The Fool's Girl (16 page)

Will heard the scratch of the pen, the scatter of sand across paper. He thought himself forgotten, but just as he was leaving Secretary Cecil looked up.

‘I’m writing an order to keep the girl safe. Lambeth, you say? Staying with Forman?’ Will nodded. Cecil handed the note to a clerk. ‘I will see you at noon tomorrow, Master Shakespeare, at my new house on the Strand.’

Will stood on the Whitehall Stairs, waiting for a wherry to take him across to Bankside. He had to get to the Globe. He might just catch the last part. They were changing the play today:
The Merry Wives of Windsor
. A fitting epitaph for Sir Toby. He would say nothing about the playhouses being closed. The Master of Revels would let them know soon enough, and it must be as much of a shock to him as to everybody else. No one must know that he had any part in this, or his withdrawal to the country would be permanent.

.

16

‘For such as I am all true lovers are’

‘He was an old scamp and a scoundrel, but I’m going to miss him. Pickled pigs’ feet was one of his favourites.’

Maria had hardly cried since the funeral. She stood for a moment, thinking on their life together, then wiped away the first trickle of a tear with a corner of her apron. Sir Toby had put money by for a feast. He’d wanted a good send-off and she was determined to honour him as best she could.

Inn servants were bringing in food: trotters and brawn, veal and mutton, pies, pastries, cakes and tarts.

‘Is there enough, do you think?’ Maria kept asking, as more things came through the door.

‘More than enough.’ Violetta looked on, arms folded. ‘Why should a funeral be the cause of celebration? I’ve never understood that.’

‘It’s custom,’ Maria said, as if that explained everything. ‘Should happen straightway after the ceremony, but I thought it best to hold it later, when the day’s work is done.’

The funeral party had broken up early. Master Shakespeare had gone to his important appointment, Dr Forman to his consulting rooms, and Feste had taken himself off to the Globe. They were changing the play, so he wouldn’t be performing, but he went anyway, already besotted with the place. Violetta would have liked to have gone with him, thinking that Stephano might be there, since his master liked the plays so much, but her duty was to Maria. She didn’t want to leave her on her own. She was beginning to regret her decision now. Time was moving excessively slowly and the innkeeper’s wife was happy to keep Maria company. She had piled extra wood on the fire in case Maria felt the cold, so the room was sweltering. Once the table was arranged to their satisfaction, the two women would pull the settle up close to the fire, ready to spend the rest of the afternoon knitting and swapping recipes for pickling brine.

‘I think the table lacks something,’ Violetta said to them. ‘Flowers. That’s it.’

‘You don’t put flowers on a funeral table.’ Maria’s nose wrinkled disapproval. ‘It’s not a wedding!’

‘Sir Toby loved flowers – you said so yourself. He’d like it. I’m going to get some from Doctor Forman’s garden.’

Before they could stop her, she was out of the door and away.

She knew the way to the river and from there to the theatre. It would be quicker to take a wherry, but she did not want to waste money on that. Besides, it was not far to walk. Maria did not want her to go out for fear of the men who had been watching the Hollander, but they would find the place shut up and guarded. How would they know she’d gone? Anyway, they were unlikely to take her in the broad light of day. Violetta was tired of being confined for no reason except her own safety; she could look after herself.

She turned right at the top of the Lambeth Road and followed the curving bank of the Thames. There was the high wall of the Bishop’s palace on one side, and the river on the other. There was no one about. No inns or houses, docks or warehouses, like in Southwark. From what she could see, the way ahead was riverbank and empty marshland. Her confident step faltered. Perhaps she would take the wherry after all.

She turned back, towards Horseferry. There was a man standing by the jetty. She thought she recognised him from the Hollander: bare arms, sleeveless jerkin, leather cap. She turned back, but another one had emerged from a side road and was bearing down on her fast. She was caught between the two of them with no means of escape.

She set off at a run, hoping to dodge past Leather Cap, but he caught her. He held her close. She could smell his rotten onion breath, see the scabs bedded in the straggling growth of his beard. The other one was behind her now. She heard the creak of his jerkin, felt a sharp point jab into her side.

‘Not a word, mistress,’ he whispered. ‘Not a sound. You’ll come along with us, nice and peaceful.’ The two men fell in one each side of her. ‘We’ll go arming along, as friendly as you please.’

They held her fast, arms pinned to her sides, and marched her towards the Horseferry.

‘Don’t shout and don’t draw attention.’ The shorter one pushed her towards a boat, moored and waiting. ‘Or it will be the worse for you.’

‘One peep,’ the other one leered down at her, ‘and we’ll go back for your little friend.’

They were almost at the end of the jetty when they heard a shout.

‘Hey! That’s my boat!’

Violetta turned to see a gentleman running towards them, sword drawn.

The taller of her two captors swore and let go of her to reach for the heavy club that he wore at his belt. He swung the weapon but it spun out of his hand, falling with a thud and rolling into the river as a thin rapier blade lashed towards him, slashing through the tendons of his wrist. The man let out a thin scream and clamped his other hand to the wound, trying to staunch the blood that streamed through his fingers and dripped on to the deck. The smaller one faltered as the swordsman came towards him. His grip on Violetta slackened. She spun out of his grasp and used one of the holds Feste had shown her to throw him off balance. His knees buckled and she pitched him forward off the edge of the jetty. He fell into the river with a great splash.

‘Bleed to death in the river!’ Her rescuer kicked his friend in after him. ‘Horses don’t like the smell of blood.’ The man put his sword up and bowed to her. ‘George Price, at your service. I’ve been sent by Secretary Cecil to keep an eye on you. I’m one of his Linksmen; he calls us that because we watch and keep people safe.’

‘I didn’t know I was going to be so protected,’ she said.

Things were moving swiftly. She sensed powerful forces moving in closer. She had become used to being ordinary. There was freedom in anonymity. She felt as though she had stepped from one sphere into another. To be given a guard, as if she was an important person again, made her feel both safer and more threatened.

‘Why would you?’ He smiled, interpreting her doubt as a request for reassurance. ‘The order only came through an hour ago. My master acts fast when he has a mind to it. And I’m not seen until I’m needed. I could watch you for days and you’d never know I was there. Concealment is part of my job.’

He had been fast and agile in the fight, but Price was older than he looked at first sight. His greying hair was cropped short, like a soldier’s, and a scar, an old sword cut, showed in a livid seam down one side of his face. His skin was dark and weathered, as if he’d spent time in the sun; the corners of his light brown eyes set into deep crinkles when he smiled. He reminded her of the sea captains who came to see her father: honest, brave men who sailed his argosies across the world. He was not very tall, but there was no spare flesh on him and the ease with which he moved and stood suggested hidden strength. He was dressed like a gentleman, in dark doublet and hose, with a short cloak slung over one shoulder to keep his sword arm free.

Violetta put her misgivings away. Whatever the reasons for his being there, he was a useful fellow to have walking at her side.

‘You are not from these parts, are you?’ His tone was light. He was using gentle conversation like a horse-master with a high-mettled animal, to gain her trust.

‘No, I’m from Illyria,’ Violetta answered, with no expectation that he would know anything about her country or where it was in the world.

‘I’ve been there!’ He smiled, his eyes narrowing as if he could see the town before him. ‘On the Adriatic coast, with white walls and a wide thoroughfare running through the middle, polished to marble by so many feet walking upon it. Ruled by a duke. Now what’s his name?’ He frowned, trying to recall it.

‘Duke Orsin,’ Violetta supplied.

‘Yes, that’s him! A good man, fair to his people. A fine town, as I recall.’

‘It isn’t any more,’ Violetta replied. ‘The Duke was my father. He’s dead, the town destroyed.’

‘I’m sad to hear that.’

Violetta thought he would want to know more, but George Price had been well schooled by his master. It was not his place to question those he was set to watch. Instead he began to tell her about himself, his life as a mercenary soldier in Italy, and then as a mariner, guarding ships sailing from the port of Brindisi. Violetta was glad of his company and drew some small comfort from talking to someone who knew something of her homeland. She saw no reason to go back to the inn, now that she had this man to guard her. She sent word so Maria would not worry, and asked him to take her to the playhouse.

Maria had been concerned that no one would come to the feast she had prepared. Then they all arrived at once from the playhouse, bringing the coldness of the day into the warmth of the room. Violetta was with them, on the arm of a young man. All her worry over how Violetta had disappeared and the scolding she’d had ready died on her lips when she saw who he was. Violetta had been thinking to surprise her, but Maria knew him immediately. It was like a miracle to her. She had not seen Lord Stephano since he was just a boy, and here he was a man, and the image of Lady Olivia. And Guido with him. Maria remembered him as a naughty little boy stealing peaches, and now here he was, all grown-up. It made her heart glad to have men from Illyria here to honour Toby. And to see Violetta smiling, to see the way she and Stephano looked at each other. It was a dash of happiness at a time of sadness, a splash of colour against the funeral black of the day.

Will saw it too, and was happy for them. Let them enjoy the moment. The dark clouds were already gathering. Feste was less pleased. He watched the lovers with surly disgust and set himself to getting drunk.

The room was far more crowded than the church had been, with people intent on toasting Sir Toby and wishing him well, whether in Heaven or in Hell.

Stephano steered Violetta through the throng. He found a settle well away from the food and the barrels.

‘We have news,’ he said. ‘We are leaving tomorrow. His Excellency the Ambassador has been invited by various gentlemen to visit different parts of the country. Malvolio is going too, of course.’

‘There’s more to it than that.’ Guido sat down beside them. ‘Malvolio is taking the relic. It is already packed in a crate ready for travelling. These visits are so that His Excellency can become acquainted with the country, the leading families, but Malvolio’s using this progress for his own ends. He has been meeting with certain gentlemen separately. He’s very close with one he knew from the old days in Illyria.’

‘Sir Andrew Agnew,’ Violetta supplied.

‘You know about him?’

Violetta nodded.

‘Well,’ Guido went on, ‘there is some kind of plot afoot. His Excellency knows it, of course, and he is careful to distance himself. I think he is using it to trap Malvolio in some way, or he may have some other purpose. We have to be careful. Lady Francesca serves Christiana, the Ambassador’s daughter,’ Guido said. ‘She and Malvolio are like that.’ He plaited his fingers. ‘She reports everything straight back to him.’

Stephano had been silent. ‘Perhaps we need not worry about this any more,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, we could be married.’ He took Violetta’s hands in his. ‘We could go to His Excellency. Be restored to Illyria . . .’

‘How? How could that be possible?’

‘His Excellency told me today – Venice is no longer happy with my father’s rule. The pirate Antonio has too much power. They are raiding together, attacking convoys, taking galleys, demanding ransoms. They want to replace him . . . with us.’

Violetta’s smile spread wide. ‘Why, that is great news –’

‘Tell her all of it,’ Guido said.

‘They want to keep the relic,’ he said. ‘In San Marco.’

‘What?’ Violetta stared at him. ‘Oh, no! I will not go back without it. I have vowed to return it to our own cathedral, where it belongs, not in San Marco with all the other relics that the Venetians have plundered. It’s like a robbers’ cave in there, with the arm of St Ivan and the foot of St Trifone and I don’t know what else.’

‘That is the price of their help, and we’ll not regain Illyria without them. Tell her, Guido.’

Stephano turned to his friend, hoping that he would help persuade her, but Guido was not so sure. He was Stephano’s friend, but his loyalty was to Violetta. He had sworn fealty to her father. With the Duke dead, he was her man now.

‘We do what Violetta says. The other way is too easy.’ Guido frowned. ‘We cannot wholly trust the Ambassador. Venetians are never straightforward. Their motives are opaque and changeable, as opalescent as their own lagoon.’