The Fool's Girl (12 page)

Will nodded.

‘Very well, I will not preamble.’ Cecil steepled his slender fingers. A diamond sparked fire and the large ruby on his right hand gleamed like a heavy drop of blood. ‘It has come to my notice that you have recently made the acquaintance of a dangerous pair of strangers.’

This was not what Will had been expecting. He searched his mind briefly and found the strangers there. How did Cecil know about them? What did it matter? He was rumoured to know everything. Perhaps what they said was true.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he answered. ‘And then again, no.’

‘I am aware of your work,’ Cecil sighed, ‘your skill at smithing words. I have seen many of your plays. You are quite a favourite of Her Majesty’s and I hope to see more.’ He leaned forward, knotting his fingers more tightly together. ‘But do not riddle with me, sirrah. It is not long since one of your company was here making full and grovelling apology for that disgraceful performance by
your
company of
your
play Richard II the very day before the Earl of Essex’s ill-starred rebellion.’ His voice became quieter as the threat in it grew. ‘Did you think us such fools that we would not note that the play’s meat contains the deposition of a king?’

Shakespeare opened his mouth to defend his company. They had been
told
to put on the performance. Actors do not argue with lords and earls. But he judged it best to keep silent. This would not be a good time to speak. He kept his eyes fixed on Saxton’s map of the counties of England and Wales that hung above the fireplace, trying to make out Warwickshire. It looked like Old Whittington, the Shottery shepherd, with craggy brows, a big hook of a nose, his chin tucked into his chest against the wind.

‘You are the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, are you not?’ Cecil demanded to know. Will assumed he did not require an answer. ‘One word from me, Master Shakespeare, and his patronage is withdrawn. Another to the Master of the Revels, and you lose your licence. Your company are reduced to strolling players, subject to arrest at the first squeak of a performance. I can have you closed down. I can have
all
of you closed down. I can invoke the Bills of Mortality. There is always plague somewhere in the city, or ’prentices marching and making a riot. I do not even need
that
as an excuse.’ He leaned forward, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. ‘I can have the playhouses plucked down around your very ears.’

Will knew all this to be true and was mindful of the need to tread carefully. Cecil was setting out the rules of play, making sure Will knew he held all the high cards. In his mind he saw the Fool: the card that can neither lose nor win.

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ he said. ‘I am aware what you can do to us, to me, to my company. I merely meant by my answer that, yes, these two strangers are of my acquaintance, but I cannot see how a girl and a Fool could be a danger or be of any interest to you.’

‘Strangers are always of interest.’ Cecil leaned back against the red leather padding of his chair. ‘And I did not say that these two were of danger to us necessarily. But they may well be
seen
to be a danger by others and therefore a danger to themselves. I do not want foreign quarrels and broils brought to our shores. We have enough of our own. I want to know exactly what they are doing here. I have to decide whether they are innocent and in need of protection, or if they are here for a more sinister purpose. I could take them in and put them to the rack,’ he added with a casual wave of his small jewelled hand, ‘but that is not how I do things and, besides, information received that way is often poor quality.’

‘I’ll find out what I can.’

Will bowed low. In his mind he saw Violetta and Feste tortured and broken. He could not risk that. He would keep what he knew to himself for a while yet. Just in case something he said led Cecil to change his mind about employing the rack.

‘Good man.’ Cecil was already sifting at the papers before him. ‘Report here to me tomorrow at three in the afternoon.’

‘But that is when . . .’ the play begins, Will was going to say, but did not finish the sentence. Cecil knew that. It was best not to argue with the highest in the land. ‘Very well, my lord.’

‘If you fulfil this task to my satisfaction, then your company will be allowed to continue. You might even find greater honours bestowed upon you. Who knows?’ Cecil did not look up. ‘You will be serving Her Majesty in this. I’m sure that the Lord Chamberlain’s Men can do without you for one performance.’

He reached for the bell on his desk. Will was dismissed.

‘I’ll do everything in my power, my lord,’ Will bowed again as he left Cecil’s presence.
But first I have to find out where they are.

Will boarded a wherry at Whitehall Stairs. Simon Forman might well know where they were, and the doctor also knew about Cecil’s world of intelligencers and spies. It was a sphere that Will had taken care to avoid, especially after what happened to Kit Marlowe. There was no avoiding it now, and Simon was his only hope. Forman had a shrewd mind; his knowledge was wide, as was his social acquaintance. He had known Marlowe well. They had glided in and out of many different circles. They had mixed with dukes and earls as members of the atheistic cabal who had clustered round Raleigh and Northumberland, the Wizard Earl. The group had pursued the esoteric arts; there had been whispers of worse than atheism, if worse there could be. Will had never cared to know too much about the dark and arcane secrets they discussed. He could not afford to be so dainty now. The girl had hinted at such, when she talked about her father and that Dr Grimaldi. He had to know in which directions this thing ran. He needed Forman’s knowledge, but the doctor was unlikely to be at his house at this time of day. Will directed the wherrymen to take him to Billingsgate.

.

13

‘The melancholy god protect thee’

Forman was in his consulting room dispensing physic and advice. A veiled woman left as Will entered. Wealthy, judging by her gloves and her clothes, perhaps even titled.

‘Came to me with pains in her head, pains in her stomach, but what she really wants to know is whether her husband is being unfaithful,’ Forman remarked. ‘They come with one thing, but want to know something other. The secret is to know what they are really about.’ He fixed Will with his hot brown eyes. ‘So what brings you here?’

‘I went to the Hollander today, to fetch Feste the clown, and found the place shut down. I need to find him and the girl. It’s an urgent matter. Do you know where they are?’

‘I do. They are safe at my house in Lambeth. Sir Toby’s in the ice house. Funeral’s tomorrow.’

‘The old man’s dead?’

‘Yes. Yesterday. Bad business, Shakespeare. He didn’t die naturally.’

‘Murdered? But why kill a dying man? To ease his passing?’

‘It happens –’ Forman shrugged – ‘but not, I think, in this case. I saw it in his forecast. That’s the odd thing . . .’

‘Then why?’

‘An act of malice. Pure and simple. I have it from the girl.’

‘Malice?’ Will stared at him. ‘It must run deep to do that.’ He frowned. This was worsening by the minute. He heard Cecil’s quiet voice again:
I do not want foreign quarrels and broils brought to our shores . . .

‘I have a feeling it does.’ Simon sat forward in his chair, chin resting on his folded hands. ‘Those two bring their quarrels with them. Why do you need them so urgently? I heard Armin’s back, so it can’t be the need of a clown.’

‘No, it’s something else. I have just come from Whitehall, from an interview with Robert Cecil.’

‘Cecil, eh? You are moving in high circles,’ Forman pulled at the flaps of his doctor’s cap. ‘I treat his niece, you know. Lady Norris –’

‘It wasn’t a social visit,’ Will said, cutting short Forman’s name-dropping. He described his recent interview with Sir Robert: the Secretary’s interest in Violetta and Feste. He wandered the room while he talked, absently examining the various instruments, medical and astrological, that were lying about, noticing the patterns on the painted pottery vessels ranged along the shelves. ‘How could he know?’ Will turned back from the cabinets to face Forman. ‘What can he want with them, Simon? What could his interest possibly be?’

Forman did not answer straight away. His already furrowed forehead set into even more of a frown as he squinted at the charts before him on the desk.

‘Riche could have told him. He’s one of Cecil’s spies. And those two are not exactly unknown. I told you about Doctor Grimaldi. In certain circles, Illyria has gained a notoriety. They say the Duke, her father, overreached himself. Dabbled too deeply in the dark arts. Unleashed forces he couldn’t control. Could be to do with that.’

‘I don’t think it has to do with anything supernatural.’ Will picked up an astrolabe, turning it round in his hands. ‘It has to do with the collapse of the state. That’s why the girl’s here. Everything stems from it.’

‘Leave that alone.’ Forman reached across the desk to take the instrument off him. ‘It is very delicate and carefully adjusted to the exact date and time of birth of my next client. And don’t touch that!’

Will was now toying with a tiny agate pestle and mortar instead.

‘Why not? It is exquisite.’ He held it up, admiring the way the light struck through the semi-translucent green-and-red stone.

‘Because I use it for grinding poison. Don’t lick your fingers. Sit down. Stop roaming about.’

Will set the little pestle and mortar back in its place and sat down opposite Forman.

‘Now, back to the matter in hand.’ Simon leaned forward and picked up the compass he used for measuring charts. ‘Perhaps Cecil doesn’t know any more than we do. Perhaps he just
suspects
. What happens in one place in the world can have unseen effects elsewhere.’ He began describing circles. ‘Cecil collects information from every country and every city. He has intelligencers everywhere.’ Forman looked up at Will and gave a wheezing laugh. ‘It looks like he’s just recruited you.’ He thought for a moment, his face serious again. ‘Perhaps it is not what those two
know
, as such, which makes them of interest to him. It might be –’

‘Who they are.’ Will finished his sentence for him.

‘Precisely.’ Forman smiled. ‘She’s not just anyone, is she? She’s a duke’s daughter. Never mind what’s happened to her. There could be reasons we are not privy to that make her important.’

There could be. There could well be. Will had been right to come to Forman.

‘But why choose me?’

‘You already know them.’ Forman spread his hands. ‘You have their trust. She’s a fetching young thing.’ His reddish brown eyes gleamed. ‘Who would not want to help her?’

‘She’s also very young,’ Will said. He did not want the conversation going down that track. ‘I must see her. I have to talk to her.’ He stood up. ‘Tell her to come to the Anchor this evening. I’ll be there after the play.’

‘Wait.’ Forman put up his hand. ‘If I help you, I want something in return.’

Will frowned. This was unexpected.

‘I have some money,’ he said. ‘I can pay you, if that is what you mean.’

‘It is not what I mean.’ Forman walked the compass across his desk.

‘What then?’

‘You must allow me to cast your chart.’

Will hesitated. ‘I’ve told you before, I have no interest in astrology. I do not want to know what the stars hold for me.’

Forman smiled. ‘That is my condition.’

‘Oh, very well.’ Will sighed his impatience. ‘I cannot think why. I come from the country. I am a poet and an actor – one of many. What can the future hold for me that could possibly be of interest or note?’

‘Who knows?’ Forman’s smile widened. ‘That is the point, surely? Anyway, that is my condition.’

Seek not to know . . .
Will’s knowledge of the dark arts was not inconsiderable. For a while he had shared a house with a Master Wilhelm Koenig, late of Prague and Bingen, an old alchemist who had been impressed by the young poet’s quickness of mind and had offered to take him on as ’prentice. Will had declined the offer, once he’d found out from the old man all that he wanted to know. To Will, this book magic, that so fascinated Master Wilhelm, Forman, Dee and the others, was dry stuff compared to the wild magic he knew from home: like a dusty old cabinet, sprung at the joints, compared to living willow.

‘Come on, man,’ Forman prompted. ‘What harm can it do?’

‘None, I suppose.’

‘Splendid!’ Forman gave him a gap-toothed grin. ‘I will send a messenger to Lambeth right away. First, a few questions.’ He pulled a scroll of paper to him and dipped the nib of his pen. ‘When were you born?’

‘You are not going to do it now?’

‘No. I’ll take a note or two, that’s all. When were you born?’

‘April.’

‘What day in April?’

‘That’s the difficulty – I’m not certain.’

‘Not certain?’ Forman put down his quill. ‘How so?’

‘I was born betwixt one day and the next, so nobody could quite decide which was right.’

‘A chime child! Born within the sound of midnight’s bells.’

‘It could have been one side or t’other,’ Will protested. ‘It was a hard labour. No one was paying that much attention.’

‘That’s by the by.’ Forman waved aside his objections and picked up his pen again. ‘A chime child is special. Able to see ghosts and fairies. Can you see them, I wonder.’ He looked at Will, his eyes full of questions. ‘Which days?’

‘Twenty-second and twenty-third.’

‘But that was yesterday!’

‘Or the day before.’

‘What year?’

‘1564.’

‘Place?’

‘Stratford-on-Avon.’ Will sighed. ‘You know that!’

‘People lie. You’d be surprised.’ Forman put down his pen and dusted sand over his notes. ‘Thank you, Will. That is all I need to know.’

‘You wanted to see me, Master Shakespeare.’ She appeared at dusk, just as the setting sun was colouring the Thames, turning the water to blood. She had the clown with her.

‘Aye.’ Will had taken a private room in the inn so they might talk without being overheard. ‘Would you like something to eat? Drink?’

She shook her head.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Feste helped himself to wine. ‘I’ll have a little something.’

‘Simon Forman has told me what happened at the Hollander, and about Sir Toby.’

‘Yes, the doctor has been kind,’ she said. ‘I do not know what we would have done without him.’

‘He’s a good man.’

Violetta looked at him. ‘You did not ask me here to talk about Doctor Forman.’

‘No . . .’

Will cleared his throat and took a drink as he wondered where to start. She seemed to have changed in the short while since he last saw her. She looked older, and even more lovely: her skin as pale as ivory; her dark hair glossy as a raven’s wing. He shook his head slightly and looked away from her enquiring violet eyes.

Something about him has changed, she thought. Something has happened to make him afraid.

‘You have come to the attention of someone very powerful,’ he said quietly. ‘It appears that you are of interest to him. You could even be in some danger.’

Violetta laughed. The clown did too.

‘We know that, master,’ he said. ‘Someone wants us dead. Same villains who killed Sir Toby.’

‘Malvolio knows we are here,’ Violetta said. ‘He’d have killed us yesterday, if he could.’

‘And you are not afraid?’ Will frowned. Their laughter might show a genuine lack of concern, or could be brittle bravado, a kind of recklessness. Either one could be dangerous now.

‘Of him? No.’ Violetta gazed out of the window, her eyes following the motion of some craft across the brightened water. ‘Hatred is not the same as fear.’ She looked back at him. ‘I see a change in you. What’s happened?’

‘This afternoon I was summoned to appear before Sir Robert Cecil,’ Will said. ‘Lord Secretary Cecil, the Queen’s First Minister. He is the man I was talking about, not your Malvolio. He is the most powerful man in the land. He can have us all imprisoned, tortured, tried for treason, hanged and quartered. At the very least, he can close the theatres. He can do anything he likes. You might not be afraid –’ he looked at her, his brown eyes no longer mild – ‘but I am.’

‘I didn’t want to bring trouble upon you.’ Violetta looked stricken.

Will sighed. ‘It seems you already have.’

‘We’ll go.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll leave you. You will never see us again.’

‘Leaving will not help matters. Where would you go? Into what danger?’

Will tried to curb his impatience. Despite his anger, he did care about her, and it had nothing to do with her beauty, whatever Forman might think. Will was a father, more absent than present. This girl was of an age with his daughters. They were safe in Stratford, and he prayed they stayed that way, while she was alone and set about with dangers that grew with every day. If he didn’t help her, who would? He had to do what he could. He’d been willing to act out of genuine concern, but since Cecil’s intervention he really had no choice.

‘It appears that we are now in this together,’ he said after a while. ‘If I am to help you, if we are to help each other, I must know everything so I can consider what to do.’

‘Very well.’ Violetta sat down again. ‘I will tell you the rest of my story, Master Shakespeare. I will tell it to the point that brings us to here.’