The Fool's Girl (10 page)

The performance was fast, funny to the last. Even Will found himself laughing. Something that almost never happened. He left the box when Tod began his Epilogue, knowing that they would call for him. He was standing at the side of the stage when the final word was spoken. There was a moment of silence when the audience seemed to wake from a dream they had all been sharing. After that came the roar, a wave of applause that rose from all sides and crashed on to the stage. The actors looked at each other and smiled. They took hands and bowed. The crowd shouted for the clown and they shouted for Rosalind and Celia, they shouted for the Duke, they shouted for Will and then they shouted for the clown again. The actors took bow after bow, the greasepaint running down their grinning faces, while the crowd roared and cheered, whistled and stamped. Then the jigs began. Will joined in, grasping his actors’ sweating hands, as the crowd danced about the yard to the sound of fiddle, sackbut, flute and recorder. Feste pranced like an imp, playing on a short bone flute, keeping time on a tabor.

Violetta did not see them take their final bows. Just as the play was ending, one of the young men in the opposite gallery had signalled across to her. They met in the passage that ran along the back of the galleries. Violetta looked from one to the other, studying their faces, measuring the changes. Stephano smiled, his teeth showing white against the fine growth of his beard, and Guido laughed, shaking back his long curly hair. She embraced them both, holding them to her. They were taller than her now and she could feel hard muscle under the velvet of their doublets. Guido stepped back but Stephano could not let her go. He pushed away a wing of hair in order to see her face better, as if to be sure that it was really her. He tucked the stray lock behind her ear and his fingers travelled to her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, dropping to the whiteness of her throat, as if he needed to touch her skin, find it warm, feel the beating of her blood. Then he tipped her face up to his and he kissed her. Violetta’s heart shifted inside her. The applause from the crowd rose up and roared around them, bouncing from side to side and all about, but in that moment they were utterly alone.

She linked arms with the two of them, just as she had done in Illyria, as they went down the stairs and out of the Globe.

Will returned to Violetta in a high good humour, but the gallery was empty. She was no longer there. He glanced into the pit, thinking she might have gone down there to wait for Feste. The clown was still on stage, jumping about, but there was no sign of the girl. Will shouldered his way down the stairs and out into the open, thinking to find her among those streaming out of the playhouse, but he was quickly recognised and captured by the crowd: shaking hands, being clapped on the back while he nodded his thanks at the praise showering down on him. He thought he caught a glimpse of her, arm in arm with two young men going towards the river, but the press was too great to chase after her and he had other claims on his time.

He went back into the playhouse wondering who the young men might be. He didn’t know she
had
any friends here, apart from Maria and Sir Toby. But what did he know about this girl? She kept much of herself hidden, like those ice islands said to float in northern seas. If the girl had chosen to make off with mysterious young men, then so be it. He went to collect the script. There were changes he wanted to make. What she wanted from him was impossible. His imagination was great, none greater. He could make cities, whole countries; people those with kings and princes, nobles and commoners. He could make the past live again, could create worlds that had never been, but he had been unable to think of one single way in which he could help this girl.

He began to wish again that he had never crossed paths with them. It was not fair to lay this thing upon him. People had an exaggerated idea of what he could do in the world. He was a player, no more than that. His influence was confined to the wooden walls of the Globe. Any power outside of that was as counterfeit as actors’ finery.

He could do nothing. That should be an end, and yet, even if he got his wish and never saw her again, he knew that he would not be able to stop thinking about her, gnawing at her problem as he gnawed his nails. She was young, younger than his own Susannah. Not that his daughter was likely to stir out of Stratford, but if she did . . . Life was precarious: death, disease, loss of fortune could tip the most ordered existence into chaos. Who knew what disaster could yet occur to force her to leave her home, to live among strangers? If that were to happen, he’d like to think that there were those who would offer what help they could give.

He went in search of the clown.

.

11

‘Is it a world to hide virtues in?’

Violetta looked from Stephano to Guido as they armed her down to the river. They had both changed, beyond the first growing of beards, wearing earrings and being much burnt by the sun. She was hard put to find in their faces the boys that she had known.

‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked.

‘We didn’t,’ Stephano said. ‘It was an accident. We came here to see the play. Then we saw Feste. At first we couldn’t believe it was him – how could it be? But Guido was sure. He’s never wrong about things like that. If Feste was here, you wouldn’t be far.’

‘How could you know that we would be together?’

‘Feste would never leave you,’ Guido said. ‘After Lady Olivia died, he gave you his service. When you were taken, he swore to us that he would find you. So you were either near, or . . .’

‘Or dead?’

Stephano shook his head. ‘I would not allow myself to think on that.’

‘He found me in Venice,’ Violetta said. ‘I’ve been with him ever since. But I did not expect to see you again. Not for . . . not for a very long time. I did not expect, or ever dare hope . . .’ She held on more tightly to Stephano’s arm, still hardly believing that he was here in flesh and blood, seeking to change the subject before her feelings overwhelmed her. ‘How do you come to be here? In London.’

‘We could ask the same thing of you!’ Stephano laughed at how impossible it was for them to be here, together, under grey London skies with the brown waters of the river flowing past. ‘We are here in the service of Signore Mazzolini, the Venetian Ambassador.’

‘Venice!’ Violetta stopped, disengaging herself from their linked arms. ‘So that’s why you are dressed like such fine Italian gentlemen.’

Stephano looked down at her shabby blue dress, the old velvet cloak rippled and patched where the nap had gone thin. His handsome features clouded. Shame and guilt began to corrode his joy at meeting her again, etching into it like acid.

Violetta stared at him. ‘Venice is our enemy. You saw what they did to our city.’

‘We are kept men.’ Stephano looked away from her. It got worse, not better. ‘Kept by Malvolio. He came upon us in Tunis and bought us from Sale Reis because it amused him to do so. He then gave us to the Venetian Ambassador, who was on his way to England. His Excellency has been kind to me. He did not like to see me treated that way. My father is Duke of Illyria now, and Illyria is allied with Venice, so he made me a kind of envoy. I sailed with him to England. Malvolio went to see his Jesuit brothers in Spain. He came on another ship. He is here now.’

‘You are an envoy for your father! He is a usurper! So you are reconciled with him?’ Violetta stood, arms folded. Had he come to find her just to let her know that she’d been betrayed again, and this time by one she’d thought had really loved her?

‘No, I am not reconciled. The opposite, if anything. But my father approved it. It amused him to see me as some kind of pet, like a dog or an ape, kept on a golden chain by Venice. To refuse would bring shame on Illyria, he said, I had to go with them. It was my duty. Malvolio took care to let me know that he held you captive in Venice and you would suffer if I ran away. All the time I was in an agony of fear for you, but what could I do?’

‘Malvolio is subtle and cruel.’ Violetta’s anger dissolved as she watched the distress move across Stephano’s face. He was as helpless as her. ‘He takes care to learn the secret levers of guilt and fear, the better to inflict pain and torture.’

Stephano shook his head. He refused to be comforted.

‘I should have acted then,’ he said at last. ‘I should have saved you when Malvolio and my father stood deciding your fate between them, gloating over it. I should have done something. To allow such a thing to happen and do nothing –’

‘What could you do?’ Violetta put her fingers gently on his lips to stop his words. ‘You were just a boy.’

Stephano shook his head. ‘I was old enough.’

‘We were little more than children. What can children do in the face of men’s might and malice? We could do nothing then.’

Stephano hailed a wherry to take her back to the Hollander. He helped her into the boat and the two boys sat opposite her, close and easy with each other. They had belonged to different houses in Illyria, brought up to be enemies, but they had become friends there and they were friends now. This was the way to defeat evil and tyranny. Violetta thought. Illyria’s future, if her poor country
had
a future, relied on amity, not enmity.

‘There is something else,’ Stephano said, he looked away, hardly knowing how to tell her. Best to say it straight out. ‘Malvolio has stolen the Holy Relic, the Magi’s Cup, Illyria’s greatest treasure. We all saw him take it. We thought it was destined for San Marco in Venice, or for Rome, but he has it here. He carries it about with him as if it were his own property.’

‘I know,’ Violetta said. ‘Feste and I have followed him. That’s why we are here.’

The two boys looked at each other. That was not what they had expected to hear.

Violetta began to tell them about Master Shakespeare, her plan to get it back.

‘It will not work,’ Guido said. ‘Malvolio has taken over one wing of the Ambassador’s residence as his own. It has a separate entrance from the rest of the house. He has a private chapel there. That’s where he keeps the relic. It’s in a strong box that needs four men to lift it, and the lock on it would defy even Feste. Besides that, he has Jesuits about him. Young warrior priests who see it as their duty to die for their faith. You’d never get near it.’

‘What about you . . . ?’ Violetta began.

Guido shook his head. ‘We wouldn’t either. There might be another way. We will think on it. See how things lie.’

‘Or else we could just leave.’ Stephano had been staring out at the passing craft, boats large and small going up and down the river. ‘Direct the wherryman to take us to Greenwich, take ship from there. Go anywhere. To France. To Italy. To Guido’s father’s court in Pavia.’ He looked at Violetta. ‘At least we would be together.’

‘No.’ Violetta stared down at the water. ‘I will not go without the relic and I can’t go without Feste.’

‘We could get him from the Globe. He’s likely not left yet . . .’

Violetta shook her head. They both knew what he wanted was impossible.

‘Malvolio keeps things close and secret.’ Guido looked across at Violetta. ‘As does His Excellency. There is a reception tonight. Afterwards there will be a private meeting – certain lords and gentlemen invited to His Excellency’s cabinet. We’ll see what we can find out.’

They were approaching the Paris Garden Stairs. Stephano jumped out to help her up to the dock.

‘When will I see you again?’ Violetta asked. To find him against all odds, only to lose him so soon, was a cruelty. She was half minded to go back to his plan, to return to the boat and direct the wherrymen down the river.

‘I’ll find you. Don’t worry. If not at the place you stay, then at the playhouse. We are often there. His Excellency enjoys it hugely. I will see you again. Soon.’ He took her in his arms and smiled down at her. ‘Nothing can come between us – now that we have found each other.’

He kissed her and Violetta felt her emotions tip and tilt. When they settled, the world was different. She realised that her feelings were no longer those of a child for her playfellow, no matter how fond they had been of one another, or the swooning fancies of a young girl. What she felt now were the altogether more powerful stirrings of a woman for the man she would marry. It was their destiny to be together.

Stephano ordered the wherrymen to take them across to the Temple Stairs, and Violetta turned away from the river, wishing, once again, that he had taken her with him. But that could not be. They could not run away together into some unknown future. That was not their destiny. Sebastian was now calling himself Duke of Illyria and Stephano was his son. She was no one. But the time would come. Meanwhile, he could help her. With Guido. They could do it together. They came and went as they pleased. Stephano had the ear of the Venetian Ambassador, was highly placed in his court. They would find a way to regain the relic. Together they would return it to its rightful place and Illyria would be a sovereign state again. She would marry Stephano and they would rule as lord and lady. All would be restored.

Violetta let her hopes grow, just a little. She would no longer need help from Master Shakespeare, but Feste would still act the clown’s part in the play. Illyrians kept their promises. Besides, that is what Feste wanted and she would not deny him. The stage at the Globe was better than a street corner.

She wondered where Feste was now. Getting drunk with the rest of the cast. He deserved it. They had fulfilled their side of a one-sided bargain, she thought as she walked up by the side of the Falcon inn. Feste could get as drunk as he liked.

‘Can’t leave you, can I?’ Suddenly Feste was there beside her. ‘There’s me, thinking you’re safe in the gallery, and what’s the next thing I know? You’re rowing down the river with a pair of handsome young blades, as bold as you like.’

Violetta stopped in astonishment. It was as if she had conjured him.

‘Don’t look so surprised. I know everything, madonna.’ Feste tapped his nose. ‘I saw them coming in. Made enough disturbance. There was gossip backstage about their party. The Venetian Ambassador. Actors always know who’s in of any consequence. Guido and Stephano, I thought. Not many in London wear a yataghan sword. When I have time to look up at the end, they are nowhere to be seen. Neither are you. Master Shakespeare says he’s seen you with two young fellows, walking down to the river. So that’s where I go.’

Violetta laughed. Feste’s face creased into a smile.

‘Haven’t seen you laughing for a while,’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell me about your young lordling? He seems to have landed on his feet.’

‘He’s in the service of the Ambassador. Malvolio found him and . . .’ She stopped. Feste wasn’t listening. He was looking past her, over to the Hollander. ‘What is it?’

‘Hold on.’ Feste took her arm. ‘Hold up. Something’s wrong. Look there!’ Feste pulled her down behind a crumbling wall that enclosed what had once been an orchard. A few fruit trees, just coming into leaf and flower, struggled out of a tangled mass of bramble and briar. ‘To talk of the devil is to conjure him. And look who’s with him? I haven’t seen him for many a year.’

Two men were coming along the road from the Hollander, going towards the river. They were both dressed in black. One tall, and so thin that his scrawny shanks hardly filled his hose. His knees showed like knots in string. The other man was bulkier, with a black cloak wrapped about him and carrying a portmanteau. He walked with a stiff-legged gait that they both knew. It was Malvolio.

‘The other is Sir Andrew Agnew,’ Feste whispered. ‘I’d know those legs anywhere.’ He motioned for her to keep down. ‘I’m going to take a little look.’

He swung himself into a tall pear tree and climbed, hardly stirring the branches, as nimble as a cat.

The two men seemed safely on their way to the river when Sir Andrew turned back. He sniffed the air, as if he could smell their presence. His pale eyes narrowed and his wide nostrils flared; his thin lips drew back, twitching his wispy grey mustachios, his little bristly beard jutting as he looked from one place to another like some bony-browed hound.

The branches above Violetta quivered slightly. A single petal of pear blossom drifted down, landing like a snowflake on her hand. The covering was sparse. The leaves were not fully out yet. Violetta prayed that Sir Andrew wouldn’t look up.

Sir Andrew whistled. Two men joined him, clubs swinging from their wrists. They both wore loose trousers and greasy sleeveless jerkins. One wore a close-fitting leather cap.

‘In there.’ Sir Andrew indicated with a flick of a bony finger, pointing to the garden where Violetta was hiding.

She wriggled deeper into the brambles as the men began thrashing about in the undergrowth. She found a narrow tunnel that reeked of fox and lay still as a vixen as a club landed one side of her, then the other. The blows were hard enough to smash her skull.

Eventually the brambles got the better of them.

‘There’s nothing there, master! They’re at the playhouse, like I told you!’

‘The play ended a good hour ago.’ Sir Andrew’s high-pitched voice was very near, as though he was peering over the wall. ‘I thought I saw them, coming up from the river . . .’

He had sharp eyes. Violetta cowered in her den, thinking that he would send the men back again, but eventually she heard their footsteps walk away, fading towards the river. When she was sure that they had gone, she crawled out from her hiding place to find Feste waiting for her.

‘You look a sight!’ he said.

Her dress was torn; she was covered in scratches. He picked a shrivelled leaf from her hair.

‘How did they not see you?’ she asked as she tried to tidy herself.

‘They didn’t look up,’ he said simply. ‘People rarely do. Leave the preening till later.’ He took her arm. ‘We’d better see what’s happened at the Hollander.’