The Fool's Girl (11 page)

Maria was sitting on an upturned bucket. Her little stool was smashed to splinters. It looked as though the beasts from the bear garden had been let loose on the place: boxes overturned, their contents emptied, paper and books ripped up, Maria’s few things strewn about the room, torn and defiled. They did not need to ask who had done it.

Violetta pushed the door to Toby’s room. She did not have to ask about him either. She knew he was dead before she even entered the room. She could tell by Maria’s stricken face.

He lay covered, his chin bound up with a strip of cloth. His head had sunk to one side; already the blood was draining down, staining his cheek the colour of claret. Feste opened one of the old man’s eyes, the white was red and bloodshot. He lifted the covers. His hands were gripped like claws.

Feste stood for the moment at the foot of the bed, head bowed. He made the sign of benediction with two fingers and went out.

Maria looked up at him, ‘He didn’t die natural. He was smothered.’ Her hand fluttered to her mouth. ‘I’ve seen it before in infants and children, not so very different.’

‘Why kill a dying man?’ Violetta asked.

Maria shook her head. ‘Because they could. Who knows why?’

Feste sat next to Maria and took her hand in his. ‘Tell us what happened.’

‘Sir Andrew came with a priest for Toby. I said, “No need, master, I think he’s rallying.” I didn’t want them anywhere near him. He just ignored me and barged straight in here. The one he had with him was all muffled up in a long black cloak. I didn’t know who he was at first. He was different from the usual, more richly dressed. His cloak was good thick wool, his hose silk. They are usually young, plainly dressed, with a look about them as though their eyes are not on this world but the next. He put down his bag and undid his cloak. “Don’t you know me, Maria?” he said. There was a smile on his face – you know that ghastly smile of his? And his eyes were all gloat. He’d waited a long time for this. He sent me out for Toby to make his peace with God. For him to send him to the Devil, more like. I had no choice but to go. When I came back, Toby was dead. His eyes red and bulging; his mouth gaping like a fish. He died fighting. No matter how near death we might be, we struggle to prevent our last breath from being taken from us. They didn’t absolve him!’ Her hand went to her mouth again. ‘He died with his sins still upon him . . .’

‘Hush now!’ Feste put his arm round her as she began to sob into his shoulder. ‘God himself will forgive him. There’s not overmuch laughter in Heaven, I’ll warrant. His presence will be a welcome addition. Toby was a good man.’

‘They know you are here,’ Maria said when she had stopped crying. ‘They questioned me and threatened, said there was no point in denying it, they’d had men watching. After they’d finished –’ her eyes strayed to the room where Toby lay dead – ‘they brought in a pair of ruffians who tore the place apart. I don’t know what they were looking for. There’s nothing here, is there?’ She twisted her handkerchief round and round between her hands. ‘We have to get you away. If they can kill my Toby . . .’ She looked at Violetta as if seeing her for the first time since they came in, noticing her torn dress, the scratches on her. ‘Oh, my Lord, what’s happened to you?’

‘It’s nothing, Maria. I fell into some brambles trying to avoid a cart, that’s all.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘That’ll be Doctor Forman,’ Maria stood up, smoothing her apron. ‘I sent Johane to fetch him. I didn’t know what else to do.’

The doctor went in to Sir Toby.

When he came out his face was grave. ‘That’s no natural death,’ he said.

‘Should tell the constable,’ Johane’s deep voice rumbled.

‘The constable already knows – of the death. Not the cause of it.’ Forman sighed. ‘It has been reported as plague. There have been other deaths, I believe?’

The drunk stretched out on the table had not got up again.

‘Plague? First I’ve heard of it.’ Johane sniffed. ‘That ’un died o’ drink and being poor.’

‘No matter. The constable is on his way here now. He is about to shut this house.’ He turned to Maria, Feste and Violetta. ‘You must leave or you will be shut up in here for forty days.’

‘But where will we go?’ Maria’s eyes were frantic. ‘What shall we do? What will happen to Toby? He’ll be wanting a Christian burial, not to be tipped in a pit. That’s what they do, don’t they, if they think it’s plague?’

Forman tugged at the sides of his long cap, something he did when he was thinking. He was a doctor, and whatever his faults and sins, and they were many, he did not believe that anyone had the right to take a man’s life from him, even at the last. And who had reported this as plague? Toby was his patient; this was his parish. No doubt money had changed hands, influence brought to bear. He did not like that either. He made up his mind quickly. Aside from all those considerations, the girl was pretty, the clown amusing and Mistress Maria might need comforting, once she got over her grief.

‘We must get Sir Toby out of here,’ he said. ‘Get some men,’ he ordered Johane. ‘Take him to my house in Lambeth.’ He turned to Maria and Violetta. ‘You can stay with me, and you, Feste. Gather your things together. There can be no delay. We must remove immediately.’

.

12

‘God give them wisdom that have it’

The next day Will arrived at the Globe to find the place in an uproar. Half the cast for the afternoon’s performance were missing, and those who had managed to drag themselves in had thick heads from the night before. Tempers were short, and Burbage, ever of a choleric disposition, was nearing apoplexy.

The cast assembled as the morning progressed and by the approach of noon they were all there. Except Feste.

‘No clown, then?’ Burbage growled, his temper seething like some foul brew. ‘I blame you for this, Shakespeare, I really do. What were you thinking, hiring someone off the street? Bringing the wretch here, like some performing cur, when you know nothing about him. I could have
told
you this would happen. And they’ll be baying for him this afternoon. If he doesn’t show, they’ll tear the playhouse down. Well, I’m not going crawling to Moston at the Rose. I’d rather they ripped the place up by the root. You’d better pray he turns up, Shakespeare, because they can start with you . . .’

Will was seated at a rickety table making last-minute changes and did not bother to look up from his script. Like most actors, Burbage was all blow and he relished a good row. He could carry on in a similar vein for hours. It was his way of warming his voice for the afternoon’s performance; he was probably sneaking a look round now, assessing how well he was going down. The clown would turn up any minute. Will had no doubt.

As the time ticked on past noon, even Will felt the sweat prick his armpits. He was cutting it close now.

He slid out from behind his table.

‘I’ll go in search of him,’ he said as he gathered up the sheaf of papers to be posted.

‘You’d better find him,’ Burbage shouted after him, ‘or neither of you need bother coming back!’

The Hollander was shut up. Boards crudely nailed over the door and the downstairs windows. There was a black cross daubed on the lintel and a watchman stationed outside. Will stepped back from the building.

‘What’s happened here?’ he asked the watchman.

‘Plague.’

‘Plague?’ Will frowned. ‘I didn’t know there was plague south of the river.’

‘Might be smallpox,’ the watchman said after some thought. ‘Someone dead of summat nasty. That’s all I know. Should have closed this place a long time ago.’

‘Where are the people who were staying here?’

‘Still inside.’ The man looked up at the building. ‘Supposed to be. I ain’t seen no sign of ’em, but be that as it may –’ he slanted his pike – ‘while I’m here, nobody goes in or out.’

He stood square in front of the door. He was not about to let Will into the building or tell him any more. There was nobody around to ask. The few other buildings were little more than hovels and looked as derelict as the Hollander in the bleak morning light. The rutted road led out to fields and countryside or up to the river. It was as if they had all disappeared into thin air. What had become of them? What would become of them now? Forman might know something. If there had been sickness, he would surely have been informed. He could even know what had happened to them. Will would seek him out, but there was no time for that now. He would have to go back without the clown. What was he going to tell Burbage?

Will looked up to the sun over the river. It was well past noon now. He had to get back. He went up to the Paris Garden Stairs and walked to the playhouse along the Thames. Usually he liked being by the water; he liked to see the traffic of different craft moving up and down the busy river and to watch the wherrymen and hear their talk. They had the foulest mouths in England and the inventiveness of their insults spilled into a prurient poetry, a thing to be admired.

Today he had no time to linger and see what was being unloaded at Molestrand Dock, or listen to the wherrymen waiting at Falcon Stairs. He hurried along to Bankside with scarcely a glance at the milky brown flow of the great river. In his mind he was already at the Globe, being buffeted by the full force of Burbage’s fury for returning without the clown. His mouth moved as he muttered Touchstone’s opening lines. The play had to go on, and Burbage would punish him by making him play the part.

He arrived pale and sweating, the flag flapping above him, the trumpets already sounding. He forced his way though the crush of playgoers clustered round the entrance and ducked into the playhouse. He looked around warily, but nothing seemed particularly amiss; the place was in no more of an uproar than usual.

‘Ah, there you are!’

Will braced himself as Burbage came bustling out of the tiring room, already in the Duke’s costume.

‘Where have you been? Did you find him? What took you so long?’ Will opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. Burbage always asked too many questions and never waited for an answer. ‘Well, no matter. Your fellow is out of a job. Armin’s back. Came in just after you left. News that another was about to take his place stopped his bowels.’

He would not have to play the part after all. Robert Armin, their usual clown, was there in his motley, chatting to one of the orange sellers. The little man waved his folly stick at Will and winked as he bit into the orange he had begged from the girl. He might be small, but he had a way with women.

Will’s delight was short-lived. The doors were opening, the crowd streaming in; the afternoon’s performance would soon begin. Burbage had to go off to finish getting ready for his part, but just before he did he reached into his doublet and took out a letter.

‘This came for you.’ He hefted it in his hand. ‘Looks official.’

Will took it from him, relief replaced by sudden foreboding. He stared at his name written in secretary hand, felt the quality of the paper. He turned it over carefully, as if it might explode. It was closed with a blob of black wax, marked with a very big seal. Burbage looked over his shoulder, curious to know what such a missive might contain, while Will eased a knife blade under the wax and opened the folds.

It was worse than he could have imagined. Will swallowed. The paper shook slightly as he conned more slowly, disbelieving his first quick reading. His eyes rested on the signature. The letter was from Secretary Cecil: Sir Robert invited him to an audience at his earliest convenience.

At the sight of that name, even Burbage paled.

‘God’s blood, Will! What could he want with you?’ The actor’s sonorous voice was soft now, the enquiry tinged with fear.

Will shrugged. He had no idea.

‘What have we done now?’ Burbage tugged at his beard. ‘I hope to God he’s not going to shut us down. From frying pan to fire, eh? You’d better get over there and find out what this is about. Now, I’ve got a part to play.’

Burbage went back to the tiring room. Will waited for the crowd to thin to latecomers and slipped out of the theatre. He made his way back to the river at Bankside to find a wherryman who would take him over the river to Whitehall.

Will had been here before and had marvelled at the portraits and paintings, the rich tapestries and strange objects collected from everywhere, but this time he had no eyes for the wonders afforded by the great Palace of Whitehall. He stated his business and was conducted through a series of galleries, past portraits of kings and queens, noble lords and great statesmen. Among these, he recognised Lord Burghley, Sir Robert Cecil’s father and Secretary before him. The son had taken over his office on his death and since the fall of the Earl of Essex had become the most powerful man in the land.

Will broke out sweating. He did not like to be close to great men. They were akin to the gods of old, liable to scorch any who came within their compass. What could Sir Robert want with him? Among his many other duties, the Secretary was responsible for keeping the Queen’s Realm safe from conspiracy and those who would harm Her Majesty. His spies and intelligencers were everywhere; city and country swarmed with his agents and pursuivants, hunting down Catholic priests and nosing out recusants. It did not do to be involved on either side.

Will took care not to fall under any suspicion. He tried to keep out of the way of the law, going to church as often as was necessary and combing contention out of his plays. This was not always possible, but he did his best not to invite trouble. He did not want to end up like Kit Marlowe, stabbed through the eye in some room in Deptford. Kit had been reckless in written word and spoken – some of his plays were still under prohibition – but that was not what had brought his life to an end. Kit had been on some secret service for Her Majesty and had been murdered by one of his fellow spies, his death very likely ordered by the man Will was about to see.

They were nearing the Privy Council Chamber and the Queen’s private quarters; beyond lay the Privy Chamber and the Presence Chamber. The Queen was not in residence, and she had taken her court and Council with her, but the corridors were still thick with those who had business with the Secretary or one of the other Officers of State. Will was taken through the knots of anxious men, the sweat beading on his own brow and prickling his beard.

The servant led him away from the more public areas, down a stone corridor. He was passed on to a dark-robed clerk, who in turn conducted him into an antechamber, where he was told to wait. The windows were too high to see outside, so he paced about until he was called. A bell tinkled and the clerk motioned him forward.

‘Secretary Cecil will see you now.’

Will followed the clerk into a wood-panelled room. He straightened his jerkin and hoped his cuffs were clean. Secretary Cecil sat behind a wide desk piled high with bundles of papers. The clerk withdrew and Cecil did not look up from writing notes on the pages he was reading. Will thought it best to wait to be noticed.

The Secretary’s delicate hands were heavy with jewelled rings. He wore a finely worked cambric ruff about his neck and a rich, fur-lined robe pulled about him as if he felt the cold. The robe bunched at the left shoulder, which was higher than the other, showing that he was hunchbacked. Some thought this the sign of an ill nature, the mark of the Devil. Will did not think that, but he was uncomfortably aware of the comparisons he had made between a twisted back and a twisted character in his play about the crookback Richard III.

‘Ah, Master Shakespeare.’ Sir Robert rose, hitching the robe on his left shoulder, as if conscious of Will’s scrutiny. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’

‘My lord.’ Will bowed very low and said nothing more, judging it prudent to wait and see what Sir Robert Cecil might want with him.

The Queen’s Secretary was near dwarfish in stature, his head big on his narrow, uneven shoulders. It was easy to see why the Queen called him ‘my imp’ and ‘my pygmy’, but though he was small in size, an aura of power hung about him as close as his fur-lined mantle. Only a queen would dare to take such liberties. He was a man in his middle years, the grey beginning to streak the tawny brown of his formal, square-cut beard and to show where his reddish hair swept back from his high forehead. The excessive work and strain of his high office showed in the tight set of his mouth and the tiny creases of tiredness that had formed like webs round his large grey-green eyes. His forehead was heavily lined, and blue veins snaked beneath the papery, oat-pale skin at his temples. His gaze was calm, thoughtful, slightly amused, his eyes like windows into a subtle mind that retained much and missed nothing.

‘How do you do?’ he asked.

‘Well, my lord,’ Will replied. ‘And you?’

‘Well enough.’ He subsided into his seat, as if standing too long was uncomfortable for him. Will remained standing. ‘I expect you want to know why you have been summoned.’