Fool(61)

 

“Aye,” said the steward.

 

“Aye, it is,” said the priest.

 

“Sí,” said the Spaniard.

 

“Well, she never says that to me,” said I.

 

“Oh,” said the stable boy. “Then it’s ‘Prance, you twig-dicked little pony,’ is it?”

 

“Possibly,” said I.

 

“She never says that to me,” said the yeoman with the pointy beard.

 

Then there was a moment of silence, while all who had spoken looked around at one another, then furiously avoided eye contact and found spots on the floor of great interest.

 

“Well,” said Regan, chewing a fingernail as she spoke, “there is a chance that, uh, I was having a dream.”

 

“Then the fool did not take your virtue?” asked Lear.

 

“Sorry,” said Regan sheepishly. “It was but a dream. No more wine at lunch for me.”

 

“Release the fool!” said Lear.

 

The crowd booed.

 

I walked out of the hall side by side with Regan.

 

“He might have hung me,” I whispered.

 

“I’d have shed a tear,” said she with a smile. “Really.”

 

“Woe to you, lady, should you leave that rosebud asterisk of a bum-hole unguarded on our next meeting. When a fool’s surprise comes unbuttered, a Pocket’s pleasure will a princess punish.”

 

“Oooo, do tease, fool, shall I put a candle in it so you can find your way.”

 

“Harpy!”

 

“Rascal!”

 

“Pocket, where have you been?” said Cordelia, who was coming down the corridor. “Your tea has gone cold.”

 

“Defending big sister’s honor, sweetness,” said I.

 

“Oh bollocks,” said Regan.

 

“Pocket dresses the fool, but he is ever our hero, isn’t he, Regan?” said Cordelia.

 

“I think I’m going to be ill,” said the elder princess.

 

 

 

“So, love,” said I, rising from my perch on the torture machine and reaching into my jerkin. “I’m pleased you feel that way about Lord Edmund, for he has sent me with this letter.”

 

I handed her the letter. The seal was dodgy, but she wasn’t looking at the stationery.

 

“He’s smitten with you, Regan. In fact, so smitten he tried to cut off his own ear to deliver with this missive, to show you the depth of his affection.”

 

“Really? His ear.”

 

“Say nothing at the Yule feast, tonight, lady, but you’ll see the bandage. Mark it as a tribute of his love.”

 

“You saw him cut his ear?”

 

“Yes, and stopped him before the deed was done.”

 

“Was it painful, do you think?”

 

“Oh yes, lady. He has already suffered more than have others in months of knowing you.”

 

“That’s so sweet. Do you know what the letter says?”

 

“I was sworn not to look upon pain of death, but come close—”

 

She leaned close to me and I squeezed the witch’s puffball under her nose. “I believe it speaks of a midnight rendezvous with Edmund of Gloucester.”

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTEEN

 

 

IN A LOVER’S EYE

 

 

 

 

A warm wind blew in from the west, completely cocking up the Yule. Druids like snow round Stonehenge during the festival, and burning down the forest is all the more satisfying if there’s a chill in the air. As it was, it looked like we’d have rain for the feast. The clouds rolling over the horizon looked like they’d been born of a summer storm.

 

“Them look like summer storm clouds,” said Kent. We were hiding in the barbican above the gate, looking out over the walled village of Gloucester and the hills beyond. I’d been hiding since my encounter with Edmund. Evidently the bastard was somewhat put out with me.

 

We could see Goneril and her train entering the outer gates. She rode with a dozen soldiers and attendants, but noticeably, the Duke of Albany was not with her.

 

A sentry on the wall called out the approach of the Duchess of Albany. Gloucester and Edmund appeared in the courtyard, followed by Regan and Cornwall. Regan was working to keep her eyes off of Edmund’s bandaged ear.

 

“This should be interesting,” said I. “They swarm like vultures over a corpse.”

 

“Britain’s the corpse,” said Kent. “And we baited her to be torn apart.”

 

“Nonsense, Kent. Lear’s the corpse. But ambitious scavengers do not wait for his death to begin their dining.”