Christopher Moore - Fool

Cornwall took the letter gently from her hand and put his hand on her shoulder in brotherly support. “Leave him to our displeasure, sister. Edmund, keep our sister company and see her safely home. Lady, tell your duke we must unite against this foreign force. We’ll send dispatches quickly between us. Go now, Earl of Gloucester, you do not want to see the dealings with this traitor.”

Edmund couldn’t conceal a smile upon being addressed by the title he had lusted after for so many years. “I will,” said Edmund. He offered his arm to Goneril, who took it. They started out of the hall.

“No!” said Regan.

Everyone stopped. Cornwall stepped between Regan and her sister. “Lady, now is the time when we must all be united against the foreign power.”

Regan gritted her teeth and turned back to the fire, waving them away. “Go.”

Edmund and Goneril left the hall.

“Bind him to that chair, then leave us,” Cornwall commanded his soldiers.

They tied the old earl to a heavy chair and stood back.

“You are my guests,” said Gloucester. “Do me no foul play.”

“Filthy traitor,” said Regan. She took the letter from her husband and threw it in the old man’s face. She grabbed a pinch of Gloucester’s beard and yanked it out. The earl yowled.

“So white, and such a traitor,” she said.

“I am no traitor. I am loyal to my king.”

She pulled another pinch from his beard. “What letters do you have late from France? What is their plan?”

Gloucester looked at the parchment on the floor. “I have only that.”

Cornwall charged up to Gloucester and pulled the old man’s head back by the back of his hair. “Speak now, to whose hands have you sent the lunatic king? We know you’ve sent him aid.”

“To Dover. I sent him to Dover. Only a few hours ago.”

“Why Dover?” said Regan.

“Because I would not see your cruel nails pluck out his old eyes or your sister tear his flesh with her boarish fangs. Because there are those who would care for him there. Not put him out in the storm.”

“He lies,” said Regan. “There’s a smashing torture chamber in the dungeon, shall we?”

But Cornwall would not wait. In a second he was sitting astraddle the old man and was digging his thumb into Gloucester’s eye socket. Gloucester screamed until his voice broke and there was a sickening pop.

I reached for one of my throwing daggers.

The main door to the hall cracked and heads popped up in the stairwell from the kitchen.

“Why Dover?” said Regan.

“Thou carrion bird!” said Gloucester with a cough. “Thou she-devil, I’ll not say.”

“Then you’ll not see light again,” said Cornwall, and he was on the old man again.

I would not have it. I drew back my dagger to cast it, but before I could, a band like ice encircled my wrist and I looked to see the girl ghost right beside me, staying my throw, in fact, paralyzing me. I could move only my eyes to look back on the horror playing out in the great hall.

Suddenly a boy brandishing a long butcher knife ran out of the kitchen stairwell and leapt on the duke. Cornwall stood and tried to draw his sword, but could not get it clear of the scabbard before the boy was on him, plunging the knife into his side. As the lad pulled back to stab again Regan drew a dagger from the sleeve of her robe and plunged it into the boy’s neck, then stepped back from the spray of blood. The boy clawed at his neck and fell.

“Away!” Regan shrieked, waving the dagger at the servants in the kitchen stairwell and the main door and they all disappeared like frightened mice.

Cornwall climbed unsteadily to his feet and plunged his sword into the boy’s heart. Then he sheathed his sword and felt his side. His hand came away bloody.

“Serves you right, you scurvy vermin,” said Gloucester.

With that Cornwall was on him again. “Out, foul jelly!” he shouted, digging his thumb into the earl’s good eye, but in that instant Regan’s dagger snapped down and took the eye. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lord.”

Gloucester passed out then from the pain and hung limp in his bonds. Cornwall stood and kicked the old man’s chest, knocking him over backward. The duke looked on Regan with adoring eyes, filled with the warmth and affection that can only come from watching your wife dirk another man’s eye out on your behalf, evidently.

“Your wound?” said Regan.

Cornwall held his arm out to his wife and she walked into his embrace. “It glanced across my ribs. I’ll bleed some and it pains me, but if bound, it’ll not be mortal.”

“Pity,” said Regan, and she plunged her dagger under his sternum and held it as his heart’s blood poured over her snowy-white hand.

The duke seemed somewhat surprised.

“Bugger,” he said, then he fell. Regan wiped her dagger and her hands on his tunic. She sheathed the blade in her sleeve, then went to the cushion where Cornwall had hidden her father’s crown, pulled back her hood, and fitted it on her head.

“Well, Pocket,” said the Duchess, without turning to the alcove where I was hidden. “How does it fit?”

I was somewhat surprised (although somewhat less so than the duke).

The ghost released me then, and I stood behind the tapestry, my knife still poised for the throw.

“You’ll grow into it, kitten,” said I.

She looked to my alcove and grinned. “Yes, I will, won’t I? Did you want something?”

“Let the old man go,” I said. “King Jeff of France has landed his army at Dover, that’s why Gloucester sent Lear there. You’d be wise to set a camp farther south. Rally your forces, with Edmund’s and Albany’s at the White Tower, perhaps.”

The great doors creaked and a head peeked in, a helmeted soldier.

“Send for a physician,” Regan called, trying to sound distressed. “My lord has been wounded. Throw his attacker on the dung heap and cast this traitor out the front gate. He can smell his way to Dover and his decrepit king.”

In a moment the chamber was filled with soldiers and servants and Regan walked out, casting one last look and a sly smile to my hiding place. I have no idea why she left me alive. I suspect it’s because she still fancied me.

I slipped out through the kitchen and made my way back to the gatehouse.

The ghost stood over Drool, who was cowering under his blanket in the corner. “Come on, you lovely brute, give us a proper snog.”

“Leave him be, wisp!” said I, although she was nearly as solid as a mortal woman.

“Balls up [41] Balls up—slang, to ruin, to fuck up, also “bollocks up” and “cock up.” your jaunty murdering for the day, did I, fool?”

“I might have saved the old man’s second eye.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I might have sent Regan to join her duke in whatever hell he inhabits.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Then she held up a ghostly finger, cleared her throat, and rhymed:

“You’ve said that one, already.”

“I know. Bit prematurely, too. Sorry. I think you’ll find it much more relevant now. Even a slow git like yourself can solve the riddle now, I reckon.”

“Or you could just fucking tell me what it means,” said I.

“Sorry, can’t do it. Ghostly mystery and whatnot. Ta.” And with that she faded away through the stone wall.

“I dinna shag the ghost, Pocket,” wailed Drool. “I dinna shag her.”

“I know, lad. She’s gone. Get up now, we’ve got to monkey down the drawbridge chains and find the blind earl.”