The Fool's Girl (26 page)

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 seats. 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 pulpit. 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.

‘Come and join us.’ Malvolio made a mocking gesture of welcome. ‘Did you really think that we would not see through your little plot? Did you think that we were that stupid? This is a sideshow. A sham. Devised as a decoy to draw attention away from our true intent. Sir Andrew and a few brave companions are even now riding through the night so that they can be ready to ambush Her Majesty.’

‘They will not get near her!’ George Price stepped out of the shadows. ‘Many have tried. All have failed.’

‘That is because of the methods they used.’ Malvolio was fairly crowing, carried away by his own cleverness. ‘She will be travelling by barge tomorrow. Is that not so? There are cannons hidden either side of the river ready to blow her to the infernal realm where she belongs.’

‘Not if I can get there first!’

George Price strode towards the gatehouse. An arrow splintered the wood on the door; another bedded itself in the lintel of the window by his side.

‘No one is leaving.’ Malvolio turned about in the middle of the courtyard. ‘Drop your weapons or my men start shooting. They have orders to pick off the players and the women first, then dispose of the rest of you.’

Arrows thudded, reinforcing the warning. George Price dropped his knife, nodding to the men he had brought in with him to do the same. Stephano stood defiant.

‘Do what I say,’ Malvolio hissed at him, ‘or I will put your friend out of his misery.’

He pointed towards where Guido stood, his arm hanging useless, blood dripping from his fingertips on to the flagstones. Stephano’s sword clattered to the ground. A group of Venetian gentlemen had sprung up to defend the Ambassador, swords drawn. The Ambassador signalled to them to sit down. He would see how this thing played out. Two of them remained standing, their swords now pointing at their master’s throat. So that was the way of it. The Ambassador stared at Malvolio with undisguised hatred.

Violetta looked around, trying to control the first flutterings of panic. The men of Venice were playing false, or else they had given up their swords. The players were unarmed or carried weapons that were mere props, useless for fighting. This was a stout house, surrounded by a moat. It was impossible to get out once the gates were shut, the bridge drawn up – impossible to get in either. So there could be no help from outside. But there was one way . . . She caught George Price’s eye. He had seen it too.

‘I know what you are thinking: we are trapped in here with you.’ Malvolio gave her a look almost of pity. ‘Not so. Sir Andrew’s house is well equipped with the means of escape – as long as you know where to find them. We will be leaving soon. Our work here is done. I would love to take Your Excellency –’ he bowed to the Venetian Ambassador – ‘but I fear our alliance is over. I serve other masters now. The gold we have collected from the Faithful across the country is going to Spain. As is the relic. Spain has long wanted a base in the Adriatic. Illyria will provide that service. We no longer need the help of Venice. You betrayed us to Cecil. The intelligence you fed him was false, but it was a betrayal none the less. Betrayal has to be punished.’

He signalled to the young Jesuit to take the reliquary from Violetta. She held on to her precious burden, resisting the attempts of the priest to take it from her. She would not give it up now, even if it meant her life.

‘Unhand her!’

Stephano leaped to her side, dragging the priest away from her. Malvolio nodded to one of the bowman on the roof. He loosed the bolt of his crossbow. Stephano’s arms flew out and he fell face down. Violetta dropped to her knees beside him, the relic forgotten.

George Price took advantage of the confusion, setting off at a run and jumping up on to the low wall that served as the fourth side of the courtyard. Arrows showered around him as he dived into the moat. A couple of his men tried to circle round and seize Malvolio. They were picked off by the men on the roof, but how many more might be lurking? Things were not going as Malvolio had planned. It was all the girl’s doing. He would finish this once and for all. As he stepped towards Violetta he slipped a long knife out from under his cloak. The boy was dead. Now it was her turn. He crouched over Violetta, seized her by her hair, pulling her head back and angling the thin blade of the knife inwards towards her exposed throat.

‘I want for one more thing. The shewstone. Did you think I had forgotten it? Step forward, Feste. I know you are here and I know you bear it.’ He tugged Violetta’s hair harder, the point of the blade nicking the whiteness of her neck. ‘Bring it to me, or I spill her blood.’

Feste took Little Feste from inside his jerkin. He’d been using him as padding for his part as Bottom the weaver.

‘Here, master,’ he said. He offered the folly stick to Malvolio. ‘The stone’s in the head.’

‘Hidden inside the Devil’s doll. How very appropriate.’

He passed Violetta into the priest’s care and took Little Feste in both hands, meaning to dash the head against the pavement.

‘No!’ Feste turned away, unable to bear it.

Malvolio began to laugh. It was a rehearsal for what he would do to Feste after he had disposed of the girl. Then he would be rid of the whole nest of them. He swung the folly stick up, intending to crack it against the ground, but there was no forward momentum, he continued to fall backwards, gargling and choking on his own blood. He tore at his throat, unable to breathe, his groping fingers failing to find the little arrow buried so deep only the fletching showed.

He fell on his back, fighting for breath.

The men guarding the Ambassador had orders to kill him and his daughter, but the game was over. Malvolio was as good as dead. They lowered their swords, but it was too late for that. One died from a rapier thrust to the heart, the other fell with a dirk in his back. His Excellency wiped his sword on his pale satin sleeve and turned to comfort the girl who wept by his side.

Up on the rooftops, the men-at-arms faltered. First one crumpled where he stood, then another toppled from the turrets to the ground below, felled by little arrows or stones from a slingshot. From across the moat came the roar and flash of gunfire. Most of the balls missed their targets, but the firing was enough for the remaining men-at-arms. They left their posts and went scrambling over the roofs.

The young priest seized the reliquary and backed away, uncertain what to do now that his master was dead. He had not taken two steps when his knees went from under him. By the time he hit the ground he was already dead, felled by a slingshot to the forehead.

When the trouble started, the players had dived behind any bit of scenery that could provide cover. Will called them out now and sent them to help Price’s remaining men to open the gates and lower the drawbridge. Maria came from where she had been sheltering, already tearing a cloak into strips to tend to Guido. The Ambassador’s daughter ran to him, offering her silk scarf to bind his shoulder. But there seemed little anyone could do for the young man lying by Violetta. Robin was there beside her, probing for the place where the crossbow bolt was lodged. He brought his hand away and looked at his fingers. There was no blood. He pulled at the bolt. It was not lodged in flesh, but caught in the rings of the mail shirt he was wearing under his clothes. Violetta touched the slippery close-textured metal, exploring to see if it had been penetrated. There was no break in the fine mesh. Marijita’s shirt had held. It had saved him. She sat back on her heels hardly knowing if she would laugh or cry.

Will helped Robin to turn Stephano over. There was a livid bruise forming on his forehead where he had fallen and he was deathly pale, but his eyes were moving under the lids. Will called for water and dashed some on to his face. The eyes fluttered open. He was alive.

Robin left the boy and looked to where the other one dripped blood on the ground. He swarmed up the woody vines that had spread themselves over the sides of the house, crawled along under the eaves of the house, then swung himself back down again.

‘Here.’ He gave a ball of moss and cobwebs to Maria. ‘Sovereign for wounds, my lady says. Pack the cut with it and bind it tight.’

He walked over to Malvolio and reached down to wrench his flint-tipped arrow out of the dead man’s throat.

‘They are hard to fashion.’ He twirled the bloody shaft between his fingers, wiped it on his jerkin and put it back into the quiver he wore on his hip. He took the folly stick from the dead man’s grip. ‘And here.’ He handed it to Feste. ‘I know how fond you are of the little man.’

There was a clatter of hoofs and the sound of marching feet. George Price was leading his men across the drawbridge and into the house.

‘Give me the folly stick!’ Violetta ordered. ‘Quickly now!’

She took it from Feste, twisting the head to release the hidden chamber. She took the stone in her hand. The milky surface reflected the blackness of the sky, the thin crescent of the moon, the sprinkle of stars around it. She did not look further. She did not look into its depths, to seek to know what would happen next. She hefted its weight in her hand before throwing it as far as she could. There was a distant splash as it hit the dark, still waters of the moat.

‘Let them seek it there,’ she said.

‘I have sent riders to warn Sir Robert of this attempt on Her Majesty’s life,’ Price said as he came towards them. ‘My master will be grateful to you both. I’m sure he would like to thank you in person and I think Master Shakespeare can look forward to a performance before the court.’ He looked at Violetta. ‘There is the matter of the shewstone . . .’

‘You’re too late, master,’ Feste gave him a wry smile. ‘She’s thrown it in the moat.’

‘Perhaps that is for the best.’ Price looked out towards the black glitter of the waters that surrounded them. ‘These things only bring trouble.’ It would certainly bring trouble to the young woman standing before him, and he did not want his master putting faith in such things. His superiors might have other ideas. He wanted her out of here. ‘I will tell my master that it was lost in the melee. I know that you have pressing business in your homeland. We will deal with all this here and get the Ambassador safe away. I don’t see any reason to delay you any further.’

The cart was already packed and ready. The actors were scrambling on board, still in their costumes.

When they were out on the road and under the shelter of the trees, Robin put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. No sound came out, or none that anyone could hear, but out of the darkness trotted two horses, one white, one black.

‘My lord and lady have sent their horses for you.’ Robin brought them forward by their bridles. ‘They are a gift.’ He looked up at Violetta. ‘My lady sends her blessing with them. She would like you to ride them in triumph, when you reclaim your country.’

Violetta mounted the lady’s grey, the precious relic stowed behind her. Stephano took the bay.

‘Come, Feste.’ Stephano reached down. ‘Ride up with me.’

‘No.’ Feste shook his head. ‘Let Guido ride with you.’ He looked from Stephano to Violetta, as if to say:
She’s in your care now
. ‘I want to stay here awhile. There’s things I want to do.’

He went off down the road with Robin, singing a little tune.

‘With hey, ho, the wind and the rain . . .’

Will arrived back in Stratford tired to the marrow of his bones, but he could not rest. He got up from Anne’s side and went to his writing table. He could not sleep for the need to write. He would start this very night. He sat for a while in reverie. He thought of the girl riding through the night, on her way to London, there to take ship for her homeland and who knew what fate. He thought of the events that had brought her here and all that had happened from that time to this. He sat for a while longer, viewing how it might be. He would go back to the beginning of the story. The play would start with music and continue in mirth and joyous humour that would banish unhappiness and dispel all the misery that lay between that time and this.