Fool(86)

 

“No,” said Edgar. “Your impertinence comes from madness. Do not weep, good king.”

 

“Do not weep? We weep when we first smell the air. When we are born, we cry, that we come to this great stage of fools.”

 

“No, all shall be well again, and—”

 

And there was a thump, followed by another, and a yowl.

 

“Die, thou blind mole!” came a familiar voice.

 

I sat up in time to see Oswald standing over Gloucester, a bloodied stone in one hand, his sword driven down through the old earl’s chest. “You’ll not poison my lady’s cause further.” He twisted the blade, and blood bubbled up out of the old man, but no sound did he make. He was quite dead. Oswald yanked his blade free and kicked Gloucester’s body across Lear’s lap, as the king cowered against the boulder. Edgar lay unconscious at Oswald’s feet. The vermin drew back as if to drive his sword into Edgar’s spine.

 

“Oswald!” I shouted. I stood behind my boulders as I drew a throwing knife from the sheath at my back. The worm turned to me, and pulled his blade up. He dropped the bloody stone he’d used to brain Edgar. “We have an arrangement,” said I. “And further slaughter of my cohorts will cause me to doubt your sincerity.”

 

“Sod off, fool. We’ve no arrangement. You’re a lying cur.”

 

“Moi?” said I, in perfect fucking French. “I can give you your lady’s heart, and not in the unpleasant, eviscerated, no-shagging-except-the-corpse way.”

 

“You have no such power. You’ve not bewitched Regan’s heart, neither. ’Tis she who sent me here to kill this blind traitor who turns minds against our forces. And to deliver this.” He pulled a sealed letter from his jerkin.

 

“A letter of mark, giving you permission in the name of the Duchess of Cornwall to be a total twatgoblin?”

 

“Your wit is dull, fool. It is a love letter to Edmund of Gloucester. He set out for here with a scouting party to assess the French forces.”

 

“My wit is dull? My wit is dull?”

 

“Yes. Dull,” said Oswald. “Now, en garde,” said he in barely passable fucking French.

 

“Yes,” said I, with an exaggerated nod. “Yes.”

 

And with that, Oswald found himself seized by the throat and dashed several times against the boulders, which relieved him of his sword, his dagger, the love letter, and his coin purse. Drool then held the steward up and squeezed his throat, slowly but sternly, causing wet gurgling noises to bubble from his foul gullet.

 

I said,

 

“While unscathed by my rapier wit

 

You’re choked to death by a giant git

 

By this gentle jester, is argument won

 

I’ll leave you two to have your fun.”

 

 

 

 

 

Oswald seemed somewhat surprised by the turn of events, so much so, that both his eyes and tongue protruded from his face in a wholly unhealthy way. He then began to surrender his various fluids and Drool had to hold him away to keep from being fouled by them.

 

“Drop him,” said Lear, who still cowered by the boulders.

 

Drool looked to me and I shook my head, ever so slightly.

 

“Die, thou badger-shagging spunk monkey,” said I.

 

When Oswald stopped kicking and simply hung limp and dripping, I nodded to my apprentice, who tossed the steward’s body over the cliff as easily as if it were an apple core.

 

Drool went down on one knee over Gloucester’s body. “I were going to teach him to be a fool.”

 

“Aye, lad, I know you were.” I stood by my boulders, resisting the urge to comfort the great murderous git with a pat on the shoulder. There was a rustling from over the top of the hill and I thought I heard the sound of metal on metal through the wind.

 

“Now he’s blind and dead,” said the Natural.

 

“Bugger,” said I, under my breath. Then to Drool, “Hide, and don’t fight, and don’t call for me.”

 

I fell flat to the ground as the first soldier topped the hill. Bugger! Bugger! Bugger! Bloody bollocksing buggering bugger! I reflected serenely.

 

Then I heard the voice of the bastard Edmund. “Look, my fool. And what’s this? The king? What good fortune! You’ll make a fine hostage to stay the hand of the Queen of France and her forces.”

 

“Have you no heart?” said Lear, petting the head of his dead friend Gloucester.

 

I peeked out between my rocks. Edmund was looking at his dead father with the expression of someone who has just encountered rat scat in his toast for tea. “Yes, well, tragic I suppose, but with succession of his title determined and his sight gone, a timely exit was only polite. Who’s this other deader?” Edmund kicked his unconscious half brother in the shoulder.