The Fool's Girl (9 page)

In the old days, what a gift for fooling it would have been. These were not the old days, and this was no time to laugh, but sometimes solemnity only worsens the thing, just as a man on the gallows might notice a bubble of snot in the nose of the hangman, or a gob of egg on his chin. The desire grows until it can no longer be controlled. Every time I looked at him, I could see Sir Toby and Maria. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my cheek; I tried to think of other things. He was speaking now. Below his long nose, his upper lip quivered like the tip of an oliphant’s trunk. I couldn’t listen. Soon the tears were leaking and I was shaking. The laughter backed up until I could hold it no longer; I had to let it out or my bladder would give way. Sometimes laughter spreads like a contagion, with no man knowing quite why he is joining in. So it was now. My laughter spread through the hall like a quick-running fire, until all were roaring, except for Sebastian and Malvolio.

‘What ails you, man?’ Malvolio was shouting at me through the din. ‘Have you lost your wits?’

‘Aye, I fear so, master. I’m a Fool!’

The laughter redoubled even though, as jokes go, it was in every way feeble. After laughing at nothing, men will find anything funny.

‘Feste! You always were a barren rascal,’ Malvolio snarled. ‘Amusing nobody but yourself!’

Robbed of speech, I gestured round at the laughter.

‘You never made
me
laugh!’

‘Quite so, my master,’ I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. ‘Even the God of Laughter could not do that.’

‘Enough of this roar!’ Sebastian shouted through the noise, hammering on the table. ‘You!’ He pointed at me. ‘We’ll see how funny you can be when you are chained to an oar night and day. Get them out of here!’

The laughter died in my throat as Malvolio put out his long white hand to claim Violetta.

My lady was not his only prize. Venetian sailors and Uskok pirates were bringing in booty to be tallied and portioned. It looked like they were taking all the wealth of Illyria, and Sebastian did nothing to stop them. This was their share. Their help had come at a price. These were godless men. They handled crucifixes, gold crosses, jewelled Bibles and precious icons as if they were sticks of furniture. A Venetian captain came in bearing the most precious relic of all, the Cup of the Magi. This was not added to the other plunder from the cathedral. He brought it straight to Malvolio, who took it into his charge.

.

10

‘This fellow is wise enough to play the fool’

Violetta stood up and began pacing the small room. Recounting the story had made her restless, agitated, reminding her of how far they were from their purpose.

‘That’s the reason we are here. Feste and I escaped from our different captivities and we have been following this man, Malvolio, ever since. He is here and he has our precious relic in his possession. He stole it from us.’ She turned to Will. ‘You must understand. The relic
is
Illyria. The country grew from the city, and the relic was the reason for our city’s foundation. Since my father is dead, I am the rightful ruler. I have vowed to return it, for without it our country does not exist.’

‘But what do you want from me?’ Will frowned, puzzled. ‘You set yourself up in my way. You engage me in conversation. You tell me your story. Then there is this.’ He picked up the Fool card from the table. ‘You insinuate it into a note telling me that we are in want of a clown . . .’

Time was running on. He needed to get back to the playhouse, with or without Feste. He felt the stirrings of annoyance. He was beginning to wish he had never set eyes on them. He did not like to be picked out in this way, selected and targeted like one of the marks that they tricked at cards.

‘You talked to us, master,’ Feste said. ‘Not t’other way about. If you don’t want me to help you . . .’ He threw the scroll he had been studying down on the table.

‘Hush, Feste.’ Violetta glared at him. ‘There is no point in pretending any longer.’ She turned to Will. ‘We did deliberately put ourselves in your way. If we could get you to stop and watch, then we would have a chance to engage you, tell you our story, and you might be willing to help us.’

‘But how, mistress?’ Will’s frown deepened. ‘You still have not told me.’

‘We have been watching Malvolio,’ she said, her expression intense. ‘We know he stays in the house of the Venetian Ambassador, north of the river. Near the Strand. We thought,
I
thought, that your company might perform there, and if they did, we could come with you. Then, when the audience was occupied with the play, we could steal the relic back.’

The words came out all in a rush. Violetta looked at him, her blue eyes anxious, searching for his reaction. Will stared back. Of all the things he thought she might say, he had not been expecting that. He would have laughed, if the girl had not been in such dead earnest. Such a thing was impossible. His company had to be invited to perform. They could not just set up in a great house as if it were an inn yard. An instant refusal sprang to his mouth, but he bit it back. She was young and very beautiful, but she had used no feminine guile to win him to this. Quite the opposite. She believed in her cause, the rightness of it. Her belief that others would see it came from her youth, but also her station. Despite the darns in her sleeves and the ragged hem of her faded blue dress, she was a duchess. Will could not meet her expectant eyes. The clown’s face was already twisting into a cynical smile. He knew that Will would refuse. Likely knew that such a thing was not in his power, but Feste had protected her, kept the truth away from her, lest it crush the little hope that she had left. He looked from Feste to where Maria sat, hunched up on her little stool, the only real stick of furniture in the room. Bright hope was fading in her eyes too; her face was falling back into its tired, sad lines as she looked to the room where her man lay dying.

‘You are very silent, sir,’ Violetta said at last.

‘I’m thinking.’ Will looked up at her.

‘And what are you thinking?’

He sighed. ‘That what you suggest is beyond my power.’

He had thought to be angry with them for presuming too far, for trying to trap him into helping them. Now that anger was fast turning to pity. Violetta saw it in his deep brown eyes that took in so much and gave so little away. She fought hard to hide her disappointment from him. She would not plead and she would not beg. Pride was all she had left. She would give it up for no man. Everything else had been taken from her. If he would not help them, so be it. They would find another way. But whatever happened, they would fulfil their part of the bargain. It was a matter of honour.

‘Very well.’ Violetta tried to smile and smooth her features. ‘I think Feste has the part now, Master Shakespeare. It is time we went to the playhouse.’

She led the way down the stairs. Will followed. He recognised all she had tried to hide. Her mask of affected indifference was as thin and brittle as glass. He might have been wishing that he had never set eyes on her, but at that moment she won his heart.

Richard Burbage, actor and theatre owner, was standing in shirtsleeves shouting directions up at the stage.

‘No, not there! To the right! That’s left!’

Someone dropped something, which fell from the height of the theatre and landed in the pit, puffing up dust and scattering nutshells. Three storeys up, the hammering and sawing stopped momentarily as the carpenters looked over to see if the fallen mallet had hit anybody or done any damage. Then it started up again. In the theatre, there was always something that needed doing: thatch replacing, holes patching, benches repairing, loose planks hammering back into place. Everyone shouted over the noise, adding to the din. The only time it was really quiet was in performance.

‘I’ve found a new clown.’

Will brought Feste forward for inspection. Richard Burbage owned a lion’s share of the theatre and felt losses keenly as pennies falling from his own pocket. If audiences were disappointed, they went elsewhere. Competition was sharp, with two theatres within throwing distance, not to mention the bear garden.

‘Good, that’s good, Will.’ He wrinkled his high forehead and pushed a hand through his thinning sandy hair. ‘Because until two minutes past, I thought you’d have to do it.’ He looked at his playmaker and laughed. ‘You may be many things, but a clown isn’t one of them.’ He turned his bright brown eyes to Feste. ‘Is he any good? Will I have seen him in anything? His face looks familiar, but I don’t recall from where. Who have you worked for, fellow? What company? Does he talk?’

‘He hasn’t worked here.’ Will spoke for Feste. ‘He’s a stranger. I found him performing in the street over by St Mary Overie.’

‘
That’s
where I’ve seen him. Juggling with chairs and such?’ Feste nodded. Burbage turned from him to Will. ‘Are you out of your wits? We’ll have the Revels Office down on us in a trice. Now, I’ve got a performance to stage.’ He was already walking away.

‘He’s good!’ Will followed after him. ‘He can do it. I swear it!’

‘How can he?’ Burbage turned back with an exaggerated sigh. ‘He can’t have had time to learn it properly. Anyway, he’s a foreigner! I’m not even sure it’s legal. And who’s this?’ His eyes fell on Violetta. ‘What’s she doing here? A playhouse before performance is no place for a woman. Get them out of here!’

‘Wait, Richard. He’s good, I promise! What’s the harm?’

Feste left the two men arguing and pulled himself up on the stage. He was small, thin as a starved hound, but very strong. He scampered about, reciting snatches of the play in different voices, peopling the stage with Rosalind and her cousin Celia; Touchstone himself, the banished Duke and his court, using Burbage’s jaded, world-weary tone for the melancholy Jaques. Actors emerged from the tiring house to watch, led by Tod with a long blonde wig in his hand, his face already whitened for Rosalind. They stood about the margins and watched the little man leaping from place to place on the stage. When he finished with a curtsy, they let up a roar, clapping and stamping and shouting for more. Burbage joined in, wiping tears from his eyes.

‘He’s hired!’ Burbage could already hear the money pouring in. ‘I’ve never laughed so much at one of your plays or seen one acted so lively. What’s his name?’

‘Feste.’

‘Well, Mister Feste,’ Burbage said as the clown jumped down from the stage, ‘let me shake you by the hand and welcome you into the company. Someone take Mister Feste and put him in Touchstone’s motley. No foreign tricks, mind,’ he said to Feste. ‘No tumbling or that kind of carry-on. Just stick to the play.’

Will took Violetta up to one of the small side galleries reserved for wealthy patrons.

‘I’ll make sure it’s roped off,’ he said. ‘You can watch the performance in peace from here. The crowd too. They are sometimes more interesting than what is happening onstage.’

He left her then, promising to be back when the performance began. The trumpets rang out above her and the place started to fill up with people. First a few, standing about in groups in the pit, dotted along the benches in the circling galleries, then more and more poured in until there were no spaces left. The ground was a solid mass of heads. All the galleries were filled.

Will returned just as the crowd was beginning to quieten. He did not speak, other than to utter a cursory greeting, but sat hunched forward, gnawing at his thumbnail, watching the audience. Violetta was waiting with as much anticipation as anyone. She welcomed any diversion from her own thoughts as they turned and twisted, meeting dead end after dead end. Something will turn up. That’s what Feste always said. Just put one foot after another. But what if it did not? She was glad to turn away from it all, if only for a little while, and lose herself in the world of the play.

The crowd was taking a time to settle. There was a disturbance in the upper galleries. People turned to stare as two young men, richly dressed in the Italian style, made their way late to their seats. They were sitting directly opposite Violetta.

Violetta sat forward, her attention momentarily drawn away from the jutting stage. There was something familiar about the men, but she was too far away to see their faces. They both wore beards and their hats shaded their eyes. Her gaze lingered on them for a moment. Could it be? Her heart beat harder and she half rose from her seat but then sank back, dismissing the possibility. This had happened before. On crowded streets, busy docks, in marketplaces, she’d thought to catch a glimpse of him, but had always been disappointed. Fancy supplies the face we want to see.

The actors took to the stage and Violetta watched the opening scene, but every now and then her eyes strayed to the strangers in the upper gallery. When Feste came on to the stage, the smaller of the two young men nudged the other. He pointed and they both stared down, caught by more than the clown’s words. The taller man looked up, his eyes searching the galleries, going through them row by row, studying each face carefully. His gaze stopped when he came to Violetta.

Will leaned forward, the girl’s presence forgotten for the moment, his lips moving silently as other men spoke his words to the world. He always felt the same mixture of dread and desire when the actors took to the stage. The play became a greater and a lesser thing. It no longer belonged to him, but to the actors and the audience. He had no power, no control over what would happen.

Equally, he knew almost straight away whether it was going to go well or ill. There was an air of expectancy. All talk ceased. Vendors were ignored. People were too busy with the play to concern themselves with nuts and fruit, bottles of beer. This was going to be a good performance. He knew as soon as Feste walked on to the stage. He seemed to know how Will wanted this played. His wit and energy spread to the others like quick running fire, spilling from the stage so the groundlings stopped thinking about the ache in their legs or the rain beginning to fall and the people up in the galleries stopped signalling to friends or flirting with the ladies present. They ceased to notice the need of a cushion, or the lack of a back to the benches, or the hardness of the seats, because they were no longer in the theatre at all; they were in the Forest of Arden.