The Fool's Girl (15 page)

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘That’s the trouble.’ She looked at him. Her eyes held tears. ‘Neither can I.’ Her fingers went to the amulet that she wore round her neck, telling the charms like beads on a rosary. ‘Last night I came near to complete despair. I had caused trouble for Toby and Maria, bringing death and danger to their house like uninvited guests. I went to where Feste was sleeping. I took out the stone. I wanted to ask what we should do. Was this the right place to be? Should we stay, or no? But the stone gave me no answers. It was as blank as it is now.’ She looked out of the window at the dark clouds of evening. ‘Marijita’s magic doesn’t work under these grey skies. We will have to shift for ourselves.

‘When we first met you,’ she went on, ‘I had an idea that you could help us. A scheme so foolish that I blush to think of it. You couldn’t do what I wanted, but you listened to our story and that was help of a kind. Then you needed Feste to be your clown.’ She looked at him. ‘Now we need each other. Our lives have become twisted together.’

She smiled. In his mind Will saw two strands of yarn: one drab and one bright.

.

15

‘My shroud of white, stuck all with yew’

Sir Toby was being buried in St Mary’s, Lambeth. The party left from Forman’s house. The coffin, draped in black, was carried by six pall-bearers, Maria, Violetta and Feste following along as chief mourners. Will and Forman fell in behind them. There were no others. If Sir Toby had any friends, they had melted away. A few people stopped to watch as they passed by, the men snatching off their caps as a mark of respect.

Sir Toby had been a big man. It was with some relief that the sweating pall-bearers laid the coffin on the wooden hearse, ready to be taken into the church. Violetta stepped forward and set down the posy that she had gathered in Forman’s garden: rosemary, fennel and rue. The funeral party formed up to follow the hearse down the aisle.

Will and Forman joined the mourners scattered through the pews. Most of them seemed to be creditors, come to see that he was really dead.

‘When do you next see our crookback friend?’ Forman whispered as they bowed their heads.

‘Three this afternoon. I go directly from here.’ Will glanced up at Violetta’s slim black form kneeling in the first pew. ‘The girl has a shewstone,’ he added quietly. ‘Did you know?’

‘I did not. She’s been keeping that well hid. A shewstone? Has she really?’ Forman whistled softly through the gap in his teeth. ‘You’d better keep quiet about that when you see Cecil.’

‘Why?’ Will asked, disconcerted to find yet another unsuspected snare in his path. ‘What interest could he have?’

‘It is an intelligencer’s dream,’ Forman whispered. ‘They love them. Or the idea of them, I should say. That is why Cecil, and Walsingham before him, took such an interest in the good Doctor Dee and his Mister Kelley. Except the man was a charlatan, with Dee his dupe. If this girl has such a thing, and has the skill to use it, the possibilities are infinite.’

‘She says it doesn’t work here,’ Will whispered back.

‘They don’t know that!’ Forman hissed. ‘Best they don’t find out.’

The minister’s voice rose and they fell silent.

‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’

The words from the Book of Common Prayer, plain and simple, pure as rain dropping about them, bowed every man’s head and turned his thoughts to his own mortality.

The minister found it hard to describe Sir Toby as a spotless and God-fearing man, but he was generous in his eulogy. He took as his text a sinner come back to the fold, and there was truth in that. For all his faults, Sir Toby had been a merry fellow, kind and generous. There were worse things to be.

‘We are mortal, formed of the earth, and unto earth shall we return. For so thou didst ordain when thou createdst me, saying, “Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”’

The service over, Sir Toby began his last journey to the burying ground. Will did not follow. It was nearing the time for his appointment with Cecil. As they left the church, the bell began to sound. The minister was holding out his hand. Forman was paying for it to be tolled. He reached into his wallet for the fee and found the chart that he had prepared for Will. He’d forgotten he had it on him until that moment.

‘Will!’ Forman called after him. ‘Your chart!’

The poet had other things on his mind and was already on his way to the Horseferry. Forman tucked the scroll back into his wallet. There was to be a funeral feast later at the Three Compasses. He would give it to him there.

Will presented himself at the Palace of Whitehall and was shown into Cecil’s private office. To his relief, the Secretary seemed pleased. He walked up and down as Will told him the girl’s story, his gait a trifle ungainly, keeling to the right as though the twist in his spine threw his body off balance.

‘Tell me, Master Shakespeare, do you believe these things have power?’

‘Relics, you mean?’ Will shook his head quickly. ‘Oh, no. Well, that is . . .’ He paused, wondering what exactly to say. Cecil’s questions were as easily sprung as a poacher’s gin. To hold such a belief would amount to idolatry, but to express the opposite, to believe in nothing, could be accounted just as dangerous.

‘It is a matter of belief,’ he said at last. ‘The girl believes that this thing will restore her country. Others believe something else entirely.’

‘Yes!’ Cecil looked pleased. ‘That’s it exactly. It doesn’t matter if this thing was really presented to the Christ Child or knocked up with a dozen others in a workshop in Constantinople. It’s the belief that matters. And many do believe in such things. Here. In this country. A surprisingly large number. A
dangerously
large number. More than you would think. We have information that the papists are gathering these things together, collecting them from inside this country and abroad. They were not destroyed in the Dissolution. Not all of them. Most of the shrines were empty. The relics spirited away to papist houses, private chapels. The papists are hoping to use them to rally the faithful and bring back the Old Religion. They plot to overthrow our sovereign Queen Elizabeth and put a Catholic impostor on the throne. There are plenty of candidates. Europe crawls with pretenders.’

Will bowed his head. He still paled to hear such talk. From anyone else, in any other place, it would be treason. Enough to get a man hanged and quartered.

‘There is a plot, and I thank you for the part that you have played so far in uncovering it. This Jesuit Malvolio is at the heart of this conspiracy. He is the prime mover, the engine of it. He is set to travel England, showing this relic off to the remaining Faithful as one of the most holy in Christendom, brought with the Pope’s blessing, all that kind of thing.’

‘If that is the case, why do you not have Malvolio arrested?’

‘I could do that.’ Cecil gave a sigh, as if disappointed by the quality of the question. ‘But why trap one wasp in a bottle when you can scotch the whole nest? No, we will let him run. We will wait until all the papists are gathered in one place together. Then we will take them.’ Cecil looked towards the map that hung on the wall behind him. ‘We have an idea that it is likely to be here.’ He picked up a rule, like a schoolmaster. ‘Your own county of Warwickshire. A veritable nest of recusancy, with Catholics everywhere, barely bothering to hide their faith. Malvolio has been in close touch with one of them, a Sir Andrew Agnew. He has estates there. Do you know him?’

‘Of him,’ Will said. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘I don’t have to explain to you how I have gained this knowledge.’ This time the sigh was louder, more pronounced. ‘But I will. These are state secrets.’ He stared at Will, his heavy-lidded eyes sombre and calculating. ‘Breathe a word of what you learn here and you will hang for treason. I know all Malvolio intends. I have it on the very best authority. I have it from the Venetian Ambassador.’ Cecil put his hand on a large globe that stood next to his desk. He spun it round until it showed the crooked boot of Italy. ‘Here is Venice.’ He tapped the place with the rule. ‘And here –’ he drew the pointer diagonally across the blue expanse of the Adriatic Sea until it rested on a minuscule nub of land – ‘here is Illyria. It is a small country. Tiny. But by no means insignificant. Look at its position. The Illyrians are seafarers, traders. They have a deep, safe harbour. Their fortified city would not have fallen if it had not been betrayed from within. They are well placed to control the shipping lanes going up and down to Venice. The Venetians had no love for the old Duke, the girl’s father – too independent for their liking, that’s why they got rid of him – but it appears that they like their new Duke, Sebastian, even less. Illyria has become a nest of pirates and a great threat to their trade. Venice is a trading nation, as are we. We don’t like pirates. They are looking to replace him, and who better than the usurped Duke’s daughter married to the present Duke’s son? Such an alliance would be perfect for their purposes. The girl is in London.’ Cecil revolved the globe with a flick of the wrist. When it turned to England, he stopped the spin. ‘She was seen boarding a ship in Genoa. I was asked to look out for her. They have the boy safe in their hands, but not her. Now I have intelligence that she’s here in London, first from Riche, now from you.’

So he had become one of Cecil’s intelligencers, just as Forman had said.

‘It is a simple exchange.’ Cecil explained. ‘I help the Ambassador find and secure the girl. He keeps me informed about Malvolio and this papist plot: what they intend, the plotters’ whereabouts, and so on. The Ambassador is not involved, of course. What we do with the information is up to us.’

Simple? Will raised an eyebrow. There was nothing simple about it.

‘The whole thing could come unstuck if Malvolio finds out Venice’s intentions,’ Cecil went on. ‘He is in the pay of this Duke Sebastian, among his other crimes. He might arrange for the girl to be killed, and that would spoil everything.’

‘I think he might already know,’ Will said quietly.

‘Hmm.’ Cecil frowned. ‘How did that happen? The Ambassador should have been more careful. That’s the trouble with the Italians. Can’t keep secrets.’

‘I don’t think that he found out through the Ambassador,’ Will said, ‘but by other means.’

‘That’s good. I would not like to think his court so unsafe.’ Cecil stopped to consider. ‘Too bad that he knows, however he found out. You’ll have to keep her safe. I’ll help you with that. Who better?’ Cecil was warming to the thought. ‘She trusts you, and you can keep an eye on her. I am appointing you to act as her guardian, so you’d better make sure no harm comes to her.’

‘Why don’t you take her into your custody?’ Will asked. That seemed to him a much better idea. How was he supposed to keep her safe?

‘I could do that, of course, but any hint of my involvement may well abort the conspiracy. And that is what concerns me, not Venice’s control of the Adriatic Sea. I have to stay well hid. Now, I think she will be safer out of London. You can take her . . .’

‘But I can’t leave London!’ Will protested. ‘I am needed here. It is our busiest time!’

‘You can. And you will,’ Cecil snapped. He did not like to be interrupted. His eyes turned cold as the Thames on a winter’s day. ‘I have something here that might make it easier. A writ to close the theatres.’

He waved an order, complete with scrawled signatures and a big red seal. Will stared at the document as Cecil laid it on the table. He had it all worked out. He really was a remarkable man. In between all the affairs of state he kept in his head, all the other calls on his time, he had been busy thinking up a scheme that would affect the lives and livelihood of hundreds of people. Not just Will’s company, but all the others in London. What would they do? And if this ever got out – the theatres closed on his account? Will began to sweat at the thought of it. What would he do? How would he live? He would not be able to work. He would not be able to write.

‘You can always write poetry,’ Cecil supplied. He had been watching him, tracking his thoughts, as a hawk might watch a blundering vole.

‘It’s not the same,’ Will said. He studied the seal, seeing but not seeing the way the wax had been pressed into petals so it lay like a gillyflower with the royal coat of arms at the heart of it. His eyes travelled to the globe, still showing the islands of Britain where Cecil’s finger had stopped it. He then looked up at the map of England on the wall above the fireplace and found his own county of Warwickshire. He began to have an idea. It came to him complete, all of a piece. That was what made him different from other men.

Will rested the span of his hand on the writ and turned it around with a twist of his wrist.

‘I have a proposal for you,’ he said.

Will paced up and down as he explained his scheme. Cecil stayed behind his desk, stilled with concentration. Will had his full attention. As he listened, his green eyes brightened. Every now and then he nodded his approval. His expression lost its severity and he began to smile. When Will had finished, Cecil laughed at the elegance of the thing, his laugh surprisingly rich and deep. The clerks in the outer office looked up, startled. Their master’s laughter was a sound they seldom heard.

‘That is a rare plan! You are a clever fellow,’ he said, smiling broadly now, his grave face almost merry. ‘None cleverer. I was right to put trust in you.’

The interview over, one of the dark-robed clerks was summoned to conduct Will from the room, while another glided past him, bringing papers for the Secretary’s attention. Cecil frowned down, his mind already turned to the document set for him to sign.