He really was making a very good argument.
Then the earl grabbed Jones and tore him out of Drool’s belt. “Give me your sword, good knight!”
Edgar made to stop his father and I threw out an arm to hold him back—a toss of my head stopped Drool from interceding.
The old man stood, put the stick end of Jones under his rib cage, then fell forward onto the dirt floor. The breath shot from his body and he wheezed in pain. My cup of wine had been warming by the fire and I threw it on Gloucester’s chest.
“I am slain,” croaked the earl, fighting for breath. “The lifeblood runs from me even now. Bury my body on the hill looking down upon Castle Gloucester. And beg forgiveness of my son Edgar. I have wronged him.”
Edgar again tried to go to his father and I held him back. Drool was covering his mouth, trying not to laugh.
“I grow cold, cold, but at least I take my wrong-doings to my grave.”
“You know, milord,” I said. “The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones, or so I’ve heard.”
“Edgar, my boy, wherever you are, forgive me, forgive me!” The old man rolled on the floor, and seemed somewhat surprised when the sword on which he thought himself impaled fell away. “Lear, forgive me that I did not serve you better!”
“Look at that,” said I. “You can see his black soul rising from his body.”
“Where?” said Drool.
A frantic finger to my lips silenced the Natural. “Oh, great carrion birds are rending poor Gloucester’s soul to tatters! Oh, Fate’s revenge is upon him, he suffers!”
“I suffer!” said Gloucester.
“He is bound to the darkest depths of Hades! Never to rise again.”
“Down the abyss I go. Forever a stranger to light and warmth.”
“Oh, cold and lonely death has taken him,” said I. “And a right shit he was in life, likely he’ll be buggered by a billion barb-dicked devils now.”
“Cold and lonely Death has me,” said the earl.
“No, it hasn’t,” said I.
“What?”
“You’re not dead.”
“Soon, then. I’ve fallen on this cruel blade and my life runs wet and sticky between my fingers.”
“You’ve fallen on a puppet,” said I.
“No, I haven’t. It’s a sword. I took it from that soldier.”
“You took my puppet stick from my apprentice. You’ve thrown yourself on a puppet.”
“You knave, Pocket, you’re not trustworthy and would jest at a man even as his life drains. Where is that naked madman who was helping me?”
“You threw yourself on a puppet,” said Edgar.
“So I’m not dead?”
“Correct,” said I.
“I threw myself on a puppet?”
“That is what I’ve been saying.”
“You are a wicked little man, Pocket.”
“So, milord, how do you feel, now that you’ve returned from the dead.”
The old man stood up and tasted the wine on his fingers. “Better,” said he.
“Good. Then let me present Edgar of Gloucester, the erstwhile naked nutter, who shall see you to Dover and your king.”
“Hello, Father,” said Edgar.
They embraced. There was crying and begging for forgiveness and filial snogging and overall the whole business was somewhat nauseating. A moment of quiet sobbing by the two men passed before the earl resumed his wailing.
“Oh, Edgar, I have wronged thee and no forgiveness from you can undo my wretchedness.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said I. “Come, Drool, let us go find Lear and on to Dover and the sanctuary of the bloody fucking French.”
“But the storm still rages,” said Edgar.
“I’ve been wandering in this storm for days. I’m as wet and cold as I know how to get, and no doubt a fever will descend any hour now and crush my delicate form with heavy heat, but by the rug-munching balls of Sappho, I’ll not spend another hour listening to a blind old nutter wail on about his wrong-doings when there’s a stack of wrongs yet to be done. Carpe diem, Edgar. Carpe diem.”
“Fish of the day?” said the rightful heir to the earldom of Gloucester.
“Yes, that’s it. I’m invoking the fish of the bloody day, you git. I liked you better when you were eating frogs and seeing demons and the lot. Drool, leave them half the food and wrap yourself as warm as you can. We’re off to find the king. We’ll see you lot in Dover.”
ACT IV
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.
— King Lear, Act IV, Scene 1, Gloucester
TWENTY
A PRETTY LITTLE THING
Drool and I slogged through the cold rain for a day, across hill and dale, over unpaved heath and roads that were little more than muddy wheel ruts. Drool affected a jaunty aspect, remarkable considering the dark doings he had just escaped, but a light spirit is the blessing of the idiot. He took to singing and splashing gaily through puddles as we traveled. I was deeply burdened by wit and awareness, so I found sulking and grumbling better suited my mood. I regretted that I hadn’t stolen horses, acquired oilskin cloaks, found a fire-making kit, and murdered Edmund before we left. The latter, among many reasons, because I could not ride upon Drool’s shoulders, as his back was still raw from Edmund’s beatings. Bastard.
I should say here, that after some days in the elements, the first I’d spent there since my time with Belette and the traveling mummer troupe many years ago, I determined that I am an indoor fool. My lean form does not fend off cold well, and it seems no better at shedding water. I fear I am too absorbent to be an outdoor fool. My singing voice turns raspy in the cold, my japes and jokes lose their subtlety when cast against the wind, and when my muscles are slowed by an unkind chill, even my juggling is shit. I am untempered for the tempest, unsuited for a storm—better fit for fireplace and featherbed. Oh, warm wine, warm heart, warm tart, where art thou? Poor, cold Pocket, a drowned and wretched rat is he.
We traveled in the dark for miles before we smelled meat-smoke on the wind and spotted the orange light of an oil-skinned window in the distance.
“Look, Pocket, a house,” said Drool. “We can sit by the fire and maybe have a warm supper.”
“We’ve no money, lad, and nothing to trade them.”
“We trade ’em a jest for our supper, like we done before.”
“I can think of nothing amusing to do, Drool. Tumbling is out of the question, my fingers are too stiff to work Jones’s talk string, and I’m too weary even for the simple telling of a tale.”
“We could just ask them. They might be kind.”
“That’s a blustery bag of tempest toss, innit?”
“They might,” insisted the oaf. “Bubble once give me a pie without I ever jested a thing. Just give it to me, out of the kindness of her heart.”
“Fine. Fine. We shall prevail upon their kindness, but should that fail, prepare yourself to bash in their brains and take their supper by force.”
“What if there’s a lot of ’em? Ain’t you going to help?”
I shrugged and gestured to my fair form: “Small and weary, lad. Small and weary. If I’m too weak to perform a puppet show, I think the brain-bashing duties will, by necessity, fall upon you. Find a sturdy stick of firewood. There, there’s a woodpile over there.”
“I don’t want to bash no brains,” said the stubborn nitwit.
“Fine, here, take one of my daggers.” I handed him a knife. “Give a good dirking to anyone who requires it.”
At that point the door opened and a wizened form stepped into the doorway and raised a storm lantern. “Who goes there?”
“Beggin’ pardon, sirrah,” said Drool. “We was wondering if you required a good dirking this evening?”
“Give that to me.” I snatched the dagger away from the git and fitted it into the sheath at my back.