“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] 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.”
NINETEEN
SHALL A MADMAN RISE
Gloucester was wandering around outside the castle, just beyond the drawbridge, coming dangerously close to tumbling into the moat. The storm was still raging and bloody rain streamed down the earl’s face from his empty eye sockets.
Drool caught the old man by the back of his cloak and lifted him like he was a kitten. Gloucester struggled and waved about in horror, as if he’d been snatched up by some great bird of prey instead of an enormous nitwit.
“There, there,” said Drool, trying to calm the old man the way one might try to settle a frightened horse. “I gots you.”
“Bring him away from the edge and set him down, Drool,” said I. “Lord Gloucester, this is Pocket, Lear’s fool. We’re going to take you to shelter and bandage your wounds. King Lear will be there, too. Just take Drool’s hand.”
“Get away,” said the earl. “Your comforts are in vain. I am lost. My sons are scoundrels, my estate is forfeit. Let me fall in the moat and drown.”
Drool set the old man down and pointed him toward the moat. “Go on, then, milord.”
“Grab him, Drool, you wooden-headed ninny!”
“But he told me to let him drown, and he’s an earl with a castle and the lot, and you’re only a fool, Pocket, so I got to do what he says.”
I strode forth, grabbed Gloucester and led him away from the edge. “He’s not an earl anymore, lad. He has nothing but his cloak to protect him from the rain, like us.”
“He’s got nothing?” said Drool. “Can I teach him to juggle so he can be a fool?”
“Let’s get him to shelter and see that he doesn’t bleed to death first, then you can give him fool lessons.”
“We’re going to make a fool of ye,” said Drool, clapping the old man on the back. “That’ll be the dog’s bollocks, won’t it, milord?”
“Drown me,” said Gloucester.
“Being a fool is ever so much better than being an earl,” said Drool, far too cheery for a cold-dismal day of post-maiming. “You don’t get a castle but you make people laugh and they give you apples and sometimes one of the wenches or the sheeps will have a laugh with you. It’s the mutt’s nuts,[42] it is.”
I stopped and looked at my apprentice. “You’ve been having a laugh with sheep?”
Drool rolled his eyes toward the slate sky. “No, I—we have pie sometimes, too, when Bubble makes it. You’ll like Bubble. She’s smashing.”
Gloucester seemed to lose all his will then, and let me lead him through the walled town, taking weak, halting steps. As we passed a long, half-timbered building I took to be barracks I heard someone call my name. I looked to see Curan, Lear’s captain, standing under an awning. He waved us over and we stood with our backs hard to the wall to try to escape the rain.