It was late afternoon before they came to the bridge that would take them across the Avon into Stratford. The sun was bright, but Violetta shivered.
‘It is always cold down by the river,’ Will said to her as the cart began to rumble over the nine spans of the bridge.
He felt a chill of his own as boys left off fishing and messing on the bank and came to run alongside them, attracted by the painted wagon. He caught himself looking for his own lad, Hamnet, among them, although he’d have been too old to play by the river. He was eleven when he was taken by a sudden fever. He lay in Holy Trinity churchyard now, eleven for ever. There was a fair at the bridge foot and up Bridge Street. Will directed Tod along Waterside, up Sheep Street and into High Street. Chapel Lane would be too narrow for the cart.
New Place occupied the corner plot, opposite the Guild Church. It was an impressive building of brick and timber, built on three storeys with five gables. News of their arrival had already spread and Anne and his daughters were standing outside ready to greet them, with caps straightened and aprons hastily discarded. His wife was a tall woman, still handsome, with fine grey eyes. Her face was smooth, but lines of care and worry were beginning to show about her mouth and across her forehead. She was already casting an eye over the company, calculating how many beds they would need, how many mouths there would be to feed. Next to her stood two girls of about sixteen and eighteen; the younger was shorter in stature, with an open, pretty face. She darted forward to embrace her father as soon as he had dismounted. The older and taller of the two held back, looking on with her father’s dark eyes and watchful expression, waiting for her mother to make her husband welcome, as was seemly. Anne Shakespeare did not look to be a woman who wore her emotions for the world to see, but there was a tear in her eye as Will came forward and put his arms round his family. After a moment’s quiet, they were all talking at once, countering one question with another as they walked through the gate and to the door of the house. Violetta could barely look at them. No matter where she went or how far she travelled, she would never again feel a mother’s hand on her shoulder, a father’s arms gathering her into his embrace.
Violetta wandered the garden, shooed out of the kitchen by the other women. Maria was making herself useful, but Violetta was more hindrance than help. She had many talents, but cooking and sewing were not among them. Will had gone off to visit his father, who was sick, Mistress Anne said, and to see the town council, to seek permission to perform in the guildhall. He had known most of them since boyhood, so did not anticipate any problems with that. The company had repaired to the Bear. Mistress Anne was glad of that. She didn’t want players cluttering up the place, eating them out of house and home.
Mistress Anne told Violetta not to go out on her own. She did not know who this girl was, but there was more to her than Will was saying at the moment. He’d tell her in his good time, no doubt.
‘This is a small town,’ she’d said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘You’ll stick out like a jay in a flock of starlings. So no further than the garden gate.’
Mistress Anne had a frank way of speaking and a stern manner. Violetta had no intention of disobeying her. She looked round the garden. Mistress Anne had already started her planting. It was a fine plot, with sunny walls for vines and fruit trees. There was an orchard off to one side, with the apples and pears, cherries and plums all in blossom.
‘It’s a good garden and will come better.’ Mistress Anne had come out in search of herbs for the stew she was preparing. ‘Once the builders have gone.’ Half the land was trampled and piled with blocks of stone, stacks of bricks and lengths of timber. ‘No sooner do they finish one thing, then they find something else needs doing. I want Will to have a word with them. Here he comes now. Tell young Lambert,’ she said to her husband, ‘I want this lot cleared up and I want them out within the month.’
She went back into the house with her bunch of herbs. When Will had talked to the builder, he came back to Violetta. They walked about, Will asking her opinion on where they should have flower beds.
‘After I’d been to father’s house, I went to the Swan,’ he said as they walked from one part of the garden to another. ‘I found my old friends there. They welcomed me in, making room in their circle as if I’d never been away. We talked of this and that – they are important men in the town now and I had favours to ask – then Richard Quiney said, “I hear you travel with a princess from a foreign land and her clown. A droll little fellow, by all accounts.” I near choked on my ale.’
‘Who told him that?’ Violetta looked at Will, alarmed. ‘How could he know?’
Will shrugged. ‘News travels quicker than fire through straw round here. Some sparks fly east, some fly west, some down to London and some t’other way.’ Will had felt the town close round him. ‘No man’s business is his own in a place like this. Cecil’s spies have nothing on the good people of Stratford. I told them that there was a young woman who joined us for safety, travelling north to visit kin, but I don’t like it. I have to get you away.’ He was silent for a while, thinking. ‘When I come home, I like to go to the churchyard,’ he said. ‘Put some flowers on my lad Hamnet’s grave. Perhaps you would care to come with me? There’s someone there that I think you should meet.’
Violetta helped him pick flowers to make a posy. A graveyard was a strange place to meet someone. Who could this be?
They walked down a long avenue of limes towards an old woman sweeping winter leaves from the porch. She left off sweeping as they approached and leaned on her broomstick to watch.
‘Old Meg.’ Will nodded to her. ‘She sweeps the church porch and keeps the paths tidy. She’ll be over shortly. You’ll see.’
Will found the little mound that marked his son’s grave and bent down to lay his flowers.
‘He lies next to my sisters,’ he said, reaching out to pass a hand over the short growing grass that covered three other mounds. ‘They all died young.’
The graves were near the river, under the church elms. Will stood looking down at the brown swirling water. He was thinking about poor Kate Hamlett. She’d been in his mind lately, partly to do with the play he’d been writing. She’d drowned near here while gathering flowers, or that’s what the family put out, but they might well have said that to get her a Christian burial. The gossips whispered that she had drowned herself, in grief over a lost lover. Will saw her drifting, buoyed up by her billowing skirts, her hair spreading out, mixing with the weed, starred by the white flowers of crowsfoot, her posy slipping from her slackening grasp. Flowers of the water margin: daisies, white nettle, flag iris, purple loosestrife . . .
‘What are you thinking?’ Violetta looked at him.
He thought of her drowned mother, the bodies she’d seen floating in the harbour.
‘Nothing. A poet’s fancy,’ he said.
‘Master Shakespeare.’ A voice came from behind them. ‘Back from London. Who’s this young miss?’
‘This is Violetta.’ Will introduced her. ‘Meet Old Meg – she keeps the graveyard.’
‘Mother Margaret to you, Will Shakespeare. Let’s have a bit more respect.’ She turned to Violetta. ‘Not from round here, are you?’ She eyed the cimaruta around her neck, and her eyes sparked with recognition. ‘Long way from home, I’d say.’ She turned back to Will. ‘Your old man’s grievous sick, so I hear. Sexton will be making space for him before the leaves turn.’ She nodded to the plot that contained the other Shakespeare graves. ‘Damp down this part,’ she added. ‘Safer in the chancel.’ She nodded towards the church behind them. ‘Bones don’t last long out here.’
‘He won’t be planted in there,’ Will remarked. Only gentry and men of importance were buried inside the church.
‘He might not, maister, but you might be. Don’t touch him. He scratches,’ she said to Violetta as a grey-striped, hollow-sided, lop-eared cat began to rub himself about her legs. She looked up at Will. ‘What do you want then?’
‘I want a
message taken to the lord and lady.’ He nodded towards Violetta. ‘I need their help.’
‘Don’t know if they’re about. Might have gone travelling. Could be anywhere from here to the Severn.’ Will gave her one coin, then another. ‘I’ll see what I can do. My cousin Janet and her lass Eliza, visiting from Balsall way, going back tomorrer. They might oblige.’
She nodded to two women who had sprung from nowhere. The girl regarded them boldly, with large black eyes. She was one of them, learning the craft. They weren’t all old hags.
‘We’ll let you know.’
Old Meg hobbled off, her silent companions in attendance, followed by the brindled cat.
‘Who are these people you want to get a message to?’ Violetta asked.
‘Lord and Lady Eldon. I want you to go and stay with them.’
‘Why don’t you send Tod or Ned, or George Price?’
Will looked over to where the women had turned to watch them again.
‘That’s not how these things are done. If you will excuse me, I have to see the sexton. Here’s Master Price to see you back safe.’
.
23
‘Not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes’
‘I didn’t even know you were there,’ Violetta said.
‘My job is to watch you, so I watch. You might not have noticed, but those old beldames did.’ George Price laughed. ‘My master’s spies have got nothing on this place.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Would you care to see something of the place? There’s a May fair down by the river.’
The fair spread up from the Waterside, branching into the main streets of the town. Tod was there with his May Queen, buying her ribbons from a chapman, a pretty comb for her hair. It was a cheap thing made from horn, the jewels upon it coloured glass, but the girl looked on it as if it was turtle-shell and crusted with rubies and emeralds. Next they saw him at the sideshows, making a great deal of noise about winning things for his new girl.
‘He’s got a good eye,’ George Price said. ‘For a target and for a girl.’
‘Yes,’ Violetta agreed. ‘She is very pretty.’
‘I don’t mean the May Queen.’ George looked over to where the young actor was trying feats of strength, making a show of himself. ‘He’s not doing all this for her.’
On their way back to Master Shakespeare’s house, Violetta had a strong feeling that she was being watched.
George’s eyes took in the street: doorways, alleyways, up and down. He looked from there to the faces of the crowd. Then he looked up at the windows. A stirring in a casement window; a movement behind a diamond pane. Could be a face there, it was hard to tell. He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but he did not dismiss Violetta’s feeling. Intuition was right more times than it was wrong. It was probably nothing, but Shakespeare should know about it. Either side could be watching her. The town would host spies of both stripes. Cecil would have his informants; so would the Catholics. Even if they did not do so openly, many in the town still held to the Old Religion. The trick was to know who reported to whom; being a local man, Shakespeare should know.
‘I cannot be sure,’ Violetta said to Will, ‘not certain. It was growing dark, and the street was crowded, but I felt . . . I felt eyes upon me.’ She shuddered. ‘It was as though malice followed me all the way down the street.’
‘And you saw nothing?’
Price shook his head. ‘A movement at a window, that’s all. I didn’t see anyone obvious hanging about.’
‘Where was this?’
‘The street that runs up from the river, parallel to this.’
‘Sheep Street,’ Mistress Anne suggested.
They were all sitting in the kitchen, as they often did in the Shakespeare household. The long, low room smelt of the sweet rushes strewn over the flagstones, drying clothes, baking bread and the dried herbs and hops which hung, looped and garlanded, along the beams. Will and Anne sat at the big scrubbed table, Maria on the settle by the wide fireplace. She’d picked up sewing from the mending box without being asked. Anne had declared her a ‘useful little body’ and they were already on the way to becoming friends. Feste was sitting with her, staring into the falling ashes of the fire. He did not turn as Violetta and Price came in and offered no word of greeting. It was a surprise to see him there; a fair was as good excuse as any for drinking and making merry. He must be in one of the glooms that sometimes took him and rendered everything too much trouble, any effort pointless.
Mistress Shakespeare frowned and looked up from the lists of figures that she had been showing to Will.
‘There’s more sources of malice in Sheep Street than loitering louts,’ she said, pushing a straying strand of dark hair, threaded with grey, back beneath her cap.
‘We met Old Meg in the churchyard today.’ Will crossed his arms.
‘She’s one of them. The best of the bunch, I’ll grant you, but I’d have no truck with any of them. They are not to be trusted.’
Will shrugged. ‘Not in many things, I agree. But they are to be trusted in this when others are not.’
‘Be wary, then.’ She looked up at Violetta, her grey eyes shrewd and sharp. ‘I haven’t asked, but I’m asking now. What is it with this lass? Will she bring trouble to my house?’
‘It is a long story, but don’t worry, Nan,’ Will could see the concern in his wife’s eyes. ‘She is no threat. She stands in need of help and I’ve pledged to give it. I’d hope that such kindness would be offered to our own daughters if the position was reversed.’
‘Truly, mistress –’ Violetta could keep quiet no longer – ‘I do not want to bring trouble to you and yours. I will leave straightway. Tomorrow. As soon as it can be arranged –’
‘That will not be necessary. I don’t know what’s going on here – he’ll tell me in his good time – but if he’s offered his protection, I offer mine.’ Anne Shakespeare took the girl’s hand in friendship. ‘You can stay as long as you like.’ She looked to her husband. ‘I know he would not willingly bring trouble to my door. It grows late. We rise early here.’
This was the signal for them all to retire. George Price bade them goodnight. Will tidied the papers from the table, while Anne took the bread from the cooling oven to be ready for the morrow. Violetta and Maria lit candles to light the way to their chamber. Only Feste was left. He took a long time to respond to the knocking at the door.
‘I thought you were staying at the Bear.’ He walked back to his settle, leaving the boy to shut the door behind him.
‘I want to be, have to be, under the same roof as her!’ Tod turned, arms thrown wide, nearly overbalancing. He’d had a drink, and Stratford ale was strong.
‘What happened to the Queen of the May?’
Tod slumped down next to Feste. ‘Gone back to Long Compton on a cart.’
Feste grunted and stared at the fire. He did not relish this interruption.
‘I really love her,’ Tod said. ‘I realise that now.’
The clown rolled his eyes. Tod wasn’t talking about the trull in the cart. Perhaps if he ignored him and gave the fire his full attention, the boy would go away.
‘You don’t understand! I have to be under the same roof as her!’
‘You said that before.’
‘I see her in all her aspects: laughing, smiling, thoughtful . . .’
Feste barely listened, but when a log collapsed, sending out heat and sparks, and Tod fell to making up verses about the new-kindled fire that burned in his heart, that was too much. To make it even worse, the boy had picked up the lute and was trying to tune it.
‘By the rood! Stop that infernal twangling! Who said you could play that?’ Feste snatched the instrument from him. ‘It’s mine!’
‘I’m sorry, Master Feste.’ Tod set to drumming with his fingers and humming the tune instead. ‘Do you think I have any chance?’
Feste did not reply.
‘You have great influence with her. You know her better than any. Could you spe
ak to her on my behalf?’
Feste rubbed at the silvering stubble on his chin. He was seeing a way to enjoy this. Tod’s handsome young face had lost its look of smooth confidence. The poet in him was failing to find the words that would rightly express his feelings; the actor was stumbling through lack of a script.
‘See where good Mistress Anne keeps her ale,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you what I think.’
Tod came back with a stone flagon and two horn beakers.
Feste drank deep and wiped his mouth. ‘This is good stuff. She knows how to brew, I’ll give her that.’ He waved his empty cup. ‘Where did you find this? You could get more in Maria’s thimble. Fill it up! That’s more like it.’
‘So,’ Tod asked again, ‘do you think I have a chance?’
‘Pour and I’ll tell you.’ Feste was relishing the sudden power he had over the arrogant, cocksure youth-turned-boy again, full of uncertainty.
‘Her countryman Stephano . . .’ Tod filled Feste’s cup. ‘What of him? I hear that they are promised and . . . and love often grows stronger in separation. Does she still have feelings for him?’
‘That I cannot say. You must ask the lady.’ By Jove, Mistress Anne’s ale was strong. His tongue was growing thick. ‘They were promised as children, and although there was affection between them, lad and girl love often withers as first fruits fall to be replaced by others more robust,’ he added with a wink.
‘So you think I have a chance?’
‘Well, now,’ said Feste, pouring himself another cupful. His aim was unsteady; a good portion splashed on the floor. ‘I’d say, in all truthfulness . . .’
‘Yes, master,’ Tod leaned forward, nearly slipping off his settle in his eagerness.