The Fool's Girl (2 page)

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3

‘I am all the daughters of my father’s house, and all the brothers, too’

VIOLETTA

It began when my mother came to the shores of Illyria. I am named for her: Violetta, meaning little Viola. My mother arrived in my country as much a stranger as I am here. I remember the story from when I was very young. I remember it from when I was lying in my cradle, watching the shimmering light from the sea play like shoals of silver fish across the ceiling, while the charms hanging above me seemed to turn to the music and laughter twisting up the stairs from the great hall below.

In my mind, my mother became mixed with the heroines of other legends, the stories so woven together that I could not work out where their stories ended and hers began.

When I was a child of about four or five I would sit at my window, watching the ships come and go from the harbour below – long galleys with their oars stretched like insect legs; sturdy little carracks, the wind billowing their slanting sails – and I would wonder: did my mother come on that kind of ship, or that? Sometimes I would mount the steep, worn steps to the Tower of the Eagles, pulling myself up by the thick rope looping between great iron rings set into the wall. I would look out from the battlements and my mind would take flight like the eagles that nested on the topmost turrets.

I would look down at the sheer cliffs, the white waves curling beneath, the tiny coves and lonely inlets with their crescents of pale grey beach, and I would wonder: where did she first come to shore?

I would see the great ship founder: sometimes with a splaying tangle of splintering oars, sometimes with a sturdy hull split asunder – the crack of a tall mast, the rending of canvas, the wild flapping of fallen sails. I would see the cargo spill. Among the casks and barrels I saw bodies floating, arms outstretched, hands and faces livid in the blackness. My mother was among them, her eyes closed in her white face, her pale hands floating upwards, her dress billowing, her hair flowing about her, moving like the weed in the harbour. She hung there, suspended between brightness and darkness, until I was sure that she was dead. Then she pushed upwards, making for the shifting glimmer above her, her head breaking the surface like a sleek seal.

She bobbed there for a moment, looking about her, before breasting the tumbling waves and striking for shore. She was a strong swimmer, my mother. She rose from the water, emerging from the foam like Aphrodite; coming out of the waves like some mysterious mer-creature, stepping on to the sand like a lost princess, spared by the sea to pursue her destiny. Behind her, day had become night. The storm raged and between sky and water there was no margin, only inky blackness. Then a single flash of lightning forked from the firmament, stitching heaven and earth together, and she stood illuminated by the sudden violent brightness. Although yellow was a colour that I never saw her wearing, she was wearing a yellow dress. When I told her this, she smiled and pulled me to her.

‘Yes. That is how it was! A yellow dress, exactly. How could you know? You clever, clever child!’

This was her story. How she told it to me. She emerged from the water to find people standing on the shore, attracted by the storm or the chance of a wreck. Her appearance was so sudden, so miraculous, a splash of yellow against the blackness, that they looked behind her, to see if her feet printed the sand. Among them were sailors, lately washed up. Their number included the captain of the ship.

‘What country, friends, is this?’ she asked.

‘This is Illyria, lady,’ the captain replied.

She enquired about her brother, Sebastian, who had been travelling with her. He was last seen clinging to a spar, but there was no sign of him on that shore. The captain’s words gave her hope, but his eyes denied it. The truth would be too much to endure.

The news took the last of her strength and she shivered. A man started forward to cover her with his sheepskin coat. She was taken to a cabin, a stone’s cast from the beach. There was an upturned boat outside, spread with fisherman’s nets. The walls of the cabin curved inwards, the beams keel-shaped, made from the timbers of wrecked ships. In the middle of the room a large square grate contained huge driftwood logs crumbling to ash. Various pots and pans lay lodged in the embers. A toothless crone ladled fish soup as space was made at the hearth.

My mother sat down to share a simple meal with them. She was grateful and courteous. She had charm and grace, a way of making people like her. She was the sort of person that people want to help.

She refused nothing. Although she knew that they were giving her the best of their meagre store, food likely being saved for a wedding or a feast day, she was careful not to proffer any reward. Hospitality was a sacred duty. A holy obligation. To offer money in exchange would be an insult. These were superstitious people. They lived by the old ways, ancient and unwritten. She looked about and saw the glass disc, a milky white circle surrounding a blue iris and black pupil, that hung above the door to ward off the evil eye. In a little niche in the wall a candle burned before the shining icon of the local saint. He was always shown holding the holy relic. It had been brought to these shores in a wreck, just like she had been. She did not know it yet, but that was why these people regarded her with such awe.

After she had eaten, she supped tiny cups of thick, sweet coffee and threw back thimbles of fiery spirits that tasted of bitter mountain herbs. She enquired as to the nature of the place. Who ruled here? The country was small but prosperous, governed by the Lord Orsin. Respect mixed with affection as the people told her about him: a kindness here, a generous gesture there. Although his word was law, he was fair and he kept the coast free from pirates and other marauders. From the way they spoke of him, she could tell that he was a benevolent ruler, good to his people, so she resolved to go to his court in the morning and offer him her service.

Once the meal was over, she began to prepare. She cut off her hair, stained her face with walnut juice and begged a suit of clothes salvaged from the wreck. For ease of travel and the sake of concealment, she had decided that it would be better to go to Lord Orsin’s court disguised as a boy.

She went striding along the narrow coast road, a staff in hand and a bundle over her shoulder. The storm had gone. The sea was calm, only a faint swell bearing witness to the fury of the night before. The day was bright, warm with the promise of early summer. She sang as she walked, her voice strong and pure, and gathered flowers: white wayside lilies, asphodel, blue and purple fleur-de-lis.

Presently she turned a corner and saw a large bay before her. On a promontory, a town lay like a curled fist, strong stout walls circling the red-roofed buildings and the small harbour. She stood for a moment, taking in the town, and then started down the winding road to the Eastern Gate.

It was a still day, sound travelled far, and from his terrace in the Tower of the Winds Duke Orsin heard her singing. He loved music of all kinds and had rarely heard a song so hauntingly lyrical, a voice so sweet and high. He sent for the singer. His servants found her by the fountain, just inside the gate, and took her to the palace. Once in his presence, she bowed low and presented him with her flowers.

Within days she was strutting with the other young men in the Duke’s service, dressed from head to toe in his livery, one side red, the other side blue, from her round cap to her pointed shoes. She wore the short doublet and long hose of a page in the Duke’s service. What she lacked, hidden by a proud codpiece. What she had, bound close to her body with strips of cloth. She had given herself a new name – Cesare – and no one guessed her true identity. A slender steel stiletto dagger dangled from her belt, elegant as a jewel.

She quickly became the Duke’s favourite, going about the town on errands for him, and was soon so deep in his confidence that he entrusted her with a special task. He was sick with love for the Countess Olivia, but the lady would have none of him, so Cesare was sent to woo her. The Duke thought that the boy would make the perfect proxy lover, being prettily handsome, silver-tongued and full of wit but too young to prove any kind of rival. Or so Orsin reasoned. He did not consider that the Lady Olivia might have other ideas.

In her dusty pink palazzo, as grand as anything in Venice but without the canal, the Contessa presided over a household as unruly as the Duke’s was ordered. Everyone there seemed infected with some kind of madness, from the Contessa’s drunken kinsman and his foolish friend to her pompous, posturing steward. All except Feste, the Lady Olivia’s Fool, who seemed to see through everything, including my mother’s own disguise.

The courtship of Lady Olivia took place in the garden: a hidden, sunlit space shaded by overhanging pine, studded with statuary, cooled by an ornamental fountain. As the two wandered there they spoke of love, and somewhere between the statues and the fountain the lady lost her heart. The garden faded in a golden haze and all she saw was this beautiful youth. She scarcely heard the honeyed words that he had rehearsed. Instead she watched the movement of his mouth, the fullness of his lips, the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the dark wing of hair falling over eyes the exact same shade as the flowers on the rosemary that she had plucked as they walked. He talked on, berating her for her heartlessness, and she smiled, all the while admiring the graceful sweep of his long neck, the hollow at the base of his throat, overwhelmed with such a strong desire to kiss the place where the delicate collarbones met that she had to turn away to hide her blushes. She cared not a fig for Orsin’s suit. She trailed her fingers through the water, looking at her own reflection agitated by the fountain, her mind on ways of keeping this youth with her.

Cesare returned to the Duke and reported that the courtship had gone well.

‘But by then I knew,’ my mother would say to me. ‘The lady was mistook, and I, poor wretch, was in love with your father.’

It was a pretty pass, and my mother was at a loss to think how it might work out, until her brother wandered into town, saved from being drowned by one Antonio, a renowned pirate and enemy to the Duke. Brother and sister were like in looks, very like. The same dark hair, eyes the same shade of blue, the same set of the mouth and curve of the lip that the Lady Olivia so admired. At a distance they would have seemed identical, although Sebastian was slightly taller, broader built, with a peppering of stubble on jaw and chin that could never have belonged to his sister.

When the twins met, all became clear. It seemed all prayers were answered. Man was revealed as maid; the Duke could marry his page. The Countess was free to transfer her affection to the other twin, and Sebastian most happy to receive it.

The couples were joined in double celebration. It was a golden time. But as you well know, sir, few stories end at the happy ever after.

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4

‘For the rain it raineth every day’

Violetta broke from her telling, eyes blinking, caught by the feeling of returning into light from darkness, or swimming up from deep immersion to the surface of her tale. Back in the present, watery grey light leaked in from the windows that gave out on to the river. Tankards clattered on tables, men’s voices rumbled in conversation, tobacco smoke drifted under the low ceiling and the air was filled with the sour reek of sweat and beer.

Will smiled. ‘A tale well told.’

‘Ach, I’ve heard it before.’ A small rusty-haired man with a pointed beard spoke from a seat nearby. He had been listening to their conversation. ‘Filched from another story. The Italians call it
Gl’Ingannati
– The Deceived. An apt title for what’s gone on here.’ He gave a creaking, wheezing laugh.

‘You have big ears, master,’ Violetta glared at this man who dared to eavesdrop on her and then call her a liar. ‘I do not remember you being invited into our company.’

‘What’s it to you, anyway?’ The clown’s small black eyes fixed upon the red-haired man. ‘Are you saying she lies? Cannot life imitate art? Does not art imitate life? I can tell by your fingers that you are a writer, and by the fraying of your coat cuff not a very good one. Since you were listening, perhaps you could learn a thing. Like this one.’ He pointed a long finger at Will.

‘Who are you?’ The eavesdropper scratched at his rusty beard and scowled at the clown.

‘I am Feste. Either a character in a story, or flesh and blood.’ He lunged forward, fast as a striking snake, his dagger under his antagonist’s chin. ‘Well, which is it to be? If I do not exist, I cannot hurt you. So why do you start back? I’m warning you.’ He pulled one of the man’s ears out from the side of his head and brought the edge of the blade to the fleshy lobe. ‘Stop these from flapping, or you might lose one.’

Will moved to separate them. ‘True or not, what does it matter? It is a good tale, Riche. You have to admit that.’

‘So good I’ve used it myself.’ Riche got up to leave. ‘Perhaps word thieves are like magpies, often seen together. In that case, you have found the right company.’

‘Who was that insulting fellow?’ Violetta asked.

‘Barnaby Riche.’ Will watched as the little man shouldered his way to the door. ‘He is a disagreeable man, quick to quarrel. It’s best not to rile him too much. He has been a soldier and is almost certainly a spy.’ He turned to Violetta, his eyes keen and bright. ‘I am curious to know how such mayhem and destruction came about.
That
is not in Riche’s story.’

Violetta glanced towards the window. Rain was splattering the glass and it was getting dark.

‘We must go,’ she said. ‘We’ve been away too long already.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘With my aunt’s kinsman, Sir Toby. He gave out that he was a great man here, but he has fallen on hard times. He is also very ill.’ She shook her head. ‘I fear he took the news we brought very hard.’

‘Where does he live, this Sir Toby?’

‘The Hollander.’

‘The Hollander?’ A lift of the eyebrows expressed his surprise.

‘An inn and a brothel I know. Like I said –’ Violetta sighed – ‘he’s fallen on hard times. He lives there with his wife, Maria. She was my aunt’s maid.’

Violetta pushed her hair away from her face. She was tired. The performance, telling the story, had drained her. Had she said too little, or too much? Impossible to know. She’d learnt to live by her wits. Feste had taught her to read the marks who gathered to watch and wager while his quick fingers moved the cups or spread the cards: who had money, who hadn’t, who would move on, who would continue to play, who would turn nasty, when to run. She went by clothes, face, hands and eyes. Sometimes she was better than Feste, but this one gave nothing away. He was wearing a dark jerkin and breeches, but was hardly a puritan. His fine linen shirt had lace on the collar and a gold earring glinted in his left ear. He was dark-complexioned with a neat beard clipped close to the skin. He appeared to be approaching his middle years; his hairline was beginning to creep back from his high forehead, although his dark curling hair showed no grey. He had a pleasant face, with a straight nose and broad, strong brows. A face it would be easy to forget. His large, slightly hooded eyes were a deep brown, almost black. Their expression was generally mild, amused, even kind, but ever watchful, and it was hard to tell what thoughts might be passing behind those dark, reflecting eyes. He was a man who spent much time watching people: their faces, their expressions, reading the inner drama from the outward play. He kept his hands very still.

‘I must go too,’ Will stood up and dropped some coins on the table. ‘I have work to do.’ He turned to Violetta, then to Feste. ‘Your tale was most affecting and you show rare skill. Perhaps we will meet again.’

Feste had taken out a pack of cards and was sending them rippling across the table from one hand to the other. He extracted three cards and placed them face down.

‘Find the Lady?’ He moved the cards about. ‘Care for a wager before you go?’

Will pointed to the middle card. Feste turned it over. ‘Queen of Cups. She’s a lucky one.’ He flipped a coin up to him. ‘You win.’

Feste folded the cards thoughtfully. He was a master of this game and he hadn’t even meant to have her in the spread. Violetta raised an eyebrow at him. Feste never gave the Queen away. She could tell by his face that he hadn’t meant to this time either.

As he was leaving, Will met Dr Simon Forman. They went out together into the wind and spitting rain. Will was not one of Forman’s patients, but the two men knew and liked each other well enough. They used the same alehouses and Forman attended the playhouse as often as he could. He liked to talk to Will about his work, and the talk soon spilled into other subjects. Forman was interesting company, a great collector of things, stories and people. He was an astrologer and magician as well as a doctor of medicine. He was frequently in trouble with the College of Physicians, but he did less harm than many of them, as far as Will could see. Some of his cures even worked. He was a great gossip and his calling brought him into contact with any number of people from the highest to the lowest. He was a useful person to know.

‘Too crowded in there,’ the doctor said as he pulled on his gloves. The inn was filling up with river men, sailors from the docks, young blades come south of the river for various kinds of entertainment. ‘I’m off home. There’s more comfort in my own parlour. The night is chill.’ He drew his heavy woollen cloak close. ‘Jane will have a fine fire going, sea coal from a captain I know, a good supper on the table and I have some excellent Malmsey – a present from a patient. I’m still practising north of the river, but I’ve just bought a new house in Lambeth. There is work to be done, but Jane’s made it comfortable enough. Perhaps you would care to join me?’

‘I’d like to.’ Will was genuinely tempted. His own room was sparsely furnished, lacking in cheer. He had no wife there to light the fire and make his supper. ‘But I have work to do.’

‘A new play?’ Forman asked, eager to hear more.

‘Yes.’ Will nodded. ‘But it needs cutting.’ He did not intend to say anything else. He did not like to talk about his work until it was finished. ‘And I have some rewriting to do before tomorrow’s performance.’

‘Those two you were talking to,’ Forman said as they walked along by the river, ‘Feste and the girl – I’ve seen them at the Hollander.
Sir
Toby!’ He snorted. ‘That’s a good one. He was at the Elephant for years. Until he was thrown out for debt. He was a great toper in his day. Paying for it now. I looked in on the noble knight this very morning, so swollen with the dropsy he can hardly move. But here’s an odd thing. His wife, Maria, wanted a forecast done. Not much point, but I did one anyway. It doesn’t do to upset a customer, but it was odd. Very odd. Not what I expected to see at all.’

‘When did they arrive, Feste and the girl?’ Will asked, bringing the doctor back to what interested him. Forman had a tendency to run on from one subject to another. It was sometimes difficult to turn the conversation back. Significant facts were passed over and lost, like pebbles tumbled along in a stream.

‘A week or so ago,’ Forman replied. ‘Turned up of a sudden, looking for Sir Toby.’

‘It must have been a disappointment for her,’ Will commented. ‘To journey from a distant land, suffer who knows what hardships, and then to have her hopes dashed so quickly must have been a cruelty.’

Forman shrugged. If he felt any pity, he did not show it. He was not a sentimental man.

‘It was a shock to Sir Toby all right. You’d have thought he’d seen a ghost. Very agitated he was. I had to dose him with enough poppy to fell a horse. They are an odd pair,’ Forman said after a while. ‘There’s more to those two than is seen at first glance.’

‘She says she’s the daughter of a duke. Do you think it’s true?’ Will asked.

‘She’s got the look about her, the manner.’ Forman laughed. ‘I thought
she
was going to rip Riche’s ear off, never mind Feste. But it
is
true, and much else besides. I have it from another source. One Doctor Grimaldi has some interesting stories about the time he spent in Illyria. Deranged dukes and mad contessas, murder and suicide . . .’ Forman laughed again. ‘Just up your street, I’d say!’

As Will left by one door, a young man came in through another.

‘I am looking for Master Shakespeare,’ he said as he came towards Feste and Violetta. ‘I have a message for him.’ He waved a note, folded and sealed. ‘I was told he was over here.’

‘He’s gone, I’m afraid,’ Violetta said.

The boy was an actor. He wore the flying swan insignia of Will’s company and, from his lack of beard and the smoothness of his skin, Violetta guessed that he played the parts of women. His cheeks were washed with delicate colour, and his expressive pale blue eyes were fringed with dark golden lashes.

‘My name is Tod, Tod Brook,’ he said, snatching off his green velvet cap to show a tangle of blond curls. ‘I’m an actor,’ he added as he bowed low.

‘I thought you might be.’ Violetta smiled up at him. ‘I am Violetta.’

He took her hand and kissed it, looking up at her through his long lashes. He had the air of one who knows his power to attract. Some of the serving girls were staring in frank interest, and one or two of the men were casting covert glances his way, but as soon as Violetta smiled he had eyes only for her.

‘And this is Feste.’

‘Nice to make your acquaintance.’ Feste had spread his cards out again. ‘Find the Lady. Best of three. Want to try your luck?’

‘Not me.’ Tod laughed. ‘I’m not much of a betting man.’

Feste shrugged and looked around. ‘Others might be interested –’

‘No tricks here.’ Violetta trapped the movement of the cards. ‘Put those away. We are leaving.’

‘Which way do you go?’ Tod asked.

‘To the Hollander.’

‘In that case, it might be better to travel in numbers. The Hollander is not in the best of areas.’ Tod drew his cloak aside to show that he was wearing a blade. ‘I will come with you.’

‘Thank you,’ Violetta said, ‘but I have Feste. He is protection enough.’

‘Even so . . .’ Tod was not going to be deflected as easily as that. ‘I can help carry the box.’

‘I can manage that.’ Feste folded his cards.