The Fool's Girl

  The players could not be persuaded to stay, no matter how much the townspeople begged them. Greenaway wanted to get away, and Will did too. He was not happy with the performance and wanted to put the town behind him. What pleased the crowd did not please him. What did they know, being starved of anything but half-remembered mummers’ plays and Whit-tide interludes? These were the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, yet they had stuttered and groped their way through the play, stumbling about and falling over each other like a cast made up from cobblers and blacksmiths. The next morning saw them packed up and on the road.

  Violetta climbed on to the cart. Tod whipped the horses up and soon they had left the town behind them. Feste was sleeping, curled up like a cat in a space behind her. Tod was muttering lines to himself. Maria was busy with her needle, making a little jester’s hat and costume of motley for Little Feste. They travelled on in companionable silence, Violetta drowsing a little, lulled by the sway of the wagon and the warm spring weather. She liked being back on the road. Ever since Feste rescued her from Venice, she had been infected by his restlessness. ‘The road is no fixed abode, madonna,’ he had said to her when they joined their first company. ‘It winds between one place and another, between what lies in the past and what waits in the future, so you do not dwell in either. It is where you can be free.’

  Feste did not like to stay in one place for long. Even in Illyria, he would wander off, his bag over his shoulder, his lute across his back. No one ever knew exactly where he went, or how long he would be gone. Eventually he would reappear, looking just the same, behaving as if he had never been away, except for the new tales he had to tell of the people he had met and the places he had been. Violetta remembered hearing his stories as a child, wanting to go with him, never guessing that one day her wish would be granted. Be careful what you wish for. Her mind was drifting, and she seemed to hear Marijita’s voice calling to her from across the years, a distant sound, like a plaintive tune played by a shepherd on an old bone flute and brought down from the mountains on the wind. She woke with a start. There are no mountains here. She had been dreaming of her own country. She shivered, suddenly cold. The past was here. We carry it with us. Feste was wrong.

  She had fallen against Tod in her dozing. She woke with her cheek against the rough wool of his doublet. It smelt faintly of lavender. Perhaps the herb had been strewn in his trunk by his mother. Violetta sat up quickly, tugging her cloak around her.

  ‘You were shivering. It is still April,’ Tod said as she pulled away from him. He withdrew the arm that he had put round her in what he hoped she would interpret as a protective, brotherly gesture. ‘The breeze can strike chill.’

  ‘I was dreaming of my country.’

  ‘What’s it like there?’ Tod asked. He’d never been further east than Greenwich.

  Violetta looked at the grey clouds lowering over the rolling hills. Black birds wheeled over patches of woodland; sheep grazed in green fields divided by pale stone walls as bright as knife cuts; men worked in fields made up of long strips that looked like a counterpane stitched together from brown cord, rough woven stuff and stripes of bright green ribbon.

  ‘Not like here,’ she said.

  Before long, Violetta was asleep on his shoulder again.

  ‘Hup, hup!’ Tod called softly. His thoughts ran on as the horses plodded up the next long hill. Romeo and Juliet. The play was very popular, being all about love and fighting. There was not a strong clown part, but the nurse was good and bawdy. Something in it for everybody. He would suggest to Master Shakespeare that it should be part of the tour. He could play Romeo and . . . he looked down at Violetta’s dark head resting on his shoulder, the delicate arch of her brow, the sweep of her lashes, the curve of her lip, her cheek faintly flushed with sleep. She would make a perfect Juliet. And why not? The rest of the company might need a bit of persuading, but the audience need never know. The rehearsing would be particularly pleasant. Violetta stirred. Her eyes moved under their lids as if she was searching some dream landscape, and Tod sank into a reverie of his own.

  Will watched the girl lolling and the boy gather her to him, to prevent her from falling as much as anything, but Will could tell from the tender way he folded her cloak around her that it was more than that. He wondered if the girl realised the effect she had on the young player. Ever since he met her, Tod had been a changed man. For although he was young, he was one for the women. Not that it was difficult. Players could take their pick. The stage cast a glamour. The magic conjured there lingered long after the players had left the stage. It clung to them, disguising their ordinariness, deceiving the sight of the women, and men too, who sent them notes expressing their admiration, desiring to meet them. Violetta seemed immune to it. Perhaps that was because she had been a player herself. Just as wizards and witches are wise to the spells of others, the glamour could not work on her. Besides, she was promised to another. Her countryman Stephano. But that would just provoke Tod further. The more she held him off, the more irresistible he would find her. Will shook his head. Sometimes he was glad to be no longer young.

  ‘Why do you smile, master?’

  He looked down to see Feste jogging along beside him.

  ‘I was just thinking how love makes us all into fools.’

  ‘Aye.’ Feste nodded. ‘It does that. Feste is the only wise man.’

  The next town was Oxford. They would lay over there, but would put on no performance. They were not ready, as last night had demonstrated. There was a difference between touring and appearing in a permanent playhouse with a full company. Most of the actors had never been on the road before, and it showed. Besides, the University took a dim view of plays and players alike, seeing both as inciting idleness and corrupting youth. Will did not want to get caught up in some broil.

  He wanted to get back to Stratford, to his family, his new house, his life in the town. Perhaps he could get some writing done. He’d left the play he was working on like a field half-ploughed. But this time it would not be the same. What happens in London stays in London – that had always been his watchword – but now he was bringing that world with him. This matter that Cecil had laid upon him lay distant, like a dark line of forest smudging the horizon, but soon enough it would be all around. To write plays full of plotting and intrigue was one thing, to be caught up in them quite another. All the world’s a stage. His own words were here to taunt him. If that was so, Will always cast himself as audience. He shivered and pulled his cloak about him. Clouds were running in from the west and the chill little wind that had sprung up had rain upon its breath.

  .

  19

  ‘Besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller’

  On Headington Hill, leading down into Oxford, Tod nearly lost control of the rig. The hill was long and steep. A dagging rain had been falling since noon and the road was greasy with dried ruts under the surface slime. About a quarter of the way down, the wheels began to slide. Tod hauled on the brakes until they smoked, but that just made things worse. The whole rig began to slew sideways, threatening to capsize and throw passengers and contents into the milky brown mud. Greenaway acted quickly to stop the descent before the wagon got completely out of Tod’s control and involved his valuable line of packhorses in a disastrous spill. Tod resumed his seat, much shaken, blaming the road surface and the horses. Will considered the boy was quite as much at fault for paying too much attention to Violetta and none to his driving, but he did not say anything. The young actor had suffered fright enough.

  They crossed the long bridge which spanned the divided streams of the Cherwell, passed the looming tower of Magdalen College and entered the city by the East Gate. At Carfax, the meeting of four ways, Greenaway turned the packhorses into Cornmarket. They were to put up at the inn used by the carriers. Will would stay at the tavern on the other side of the wide street, where Devenant, the landlord, had rooms that were quiet and away from the street. Violetta and Maria were to stay at the tavern with him, while t
he rest of the actors would put up at the carriers’ inn.

  There was concern about the cart. Tod was convinced that the slide had loosened one of the wheels and asked Greenaway to look it over with him. Will came back to the inn yard to find the cart up on blocks, a wheelwright and blacksmith in attendance. After further inspection, ale and conversation, it was decided that the trouble could be fixed but it would take a day or two. Will frowned at the delay and the expense involved.

  ‘Hurry them on. Smiths and wheelwrights always lie about the time it will take them to do anything.’

  ‘We could always put on a play,’ Tod suggested. ‘I’ve been thinking –’

  ‘No.’ Will cut him off. ‘There will be no performance here. I have decided. That is an end of it.’

  Will’s decision was final. He did not intend to quibble. Oxford always seemed to bring him ill luck. He couldn’t wait to leave the town.

  The next morning, Maria was not feeling well. She’d retired early last evening, the swaying of the cart and the near spill having made her feel queasy, and she still felt good for nothing and was suffering with her stomach.

  Mistress Devenant directed Violetta to the nearest apothecary. Violetta was used to being alone in strange places. She had a good sense of direction. Besides, the ways were broad; she was unlikely to get lost. The grand buildings and wide streets, encompassed by a wall pierced through by gates, reminded her of her home city. The only thing missing was the sea.

  The apothecary listen carefully as she explained what ailed Maria. He went off to make a fresh decoction and Violetta admired the crocodile dangling from the ceiling, the turtle-shells and the other strange objects that he had displayed about his shop.

  She put the package in her basket and stepped on to the street. Up towards Carfax, there was a carriage drawn up causing an obstruction. The crowd thickened with people trying to get past it. She heard someone call her name, in greeting, or warning, but could see no one she recognised in the milling throng. The carriage door was open. Inside she could see a buckled foot, and above it a narrow ankle in black hose. She hesitated which way to go. Then a man appeared, blocking her way. He had one arm in a leather sling, which made it harder to get past him. She tried to back away, but the crowd was all around her, pushing her towards him. His other arm, matted with black hair, criss-crossed with half-healed scratches, reached out for her. She sensed rather than saw the other one coming up behind her. It was the two from the Hollander. They must have dragged themselves out of the river. Now they meant to bundle her into this carriage.

  She had no time to struggle. Hands grabbed her and pushed her from behind, while others grasped her arm, dragging her inside. The door banged shut, the lock dropped into place. The driver cracked his whip over the horses and the carriage jolted away.

  The window was covered by a leather flap, but there was enough light to see the man sitting opposite her. The carriage lurched as the driver whipped up the horses, and Violetta nearly fell into his lap. He had swapped his Jesuit black for the clothes of a gentleman of fashion, with a ruff about his neck and a high-crowned hat upon his head. The hat was adorned with a jewelled brooch and fine-plumed feather. His russet doublet was slashed to show the green silk lining; his puffed velvet breeches were the same shade of green, slashed to show red satin. They tied beneath the knee in the Venetian fashion and were trimmed with rows of lace.

  ‘Malvolio!’

  ‘I do not go under that name here.’ He waved a jewelled hand as if to dismiss the past. ‘I am now Signore Vendelino, a gentleman in the service of the Venetian Ambassador. I do not think that you have met my companion.’

  He had not been alone in the carriage. There was another man with him, dressed more soberly, but in materials just as rich; his dark doublet glittered with rows of jet beads. He sat forward, his bony hands grasping the silver knob of an ebony stick. His large head looked too big for his narrow shoulders. The strands of thin grey hair that hung from under his hat were spread carefully over his shoulders and his fine lace collar as if to disguise their sparseness.

  ‘This is my friend Sir Andrew. You do not know him, but he knows your family. Especially your mother, Viola. Very like, do you not agree?’

  Sir Andrew nodded. ‘Very like indeed. The spit of her, and I don’t doubt as much of a vixen. She was no friend to me, young lady.’

  ‘What a surprise to see you here, my dear.’ Malvolio smiled, his eyes mocking her. ‘We are visiting friends in the area and came into Oxford. We have friends here too, in certain of the colleges, and we wanted to visit the place where the blessed sons of the True Faith were lately martyred. I wanted to pay my respects. Make a pilgrimage of sorts. There should be a shrine to them. One day there will be. That day will be soon!’ A different light showed in his eyes now. He wiped his mouth with a kerchief and paused to collect himself. ‘We came to visit, as I say, and who do I see walking down High Street? What a lucky coincidence. Except I do not believe in coincidence. Our meeting was meant to be. I think you know my men, Crank and Gennings? You escaped them once. I was determined that you would not do so again. They have orders to scour the town for that wretch Feste. If you are here, he cannot be far away.’

  ‘What do you want with me? With Feste? You have ruined our lives and ruined our country. You have taken everything from us. We have nothing. No home, no belongings. We live like vagabonds. What danger can we pose?’

  ‘Soon, none at all,’ he said, his smile laced with menace. ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘The stone? I don’t have it. Neither does Feste.’

  ‘Now, why should I believe you?’

  Before he could say anything more, the carriage slowed and came to a halt. It rocked violently, jostled by the crowd. Malvolio pulled back his curtain as the driver cursed, yelling at people to get out of his road.

  ‘There’s always a throng going in and out of the South Gate.’ Sir Andrew picked up the flap and peered out of his window. ‘We will just have to wait.’

  They were leaving the city. Violetta looked about, frantic. She had to escape, or at least draw someone’s attention to her capture. With both men turned away from her, she made a lunge for the door. Sir Andrew felt her sudden movement and turned back, changing his grip on the ebony stick. He gave the handle a quick twist and, with a flick of the wrist, a long thin blade hissed through the air between them. She withdrew her hand just in time to avoid being slashed and sat back as he angled the swordstick upwards so that the needle-sharp point was pricking at her throat.

  ‘Not a blink, not a sound as we leave the town, or you will be choking on your own blood.’ He regarded her with eyes as pale and colourless as glass. ‘Do not think for a minute that I would not do it. The blow your mother dealt still rankles. I would enjoy doing to you what I should have done to her all those years ago.’

  The knot of people around them seemed to loosen. They were on the move again. The horses’ hoofs on the cobbles took on an echoing clatter and there was a difference in the noise of the wheels over the ground. They were going through the gate. Any hope of help was quickly fading, but Violetta did not move. The thin blade seemed to quiver as if quickened by its owner’s malice. She did not make a sound.

  The driver cracked his whip and called to the horses. They picked up speed. They were leaving the town behind. They were passing meadows; she could smell grass and river water. Still Sir Andrew did not drop his weapon. Violetta stayed as still as she had been before. She found it hard even to swallow. One look at his eyes told her what she knew already: at the slightest excuse, he would pin her to the back of the carriage, skewering her like a butterfly to a board.

  .

  20

  ‘I shall be constrained in’t to call thee knave, knight’

  ‘Put up your weapon, Sir Andrew.’ Malvolio laid his gloved hand on the naked blade, pushing it away from Violetta. ‘She is not going anywhere and it would not be wise, so near to the town.’

  He drew back the curtain so tha
t Violetta could see the countryside: meadows, marshland, the meandering course of a river. There were no people here, just longhorned cattle. She was careful to keep her face free of any expression. She was determined not to show any fear. Malvolio smiled as if he knew that the hopelessness pricking her heart was every bit as sharp as the point of the sword at her throat.

  ‘She faces her future bravely, does she not?’ He turned to Sir Andrew. ‘Every bit her mother’s daughter. Her mother . . .’ he went on, speaking about her as if she was not there. ‘There is a story. She arrived as if from nowhere, emerging from the sea, like Aphrodite. It was not natural – many said it at the time, I among them.’

  ‘Witchcraft.’ Sir Andrew spat the word out. ‘Pure and simple. Her mother was a witch. She is one too.’ He looked at Violetta. ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘Certainly I deny it.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘Why do you insult me and my mother’s memory with these foul untruths?’

  ‘Untrue, you say?’ Malvolio’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yet you practise sorcery more or less openly.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘You carry the trappings about you. What is that you wear around your neck?’

  ‘A charm, an amulet. Such as is worn by many in my country.’

  ‘What of the shewstone?’ Malvolio sat forward. ‘What is that, if not sorcery?’

  ‘And you would not use it?’

  ‘For good. Not ill. To tell us who our enemies are, what they are planning. You will tell us where it is and you will help us, or you will burn at the stake.’

  ‘They do not burn witches here,’ Sir Andrew corrected him. ‘They hang them instead.’