“Pocket, you’d better be off, lad,” said Bubble. “Goneril’s supper is going up now.”
“Adieu,” said I, a preview of the Frenchy future of my former friends and soon to be frog-snogged traitorous tarts. “Adieu.” I bowed. I feigned fainting with a great wrist-to-brow flourish, and I left.
(I admit it, one does like to lubricate his recurrent entrances and exits with a bit of melodrama. Performance is all to the fool.)
Goneril’s quarters were less spacious than Regan’s, but luxurious, and there was a fire going. I hadn’t set foot here since she’d left the castle to marry Albany, but upon returning I found I was simultaneously aroused and filled with dread—memories simmering under the lid of consciousness, I suppose. She wore cobalt with gold trim, daringly cut. She must have known Edmund was back. “Pumpkin!”
“Pocket? What are you doing here?” She waved the other servers and a young lady who had been braiding her hair out of the room. “And why are you dressed in that absurd outfit?”
“I know,” said I. “Poncy breeches. Without my codpiece I feel defenseless.”
“I think they make you look taller,” she said.
A dilemma. Taller in breeches or stunningly virile in a cod? Both illusions. Each with its advantage. “Which do you think makes a better impression on the fairer sex, love, tall or hung?”
“Isn’t your apprentice both?”
“But he’s—oh—”
“Yes.” She bit into a winter plum.
“I see,” said I. “So, what is it with Edmund? All the black kit?” What it was, was she was bewitched, was what it was.
“Edmund.” She sighed. “I don’t think Edmund loves me.”
And I sat down, with all of Goneril’s luncheon repast set before me, and considered cooling my forehead in the tureen of broth. Love? Sodding, bloody, tossing, bloody, sodding, bloody love? Irrelevant, superfluous, bloody, ruddy, rotten, sodding love? What ho? Wherefore? What the fuck? Love?
“Love?” said I.
“No one has ever loved me,” said Goneril.
“What about your mother? Surely your mother?”
“I don’t remember her. Lear had her executed when we were little.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It was not to be spoken of.”
“Jesus, then? Comfort in Christ?”
“What comfort? I’m a duchess, Pocket, a princess, perhaps a queen. You can’t rule in Christ. Are you daft? You have to ask Christ to leave the room. Your very first war or execution and you’re right fucked for forgiveness, aren’t you? There’s Jesusy disapproval and scowling at least and you have to act like you don’t see it.”
“He’s infinite in his forgiveness,” said I. “It says so somewhere.”
“As should we all be, it also says. But I don’t believe it. I’ve never forgiven our father for killing our mother and I never shall. I don’t believe, Pocket. There’s no comfort or love there. I don’t believe.”
“Me, either, lady. So, sod Jesus. Surely Edmund will fall in love with you when you become closer and he’s had a chance to murder your husband. Love needs room to grow, like a rose.” Or a tumor.
“He’s passionate enough, although never so enthusiastic as that first night in the tower.”
“Have you introduced him to your—well—special tastes?”
“Those will not win his heart.”
“Nonsense, love, a black-hearted prince like Edmund verily starves to have his bum smacked by a fair damsel like yourself. Probably what he’s craving, just too shy to ask.”
“I think another has caught his eye. I think he fancies my sister.”
No, that’s his father’s eye she caught, well, speared, really, I thought, but then I thought better. “Perhaps I can help you resolve the conflict, pumpkin.” And at that, I produced the red and blue vials from my purse. I explained how one was for death-like sleep, and the other afforded more permanent rest. And as I did so, I cradled the silk purse that still held the last puffball the witches had given me.
What if I were to use it on Goneril? Bewitch her to love her own husband? Surely Albany would forgive her. He was a noble chap, despite being a noble. And with that, Regan could have that villain Edmund for herself, the conflict between the sisters would be settled, Edmund would be satisfied with his new role as Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Gloucester, and all would be well. Of course there were the issues of France attacking, Lear in the dungeon, and a wise and comely fool whose fate was uncertain…
“Pumpkin,” said I, “perhaps if you and Regan came to an understanding. Perhaps if she were put to sleep until her army had done its duty against France. Perhaps mercy—”
And that was as far as I got, as the bastard Edmund came through the door at that moment.
“What is this?” demanded the bastard.
“Don’t you fucking knock?” said I. “Bloody common bastard!” You’d have thought, now that I, too, was a half-noble bastard, that my disdain for Edmund might have diminished. Strangely, no.
“Guard. Take this worm to the dungeon until I have time to deal with him.”
Four guards, not of the old Tower force, came in and chased me around the solar several times before I was tripped up by the constrained step of my waiter breeches. The lad they’d been made for must have been smaller even than I. They pinned my arms behind me and dragged me out of the room. As I went backward through the door, I called, “Goneril!”
She held up her hand and they stopped there and held me.
“You have been loved,” said I.
“Oh, take him out and beat him,” said Goneril.
“She jests,” said I. “The lady jests.”
TWENTY-THREE
DEEP IN THE DUNGEON
“My fool,” said Lear, as the guards dragged me into the dungeon. “Bring him here, and unhand him.” The old man looked stronger, more alert, aware. Barking orders again. But with the command he commenced a coughing fit that ended with a spot of blood on his white beard. Drool held a water skin for the old man while he drank.
“We’ve a beating to deliver, first,” said one of the guards. “Then you’ll have your fool, well striped as well as checkered.”
“Not if you want any of these buns and ale,” said Bubble. She’d come down another stairway and was carrying a basket covered with cloth and steaming the most delectable aroma of freshly baked bread. A flask of ale was slung over her shoulder and a bundle of clothes tucked under her free arm.
“Or we’ll beat the fool and take your buns as well,” said the younger of the two guards, one of Edmund’s men and obviously not aware of the pecking order at the White Tower. Bugger God, St. George, and the white-bearded king if you must, but woe unto you if you crossed the cantankerous cook called Bubble, for there’d be grit and grubs baked into all you’d ever eat until the poison finally took you.
“You’ll not want to press that bargain, mate,” said I.
“The fool’s wearing the kit of one of my servers,” said Bubble, “and the boy’s shivering naked in my kitchen.” Bubble threw a bundle of black clothing through the bars into the cell with Drool and Lear. “Here’s the fool’s motley. Now strip, you rascal, and let me get back to my business.”
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.