Fool (english)

Why did you never say you were a queen? Why?”

    “He had my daughter, my sweet Cordelia.”
    “And you always knew of my mother?”
    “I heard stories, but I didn’t know who your father was, not while I lived.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me of my mother?”
    “You were a little boy. That’s not the sort of story for a little boy.”
    “Not so little you wouldn’t have me off through an arrow loop.”
    “That was later. I was going to tell you, but he had me walled up.”
    “Because we were caught?”
    The ghost nodded. “He always had a problem with the purity of others. Never his own.”
    “Was it horrible?” I had tried not to think of her, alone in the dark, dying of hunger and thirst.
    “It was lonely. I was always lonely, except for you, Pocket.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You’re a love, Pocket. Good-bye.” She reached through the bars and touched my cheek, like the slightest brush of silk it was. “Care for her.”
    “What?”
    She started to float toward the far wall where the body of Edmund lay.
    She said:
    “After grave offense to daughters three,
    Soon the king a fool shall be.”
    “Nooooooo,” wailed Drool. “My old da is dead.”
    “No he isn’t,” said Thalia. “Lear wasn’t your father. I was having you on.”
    She faded away and I started to laugh and she was gone.

    “Don’t laugh, Pocket,” said Drool. “I are an orphan.”
    “And she didn’t even hand us the bloody keys,” said I.
    Heavy footsteps fell on the stairs and Captain Curan appeared in the passage with two knights. “Pocket! We’ve been looking for you. The day is ours and Queen Cordelia approaches from the south. What of the king?”
    “Dead,” said I. “The king is dead.”

TWENTY-FOUR – BOUDICCA
    RISING
    A ll my years as an orphan, only to find that I had a mother, but she killed herself over cruelty from the king, the only father I had ever known…
    To find I had a father, but he, too, was murdered by order of the king…
    To find the best friend I’d ever known was the mother of the woman I adored, and she was murdered, horribly, by order of the king, because of what I had done…
    To go from being an orphan clown to a bastard prince to a cutthroat avenger for ghosts and witches in less than a week, and from upstart crow to strategist general in a matter of months…
    To go from telling bawdy stories for the pleasure of an imprisoned holy woman to planning the overthrow of a kingdom…
    It was bloody disorienting, and not a little tiring. And I’d built quite an appetite. A snack was in order-perhaps even a full meal, with wine.

    I watched from the arrow loops in my old apartment in the barbican as Cordelia entered the castle. She rode a great white warhorse, and both she and the horse were fitted with full plate armor, fashioned in black with gold trim. The golden lion of England was emblazoned on her shield, a golden fleur-de-lis of France on her breastplate. Two columns of knights rode behind her, carrying lances with the banners of Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Normandy, France, Belgium, and Spain. Spain? She’d conquered bloody Spain in her spare time? She was rubbish at chess before she left. Real war must be easier.
    She reined up her horse in the middle of the drawbridge, stood in the stirrups, pulled off her helmet and shook out her long golden hair. Then she smiled up at the gatehouse. I ducked out of sight-I’m not sure why.
    “Mine!” she barked, then she laughed and led the column into the castle.
    Yes, I know, love, but bad form, isn’t it, to march about with your own bloody army laying claim to random property, innit? Unladylike.
    She was bloody glorious.
    Yes, a snack would do nicely. I laughed a bit myself and danced my way to the great hall, indulging in the odd somersault along the way.
    Perhaps going to the great hall in search of food wasn’t the best idea, and perhaps it wasn’t my real intention, which was just as well, since instead of a repast, the bodies of Lear and his two daughters were laid out on three high tables, Lear on the dais where his throne sat, Regan and Goneril below, on either side, on the main floor.
    Cordelia stood over her father, still in her armor, her helmet tucked under her arm. Her long hair hung in her face, so I couldn’t tell if she was crying.

    “He’s a good deal more pleasant now,” said I. “Quieter. Although he moves about the same speed.”
    She looked up and smiled, a great dazzling smile, then seemed to remember