She twisted up her lip as if to snarl, then burst out laughing and quickly looked around to make sure that no one saw her. “I will, you know—you horrible, wicked little man.”
“Wicked? Moi?” said I in perfect fucking French.
“Tell no one,” she said.
It had always been that way with Goneril. Her “tell no one,” however, applied only to me, not to her, I had found out.
“Pocket,” she once said, brushing her red-gold hair near a window, where it caught the sun and seemed to shine as if from within. She was perhaps seventeen then, and had gotten in the habit of calling me to her chambers several times a week and questioning me mercilessly.
“Pocket, I am to be married soon, and I am mystified by man bits. I’ve heard them described, but that’s not helping.”
“Ask your nurse. Isn’t she supposed to teach you about such things?”
“Auntie’s a nun, and married to Jesus. A virgin.”
“You don’t say? She went to the wrong bloody convent, then.”
“I need to talk to a man, but not a proper man. You are like one of those fellows that Saracens have look over their harems.”
“A eunuch?”
“See, you are worldly and know of things. I need to see your willie.”
“Pardon? What? Why?”
“Because I’ve never seen one, and I don’t want to seem naïve on my wedding night when the depraved brute ravages me.”
“How do you know he’s a depraved brute?”
“Auntie told me. All men are. Now, out with your willie, fool.”
“Why my willie? There’s willies aplenty you can look at. What about Oswald? He may even have one, or knows where you can get hold of one, I’ll wager.” (Oswald was her footman then.)
“I know, but this is my first, and yours will be small and not so frightening. It’s like when I was learning to ride, and first father gave me a pony, but then, as I got older…”
“All right, then, shut up. Here.”
“Oh, would you look at that.”
“What?”
“That’s it, then?”
“Yes. What?”
“Nothing really to be afraid of then, was there? I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s rather pitiful if you ask me.”
“It is not.”
“Are they all this small?”
“Most are smaller, in fact.”
“May I touch it?”
“If you feel you must.”
“Well, would you look at that.”
“See, now you’ve angered it.”
“Where in God’s name have you been?” she said. “Father’s been a madman looking for you. He and his captain have gone out on patrol every day and well into the evening, leaving the rest of his knights to wreak havoc on the castle. My lord has sent soldiers as far as Edinburgh asking after you. I should have you drowned for all the worry you’ve caused.”
“You did miss me, didn’t you?” I cradled the silk purse at my belt, wondering when best to spring the spell. And once she was bewitched, how exactly would I use the power?
“He was supposed to be in Regan’s care, but by the time he moves his bloody hundred knights all the way to Cornwall it will be my turn again. I can’t abide the rabble in my palace.”
“What does Lord Albany say?”
“He says what I tell him to say. It’s all intolerable.”
“Gloucester,” said I, offering the very model of a non sequitur wrapped in an enigma.
“Gloucester?” asked the duchess.
“The king’s good friend is there. It’s mid-way between here and Cornwall, and the Earl of Gloucester daren’t deny the request of the dukes of both Albany and Cornwall. You wouldn’t be leaving the king without care, yet you wouldn’t have him underfoot, either.” With the witches’ warning about Drool in danger there, I was determined for all the drama to descend on Gloucester. I sat down on the floor near her feet, held Jones across my knees, and waited, both I and the puppet wearing jolly grins.
“Gloucester…” said Goneril, letting a bit of a smile seep out. She really could be lovely when she forgot she was cruel.
“Gloucester,” said Jones, “the dog’s bollocks of western bloody Blighty.”
“Do you think he’ll agree to it? It’s not how he laid out his legacy.”
“He won’t agree to Gloucester, but he’ll agree to go to Regan’s by way of Gloucester. The rest will be up to your sister.” Should I have felt myself a traitor? No, the old man brought this on himself.
“But if he doesn’t agree, and he has all these men?” She looked me in the eye now. “It’s too much power in the hands of the feeble.”
“And yet, he had all the power of the kingdom not two months ago.”
“You’ve not seen him, Pocket. The legacy and banishment of Cordelia and Kent was just the beginning. Since you went away he’s gotten worse. He searches for you, he hunts, he rails about his days as a soldier of Christ one minute, then calls to the gods of Nature the next. With a fighting force of that size—if he should feel that we’ve betrayed him—”
“Take them,” said I.
“What? I couldn’t.”
“You have seen my apprentice, Drool? He eats with his hands or with a spoon, we dare not let him have a knife or fork, lest the points imperil all.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Pocket. What of Father’s knights?”
“You pay them? Take them. For his own good. Lear with his train of knights is like a child running with a sword. Are you cruel to relieve him of deadly force, when he is neither strong enough, nor wise enough to wield it? Tell Lear he must dismiss fifty of his knights and their attendants and keep them here. Tell him they will be at his beck and call when he is in residence.”
“Fifty? Just fifty?”
“You must leave some for your sister. Send Oswald to Cornwall with your plan. Have Regan and Cornwall make haste to Gloucester so they are there upon Lear’s arrival. Perhaps they can bring Gloucester into the fold. With Lear’s knights dismissed, the two whitebeards can reminisce about their glory days and crawl together to the grave in peaceful nostalgia.”
“Yes!” Goneril was becoming breathless now, excited. I’d seen it before. It wasn’t always a good sign.
“Quickly,” said I, “send Oswald to Regan while the sun is high.”
“No!” Goneril sat forward quickly, her bosom nearly spilling out of her gown, which captured my attention more than her fingernails digging into my arm.
“What?” said I, the bells of my coxcomb but a finger’s breath from jingling her décolletage.[30]
“There is no peace for Lear in Gloucester. Haven’t you heard? The earl’s son Edgar is a traitor.”
Had I heard? Had I heard? Of course, the bastard’s plan was afoot. “Of course, lady, where do you think I’ve been?”
“You’ve been all the way to Gloucester?” She was panting now.
“Aye. And back. I’ve brought you something.”
“A present?” She showed the delighted, wide grey-green eyes she’d had when she was a girl. “Perhaps I won’t hang you, but punishment is due you, Pocket.”
Then the lady grabbed me and pulled me across her lap, face-down. Jones rolled to the floor beside me. “Lady, perhaps—”
Smack! “There, fool, I’ve hit it. Hit it. Hit it. Hit it. So give it. Give it. Give it.” A smack with every iamb.[31]
“Bloody hell, you insane tart!” I squirmed. My ass burned with her handprint.
Smack! “Oh good God!” said Goneril. “Yes!” She wiggled under me now.
Smack!
“Ouch! It’s a letter! A letter,” said I.
“I’ll see your little bum as red as a rose!”
Smack!
I squirmed in her lap, turned, grabbed her bosoms and pulled myself upright until I was sitting in her lap. “Here.” I pulled the sealed parchment out of my jerkin and held it out.
31
Iamb—in poetry, a metrical foot consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. Hit