by Celia Rees
‘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.
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.