shag him if my lord wouldn’t murder him—or come to think of it, maybe because he would.”
“Perfect!” said I.
Oh Regan, patron saint of Priapus,[38] the most slippery of the sisters: in disposition preciously oily, in discourse, deliciously dry. My venomous virago, my sensuous charmer of serpents—thou art truly perfection.
Did I love her? Of course. For even though I have been accused of being an egregious horn-beast, my horns are tender, like the snail’s—and never have I hoisted the horns of lust without I’ve taken a prod from Cupid’s barb as well. I have loved them all, with all my heart, and have learned many of their names.
Regan. Perfect. Regan.
Oh yes, I loved her.
She was a beauty to be sure—there was none in the kingdom more fair; a face that could inspire poetry and a body that inspired lust, longing, larceny, treachery, perhaps even war. (I am not without hope.) Men had murdered each other in competition for her favors—it was a hobby with her husband, Cornwall. And to her credit, while she could smile as a bloke bled to death with her name on his lips, she was not tight-fisted with her charms. It only added to the tension around her that someone was going to be shagged silly in the near future, and how much more thrilling if his life hung by a thread as he did the deed. In fact, the promise of violent death might be to the princess Regan like the nectar of Aphrodite herself, now that I think of it.
Why else would she have called for my death all those years ago, when I had so diligently served her, after Goneril had left the White Tower to wed Albany. It had begun, it seems, with a bit of jealousy.
“Pocket,” said Regan. She was perhaps eighteen or nineteen at the time, but unlike Goneril, had been exploring her womanly powers for years on various lads about the castle. “I find it offensive that you gave personal counsel to my sister, yet when I call you to my chambers I get nothing but tumbling and singing.”
“Aye, but a song and a tumble seem all that’s needed to lift the lady’s spirits, if I may say so.”
“You may not. Am I not fair?”
“Extremely so, lady. Shall I compose a rhyme to your beauty? A ravishing tart from Nantucket—”
“Am I not as fair as Goneril?”
“Next to you, she is less than invisible, just a shimmering envious vacuum, is she.”
“But do you, Pocket, find me attractive—in a carnal way—the way you did my sister? Do you want me?”
“Ah, of course, lady, from the morning I wake, I have but one thought, one vision: of your deliciousness, under this humble and unworthy fool, writhing naked and making monkey noises.”
“Really, that’s all you think about?”
“Aye, and occasionally breakfast, but it’s only seconds before I’m back to Regan, writhing, and monkey noises. Wouldn’t you like to have a monkey? We should have one around the castle, don’t you think?”