The guards were laughing now. “Well, go on, little one, get your kit off,” said the older guard. “We’ve hot buns and ale waiting.”
I undressed in front of the lot of them, old Lear protesting from time to time, like anyone gave a hot bootful of piss what he had to say anymore. When I was radiant naked, the guards unlocked the door and I crept over to the bundle. Yes! My knives where there, secreted in with the rest. With a bit of sleight o’ hand and a distraction from Bubble handing out buns and ale, I was able to secure them inside my jerkin when I dressed.
Two other guards joined the two outside of our cell and shared the bread and ale. Bubble waddled back up the stairs, shooting me a wink as she went.
“The king are melancholy, Pocket,” said Drool. “We should sing him a song and cheer him up.”
“Sod the sodding king,” said I, looking directly into Lear’s hawk eye.
“Watch yourself, boy,” said Lear.
“Or what? You’ll hold my mother down while she’s raped, then throw her in the river? Have my father killed later, then? Oh, wait. Those threats are no longer valid, are they, uncle? You’ve carried them out already.”
“What are you on about, boy?” The old man looked fearsome, as if he’d forgotten he’d been treated like so much chattel and thrown in a cage full of clowns, but instead faced a fresh affront.
“You. Lear. Do you remember? A stone bridge in Yorkshire, some twenty-seven years ago? You called a farm girl up from the riverbank, a pretty little thing, and held her down while you commanded your brother to rape her. Do you remember, Lear, or have you done so much evil that it all blends into a great black swath in your memory?”
His eyes went wide then, I could tell he remembered.
“Canus—”
“Aye, your poxy brother sired me then, Lear. And when no one would believe my mother that her son was the bastard of a prince, she drowned herself in that same river where you threw her that day. All this time I have called you nuncle—who would have thought it true?”
“It is not true,” he said, his voice quivering.
“It is true! And you know it, you decrepit old poke[44] of bones. A warp of villainy and a woof of greed are all that hold you together, thou desiccated dragon.”
The four guards had gathered at the bars and peered in as if they were the ones who were imprisoned.
“Blimey,” said one of the guards.
“Cheeky little tosser,” said another.
“No song, then?” asked Drool.
Lear shook his finger at me then, so angry was he that I could see blood moving in the veins of his forehead. “You shall not speak to me in this way. You are less than nothing. I plucked you from the gutter, and your blood will run in the gutter on my word before sundown.”
“Will it, nuncle? My blood may run but it will not be on your word. On your word your brother may have died. On your word your father may have died. On your word your queens may have died. But not this princely bastard, Lear. Your word is but wind to me.”
“My daughters will—”
“Your daughters are upstairs, fighting over the bones of your kingdom. They are your captors, you ancient nutter.”
“No, they—”
“You sealed this cell when you killed their mother. They’ve both just told me as much.”
“You’ve seen them?” He seemed strangely hopeful, as if I might have forgotten to bring the good news from his traitorous daughters.
“Seen them? I’ve shagged them.” Silly, really, that it should matter, after all his dark deeds, all his slights and cruelties, that a fool should shag his daughters, but it did matter, and it was a way to unleash a little of the fury I felt toward him.
“You have not,” said Lear.
“You have?” asked one of the guards.
I stood then, and strutted a bit for my audience, plus it was a better position for grinding my heel into Lear’s soul. All I could see was the water closing over my mother’s head, all I could hear was her screams as Lear held her. “I shagged them both, repeatedly, and with relish. Until they screamed, and begged and whimpered. I shagged them on the parapets overlooking the Thames, in the towers, under the table in the great hall, and once, I shagged Regan on a platter of pork in front of Muslims. I shagged Goneril in your own bed, in the chapel, and on your throne—which was her idea, by the way. I shagged them while servants watched and in case you were wondering, because they asked, and as any princess should be shagged, for the pure sweet nasty of it. And they—they did it because they hate you.”