"These Late Eclipses," Part 3
Jun. 23rd, 2010 07:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_t_rainParts 1-2 are here. The dialogue between Cordelia and Lear is taken more or less verbatim from King Lear 4.7; the song she sings is Child Ballad 1, "Riddles Wisely Expounded."
What is Greener Than the Grass?
The French doctor advised that Lear be left to sleep as long as he would, and that he be wakened with music.
Cordelia nodded, and took her place on a stool beside her father’s bed. She was dressed in women’s clothes now, but the fool’s harp still hung at her side. Edgar brought her a plate of roast pork and a draught of ale when the others were having their dinner, but she ate little. She seemed all princess now; Edmund could hardly believe she was the same girl who had bantered with him in the kitchen and followed her father from palace to heath in motley.
She sat beside him all the rest of that day and all night. At daybreak, when the birds were filling the air with their voices and color was stealing back to the world, the king stirred and Cordelia began to play.
What is greener than the grass,
What is smoother than a glass?
Edmund, bunked down by the cold hearth, rolled over and muttered a curse. He had drunk rather too much of Emma’s home-brewed ale the night before, and this was not how he would have chosen to be woken.
What is louder than a horn,
What is sharper than a thorn?
He had to admit, though, that Cordelia had a sweet voice; it was almost enough to ease the throbbing of his head and make him think the world a decent place. Almost.
What is brighter than the light,
What is darker than the night?
Reluctantly, Edmund rose and went to the king’s chamber. What happened there might well determine their course as the battle drew near, and he wanted to observe the event for himself.
O what is colder than the clay,
What is longer than the way?
Cordelia paused in her playing, for the king had opened his eyes. Her head was inclined toward her father and her attention wholly absorbed in him; she did not see Edmund standing in the doorway.
Envy’s greener than the grass,
Flattery smoother than the glass.
Rumor’s louder than a horn,
Shame is sharper than a thorn.
Truth is brighter than the light,
Falsehood darker than the night.
Death is colder than the clay,
Love is longer than the way.
The king was sitting up in bed, his hands shaking. “Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight? I am mightily abused; I should even die with pity to see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands –”
Cordelia knelt by his bedside. “O, look upon me, sir, and hold your hands in benediction o’er me. No, sir, you must not kneel!” She placed her arm around the king and tried to bring him back to bed.
“Pray do not mock me. I am a very foolish, fond old man, fourscore and upward; and to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you. Do not laugh at me, for as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.”
“And so I am, I am!”
“Be your tears wet? Yes, faith; I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me, for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have none.”
Cordelia was weeping almost too much to speak. “No cause, no cause.”
Edmund turned from the doorway. This was no place for him.
“Am I in France?” he heard the king say behind him.
“In your own kingdom, sir.”
“For how long, old man?” Edmund muttered, poking at the ashes of the fire. “How long before Albany comes down upon us and slaughters us all like lambs?”
The king’s recovery – if one could even call it a recovery when he didn’t seem to know what country he was in – complicated matters. Cordelia would greet it with joy, and so, no doubt, would old fools like Gloucester, but from Edmund’s point of view it was not a blessing. He thought that Cordelia herself would make a worthy queen, but not if she insisted on deferring to her senile father. He didn’t trust Kent and Edgar to see reason, either.
All in all, he thought, it might be time to cut his losses and leave them. If he presented his services to Albany and told the Duke what he knew of the king’s whereabouts and strength, he could be sure of a generous welcome – at least from Goneril. Albany himself was said to be no friend to turncoats, but Edmund knew who really wore the breeches in that marriage.
He began to gather the few possessions he had left. He hesitated a moment as he glanced at Edgar, but his half-brother was sound asleep, his mouth fallen open: no more aware of what was going on around him than he had been when Edmund had first acted to steal his inheritance.
He might, indeed, have been gone before any of his companions woke, had not Emma and Edith come in from the barn with pails of new milk. Damned peasants with their damned early hours.
“Good morrow,” Edith whispered, so as not to wake the others.
Edmund took one of the pails from her and followed her into the pantry. He did like Edith.
“You look greenly, lad. You had better have something to eat and drink.” She dipped up a cup of milk and handed it to him, along with a hunk of yesterday’s bread.
He sipped cautiously at the milk. He really did feel horribly queasy, but he was also thirsty.
“Is anyone else stirring?” Emma asked.
“Only Lady Cordelia and the king.”
“Oh, the poor lady! I must take her something to break her fast.” Emma bustled out with more bread and milk.
“Better?” Edith asked.
“Somewhat,” said Edmund. The milk had helped a little. He nibbled at the bread.
She was looking at him with her head cocked to one side like a wren. Her eyes were very bright, also like a wren’s. “Is there something that you would tell me?”
“No,” said Edmund, avoiding her gaze. “What makes you say that?”
“‘Tis only that you have the same look about you as when I first met you. As if there were aught weighing upon you, body and conscience.”
“Do not make a fool of thyself, Edith. I haven’t much in the way of a conscience.”
“You are not so bad as you like to pretend,” said Edith unexpectedly. “Nor so bad as some one has told you you are. Is that why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you were about to steal from us when we came upon you.”
Edmund looked at her with a new measure of respect. She had brains, after all, and a quick eye.
“I would not stop you from going,” said Edith slowly. “There’s some say the Duke of Albany has the rights of it, and some swear no Frenchman should ever rule in this kingdom; I do not know but that they’re in the right. But I think you ought to tell your brother and father that you’re going, man to man. I think they would not stop you, either, if you believe in your heart that Albany is the rightful king.”
“What I believe in my heart is – nothing! What I know, in my brain, is that he has greater strength and powers than Cordelia can muster.”
“Then I would say, take your time before you do any thing you cannot undo,” said Edith. “‘Tis better that you believe something, whatever it may be.”
By the time Edmund left the pantry, he found Cuthbert cleaning the grate in the main room and Edgar, Kent, and his father all awake and deep in counsel with Cordelia. The moment when he might leave them was past, at least if he meant to go unnoticed.
“Heard you anything in the town?” Gloucester was asking.
Kent seemed reluctant to speak. “The intelligence I have heard is that Albany’s powers draw nearer. ‘Tis like that they shall discover how weak we are within these two days, and then they will fall on us.”
“We might attack them first,” said Cordelia, “before they expect it. We would have surprise on our side, if not numbers.”
Edgar shook his head. “‘Twould be self-slaughter, my lady.”
“No,” said Kent. “It is not a bad thought. We have, I would say, one chance in ten; but we have none if we stay and wait.”
“We must hazard it, and trust in the gods,” said Cordelia.
“My lady,” Cuthbert interrupted, “begging your pardon, but Kentishmen are more used to trust in their staves. I will fight for you and the king your father, to my last breath, and so would my father-in-law, and my neighbors; but give us time, time to spread word to the other villages, and there will be more of us.”
“Still not enough,” said Edmund. The countryside had likely emptied of young men, as it always did in time of war, and old men like Owen would be little enough use. “They will know it is not enough, and attack us before you can raise your neighbors. We have not time.”
“My brother is right,” said Edgar. “But if we can make them think our numbers are more,” he added, slowly, “we might stall them a day or two.” He was looking out the window, as if he were absent-minded.
Edmund followed his gaze. Emma and Cuthbert’s oldest son was standing in a field of wheat, setting up a scarecrow.
The two brothers’ eyes met. “We might try a stratagem,” said Edmund.
* * *
In a day’s time the French tents had been re-staked, farther apart, and pieced out with makeshift tents of bedsheets and blankets and the sails of fishing-boats. There were makeshift soldiers, too. In a moment of whimsy, Edgar put his own hat on top of the last scarecrow and stuck a chicken feather in it.
“The very pattern of fashion, is he not? That hat looks better on him than it ever did on me.”
Edmund agreed – perhaps a shade too heartily, as it earned him a shove from his brother and a reminder to respect his elders.
“At any rate,” said Edgar, surveying the ranks of scarecrows in the fading light, “they look a respectable army, and they seem to be less given to drinking and drabbing than most. Would I could say the same for the Frenchmen!”
“An army of straw and patches. Do not forget that we have nothing that is real.”
“We have something,” said Edgar. “Men and women with heart.”
“Ay.” Edmund spat on the ground. “Hearts that can be cut out and eaten by Goneril. That’s what heart is good for. Give me steel and arrows, for my part.”
“Hush, brother. The men should not hear you speak that way.”
“They know. There’s not a one of them who does not know he’ll be food for crows and kites.”
“Shh. ‘Tis still better not to speak of it; but I am of your mind.”
“You are?” Edmund was surprised. “I had thought you as foolish as the rest of them.”
“Is that why you did it?” Edgar asked, and then shook his head before Edmund could reply. “Never you mind. I will not ask you; this is not the time. Courage is never foolish, brother, but for all that, it is better if we find some way to prevent this battle. I have been thinking of Owen and Edith. Emma’s their only child living, did you know? Their sons are dead. All of them killed in one or another of our wars.”
It had not occurred to Edmund to ask Edith about her other children, and he felt a little ashamed that Edgar had known this and he had not. Nevertheless, he did not think the main burden of guilt was theirs. “You mean the king's wars. We have not started any that I can remember.”
“I mean our sort of people. Nobles and councillors. We make the wars, and Edith’s sons bleed in them.”
“That is the way of the world, brother.”
“If children can rebel against their fathers and strive against nature – if kings can be reduced to beggary, and fawning curs become courtiers – cannot we also change the way of the world?”
Edmund stared at his brother in astonishment.
“We live in an age of eclipses, brother. Didst thou not tell me so thyself? Rivers run backwards, and things are done that have never been done before.”
* * *
Cordelia said nothing of the eclipses in her speech to the troops. She said that they fought for the the ancient rights of their fathers and forefathers; she said that justice would stand against fate, and outlast it to the day of doom, though individual men would fall; she said that though she had but the weak body of a woman, she came armed, as Pallas herself would arm in such a cause. Then she turned to the French troops and tried to say the same in French, though haltingly, for she had never been in their country.
“She spoke well,” said Gloucester, blinking tears out of his one good eye.
“She did. But ‘twould have been better if the king had spoken in his own cause,” said Kent.
“How does he?” asked Gloucester.
“Better and better. But he will not go to the field of battle; he says that he is too old, and he asks only a plot of ground for himself, not a kingdom.”
“What said the princess to that?”
“She said that she would fight on his behalf, and would not let him persuade her to stay with him. She obeys her father in all else, but not in that.”
* * *
The first day’s battle was not, as Edmund had feared, a rout. Albany’s troops fell in greater numbers than the French and the Kentishmen, and there was rejoicing around the campfires that night. But Cordelia and her commanders were graver. Albany had reinforcements, and they did not. They would be beaten back, little by little, toward the shore; they could not hold forever.
“Our best hope,” said Edgar, “is to ask Albany for a parley, and try to come to terms while they still think we may have the advantage of them. We will have to cede Albany the portion of the kingdom he was promised, and perhaps offer him some of Cornwall’s former lands if he will not agree at first, and color it all with a show of generosity. Would that be acceptable to you, my lady?” (Nobody, of course, thought of asking Lear; even though the king had recovered a fragile thread of sanity, there was a tacit understanding that they all deferred to Cordelia.)
Edmund expected her to say no. He could almost hear her: No, my father will have all of his kingdom, or nothing.
“Yes,” said Cordelia after a long moment. “But I think my sister will not agree. She will demand all of Britain.”
“Then we are no worse off than before. We can but try.”
Cordelia nodded. “That is so. Whom shall I send?”
“I suggest you send Edmund, my lady,” said Kent. “I marked that the Duchess of Albany showed him much favor when they were last together.”
Edith, who had been serving supper, dropped a jug of beer on the floor. But all she said was, “Pardon, my lords and lady,” and nobody except Edmund took much notice of the interruption.
“That is a good thought,” said Cordelia. “Edmund, will you be our emissary?”
“In all things I shall obey, my lady.”
Edith was mopping the spilled beer and the shards of the jug from the floor. Still she said nothing.
* * *
“How good it is to see you again, Edmund,” said Goneril lazily. “I had almost begun to wonder when you meant to join us.”
“Were you in any doubt of my coming, madam?”
“None at all.” A slight smile played about her lips, which were painted cherry-red. “I know thy nature well enough, I think.”
She extended a hand for him to kiss, and Edmund found that he did not like the way she was looking at him: as if he were a lap-dog or some other creature framed for her pleasure.
“I hear thou hast done well in ridding me of a troublesome sister. I must give thee lands enough when I am queen of Britain; but if thou canst do me the like service again, I shall think on a more privy mark of my favor.”
Edmund shut his eyes for a moment. He was seeing Regan die again. When he spoke, he was a little surprised at what he said. “I am afraid, my lady, that I must reconsider the terms of our ... agreement. Circumstances dictate as much.”
“What circumstances?” Goneril demanded.
“To be blunt, the circumstances of my being here as your younger sister’s emissary. And of her being fairer than you are.”
Edmund waited, calculating the possible effects of this statement. For a split second, he saw naked rage in Goneril’s face, and then the mask fell back into place, as he had anticipated. “I am sorry to hear that, Edmund. But I suppose it is only to be expected that you would toss the gifts of fortune aside for those of nature. You are natural yourself, after all.”
“Do you mean that I am a natural son, or a natural fool?”
Goneril smiled, showing pointed teeth. “For the first, no question; for the second, that will be clearer after the battle.”
“Ah, the battle. That is what I came to discuss. Your sister offers you terms for a peace with mutual honor; will you hear them?”
“I think not.”
“You are very sure you will win this battle, then?”
“Shall we wager on it?” Goneril ran her tongue over her lips. “I’ll lay a hundred crowns thou wilt regret thy bargain. Let’s drink to seal the wager, and part friends.”
“Content, my lady.”
Goneril called for cups and wine.
What is Greener Than the Grass?
The French doctor advised that Lear be left to sleep as long as he would, and that he be wakened with music.
Cordelia nodded, and took her place on a stool beside her father’s bed. She was dressed in women’s clothes now, but the fool’s harp still hung at her side. Edgar brought her a plate of roast pork and a draught of ale when the others were having their dinner, but she ate little. She seemed all princess now; Edmund could hardly believe she was the same girl who had bantered with him in the kitchen and followed her father from palace to heath in motley.
She sat beside him all the rest of that day and all night. At daybreak, when the birds were filling the air with their voices and color was stealing back to the world, the king stirred and Cordelia began to play.
What is greener than the grass,
What is smoother than a glass?
Edmund, bunked down by the cold hearth, rolled over and muttered a curse. He had drunk rather too much of Emma’s home-brewed ale the night before, and this was not how he would have chosen to be woken.
What is louder than a horn,
What is sharper than a thorn?
He had to admit, though, that Cordelia had a sweet voice; it was almost enough to ease the throbbing of his head and make him think the world a decent place. Almost.
What is brighter than the light,
What is darker than the night?
Reluctantly, Edmund rose and went to the king’s chamber. What happened there might well determine their course as the battle drew near, and he wanted to observe the event for himself.
O what is colder than the clay,
What is longer than the way?
Cordelia paused in her playing, for the king had opened his eyes. Her head was inclined toward her father and her attention wholly absorbed in him; she did not see Edmund standing in the doorway.
Envy’s greener than the grass,
Flattery smoother than the glass.
Rumor’s louder than a horn,
Shame is sharper than a thorn.
Truth is brighter than the light,
Falsehood darker than the night.
Death is colder than the clay,
Love is longer than the way.
The king was sitting up in bed, his hands shaking. “Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight? I am mightily abused; I should even die with pity to see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands –”
Cordelia knelt by his bedside. “O, look upon me, sir, and hold your hands in benediction o’er me. No, sir, you must not kneel!” She placed her arm around the king and tried to bring him back to bed.
“Pray do not mock me. I am a very foolish, fond old man, fourscore and upward; and to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you. Do not laugh at me, for as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.”
“And so I am, I am!”
“Be your tears wet? Yes, faith; I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me, for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have none.”
Cordelia was weeping almost too much to speak. “No cause, no cause.”
Edmund turned from the doorway. This was no place for him.
“Am I in France?” he heard the king say behind him.
“In your own kingdom, sir.”
“For how long, old man?” Edmund muttered, poking at the ashes of the fire. “How long before Albany comes down upon us and slaughters us all like lambs?”
The king’s recovery – if one could even call it a recovery when he didn’t seem to know what country he was in – complicated matters. Cordelia would greet it with joy, and so, no doubt, would old fools like Gloucester, but from Edmund’s point of view it was not a blessing. He thought that Cordelia herself would make a worthy queen, but not if she insisted on deferring to her senile father. He didn’t trust Kent and Edgar to see reason, either.
All in all, he thought, it might be time to cut his losses and leave them. If he presented his services to Albany and told the Duke what he knew of the king’s whereabouts and strength, he could be sure of a generous welcome – at least from Goneril. Albany himself was said to be no friend to turncoats, but Edmund knew who really wore the breeches in that marriage.
He began to gather the few possessions he had left. He hesitated a moment as he glanced at Edgar, but his half-brother was sound asleep, his mouth fallen open: no more aware of what was going on around him than he had been when Edmund had first acted to steal his inheritance.
He might, indeed, have been gone before any of his companions woke, had not Emma and Edith come in from the barn with pails of new milk. Damned peasants with their damned early hours.
“Good morrow,” Edith whispered, so as not to wake the others.
Edmund took one of the pails from her and followed her into the pantry. He did like Edith.
“You look greenly, lad. You had better have something to eat and drink.” She dipped up a cup of milk and handed it to him, along with a hunk of yesterday’s bread.
He sipped cautiously at the milk. He really did feel horribly queasy, but he was also thirsty.
“Is anyone else stirring?” Emma asked.
“Only Lady Cordelia and the king.”
“Oh, the poor lady! I must take her something to break her fast.” Emma bustled out with more bread and milk.
“Better?” Edith asked.
“Somewhat,” said Edmund. The milk had helped a little. He nibbled at the bread.
She was looking at him with her head cocked to one side like a wren. Her eyes were very bright, also like a wren’s. “Is there something that you would tell me?”
“No,” said Edmund, avoiding her gaze. “What makes you say that?”
“‘Tis only that you have the same look about you as when I first met you. As if there were aught weighing upon you, body and conscience.”
“Do not make a fool of thyself, Edith. I haven’t much in the way of a conscience.”
“You are not so bad as you like to pretend,” said Edith unexpectedly. “Nor so bad as some one has told you you are. Is that why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you were about to steal from us when we came upon you.”
Edmund looked at her with a new measure of respect. She had brains, after all, and a quick eye.
“I would not stop you from going,” said Edith slowly. “There’s some say the Duke of Albany has the rights of it, and some swear no Frenchman should ever rule in this kingdom; I do not know but that they’re in the right. But I think you ought to tell your brother and father that you’re going, man to man. I think they would not stop you, either, if you believe in your heart that Albany is the rightful king.”
“What I believe in my heart is – nothing! What I know, in my brain, is that he has greater strength and powers than Cordelia can muster.”
“Then I would say, take your time before you do any thing you cannot undo,” said Edith. “‘Tis better that you believe something, whatever it may be.”
By the time Edmund left the pantry, he found Cuthbert cleaning the grate in the main room and Edgar, Kent, and his father all awake and deep in counsel with Cordelia. The moment when he might leave them was past, at least if he meant to go unnoticed.
“Heard you anything in the town?” Gloucester was asking.
Kent seemed reluctant to speak. “The intelligence I have heard is that Albany’s powers draw nearer. ‘Tis like that they shall discover how weak we are within these two days, and then they will fall on us.”
“We might attack them first,” said Cordelia, “before they expect it. We would have surprise on our side, if not numbers.”
Edgar shook his head. “‘Twould be self-slaughter, my lady.”
“No,” said Kent. “It is not a bad thought. We have, I would say, one chance in ten; but we have none if we stay and wait.”
“We must hazard it, and trust in the gods,” said Cordelia.
“My lady,” Cuthbert interrupted, “begging your pardon, but Kentishmen are more used to trust in their staves. I will fight for you and the king your father, to my last breath, and so would my father-in-law, and my neighbors; but give us time, time to spread word to the other villages, and there will be more of us.”
“Still not enough,” said Edmund. The countryside had likely emptied of young men, as it always did in time of war, and old men like Owen would be little enough use. “They will know it is not enough, and attack us before you can raise your neighbors. We have not time.”
“My brother is right,” said Edgar. “But if we can make them think our numbers are more,” he added, slowly, “we might stall them a day or two.” He was looking out the window, as if he were absent-minded.
Edmund followed his gaze. Emma and Cuthbert’s oldest son was standing in a field of wheat, setting up a scarecrow.
The two brothers’ eyes met. “We might try a stratagem,” said Edmund.
* * *
In a day’s time the French tents had been re-staked, farther apart, and pieced out with makeshift tents of bedsheets and blankets and the sails of fishing-boats. There were makeshift soldiers, too. In a moment of whimsy, Edgar put his own hat on top of the last scarecrow and stuck a chicken feather in it.
“The very pattern of fashion, is he not? That hat looks better on him than it ever did on me.”
Edmund agreed – perhaps a shade too heartily, as it earned him a shove from his brother and a reminder to respect his elders.
“At any rate,” said Edgar, surveying the ranks of scarecrows in the fading light, “they look a respectable army, and they seem to be less given to drinking and drabbing than most. Would I could say the same for the Frenchmen!”
“An army of straw and patches. Do not forget that we have nothing that is real.”
“We have something,” said Edgar. “Men and women with heart.”
“Ay.” Edmund spat on the ground. “Hearts that can be cut out and eaten by Goneril. That’s what heart is good for. Give me steel and arrows, for my part.”
“Hush, brother. The men should not hear you speak that way.”
“They know. There’s not a one of them who does not know he’ll be food for crows and kites.”
“Shh. ‘Tis still better not to speak of it; but I am of your mind.”
“You are?” Edmund was surprised. “I had thought you as foolish as the rest of them.”
“Is that why you did it?” Edgar asked, and then shook his head before Edmund could reply. “Never you mind. I will not ask you; this is not the time. Courage is never foolish, brother, but for all that, it is better if we find some way to prevent this battle. I have been thinking of Owen and Edith. Emma’s their only child living, did you know? Their sons are dead. All of them killed in one or another of our wars.”
It had not occurred to Edmund to ask Edith about her other children, and he felt a little ashamed that Edgar had known this and he had not. Nevertheless, he did not think the main burden of guilt was theirs. “You mean the king's wars. We have not started any that I can remember.”
“I mean our sort of people. Nobles and councillors. We make the wars, and Edith’s sons bleed in them.”
“That is the way of the world, brother.”
“If children can rebel against their fathers and strive against nature – if kings can be reduced to beggary, and fawning curs become courtiers – cannot we also change the way of the world?”
Edmund stared at his brother in astonishment.
“We live in an age of eclipses, brother. Didst thou not tell me so thyself? Rivers run backwards, and things are done that have never been done before.”
* * *
Cordelia said nothing of the eclipses in her speech to the troops. She said that they fought for the the ancient rights of their fathers and forefathers; she said that justice would stand against fate, and outlast it to the day of doom, though individual men would fall; she said that though she had but the weak body of a woman, she came armed, as Pallas herself would arm in such a cause. Then she turned to the French troops and tried to say the same in French, though haltingly, for she had never been in their country.
“She spoke well,” said Gloucester, blinking tears out of his one good eye.
“She did. But ‘twould have been better if the king had spoken in his own cause,” said Kent.
“How does he?” asked Gloucester.
“Better and better. But he will not go to the field of battle; he says that he is too old, and he asks only a plot of ground for himself, not a kingdom.”
“What said the princess to that?”
“She said that she would fight on his behalf, and would not let him persuade her to stay with him. She obeys her father in all else, but not in that.”
* * *
The first day’s battle was not, as Edmund had feared, a rout. Albany’s troops fell in greater numbers than the French and the Kentishmen, and there was rejoicing around the campfires that night. But Cordelia and her commanders were graver. Albany had reinforcements, and they did not. They would be beaten back, little by little, toward the shore; they could not hold forever.
“Our best hope,” said Edgar, “is to ask Albany for a parley, and try to come to terms while they still think we may have the advantage of them. We will have to cede Albany the portion of the kingdom he was promised, and perhaps offer him some of Cornwall’s former lands if he will not agree at first, and color it all with a show of generosity. Would that be acceptable to you, my lady?” (Nobody, of course, thought of asking Lear; even though the king had recovered a fragile thread of sanity, there was a tacit understanding that they all deferred to Cordelia.)
Edmund expected her to say no. He could almost hear her: No, my father will have all of his kingdom, or nothing.
“Yes,” said Cordelia after a long moment. “But I think my sister will not agree. She will demand all of Britain.”
“Then we are no worse off than before. We can but try.”
Cordelia nodded. “That is so. Whom shall I send?”
“I suggest you send Edmund, my lady,” said Kent. “I marked that the Duchess of Albany showed him much favor when they were last together.”
Edith, who had been serving supper, dropped a jug of beer on the floor. But all she said was, “Pardon, my lords and lady,” and nobody except Edmund took much notice of the interruption.
“That is a good thought,” said Cordelia. “Edmund, will you be our emissary?”
“In all things I shall obey, my lady.”
Edith was mopping the spilled beer and the shards of the jug from the floor. Still she said nothing.
* * *
“How good it is to see you again, Edmund,” said Goneril lazily. “I had almost begun to wonder when you meant to join us.”
“Were you in any doubt of my coming, madam?”
“None at all.” A slight smile played about her lips, which were painted cherry-red. “I know thy nature well enough, I think.”
She extended a hand for him to kiss, and Edmund found that he did not like the way she was looking at him: as if he were a lap-dog or some other creature framed for her pleasure.
“I hear thou hast done well in ridding me of a troublesome sister. I must give thee lands enough when I am queen of Britain; but if thou canst do me the like service again, I shall think on a more privy mark of my favor.”
Edmund shut his eyes for a moment. He was seeing Regan die again. When he spoke, he was a little surprised at what he said. “I am afraid, my lady, that I must reconsider the terms of our ... agreement. Circumstances dictate as much.”
“What circumstances?” Goneril demanded.
“To be blunt, the circumstances of my being here as your younger sister’s emissary. And of her being fairer than you are.”
Edmund waited, calculating the possible effects of this statement. For a split second, he saw naked rage in Goneril’s face, and then the mask fell back into place, as he had anticipated. “I am sorry to hear that, Edmund. But I suppose it is only to be expected that you would toss the gifts of fortune aside for those of nature. You are natural yourself, after all.”
“Do you mean that I am a natural son, or a natural fool?”
Goneril smiled, showing pointed teeth. “For the first, no question; for the second, that will be clearer after the battle.”
“Ah, the battle. That is what I came to discuss. Your sister offers you terms for a peace with mutual honor; will you hear them?”
“I think not.”
“You are very sure you will win this battle, then?”
“Shall we wager on it?” Goneril ran her tongue over her lips. “I’ll lay a hundred crowns thou wilt regret thy bargain. Let’s drink to seal the wager, and part friends.”
“Content, my lady.”
Goneril called for cups and wine.
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