The Fool's Girl (24 page)

‘Don’t hurt him,’ Violetta said quickly.

‘No. No bloodshed,’ the lady told him. ‘Just send him a different way.’

Robin nodded and disappeared back into the branches.

Will did not go with them. He took the horses back to Stratford and left Violetta and Feste with their new hosts. Violetta did not feel the need to ask questions. As she walked with the lady, deeper into the woods, she was filled with a feeling of great quiet, of peace spreading through her after so many days, months, years of anguish and turmoil. They went on in silence, their feet making no sound on the forest floor. She had no way of knowing where they were going, and knew that she could never find her way back by herself, but that did not matter. No enemy would find her here.

A broad way opened before them, a wide ride through the majesty of trees. A faint mist was rising and the last of the sun, shining through the branches, made it seem as though they were walking on a cloth of gold. The ride rose by degrees, until they were standing on top of a ridge. Below them lay a hidden valley, a lost combe. Smoke drifted from the wide chimney of a low house just visible through creeping layers of mist, the thatched roof so thick and ancient and moss-covered that it looked like part of the landscape.

The house grew from a base of soft, grey eroded stone that could have been carved from bedrock. Great oak timbers, silvered by time, formed crucks, branching upwards, following the shape of the forest trees from which they had been fashioned, curving round irregular panels washed with ochre and umber, the colours of the earth. Ivy and climbing roses grew all about the front of the house, curling and twining round a great stone-lintelled door, which stood open like the mouth of a cave.

‘Welcome to our home.’

The lord led them into a great hall, lit by high, unglazed windows. The roof beams were supported by huge pillars fashioned from whole tree trunks. A log fire burned in the wide fireplace. An old red-and-white hunting dog, long-legged, narrow-flanked, heavy-jawed and deep-chested, lay stretched out by the hearth. He scrambled to his feet at the sound of his master’s approach and came forward, tail wagging, claws clicking on the stone floor.

The lord bent down to stroke the dog’s grizzled muzzle.

‘He’s too old to hunt now.’ He stood up and laughed. ‘Sometimes I feel like him, tempted to stay in and doze by the fire, but I do like to hunt.’ He handed his game bag to a serving man. ‘We will have some of these fowl roasted for supper. We live in a simple way, but while you are with us, this is your home. Rest, refresh yourselves, then we will eat.’

.

25

‘What is love? ’Tis not hereafter’

Time was slippery. There were no clocks and the valley was deep, surrounded by trees, impossible to tell the hour by the sun. The days went slipping by, each one passing in a golden haze.

The lord went out hunting with his hounds. Sometimes the lady went with him but usually Violetta found her in the garden or in her solar at her loom. Violetta liked to sit with her. The loom stood under high pointed windows, and the stone walls were hung with her tapestries. It reminded Violetta of Marijita’s room in Illyria.

‘Your mother used to weave?’ the lady asked her when she first came to watch her work.

‘No.’ Violetta shook her head. ‘A friend. She gave me this.’ She offered the cimaruta for the lady’s inspection.

‘A powerful charm,’ the lady said. ‘May it protect you. Do you want to learn the loom?’

Violetta shook her head. ‘I would not have the patience. I’m content to sit and watch you.’

She came to the solar most days, but how many days had it been? One day was so like another. She tried to keep track but kept getting muddled and losing her count.

‘My husband regards clocks as dangerously newfangled notions.’ Lady Eldon laughed when she explained her confusion. ‘We go by the sun and the seasons. They do say time passes differently here. Sometimes slower, sometimes faster. The country people regard us with deep superstition. Some will not venture into the valley, in case they never return. They call us the Lord and Lady of the Wood. Some won’t even name us – we are just Him and Her. They leave gifts: a round of cheese, a pail of berries, baskets of nuts or mushrooms as if we were the fairy folk. It is nonsense, of course. We are all too mortal. My sight is not as keen as it was, and sometimes my hands pain me so much that I can hardly throw the shuttle. I can’t vouch for Robin though.’

‘He is not kin to you?’

‘Oh, no. Although he has become like a son. We don’t know where he came from. My husband found him one morning curled up asleep with the dogs. He had been living wild in the woods. He spoke no language, or none known to us, although the dogs seemed to understand him well enough. He went on all fours for years and is still happier up in the trees than on the ground. Whether he had been abandoned in the forest, or left behind by the travelling people, or had always been there, we’ve never found out. We cannot have children, so we took him as our own. My husband has done his best with him, but he’s only half civilized.’ She laughed. ‘I couldn’t introduce him into company. He doesn’t take to people as a rule, apart from anything else. He seems to like your man, Feste. I hope he doesn’t lead him into mischief.’

‘He’s not my man,’ Violetta said absently. ‘He’s my friend, and he’s quite capable of getting into mischief on his own.’

She could see them below her, in the garden. Robin was teaching Feste how to use a slingshot. They were like a pair of boys. She hoped they were not aiming at birds. A thrush plummeted to the ground in mid-song, its fall greeted by howls of laughter. There would be words.

‘We have been here for such a long time,’ the lady went on, timing her talk to the rhythm of her loom. ‘My husband’s family have owned this land since the time of King Arthur, when the forest was everywhere and they say that a squirrel could travel from one side of the country to the other without touching the ground. Now the woods ring with the sound of axes, and the heathland is turned by ploughs. That’s why my lord hates Sir Andrew. He lives not so very far from here, but his land is very different. The trees have all been cleared. Every year our world dwindles and grows smaller, thanks to him and his kind. The forest dwellers, charcoal burners, woodsmen and furze cutters who have lived in and about the woods time out of mind are driven from their shelters, and the travelling people, who find refuge here, have nowhere to go.’

Violetta sat by the window, listening to the clack of the loom, the hiss of the shuttle being passed back and forth, watching the tapestry grow one strand after another, until the picture came clear. The lady did not ask her anything about herself, her past, but bit by bit she began pouring out her heart.

If time seemed to move slowly for Violetta, it was moving swiftly for Will. Too swiftly. Performances meant every day was busy. Apart from the guildhall in Stratford, the company had been travelling about, setting up anywhere within a day’s ride: guildhalls, marketplaces and inn yards in towns large and small, village inns, village greens, private houses – anywhere that would let them perform.

Touring from a centre was easier than travelling from place to place, and it brought in just as much money. More importantly, it established their presence here. There were a number of great houses in the neighbourhood, as well as halls, manor houses and substantial private dwellings. Many of their owners were deserting London now that summer was coming, with its heat, stench, flies and rising bills of mortality. Once in the country, they were desperate for diversion. Those that stayed year round were
always
desperate for diversions. The local gentry were hungry for the kinds of entertainments available in London. The provinces had been starved of amusement since the companies had left off touring, and there was none to equal the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, inside or outside the capital.

Touring was very different from being in a proper playhouse with a whole company to call on, but Will was beginning to enjoy it. There were eight of them, all good men, with Mistress Maria in charge of properties, costumes and tiring. He had cut and sliced the parts to fit the available cast and devised a playlist pleasing to all. Although most of the actors had not been touring before, they seemed to relish the opportunity it gave for wit and ingenuity. The audiences were, for the most part, uncritically adoring, making a pleasant change from the surly London crowd, who had their pick of playhouses.

They performed in halls, in courtyards, in gardens, on lawns and had engagements from here to Michaelmas. The money was pouring in. Burbage would be proud of him, but that was not the sole reason for all this industry. If they appeared at one house, then they were invited to others, as the local families tried to outdo one another. Soon it would be obligatory for any household of note to invite Master Shakespeare and his men to entertain the company.

One day, towards the middle of June, Will came home to find the yard transformed into a grove. A cart stood in Chapel Lane, causing quite an obstruction to traffic coming up from Waterside, while men trooped back and forth, unloading trees and all manner of plants.

He hurried into the house to see what this was all about, to be met by Anne in a state of unaccustomed agitation.

‘Nan? What’s the matter? What is all this?’

‘There’s plums, cherries, apricots and quinces,’ Anne said, counting them off on her fingers. ‘Enough to stock the orchards of half the town. There are different kinds of berries, vines and mulberries, red and white. There are seeds of all kinds of things, and look at this!’

She held out a small bowl, a cluster of pale shoots just breaking the surface of the fine white sand. Anne delicately extracted a tear-shaped bulb covered in papery brown skin. She held it on her fingertips as if it were fashioned from gold and ivory.

‘Tulips,’ she said. ‘The first in Stratford!’

The first anywhere, outside a few great gardens. These were very rare. Will knew who had sent them.

‘Did any message come with them?’ he asked Anne. ‘Or a messenger?’

‘He’s in the parlour. George Price – the man who was with you when you first arrived.’

Will hoped Price appreciated the honour. The parlour was the best room in the house. The walls were covered in painted cloths that had come all the way from Oxford. They had cost Will deep in the purse, but they were Anne’s pride. The furniture gleamed, polished with beeswax, and the plate on the sideboard shone.

George Price stood up when Will came into the room. He was dressed as a gentleman today, in a black velvet doublet and silk hose.

‘I’ve come with plants for your wife and a message from my master.’

‘I thank him for his kindness,’ Will said. ‘He could not have sent a better gift. My wife values her garden and orchard above all things.’

‘Are our friends still safe?’

‘They are.’

‘The boy actor, Tod – when I left, he seemed less than happy with how things had turned out. I was worried he might do something rash.’

‘He did try to follow, but was misdirected. It has worked to our advantage. If he was in touch with Sir Andrew’s agents, he will have told them that Violetta and Feste travel north.’

Robin could be very persuasive. He was famous for the way he could beguile dogs and horses. Young men presented even less of a challenge.

‘How goes the other thing?’

‘It goes well. We have performed at nearly every house in the neighbourhood. That should be enough for Sir Andrew’s guests at Bardsley to demand that we entertain them too.’ Will smiled. ‘No one likes to feel left out.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sir Andrew will want to match his neighbours in the quality of entertainment he can provide. The families hereabouts jockey endlessly for position and are ever ready to do each other down. Besides, young Stephano is our agent. We will get our invitation. The Venetian Ambassador was in daily attendance at the Globe. Stephano will make sure he knows that we are here and ready to perform. Sir Andrew cannot refuse a request from so important a guest.’

‘Sir Andrew and his guests are due any day now. The other conspirators will arrive hard on their heels. This is the message from my master: He hopes your garden grows well and would have you know that by midsummer all should be ready for plucking.’ Price began to pull on his gloves. ‘You’d best get ready for the call.’