The Fool's Girl (27 page)

He cleared away the papers that had been occupying him. They could wait. He took up his quill and used his little knife to cut a new nib. Then he took out a ream of fresh paper, squaring it in front of him. When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he began to write.

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EPILOGUE

‘But that’s all one, our play is done’

6th January 1602

Cecil was a man of his word. The night was bitter cold, with flurries of snow falling and starring their cloaks as they set off from the Globe. The Thames was flowing black and slow and had the look of ice upon it as they crossed the bridge. They rode in ranks of three, the whole company, some twenty or so of them. Under their riding cloaks they wore their official livery, blue coats marked on the shoulder with the Lord Chamberlain’s insignia, a silver swan flying. They were accompanied by a pair of outriders, each with a staff torch in a stirrup holder, to light their way. Behind them came a group of attendants, their sturdy ponies burdened with cloak bags and hampers. Maria rode with them. It was unusual for a woman to attend the company, but she had been up nights brushing, ironing, sponging, repairing, embroidering and sewing until her hands shook from exhaustion and her fingers bled. The costumes were costly and she would not see them creased and mauled, or her wigs and head tires mangled by clumsy boys and men. Besides, she would not miss this performance for worlds.

Will and Burbage rode at the head of the column, with Robert Armin between them. The diminutive actor perched on his broad-backed cob, his stirrups as short as a child’s, his chin tucked into the collar of his cloak. He was clean-shaved, at Will’s insistence, and it was mighty cold. They were outside the city walls now, climbing the long incline of Fleet Street, the mud frozen into ruts under their horse’s hoofs. They bunched together to pass under the wooden archway of Temple Bar.

‘I hope it goes well,’ Will said, almost to himself.

‘Well? Well?’ Burbage boomed back at him over Armin’s head. ‘Of course it will. To think other will bring bad luck. It will be a sensation. It’s good, Will, very good. A change from the last gloomy piece, although that went better than I thought it would. Ghosts are always popular, as are graveyards and drownings. That fight, too, at the end – excellent! But this is different. What do you think, Armin?’

‘Good. Good.’ The actor looked from one to the other. ‘Excellent stuff. Best Fool’s part ever written.’

Will smiled and thanked him. ‘Are you happy with the arrangement?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

Armin waved a gloved hand as if the favour asked was of no moment. Will smiled. Armin was not only a great clown, he was also a good and generous man.

They passed the great mansions set along the Strand: Essex House stood darkened, its courtyard empty, while Somerset House was ablaze with lights. Cecil’s new house was finished now, the gates and court full of activity, the elegant frontage lit with torches. Burbage signalled for the company to close ranks as they stepped on to the King’s Road, which would take them to Whitehall.

When they got to the Court Gate they threw back their cloaks to show their livery and announced themselves as ‘My Lord Chamberlain’s Players’. They knew the way. They had been before. Wide stone steps led up to the great hall where they would be appearing, but they turned off, drew rein and dismounted under the adjacent archway that led to the stables, where the Lord Chamberlain’s man and a Groom of the Revels stood waiting for them. They shouldered the baggage and hampers and made their way to the chamber where they would get ready. They left their baggage there and followed the Groom to the Buttery Bar to get their
bever
, a measure of the special revel ale.

‘Good stuff.’ Burbage toasted Will. ‘But not as good as Mistress Anne’s October brew.’

Will gulped down one cup and took up another. He had hardly tasted it. He waited for the liquor to plane the edge from his anxiety. He wanted it to begin, and soon, but the court moved at its own pace. Feasting was still going on in various chambers and then there would be dancing. They were due to perform at nine o’clock and there was no hastening time. He listened as the Groom of the Revels reeled off a list of the assembled guests: My Lord this and My Lady that, His Grace,
Her
Grace, His Excellency the Archduke, His Royal Highness, Prince of some other place . . .

‘Anyone would think that he had invited them himself,’ Armin muttered as he poured more ale.

Will smiled. His smile broadened when the Groom mentioned a young duke and duchess from a small country bordering the Middle Sea.

It was time to go and check that the properties and scenery had arrived and that the scene men knew what to do with them. The great hall, the Noon Hall, where they would play, was brightly lit with hundreds of candles set in branches hung from wires strung across from one side of the room to the other. There was a huge coal fire in the wide chimney place, and the high windows were hung with rich tapestries to keep out the draughts. At one end of the room stood a great dais for the Queen’s canopied throne. All around, tiered seats rose in ranks up above the floor where they would perform. Will stood alone, measuring the room with his eyes. It was big, ninety feet by forty, but with the seating the playing floor was reduced to twenty feet wide or less. He went through the play in his mind, the movements, exits and entrances.

Trumpets were sounding, announcing the end of the feasting and the beginning of the dancing. They could hear voices, laughter, people were coming. Time that had seemed to trickle, grain by grain, was now pouring through the glass.

The dancing over, the dancers honoured the throne and returned to their places. Will saw Burbage reach out to softly knock wood for luck and, in the momentary hush before their master, Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon, held up his white staff of office, he was sure that the whole assembly, including the Queen, would hear the thudding of his heart. Hunsdon’s signal sent the scene men scurrying. Within seconds they were back, the scene set. Hunsdon’s staff went up again. Trumpets rang out, making Will start. It was the signal for Will and Burbage to step out and lead the company up the chamber. The high ranks of tiers seemed very close, the floor even smaller. They advanced towards Her Majesty, every eye upon them. The jewels she wore, from her delicate crown to the hem of her gown, picked up the light from the blaze of candles so she seemed all a-glitter. She seemed impossibly distant, her dark, hooded eyes looking down from far above. Her face, devoid of expression, a white mask under the vivid red of her hair, seemed to float above the delicate layers of her wide ruff. Will tried not to let his eyes linger as he and Burbage bowed low three times. To do so would be to risk being caught by the awe of being in her presence and frozen, as if by the basilisk.

Obeisances done, Will followed Burbage into the left-hand mansion. They would emerge as Duke Orsino and his gentleman, Curio. The play had begun.

Violetta sat with Stephano, watching from the third tier. She gripped Stephano’s hand more tightly than ever, her eyes wide, and watched, fascinated, as the story that she had told Master Shakespeare, the story of her mother’s arrival in Illyria, took place before her eyes.

A rolling, rumbling crash broke from the thunder sheet and brought her back to the play. From out of billowing blue-green folds stepped Viola.

Violetta felt the catch of tears in her throat. He had taken the story that she had woven for him, and he had cut and stitched and made it his own. Here was her mother. Alive again for all to see. As long as the play had life, then so did she.

‘What country, friends, is this?’

‘This is Illyria, lady.’

‘And what should I do in Illyria?’

Her mother had come from the sea. Violetta had returned to her country by the same means, but not to be wrecked on the shore. She had sailed from Venice with a powerful fleet of galleys. They had defeated the usurper Sebastian and the pirate Antonio in a great sea battle. She and Stephano, riding on the splendid horses given to them by the Lord and Lady of the Wood, had been welcomed into Illyria. They had gone straight to the cathedral, where they had returned the relic to its rightful place on the high altar. A few days later they had knelt before it to be united in marriage and been anointed as the rightful Duke and Duchess of Illyria, the coronets of office placed on their heads.

But that was a story for another day. Violetta’s attention was claimed by the play.

Will stepped forward, dressed as a sea captain in salt-stained gabardine, a battered hat pulled low. He turned as he spoke, his arm outstretched, circling slowly round as if to describe Illyria was to indicate the world. Usually he looked for nobody, not even the Queen, but his eyes searched each tier until he found Violetta. She was sitting next to her handsome young husband and was much changed from the wandering girl in a stained blue dress of poor stuff, darned at the elbow, frayed at the cuffs. She was now a duchessa, as rich in apparel as any lady there, excepting the Queen. She wore silk and velvet, with ermine on her collar. Her dark hair was caught up in a golden net crusted with gems. His eyes met hers and held them. He expressed his thanks and begged a poet’s forgiveness for using her life to feed his art. She gave it freely and in turned thanked him for the grace of his choice. Then his gaze moved on. The moment was gone.

Maria watched, peeping round the tiers of seating, almost forgetting to hand out the props she had ready, to help the actors in and out of their cloaks and gowns. She heard Feste’s words again:
Do you remember, Maria, when we were young?
And here they all were: herself when she was full of fun and mischief, Sir Toby when he was hale and strong, Sir Andrew a gullible fool again, not a traitor with his head on the gatehouse of London Bridge.

The play went on, scene after scene. Even the Queen was laughing, until the end when all eyes were on the joining of the couples.

No one noticed when one clown was replaced by another of similar height and stature. It was as easy as passing on a coat of motley. Suddenly it was over. All the other actors were gone, melted to the margins, or into one of the mansions. The floor was empty, except for Feste. He sat cross-legged, his lute across his knees, to begin his last song.

‘When that I was and a little tiny boy,

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

He rose slowly to his feet, still singing, his long coat trailing behind him and Little Feste dangling from his belt in his own little coat and jester’s cap. He wandered as he sang, circling the mansions of Duke Orsino and Countess Olivia, their curtains closed now, weaving about the miniature shrubs and trees of the make-believe garden as though treading a maze. Sometimes he sang loud and danced as he went; sometimes he sang soft, his voice as light as his step. At length, he stopped and looked up to where Violetta was sitting with Stephano, and she knew it was the real Feste. Her Feste. Her eyes filled with tears as he began the last verse of his song and she knew how very much she had missed him.

A great while ago the world began,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

But that’s all one, our play is done,

And we’ll strive to please you every day.

He turned, sweeping down low before the Queen. Violetta smiled as, behind his back, Little Feste gave her a little bow.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am most grateful to the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust and the Globe Theatre for their thoughtful and illuminating displays of Shakespeare’s life and work and for the helpfulness of their staff. Further afield, I would like to thank the staff at the Museum in Dubrovnik and the Ducal Palace in Mantua. I have seen some wonderful productions of
Twelfth Night
over the years staged by the Royal Shakespeare Company, but I am most indebted to York University Drama Society for their exuberant and spirited outdoor production, which I saw one hot summer day by the river in Stratford and started me thinking,
what if . . .

There are very few indisputable facts known about the life of William Shakespeare. Even the date of his birth is uncertain. I have ventured an explanation that, since nobody knows, is as valid as any. Much of his life is open to speculation in this way, which leaves the writer a certain latitude. Despite this lack of documented detail, very many books have been written about him. It is impossible to list all the books that I have consulted, but I am grateful for the scholarship and insights offered by the following writers: Germaine Greer,
Shakespeare’s Wife
(Bloomsbury, 2007),
Jonathan Bate,
Soul of the Age
(Viking, 2008), Peter Ackroyd,
Shakespeare:
The Biography
(Chatto and Windus, 2005) and James Shapiro,
1599
(Faber and Faber, 2003). Also, Leslie Hotson,
The First Night of Twelfth Night
(Rupert Hart-Davis, 1954), George Morley,
Shakespeare’s Greenwood,
(David Nutt – At the Sign of the Phoenix, 1900). For other aspects of Elizabethan life: Judith Cook’s
Roaring Boys – Shakespeare’s Rat Pack
and her book on Doctor Simon Forman. The
A to Z of Elizabethan London
, compiled by Adrian Proctor and Robert Taylor was as invaluable as its modern counterpart. For Illyria, I made considerable use of guidebooks for Croatia and Dubrovnik, Venice and the Italian City States, but I also found Jan Morris’s
The Venetian Empire
very helpful, Mary McCarthy’s
Florence and Venice Observed
(Penguin Classics, 2006) and Rebecca West’s account of her travels in Yugoslavia:
Black Lamb and Grey Falcon
(Macmillan, 1942).