The Fool's Girl (23 page)

‘Lord and Lady Eldon. I want you to go and stay with them.’

‘Why don’t you send Tod or Ned, or George Price?’

Will looked over to where the women had turned to watch them again.

‘That’s not how these things are done. If you will excuse me, I have to see the sexton. Here’s Master Price to see you back safe.’

.

23

‘Not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes’

‘I didn’t even know you were there,’ Violetta said.

‘My job is to watch you, so I watch.
You
might not have noticed, but those old beldames did.’ George Price laughed. ‘My master’s spies have got nothing on this place.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Would you care to see something of the place? There’s a May fair down by the river.’

The fair spread up from the Waterside, branching into the main streets of the town. Tod was there with his May Queen, buying her ribbons from a chapman, a pretty comb for her hair. It was a cheap thing made from horn, the jewels upon it coloured glass, but the girl looked on it as if it was turtle-shell and crusted with rubies and emeralds. Next they saw him at the sideshows, making a great deal of noise about winning things for his new girl.

‘He’s got a good eye,’ George Price said. ‘For a target and for a girl.’

‘Yes,’ Violetta agreed. ‘She is very pretty.’

‘I don’t mean the May Queen.’ George looked over to where the young actor was trying feats of strength, making a show of himself. ‘He’s not doing all this for her.’

On their way back to Master Shakespeare’s house, Violetta had a strong feeling that she was being watched.

George’s eyes took in the street: doorways, alleyways, up and down. He looked from there to the faces of the crowd. Then he looked up at the windows. A stirring in a casement window; a movement behind a diamond pane. Could be a face there, it was hard to tell. He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but he did not dismiss Violetta’s feeling. Intuition was right more times than it was wrong. It was probably nothing, but Shakespeare should know about it. Either side could be watching her. The town would host spies of both stripes. Cecil would have his informants; so would the Catholics. Even if they did not do so openly, many in the town still held to the Old Religion. The trick was to know who reported to whom; being a local man, Shakespeare should know.

‘I cannot be sure,’ Violetta said to Will, ‘not certain. It was growing dark, and the street was crowded, but I felt . . . I felt eyes upon me.’ She shuddered. ‘It was as though malice followed me all the way down the street.’

‘And you saw nothing?’

Price shook his head. ‘A movement at a window, that’s all. I didn’t see anyone obvious hanging about.’

‘Where was this?’

‘The street that runs up from the river, parallel to this.’

‘Sheep Street,’ Mistress Anne suggested.

They were all sitting in the kitchen, as they often did in the Shakespeare household. The long, low room smelt of the sweet rushes strewn over the flagstones, drying clothes, baking bread and the dried herbs and hops which hung, looped and garlanded, along the beams. Will and Anne sat at the big scrubbed table, Maria on the settle by the wide fireplace. She’d picked up sewing from the mending box without being asked. Anne had declared her a ‘useful little body’ and they were already on the way to becoming friends. Feste was sitting with her, staring into the falling ashes of the fire. He did not turn as Violetta and Price came in and offered no word of greeting. It was a surprise to see him there; a fair was as good excuse as any for drinking and making merry. He must be in one of the glooms that sometimes took him and rendered everything too much trouble, any effort pointless.

Mistress Shakespeare frowned and looked up from the lists of figures that she had been showing to Will.

‘There’s more sources of malice in Sheep Street than loitering louts,’ she said, pushing a straying strand of dark hair, threaded with grey, back beneath her cap.

‘We met Old Meg in the churchyard today.’ Will crossed his arms.

‘She’s one of them. The best of the bunch, I’ll grant you, but I’d have no truck with any of them. They are not to be trusted.’

Will shrugged. ‘Not in many things, I agree. But they are to be trusted in this when others are not.’

‘Be wary, then.’ She looked up at Violetta, her grey eyes shrewd and sharp. ‘I haven’t asked, but I’m asking now. What is it with this lass? Will she bring trouble to my house?’

‘It is a long story, but don’t worry, Nan,’ Will could see the concern in his wife’s eyes. ‘She is no threat. She stands in need of help and I’ve pledged to give it. I’d hope that such kindness would be offered to our own daughters if the position was reversed.’

‘Truly, mistress –’ Violetta could keep quiet no longer – ‘I do not want to bring trouble to you and yours. I will leave straightway. Tomorrow. As soon as it can be arranged –’

‘That will not be necessary. I don’t know what’s going on here – he’ll tell me in his good time – but if he’s offered his protection, I offer mine.’ Anne Shakespeare took the girl’s hand in friendship. ‘You can stay as long as you like.’ She looked to her husband. ‘I know he would not willingly bring trouble to my door. It grows late. We rise early here.’

This was the signal for them all to retire. George Price bade them goodnight. Will tidied the papers from the table, while Anne took the bread from the cooling oven to be ready for the morrow. Violetta and Maria lit candles to light the way to their chamber. Only Feste was left. He took a long time to respond to the knocking at the door.

‘I thought you were staying at the Bear.’ He walked back to his settle, leaving the boy to shut the door behind him.

‘I want to be, have to be, under the same roof as her!’ Tod turned, arms thrown wide, nearly overbalancing. He’d had a drink, and Stratford ale was strong.

‘What happened to the Queen of the May?’

Tod slumped down next to Feste. ‘Gone back to Long Compton on a cart.’

Feste grunted and stared at the fire. He did not relish this interruption.

‘I really love her,’ Tod said. ‘I realise that now.’

The clown rolled his eyes. Tod wasn’t talking about the trull in the cart. Perhaps if he ignored him and gave the fire his full attention, the boy would go away.

‘You don’t understand! I have to be under the same roof as her!’

‘You said that before.’

‘I see her in all her aspects: laughing, smiling, thoughtful . . .’

Feste barely listened, but when a log collapsed, sending out heat and sparks, and Tod fell to making up verses about the new-kindled fire that burned in his heart, that was too much. To make it even worse, the boy had picked up the lute and was trying to tune it.

‘By the rood! Stop that infernal twangling! Who said you could play that?’ Feste snatched the instrument from him. ‘It’s mine!’

‘I’m sorry, Master Feste.’ Tod set to drumming with his fingers and humming the tune instead. ‘Do you think I have any chance?’

Feste did not reply.

‘You have great influence with her. You know her better than any. Could you speak to her on my behalf?’

Feste rubbed at the silvering stubble on his chin. He was seeing a way to enjoy this. Tod’s handsome young face had lost its look of smooth confidence. The poet in him was failing to find the words that would rightly express his feelings; the actor was stumbling through lack of a script.

‘See where good Mistress Anne keeps her ale,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you what I think.’

Tod came back with a stone flagon and two horn beakers.

Feste drank deep and wiped his mouth. ‘This is good stuff. She knows how to brew, I’ll give her that.’ He waved his empty cup. ‘Where did you find this? You could get more in Maria’s thimble. Fill it up! That’s more like it.’

‘So,’ Tod asked again, ‘do you think I have a chance?’

‘Pour and I’ll tell you.’ Feste was relishing the sudden power he had over the arrogant, cocksure youth-turned-boy again, full of uncertainty.

‘Her countryman Stephano . . .’ Tod filled Feste’s cup. ‘What of him? I hear that they are promised and . . . and love often grows stronger in separation. Does she still have feelings for him?’

‘That I cannot say. You must ask the lady.’ By Jove, Mistress Anne’s ale was strong. His tongue was growing thick. ‘They were promised as children, and although there was affection between them, lad and girl love often withers as first fruits fall to be replaced by others more robust,’ he added with a wink.

‘So you think I have a chance?’

‘Well, now,’ said Feste, pouring himself another cupful. His aim was unsteady; a good portion splashed on the floor. ‘I’d say, in all truthfulness . . .’

‘Yes, master,’ Tod leaned forward, nearly slipping off his settle in his eagerness.

‘Well now. I’d say . . .’ Feste began. Young men in love were ever tedious, this could go on all night and his head suddenly felt impossibly heavy. He put down his cup. He was too drunk for fooling. Time to end it. ‘I’d say . . .’ he went on. ‘I’d say, you don’t stand a chance. She’s promised to Stephano. Good as married. That’s an end to it. She
likes
you well enough, but liking is not love, is it?’ He spread his hands. ‘She won’t ever love you. She loves another. ’

‘I see . . .’ Tod stared at him. ‘No hope, you say?’

‘No hope at all.’ Feste said with finality. ‘She’ll be leaving soon, anyway. So you can go back to your other young wenches and village girls. Now I’m going to sleep.’

He fell over sideways and began to snore. Tod stayed for a while, finishing his ale, then he let himself out. He went back to the Bear, where he ordered more ale and sat brooding, turning the heavy gold ring that he wore on his left hand. It was a gift from an admirer, a noble lord. The stone could pass as ruby. It had been sent in appreciation of his Juliet. He was not used to rejection. Quite the opposite.

There were those there willing to join him, buy more ale and lend a sympathetic ear to a young player who was smarting from the unaccustomed slight and filled with sudden bitterness, feeling sad and sorry for himself.

.

24

‘A witchcraft drew me hither’

Get up and get washed before I dump you in the horse trough!’

Anne Shakespeare banged about with her broom, threatening to sweep Feste off the settle, none too pleased to find him asleep by the ashes of the fire, surrounded by empty flagons of her precious October ale. She would have words with Will about this.

Feste staggered off, his place at the hearth taken by Old Meg. She sat down heavily, spreading her skirts, her gnarled old hands, seamed with dirt, as brown and twisted as tree roots as she clutched the handle of her basket of herbs.

‘Been out before sun rising, gathering plants. ’Tis the best time.’ She sorted through the sweet-smelling froth of flowers, dark tubers and tender green leaves just beginning to wilt from being picked. ‘I got comfrey, lady’s smock, a tossie of cowslips, fumitory and hyssop from my own garden. I got a good bit of burdock root.’ She pulled out a thick, crusted length and snapped it in half to show the pinkish white flesh. ‘Look at that. Sweet as a nut.’ She broke off a piece, popped it in her mouth, earth and all, and chewed it before spitting the wad into the fire.

Anne looked over the contents of the basket. Nothing she couldn’t gather between here and Shottery, or find growing in her own garden. She began counting out the pennies nonetheless. It did not do to offend Old Meg and her kind, or the fire would not burn, the ale would not brew, the butter would not come in the churn, so they said. She wouldn’t like to put it to the test.

‘A word with your man, if I may,’ Old Meg added from her place by the fire. ‘And a drop of ale while I’m waiting wouldn’t go amiss, lass. I’m that dry. And a bit of bread and cheese if you have it. Or a bit of pie.’ She sniffed, as though scenting out the nature of last night’s meal. Old Meg had a rare ability to nose out leftovers. ‘I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s supper and I’m that famished.’

Anne drew her a mug of ale. Then she went to the pantry and cut a piece of pie, a hunk of bread and a chunk of cheese, loading them on to a wooden platter.

‘Thanks kindly, dear.’ She took the platter in her gnarled hand. The cheese disappeared into the pocket she wore round her waist. ‘Save that’un for later.’

Having seen to the needs of her guest, Anne went to tell Will of her arrival. He had risen early and had settled down at the table in their room, hoping to get a bit of peace to write before the household was properly stirring.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said as she went into him. ‘Old Meg is here. She wants a word.’

Will sighed. He’d hardly started. He had only just taken ink and paper from his writing box, set the table out how he wanted it and sharpened his quills. He had been gazing down into Chapel Street, watching the town rise and come alive, when he’d seen Old Meg hobbling round the corner from Scholar’s Lane. She had glanced up as she crossed the road and he’d caught her look, furtive but determined. He was already rising from his chair when Anne came into the room.

‘How do, maister.’ Old Meg looked up from her breakfast. She dunked a chunk of bread into the ale before beginning to chew. ‘Teeth ent what they were.’

‘I do well, Meg,’ Will answered her. ‘And you?’

‘Well enough. I’ve a message. I were out gathering early. Some herbs is better, stronger in their action, when picked by the light of the moon with the first sweat of dew newly upon them. Guess who I met.’

Will stood in front of her, arms folded. He nodded; he knew already or she wouldn’t be here.

‘Him and her.’

Old Meg answered her own question. It didn’t do to name them. Will nodded again. He knew who she was talking about. Anne’s broom stilled. Will felt his wife’s attention shift towards them.

‘He says for you to come tonight in the evening while,’ Old Meg said. ‘You know the place. You know the tree. Best be off now.’ She drained her mug and put the uneaten crust of the pie in her pocket. ‘You don’t trust me,’ she said as Anne handed her the basket, ‘but I never forget a kindness. Keep this.’ She gave her a slip of rowan. ‘Put it above the fireplace and may misfortune fly up your chimbley while luck walks in through your door.’

Anne took the sprig and accepted the singsong charm gracefully. She’d heard similar rhymes recited many times before. On the surface she regarded all such as superstitious nonsense, but belief ran deep. Better to be safe than sorry. She preferred to keep all sides happy. She would not want one of them to have a hank of her, she was certain of that.

‘What was that about?’ she asked as Old Meg hobbled out. ‘Did she mean who I think she means?’

‘I’ve got to get the girl out of the town. The clown too. What safer place could there be? Come, Nan.’ He put his arms around her. ‘They served us well once.’

‘There’s a strangeness about them. They never come into town, and folk do say –’

‘That’s all superstition.’

‘They are thick with Meg and her kind.’

‘They follow the old ways. Their estate is hard to find. I want to keep the girl secret. What better place?’

Will went off to find Violetta and Feste, warn them to be ready to travel. Then he gave out to the rest of the company that the pair would be leaving them.

‘Where are they going?’ Tod wanted to know.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ Will replied, which was no lie. ‘Moving on.’

‘Near or far?’

‘Far,’ Will said without offering more.

He did not invite Tod to see them on their way, but what did that matter? Tod intended to follow. There were those in town who would be interested to know where she had gone.

Violetta and Feste collected their things together and made ready for their journey. They set out just as the day was moving towards evening, taking the road north out of Stratford towards Henley-in-Arden. They passed close to Wilmcote, the home of Will’s mother’s family. The farm lay on the edge of the great Forest of Arden. As a boy, Will had often been sent to the farm in the summer, to escape the contagions of the town or when his mother was brought to bed with the birth of a child. He knew the country for miles around.

Long before they reached Henley, Will indicated that they should turn off and take a lesser road. Trees grew close on either side, the leaves on their lower branches layered in drifts like a pale green mist. The track saw little wheeled traffic. The way was smooth and unrutted, the horses’ hoofs muffled by moss, grass and wild flowers. The lane branched and branched again, all the time leading them deeper into the woods. The trees grew taller, their trunks thicker, their overarching branches meshed above their heads, making the lane into a kind of tunnel.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ Violetta asked him as they left the track and ventured under the shifting eaves of the spreading trees.

‘I’m taking you to some people I know. You will be safe with them.’

‘Who are these people?’

‘They live deep in the forest. The Arden. They have always lived here.’

They were in the ancient part of the forest. The ground was thick with leaves of gold and copper, their horses treading over the litter of centuries. There was no discernible path. The ground rose and fell like the swell of the sea.

Eventually they came to a wide clearing, a slight depression surrounded by towering beeches, their smooth grey trunks soaring upwards into a tumbling filigree of delicate leaves. Markings like long-healed scars showed in the blank smoothness of their bark.

Will signalled for them to stop and dismount. The sun’s rays slanted across the clearing, broken into long fingers by the canopy. The glancing beams held motes of dust, silken threads of spiders’ webs, flickering fragments of chaff and other shining stuff. Insects swarmed, the light catching the glitter of their wings, the metallic glint of their tiny bodies, as they rose and fell. A man and a woman were entering the clearing from the opposite side, stepping through the shafts of light.

‘Will! Well met! It has been a long time since we have seen you.’ He held Will by the arms and looked him up and down. ‘No longer the boy who used to haunt my woods, carving verses into the trees.’

Will glanced up at the space where time had erased his rhymes from the smooth parchment of the bark. He looked back, aware of how he had aged, how he must seem changed with his sallow, city complexion, his sunken eyes, his thinning hair receding from his lined forehead.

Lord and Lady Eldon were as he remembered them, dressed in hunting habit, both carrying bows. Red-and-white spotted dogs milled round their feet. Two keepers followed behind them, bearing a hart tied to a pole, game bags dripping blood. Lord Eldon’s face was weathered, as leathery as the battered jerkin he wore. His full beard was touched with grey, curled like frosted holly leaves. He wore a battered old hat stuck with pheasant tail feathers and his long dark hair flowed thickly down his back, a dull greenish black, like ivy veined with white.

His lady was thin as a willow wand. She wore a leather jerkin over her dark green riding habit, a quiver of arrows on her back. Her long hair was silvery, falling over her shoulders. Her face was lined but finely wrought, with high cheekbones and pale tilted eyes set wide apart.

‘I have a favour to ask, my lord, my lady.’ Will spoke to them with as much formality as if he was addressing Secretary Cecil and the Queen herself. ‘These people –’ he waved towards Violetta and Feste – ‘stand in need of your protection. I ask you to keep them hidden.’

‘Hidden?’ Lord Eldon smiled, intrigued. ‘From whom, may I ask?’

‘An enemy who would do them harm. You know him, I think. Sir Andrew Agnew.’

At the name, the lord’s face darkened as if there was no love lost between them. He looked to his lady, who nodded.

‘You are welcome.’ He put out his hand to Violetta and Feste. ‘You will be safe with me. I give you my word.’

‘We thank you, sir, madam.’ Violetta curtsied to one, then the other.

The lord smiled at her. His face was open, even kind, but there was fierceness in his blue eyes. He was like the mountain chieftains who had sometimes come to see her father. Men who lived by the old ways and whose word, once given, would not be broken. Next to her, Feste gave his best bow.

There was a rustle in the branches above them and a boy dropped down from a tree to land at their feet. At least, he appeared at first glance to be a boy. He was small and slender. He looked at Violetta, his odd eyes different colours, one as green as the leaves above them, the other light brown and streaked, like a hazelnut. His stare expressed mild interest, mixed with amusement that could easily tip into malice. Despite his slight stature, he was no boy. His brown mossy hair was braided and wound with threads of different colours, hung with beads and shells. He wore necklaces made from beads of bone, tiny skulls, rough dark stones like petrified snails.

‘This is Robin,’ the lady said.

‘They were followed.’ Robin looked up at his mistress. ‘A young one, unshaven, pretty as a girl.’

‘It’s one of our company,’ Will said. ‘He’s in love with Violetta. Likely he’s followed to see where we are taking her.’

‘It might not be lovesickness.’ Feste looked shifty. He turned to Violetta. ‘I told him about Stephano, told him he didn’t have a chance with you. He might not have taken it very well.’

‘He might be following for other reasons, then,’ Will considered. ‘He’s been acting strangely.’

Robin looked from one to the other and then at his master and mistress. ‘Shall I see to it?’