‘Who’s that strange little fellow?’ Maria suddenly asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.
‘His name is Robin.’
‘He looks as bad as Feste.’ Maria sniffed. ‘They’re as thick as thieves, by the look of it. Don’t tell me he’s in the play.’
‘They both are.’ Violetta leaned back in the cart. ‘And keep an eye out for their tricks. They make terrible mischief when they are together. Robin is even worse than Feste.’
They drew up in front of a grey building surrounded by a wide dark moat. It had battlements running round it and turrets at the corners and looked more like a small castle than a private house. The massive oak doors were shut against them.
‘What’s going on, master?’ Ned looked doubtful. ‘Are we expected? We don’t usually just turn up on the off chance they want to see us, like some group of travelling players.’
‘What else would you call us?’ Will gestured to the loaded cart, with its painted boards, piled up with properties and cloths, the crew of actors perched on the back or tagging along behind. ‘I will announce us myself.’
The house stood perfectly mirrored in the still, black water as Will walked across the bridge that led to the gatehouse. The stone was streaked with green moss and powdery mildew. He passed into the shadow of the house and felt a chill as he caught the tang of damp and decay. The massive studded wooden doors were shut fast. He looked round for a bell pull, any means to announce their presence. He lifted the great knocker, shaped like a curled serpent, and let it fall a couple of times, then stepped back as the sound boomed from him, muffled by the thickness of the door. He looked up at the windows, sunk deep into their stone mullions, wondering if there was anyone even here. The leaded lozenges of green glass, dotted with faded coats of arms, winked back at him like tiny mirrors, giving nothing away.
After what seemed like a very long time, a servant looked out, his narrow face hostile and suspicious.
‘Yes?’ he enquired. ‘What do you want?’
‘Compliments to your master,’ Will said with a slight nod of the head. ‘Tell him the Lord Chamberlain’s Men are here and beg leave to appear for him and his guests.’
The man shut the door without any reply, leaving Will standing there, caught between the expectant scrutiny from the cart and the blank door. Had the boy Stephano played his part? The door opened again.
‘The master is not here at present,’ the servant announced.
‘Masters! Welcome!’ Stephano thrust the man aside. ‘We are desperate for diversion.’ He was accompanied by a pretty young woman, her hair dressed in a foreign fashion, who nodded and clapped her hands at the prospect of entertainment. ‘You are expected. Come in!’ He beckoned for the cart to cross the bridge. ‘Come in!’
The servant’s protests were drowned by the excited chatter from the Ambassador’s daughter and the other ladies.
‘Is our welcome secure?’ Will asked, as he shook Stephano’s hand.
‘Oh, yes. Sir Andrew is out hunting with some of the other gentlemen, but my Lady Christiana has gone off to tell her father, the Ambassador, who has been looking forward to your visit. Come in, masters,’ Stephano’s voice rose in welcome. ‘We are in want of entertainment. Guests have been arriving from near and far.’
The cart rumbled into the courtyard. The Ambassador came forward with his daughter to meet the players. Christiana is beautiful, Violetta thought, but from the way she is hanging on to Guido’s arm it is clear where her love lies.
Her father was tall and spare, handsome and vigorous, although his hair was silver white. He was exquisitely dressed in the Venetian style, with an elegant rapier dangling at his side. He was very proud of his position and his station, Stephano had told her. His family was one of the oldest in Venice, their name in the Golden Book, but he was not all surface conceit and vanity. In his youth he had been a renowned swordsman, impetuous and quick to action. Now he preferred to play the statesman, but he was no coward. He’d been into battle on Venice’s behalf and would not shrink from a fight. He’d become something of a hero to Stephano. A man he could admire and who would teach him the ways of statecraft and diplomacy in place of the father who had disowned him.
‘I’m surprised he’s still here,’ Will said to her quietly. ‘I can’t see Secretary Cecil putting himself in the middle of something like this.’
‘He’s Italian,’ Violetta replied. ‘Stephano says it is a matter of honour.’
Will looked round, as nervous and restless as she was.
‘There is no need to go through the part with me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been rehearsing with Feste. He played the Fairy Queen.’
Normally Will would have laughed at that, but neither of them smiled.
‘I’d better go and check on things,’ he said. ‘And you should get ready.’
Only a few of the actors, his most trusted men, knew anything about the real reason for their visit. Price had advised that the fewer who knew the better. It was safer that way. Will had told Nat Hartley and one or two others. Nat was a useful man in a fight, if it came to that. He’d been a sword thrower, and the dirk he would be wearing wouldn’t be just for show.
George Price stood by the cart, directing the unloading. He felt a tiny stirring of apprehension. They’d got in all right, but would they be able to get out? He had plenty of men on the outside, but this place was heavily fortified. He had brought some with him, disguised as players and helpers, but they were few. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and turned to catch a movement at an upstairs window. Behind him the big door banged shut. He twisted about to see a bar the size of a tree trunk drop into place. He thought he heard chains, the sound of machinery. Was the drawbridge still in use?
Malvolio watched from a window. At his nod, the door was shut and barred. The Ambassador wanted the players to come. Well, here they were. He hoped His Excellency would enjoy the performance. It would be the last one these players would give. They were all together now. All his enemies. He counted them off. Chief among them were Violetta, Stephano and Feste. Count Sebastian would be safer without them. Maria would be here somewhere. Now they had found each other, they stuck together. He’d get rid of her too. For good measure. The players who had harboured them, Cecil’s agents who travelled with them – they would be punished too. And the Venetian Ambassador. He had proved false, pretending to help them, while all the time conspiring with Cecil. He had tried to play both sides, as Venetians are wont to do. His Excellency had involved himself in one too many intrigues. Let him enjoy the play. It was the last one he would ever see.
The house was set in a hollow, surrounded by woods. The company was to perform in the courtyard. It was a good space, surrounded on three sides by the wings of the house. The chairs were set in rows against the walls; the actors would play in the central area, the backdrop provided by the waters of the moat, the trees and the sky. Ivy, rose and woody vines climbing the sides of the house, removed the need for too much scenery and created the feeling of being in a forest. It was the longest day of the year, but under the trees the darkness was gathering. The stage would be lit by lantern, torch and candlelight, moon and stars.
There is a time, just before a performance begins, when players and audience alike take pause and ready themselves to turn from their own thoughts to the matter of the play. Will stood with Edmond in the shadows of the gatehouse, watching the audience ranged round their three sides of the playing floor. On the fourth side, a thin moon rode high and the first of the stars were showing as the blue of the sky darkened towards night. Everything was ready. Candles, torches and lanterns were lit. Will waited for the chatter to die down and for each person to sink into that moment of silence, their attention turned inward, their thoughts flashing and turning like shoals of fish about to be caught by the net of the play.
Malvolio sat in the middle of the row in front of the house. The Ambassador sat at his side. Next to him was a space, Sir Andrew’s place. There were other empty sea
ts. Malvolio waited until the audience had taken their places, the play about to start, before he announced that their host and certain other gentlemen had not yet returned from hunting, but the performance would go on. They had even applauded. Malvolio smiled as he took his seat.
George Price leaned against the side of the gatehouse, looking on. He was puzzled by Sir Andrew’s absence, and the other empty places, and not a little annoyed. Outside, his forces were gathering, while those inside were lulled by the play. That was how the plan went. Somehow Sir Andrew must have got wind of it. There was nothing he could do about it now. The play was about to begin.
Will saw Price frown. Something was wrong. He squeezed Edmond’s hand so tight that the bones ground together. Inside he winced, but his actor’s face remained calm and happy as his brother led him out on to the playing floor. Will turned him round to face each side of the audience. Then he spoke:
‘Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace . . .’
The play had begun.
Stephano watched attentively, arms folded. He sat on one side of a door; Guido on the other. He saw the players come on, one after the other. Under the disguise of their characters, he recognised Master Shakespeare, then Feste as one of the mechanicals. He didn’t look anything like his usual self, but he was making them laugh. Then he saw Robin as Puck. He had no costume, just looked as he ever was. He appeared to be playing himself. When would Violetta appear? He tried not to fidget, but he was finding it difficult. He was tempted to stand up and go and seek her, but that would give everything away. Then one fairy attendant in particular drew his attention. She looked in no way like Violetta, yet he knew it was her. He sat forward in his seat, all concentration now.
Violetta was in the train of the Fairy Queen, tricked out in a gossamer gown, her skin gilded; her hair powdered with glitter dust and teased out about her head like a cloud. She made herself look away from Stephano. She must concentrate on what she was supposed to do. She must not give herself away. She did not have any lines to say, but she had been reminded by Master Shakespeare on no account to look at the audience. They might be near enough to touch, but players had to go about their business as if they did not exist.
Malvolio found such low entertainment loathsome and tedious in equal measure. He failed to see what His Excellency the Ambassador saw in it. The theme managed to be both trivial and offensive at the same time. The antics of the mechanicals were crude, while the Fairy King and Queen were ludicrous and fantastical. Who could believe in such things? The whole thing was not only foolish, but it had the reek of paganism about it and the story was immoral: couples wandering about in a wood, lying down to sleep not yards from each other without the sanctity of marriage. That character Puck was particularly odious. There was very little between him and an imp of the Devil, capering about, making spells, distributing potions, singing nonsense: ‘On the ground, Sleep sound . . .’ Like some silly children’s rhyme. Still, no matter; it would be over soon, one way or another.
Malvolio fell into a reverie, dreaming of triumphs to come. All around, the audience sat lost in their own thoughts or entranced by the play. Puck stole away. He could beguile many as easily as one. No one noticed when the least of the fairy attendants slipped through an open door and into the house.
Stephano was waiting inside. He took Violetta’s hand and led her up a winding wooden staircase, Guido following behind. They reached the first landing, and then stole along a shadowy, candlelit corridor. They stopped in front of a wall hung with a faded tapestry. There was no door that Violetta could see. They appeared to have reached the end of the building.
‘This house is full of surprises,’ Stephano whispered.
He pulled the tapestry aside and passed his hand lightly along the panels behind until he came to a hidden spring. A low door swung open under the slightest pressure. They each took a candle and Stephano led Violetta into the secret chapel.
The room was in darkness, lit only by their candles and a red light above the altar. There was a strong smell of incense and Violetta saw that the walls were thickly covered in icons and religious paintings: diptychs and triptychs rescued from churches and abbeys all over the country. A statue of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ Child stood at the side of the altar, her hand raised in benediction. Below her, an iron stand held rows of thin tapers ready to be lit in prayer to her. Out of old habit Violetta touched her candle to one of the tapers. The flame glittered on the ornate crucifix that hung on the wall behind the altar and was caught in tiny reflection, flaring on the gold and silver reliquaries that stood above the richly embroidered silk and damask frontal cloth.
Two large candlesticks stood at either end of the altar, the thick white candles unlit. Between them stood the reliquaries made from precious metal, crystal, ivory, carved box and ebony. They contained relics of every kind – fragments of the true cross, phials of holy blood, bones of saints, pieces of cloth – anything and everything held to be holy, collected from across this country and beyond, symbolic emblems to rally the faithful and lead them in Holy War. In the centre lay the thing that had brought her all this way: the Magi’s gift contained within its Byzantine reliquary, the finest work of the finest goldsmiths, the golden casket glinting with precious stones.
As she stepped forward to claim it, there was a click behind her. A hidden door opened and three men stepped out of the shadows. Two of them were armed like soldiers; the other was dressed in the black cassock of a Jesuit priest.
‘Did you think that such things would be left unguarded?’ he asked.
He was unarmed, but the others had drawn their swords.
Guido and Stephano moved forward to shield Violetta. They hesitated, neither of them wanting to fight in a place consecrated for holy worship, but their enemies had no such qualms. They came from either side, cutting off any hope of escape, their weapons poised for the kill. Guido and Stephano drew their swords reluctantly, but neither was prepared to be slaughtered where he stood.
‘Kill them,’ the priest said. ‘Kill them all.’
Stephano dropped back to protect Violetta, while Guido engaged the first of the swordsmen. He caught the boy with a blow to the shoulder and Guido’s sword clattered to the floor. The man stepped over it and came towards Stephano, while his partner circled round to seize the girl.
Violetta retreated towards the altar and lit one taper after another until she held a fistful, their flames merging together into a flaring torch. She held the smoking bundle close to the lace hem of the long linen altar cloth.
‘Call your men off,’ she shouted to the priest, ‘or I’ll set it afire.’
‘Then you will burn with it, like the witch you are. There is no escape from here.’
‘I’m dead anyway, on your orders.’ She moved the tapers closer. The chapel filled with the stench of singed linen. ‘What do I care?’
The priest signalled for the men to back away. Stephano did not take his eyes off them. He called the wounded Guido to him and beckoned for Violetta to join him. He changed position, angling himself to protect their retreat towards the hidden door, but Violetta would not go without the relic. She had not come halfway across the world and risked her life, and the lives of others, to leave it here. She reached up and took the precious reliquary from its place on the altar.
As soon as she moved, the taller of the two men lunged towards her. He moved fast, swerving to avoid the sweep of Stephano’s sword. He was nearly upon her, his sword arm above his head, ready to deal a killing blow.
Violetta held the casket in front of her like a shield. Her back was against the altar. There was nowhere to go. She dodged as the sword fell. The blade missed her by a hair. It sliced through the coverings, clanging on the stone beneath. Violetta was forced back towards the statue of the Virgin Mary as he raised the sword again. She moved to the side and the blade sliced an arm off the statue, striking sparks from the granite plinth. She was trapped now, between the altar and the pulpi
t. The man was so near she could feel his breath on her cheek. His body blocked off any retreat. He drew his sword arm back, able to take his time. Violetta clutched the reliquary to her chest and bowed her head. She was determined to die well.
The blow never came. He fell to his knees, his eyes rolling upwards. A tiny little arrow, no bigger than a dart, lodged in his upper arm. He pitched forward, dead before he hit the ground. Stephano was fighting his way back to her, desperately holding off the other swordsman. One arm trailed useless, but Guido could still use his other hand. He took up his yataghan and brought the man down with a sideways, scything blow to the hamstrings.
There was no sign of the priest. Just Robin, bow by his side.
‘My lady said to take special care of you,’ he said. He cocked his head, listening. ‘You’d better get downstairs. The play has stopped.’
.
28
‘And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges’
Nobody was moving. The players stood frozen in mid-action. The audience sat rigid in their seats. Malvolio stood in the centre of the courtyard as though king in a play of his own devising. The young Jesuit stood by his side like an attendant courtier. Men-at-arms were ranged around the turreted rooftops, their crossbows ready to fire.
Will signalled to the players to remain in their places, to do nothing to draw attention. He had brought them into the most terrible danger. He had to try to keep them safe. They were all at the mercy of a madman. He watched the drama being played out before him. It became clearer, as moment followed moment, that this man, Malvolio, was insane. Perhaps he had been for a long time.
Malvolio beckoned Violetta and Stephano forward. Robin sidled back to the players unnoticed. He went to stand next to Feste, his short bow like a toy in his hand.