The Fool's Girl (20 page)

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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 that 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.’

‘That is a pity. Burning is much more fitting; but dead is dead, in any event.’

‘I do not have it. I told you.’

‘Oh, you have it. Although that vile rascal Feste seems an unlikely bearer. Why you should trust it to him is beyond me.’ His small mouth twitched. He was a connoisseur of cruelty and could tell by her eyes that he had guessed right. ‘Oxford is a small place. He will not elude my men for long. We will have it, and once we do . . .’ He pressed together finger and thumb as if snuffing out a candle. ‘Who will miss you? Your friends? The players? We saw their cart at High Wycombe.’

‘They are not our friends. We are not travelling with them.’

Malvolio shrugged. ‘You will sink from their memory like a pebble cast into a brook. No one will care if you die.’ He smiled as he prepared to deliver the final blow. ‘Loyal sons of Illyria know where their duty lies.’

The words chimed precisely with Feste’s suspicions about Stephano and Guido. Feste was rarely wrong about people. Malvolio had been probing with great care, looking for the tenderest spot and he’d found it. Violetta had been careful to mask her feelings, but she could not hide her reaction to that.

‘I thank the Lord and his Blessed Mother that Lord Stephano has seen the error of his ways,’ he went on, his words as precise and measured as drops of poison slipped into a sleeper’s ear. ‘He is destined for greatness. The Venetian Ambassador has a daughter, Christiana. A girl both beautiful and accomplished, from one of Venice’s oldest families, a cousin of Lady Francesca, who accompanies her. Their marriage will cement Illyria’s alliance with Venice. In the fullness of time, she will become Duchessa. They will rule together under the protection of Venice. What true Illyrian would not want that for his country?’

He sat back, his eyes like clouded agate, the better to savour the pain he was inflicting. He was tempted to taunt her further, but thought better of it. The poison was slow-acting but sure; it would work its way down into her soul.

His satisfaction was short-lived. The carriage took a violent lurch to the right. There was a crash, as if something heavy had fallen, then it began to slow.

‘What in the name of . . . !’ Malvolio shouted as they came to stop. He drew back the curtain and looked down a rough bank at a waste of marsh and willows. ‘Where are we? Why are we stopping here?’

‘Looking for me, gents?’ He started back as Feste’s grinning face appeared at the window, upside down like a hanging devil. ‘Well, you’ve found me!’ The next moment, he was in the carriage. ‘Don’t you move,’ he said to Sir Andrew, ‘or I’ll open his fat throat.’

Sir Andrew was struggling to draw his sword, but Violetta was too quick for him. She wrenched his stick away and soon had the sword pointed at his midriff.

‘Out! Both of you, out!’ Feste forced them from the carriage.

He was all for killing them and pushing them into the marsh. ‘It looks good and boggy down there –’ he craned over the edge of the causeway – ‘and we are miles from anywhere. Who would think to look here? They’d sink right to the bottom. No one will ever find them. What could be better?’

‘No!’ Violetta shook her head. ‘I’ll have no killing.’

‘Have it your way, madonna.’ Feste sighed his disappointment as he turned to the two men. ‘Take your shoes off, both of you!’ he ordered. ‘Throw them into the carriage. Now stand over there.’

He marched them in their stockinged feet to the edge of the causeway. The steep sides were tangled with willows and brambles. At the bottom, marshy ground spread away, dotted with dark pools, spiked with patches of reed and bright with moss and water buttercup. When he had them positioned to his satisfaction, he pushed them over, one at a time.

‘Hear that, madonna?’ He laughed at each cry and crash, peering over at the final splash. ‘Up to their arses in muck! It’ll take them a while to get out of that.’

There was the sound of hoofs on the road. George Price threw himself down off his horse.

‘I saw them take you, but couldn’t get to you,’ he panted. ‘The crush was too great. Then I had to find a horse.’ He looked to the open door of the carriage. ‘What have you done with them?’

Feste pointed. The two men were splashing and wallowing, bellowing like calves caught in a mire. When they saw Price, they began waving and hollering, hoping that he would save them. It was a comic prospect, but Price was not laughing.

‘Whose idea was that?’ he asked.

‘Hers.’ Feste stood, arms folded. ‘I would have killed them.’

‘I will not have blood on my hands,’ Violetta said. ‘Theirs or any man’s.’

‘You should have killed them,’ Price said. ‘You may live to regret your kind-heartedness. There’s a saying in my line of work: you should always kill those who would kill you.’

Will surfaced slowly, coming to the present place and time as a man might exchange one element for another. He had been gazing out of the window at the roofs and chimney pots of Oxford, but not seeing them. He had been staring at a skull, clotted with earth, mossy with clumps of hair still attached here and there, smelling of the grave. The recently disinterred, dug up to make way for a fresh occupant, as often happened in the burying grounds in London. He had seen it many times, gravediggers throwing skulls about, using them as footballs, hitting them with thigh bones in games of stick ball. Dead is dead. What does it matter? But the grave disturbed, the corpse unearthed, filled him with a special horror. He had half slipped back into his reverie, when the knocking came again.

What was it now? Will ran his hands through his wiry dark hair; no wonder it was thinning by the day. He had given instructions not to be disturbed on any account. Why did no one ever heed what he said? He was tempted not to answer, but then thought it might be one of the lads with news of the cart – that they needed more money to pay the blacksmith, or the wheelwright, or even worse, that it could not be repaired and they would have to get another. He was already reaching for his strongbox and wondering what the rate would be for wagon hire as he called: ‘Come in!’

The table in front of him was spread with papers: some neat, fair copies, others hatched and black with additions and crossings-out. He was in his shirtsleeves, a quill in his hand, his fingers stained with ink. He turned as Violetta entered. She could tell by his look of surprise that he had not been expecting her.

‘Violetta?’ His look was quizzical and enquiring. ‘What has happened?’ he asked, reading the trouble on her face. ‘What is it?’

He put down his pen and wiped his ink-stained hand on his breeches. He listened, arms folded, until she had finished.

‘How did they know I was here?’

‘It could have been an accident.’ Will shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was visiting someone and saw you. There are plenty of papists in Oxford.’

‘Perhaps, but what if they keep following?’

‘We have George Price. He seems a useful fellow.’

‘He is,’ Violetta agreed. ‘But he cannot look after everyone. We are drawing danger to you like a tower draws lightning. I don’t want to bring trouble into your home.’

‘You won’t be staying there for long. When we get to Stratford, I intend to hide you.’

‘Hide me? Where?’

‘I know a place. A place they will never find you. A place where you will be safe.’ Whether she would ever get out again was a different matter, he almost crossed his fingers, but he would worry about that later. Present concerns were pressing harder. ‘I’d better go down and see how the work on the cart goes on.’

He took one last look at the pages in front of him. He would get no more writing done today. He pushed his chair back from the desk and pulled on his jerkin. Unless that wheel was fixed on the wagon, they would not be going anywhere.

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21

‘O mistress mine, where are you roaming?’

They started early. The sun had barely risen above the rooftops and the inn yard was in deep shadow when the company assembled. Greenaway had left the day before. George Price and his men had shed their carriers’ sheepskins for travelling cloaks. They would be joining their party as ordinary travellers. There was safety in numbers on the road. Will hired extra horses; he did not want anyone walking. It was more expense, and he had already dug deep to pay blacksmith, wheelwright and farrier, but it could not be helped. He wanted no more delay. If they got off smartly, and made good time on the road, they might be able to get as far as Shipston, perhaps even home to Stratford. His heart rose at the prospect, but there were many miles to go before they crossed Clopton Bridge. Anything could happen before then.

The first town they came to was Woodstock. The long main street was crowded. A tall maypole was being erected in the marketplace. Tomorrow was May Day. Will had not thought of that. He had completely lost track of the days since they had left London. He listened to Tod’s chatter, telling Violetta about the celebrations that would follow on the morrow. He wondered what the custom was in her country; May Day was ever popular with the young.

They turned into the inn at the foot of the steep hill that wound out of Woodstock to rest and water the horses and take refreshment themselves. It would be a lengthy haul after that, with precious few places to stop. And lonely, with remnants of the ancient Wychwood Forest stretching off to the west as they took one long rise after another, sapping for men and horses alike.

The day was fine. The sun held the promise of summer. Jacinth crept from the edge of the wildwood and the party was infected with the mood of coming holiday. Maypoles were going up on the greens of each little hamlet they passed through, some brightly painted, others plain trunks still nubbed with lopped branches, but all garlanded with flowers, rosettes and hanging ribbons.

Tod explained the customs of the country to Violetta. Very early in the morning, youths and girls go out together to gather quickthorn blossom to decorate the lintels of houses and cottages. His fair skin coloured as he was telling her this, as though there was more to the early morning expeditions than picking flowers, but he was too careful of her to hint at anything like that. He went on hurriedly. Superstitions are as two-edged as swords. They are careful not to take too much from one tree, or to bring the blossoms inside. That would bring bad luck, and it’s death to fell a thorn tree.

‘Do you celebrate May Day in Illyria?’ he asked her.

‘We do,’ she said, ‘and it is a time of singing and dancing. Houses are decorated with flowers, the doors garlanded with bay. On the night before it,
this
night, witches are said to gather. It is a time of the year when the boundary thins between the dead and the living. Spirits and sprites walk and wander. Only the witches know which are good and which are evil. Other folk keep indoors.’

Tod looked up at the sky, reading the time from the sun: about three in the afternoon. Five hours to sundown, by his reckoning. He cracked his reins, urging the horses up yet another long rise.

They came down the long, steep hill that marked the Cotswolds’ edge, almost under the shadow of the Rollright Stones. It was a place famous for witches, as notorious hereabouts as the Brocken Mountain in Germany. The rites held there were described in the little chapbook where Kit Marlowe found the story of Dr Faustus. Will did not have to read about them in books.

The sun was dropping away quickly now, below the rough edge of the horizon. Trees and coppices stood out, etched black against the red-and-orange sky. Night drew on and dark shapes filled the air, some trailing twigs and sticks, but they were only birds, lone crows and rooks whirling down in a clamour of harsh cries, returning to their nesting places before the last of the light disappeared.

Will did not believe that witches flew through the air, but everyone knew that they would be gathering. Most would be walking, some arriving on horseback, a very few by carriage. They would be coming from towns and villages, tiny hamlets and isolated cottages, travelling from many miles around, slipping away early to follow the old green ways and hollow ways, the salt roads and ancient tracks that passed through field and forest; guided from parish to parish by steeples, church towers and the old markers: standing stones, lone trees and coppices, notches in hillsides, the fingerposts of ancient memory that pointed them to the green paths that joined the ridgeway and brought them to the stones.

Then, as though thought had invited it, there was a sudden glow above them. It lay to the west, as if the sun had reignited. All around, from hill to hill, the Beltane fires sprang out, from the Rollrights to Lark Hill to Brailes and on across the county, as if fired by a spark born from this one beacon, carried on some spirit wind.

There was something in the very air, a kind of thickening, as if a storm was brewing, although the sky was a clear, deep blue. It was as though they were surrounded by unseen presences. The horses felt it. Although tired from a hard day’s travelling, they grew nervous and skittish. One pulled harder than the other as they took the long slope from the hills to the plain. Tod had to fight to control them and to prevent the cart from spilling. His face was pale, rigid with concentration. The repair that they had made was only temporary. The whole thing could go again.

‘We must make haste,’ Will shouted.

‘I know that, master,’ Tod shouted back. ‘It is just a thing of tale and story,’ he muttered, trying hard to dismiss it, but he didn’t quite believe it. Everybody knew: all things that flew, walked or crawled – elves, imps, fairies, sprites and boggarts – everything caught between Earth and Heaven would be out tonight.

People did not like to be out on this night in her country either. Violetta sat by his side, caught up in the general unease.

They drove on, while the glow behind them grew and the woodland margins and hedgerows seemed to stir and move with life hidden from view. The village of Long Compton was in darkness. No dogs barked as they entered the winding main street. Blossom glimmered on the fruit trees in the gardens crowded close to the old church. The white petals of apple and pear drifted past the black yews and into the graveyard, to dance there like the spirits of those who were to die that year, old and young. This was a night when such things could happen. Or so country people believed. Long Compton had its share of witches, enough to pull a wagonload of hay up Harrow Hill, that’s what they said. They would all be up at the stones this night, but all the doors were firmly shut, some with boughs of rowan above the lintel, sovereign at warding off evil spirits. Better to be safe. There was no one about and hardly a light showed through the shutters of any of the small stone houses and low thatched cottages that straggled along the sides of the road.

Will directed Tod to turn in off the main street to the inn that he always used. He had been here many times, accompanying his father’s visits to the glove-makers here or in the old man’s brogging days when he would go out buying fleeces for the illegal wool trade. Later, Will had often broken his journey here on his way to or from London.

At first the inn seemed as quiet and deserted as the houses. The door had a rowan bough above the lintel and they had to do a deal of knocking before the landlord appeared. Once he saw who was calling him, and the size of the company, he lost his wariness.

‘Will Greenaway said to expect you. Come in! Welcome all!’

He called for boys to uncouple the cart and look after the horses, and sent girls to make rooms ready. The night was not cold, but there was a good fire in the grate. The landlady brought jugs of ale and cider and soon had a table laid for them with ham, cold fowl, cheeses and several kinds of pie.

Once they had eaten, the jugs were replenished, a space was cleared for dancing and someone called for a song. Instruments appeared as if from nowhere, and everyone took their places. It was a tradition, when they were out on the road, that each would take a turn to entertain the company. Tod began to sing in a strong high tenor, ‘
Oh, mistress mine, why do you roam?’

As he began his song, he turned to Violetta. Will smiled. It was one of the boy’s own songs. He had a good voice and fancied himself as something of a poet. He accompanied himself on the lute and it was a pretty tune, but the words were not quite right, too flowery and about nothing, bent to make the rhyme. He looked from the singer to the object of his song. Violetta’s cheeks were swept with a delicate shade of madder at being the focus of the boy’s attention. She looked so lovely. And so young.

Violetta was relieved when others took over the singing and she drank deep of the cup being passed round to cover her embarrassment. All day Tod had been flirting with her, his attentions becoming more and more obvious. One after another the players sang: popular songs known to everyone, bawdy ditties that brought a belly laugh. The landlord kept them well supplied with strong ale of his own brewing. Word got round and the inn was soon crowded with people from the village. The players were good for business. The music was bringing them scurrying out of their houses and through the doors of the inn. Merrymaking is an excellent antidote to fear.

‘Everyone has to take a turn,’ Tod said. ‘Is that not so, Master Shakespeare?’

Violetta smiled, thinking that he was teasing her.

‘Yes,’ Will agreed, ‘that is so. It is a rule of the company when we are on tour.’

‘But I cannot sing!’ Violetta protested. ‘I do not know anything!’

‘Yes, she can!’ Feste grabbed her by the hand. ‘And dance, too! Come, Violetta. Show them!’

He whirled her into the middle of the room, into the space cleared for dancing. Violetta pulled away from him. She had no intention of taking part, but he’d begun to beat on his drum. Maria picked up the familiar rhythm on spoons, clattering them against her thigh and humming. Violetta began stepping to a tune that she had known from childhood: an ancient song from the threshing floor. A piper began to play, a fiddler joined him. Feste’s insistent rhythm was picked up by others, who clapped or beat out time on tables, stools, anything they could reach, and called her name:
Violetta!
Violetta!
as she turned and turned in the dance. Then she began to sing.

Her voice was totally unexpected. So strong, so plaintive, so powerful that the other instruments fell silent; only Feste’s drum continued its beat. The raucous company listened in wonder. Will felt the hairs stirring on the back of his neck as she sang of loss and longing, of joy and sorrowing, of the beginning and the end of things. It was the kind of song that made you laugh and be glad, while you cried at its sadness. It did not matter that the language was strange to him. He did not want to know the meaning of the words. The song spoke of mysteries, as if composed in a place beyond our world, by a people beyond our knowing.

Maria joined Violetta. They swayed and sang together, tears streaming down their faces, their voices going higher and higher, as if they would join some celestial chorus. Then the song ended, all on a sudden, as if there was nothing left to sing.

There was a brief silence; then everyone began clapping and cheering, drumming and stamping, shouting for more. Maria took her hand and curtsied to the company, while Violetta looked around her as if wondering who and why they were applauding.

‘It is a song of my country, nothing more,’ she said, refusing all entreaties to sing again. ‘I am tired now. I will retire.’

Maria came with her and was soon snoring, but the roistering downstairs looked set to go on far into the night. Violetta could not settle into sleep. Perhaps the wildness of the night had infected her. Even after the last carousers had stumbled up the stairs, or had shouted their goodnights and staggered off to their homes, she was still awake. The inn was quiet now, except for the creaking of the old timbers, the skitter of mice in the rafters, the muffled chorus of snores coming from different rooms.

At length she got up, unable to lie still any longer waiting for sleep that would not come. She went to the window. The merest sliver of a moon looked down, a bright shaving of silver. The same indifferent moon gazed down on Illyria, while she stood, a stranger in a strange land, beset by uncertainties, unable to see anything, blind as a mole.

She stole from the room in search of the sleeping Feste and found him curled on a truckle bed outside her door. He chose to sleep there, close to her, as he had done to Lady Olivia. She smiled as she looked down at him. Despite their spats and quarrels, there was great affection between them and a loyalty unto death. He would give his life for her, she knew that, but would he ever wake in time to foil a potential assassin? That was the question. The killer would likely just step over him. When in drink, which was most nights, Feste slept like the dead. She marvelled at how like a child he looked, his pale face unlined, unmarked by any of his debaucheries. He held Little Feste clutched tight, as if it could comfort his troubled heart and still his restless dreams.