by Celia Rees
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.’
‘There are other factors involved.’ Violetta said, grateful to Guido for siding with her. ‘I have an obligation to Master Shakespeare. He has offered to help me, and I cannot turn my back on him now. Someone powerful has taken an interest in this. I would not see Master Shakespeare suffer or come to harm because of me. I’ve seen what the powerful do when their plans are thwarted. They will crush him like a shell.’
‘What does that matter?’ Stephano looked at her, exasperated.
‘It matters to me.’ Violetta glared back.
Stephano threw his hands up and walked off.
‘Go after him, Guido,’ Violetta said. ‘You understand. I have to go through with this. Make him see sense.’
Guido nodded and followed him. Immediately Feste hopped up on the settle, taking his place.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’
Violetta was sniffing back tears. ‘Don’t you start!’
‘Look at him. Flashing his money about, buying barrels of sack for the company, trying to be every man’s friend . . .’
Violetta didn’t rise to that, or any of his other comments. She ignored him, sunk in her own misery. Feste hopped off the settle. Time to liven things up.
‘Very good of you, young sir,’ he said, lurching over to Stephano. ‘And what coinage might that be? Venetian ducats, by any chance?’ He held out his hand. ‘If it’s their money you’ve got, how about sharing it around?’
‘Of course!’ Stephano shook out coins from his purse.
‘Thank you. Very kind.’ Feste pocketed the money. ‘Now let’s have a dance,’ he shouted over the growing hubbub. ‘Clear the tables. Let’s have a jig. Sir Toby was a great one for a jig. And a round, masters, he loved a round.’
He jumped up on to a table and began to sing, conducting those around him. Bit by bit, the rest joined in, playing anything that came to hand, rattling spoons and bones together, beating out time on pans. Once the round was established, he jumped down and caught hold of Maria, dancing her about the floor.
‘Like old times, eh, mistress? Merry times they were. Do you remember? When we were all together. When we were young.’
Maria begged him to stop, pleading she was quite out of breath. She wiped away tears, whether of mirth or sorrow it was hard to tell.
‘I’m sorry, love. Let us not quarrel.’
Violetta looked from where Feste and Maria were dancing. Stephano had come back to her.
‘I wanted us to be together,’ he said as he sat down next to her and took her hand. ‘Forgive my eagerness. I had not thought of what it would mean. I do not want us to be the clients of Venice. I’ll do whatever –’
‘I’ve been looking for you.’ Feste came staggering towards them, waving his empty tankard at Stephano. ‘Sack’s gone. You have plenty of money, young master. Your purse fairly bulges with Venetian gold. Another barrel for me and my good friends here.’ He waved his arm in a vague way, indicating the company, and nearly overbalanced.
Stephano put out a hand to steady him.
‘Perhaps you have had enough, my friend,’ he said.
‘Who says?’ Feste stood swaying. ‘Who are you to say?’ He squinted up at Stephano. ‘Who says you are my friend?’ He shrugged him away. ‘Whose friend are you, anyway?’
‘I meant no offence.’ Stephano put up his hands to placate the clown, unsure if what he said was serious or in jest. ‘I just meant . . .’
He did not want any further quarrels. He went off to buy more wine.
‘What did you mean?’ Feste shouted after him. ‘What did you mean, exactly?’
‘That is enough!’ Violetta grabbed Feste by the arm. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered furiously as she dragged him down next to her on the settle. ‘Being rude and discourteous to Lord Stephano. Begging off him. I saw you. We do not do that to friends.’
‘He’s no lo
rd here, and he’s no lord to me. No friend, neither.’
‘He is my friend.’ Violetta glared at the clown. ‘What is the matter with you?’
‘How do you know?’ Feste suddenly sounded remarkably sober.
‘How do I know what?’
‘How do you know this isn’t a trick to make us trust him? Mighty convenient, his turning up at the playhouse yesterday.’
‘There is no art in it. He was just there,’ Violetta said. ‘The same could be said of me. Or you.’
‘You’ve changed your tune. Hardly a minute ago you were sitting here weeping.’
‘I was not weeping!’
‘Not far off it.’
‘We had an argument, that’s all.’
‘Care to tell me about it?’
‘I might. When you’re sober.’ Violetta turned on him. ‘What’s wrong with you, Feste?’
‘I just don’t trust him.’
‘You don’t trust anybody!’
‘Not true, although I trust very few. I trust you. Even though you are young and the young are apt to be betrayed by their hearts, and other parts.’ Stephano was now talking to Will Shakespeare, but all the while glancing towards Violetta. He could not keep his eyes off her. ‘I do not want to quarrel with you, over this or anything else. What’s left, if we fall out? If he be true, then he will show his metal. If he be false –’ Feste shrugged – ‘there’s no helping us. And who’s that man over there?’ His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘The one dressed in black who holds himself like a sword for hire. He’s been watching you all the time.’
‘His name’s George Price. He’s been sent by Secretary Cecil to look after me.’
‘Tell him to go away. ’S not necessary. ’S my job.’ Feste set off muttering, ‘Tell him myself.’
Halfway across the room his knees gave way. He began walking as if he was sinking into the floor. George Price caught him by the arms and hauled him to a corner where he could sleep it off.
Will had remarkably good hearing and the equally useful ability to talk and listen at the same time. He went over to Violetta.
‘It seems your clown has doubts about Stephano,’ he said to Violetta.
‘Feste can be wise when he’s sober,’ she said, ‘but he is a fool when he’s drunk. He’s just jealous.’
‘I wonder if we might talk.’ Will beckoned for Stephano to join them.
He told them of his meeting with Cecil and what he proposed to do. Violetta looked at Stephano. They could not betray Master Shakespeare now. After Will had finished telling them what was in his mind, she took Stephano’s hand and they slipped away together. The quarrel had been patched, but they had more to say to each other now. Violetta would be leaving London, the day after tomorrow at the latest. Stephano would be leaving tomorrow. They would each be facing their own separate dangers and might not see each other for a good while. If Will’s plan succeeded, they would be returned to their country, Lord and Lady of Illyria. If it failed . . .
It was best not to think on that. Will’s scheme was still growing, forming and changing in his mind. He was not about to tell the whole of it to anyone, any more than he would share the workings of a play, because he never quite knew what was going to happen. Even then, when the work was finished, each actor conned his own lines, so the entire thing existed only inside Will’s head until it was revealed in performance. Only he knew how each part was put with another, how they all fitted to make the whole. So it would be with this enterprise. He had his cast assembled, in his head, at least. Will felt a chill of excitement running through him. The risks were great. It was impossible to know if he could bring it about. Even if he had everything in place, the cast was likely to be unpredictable. Lives and liberty depended on this, and life is not a play.
‘Penny for them.’
He turned to find Simon Forman by his side.
‘Not worth a groat.’ Will smiled, accepting the cup of wine Forman offered him.
‘I’ve done your chart.’ Forman held out a rolled-up scroll.
‘Oh.’ Will took the scroll tied with black ribbon, but he did not open it. ‘Thank you.’
‘It makes interesting reading.’
‘I’ll look at it later,’ Will tucked it into his jerkin. ‘My thanks again.’ He drank off his wine. ‘I must go.’
Forman would have liked to discuss the chart with him, but Will was already moving away. The doctor watched him making an easy progress, saying farewell to one and then another, thanking Mistress Maria. He was a thoroughly pleasant fellow, nothing unusual about him, nothing to make him stand out from the ordinary. But the chart said otherwise. Forman had checked and checked again, not quite believing what he was seeing. He had done charts for the lowest to the highest, from innkeepers’ wives to peers of the realm and Her Majesty’s ministers, but he’d never seen one like it before. He wondered what Will would make of it.
Someone called his name. He turned to see one of his patients approaching, so he did not see Will toss the scroll into the fire.
.
17
‘Thought is free’
By the morning, the news was out that the theatres were to be closed. The Globe was in a roar.
‘They talk of plague, restless apprentices,’ Burbage fumed, ‘but I’ve not heard of either. There’s always plague somewhere, and the young are ever restless. If they want disturbance, they’ll get it when this becomes common knowledge. If you ask me, it’s neither reason.’ He paced up and down in front of the stage. ‘It’s those Puritans among the City Fathers putting pressure on the Privy Council. They would close us down for ever if they had their way.’ He turned to Will. ‘It will happen one day, mark me. Not in our lifetimes, maybe, but it will happen. They would kill all joy and amusement; have us on our knees night and day.’
Will voiced his outrage as loudly as the others. Closing the theatres meant lost revenue, which hurt him too, although sometimes he welcomed a hiatus. The appetite for plays was never satisfied and often left him exhausted, his wellspring of ideas reduced to a trickle. This time he had other reasons, but he was careful to keep them well hidden.
He waited until Burbage had run through his stock of dramatic postures, from head-clutching despair, to hair-pulling frustration, then fist-clenching rage, snarling and roaring to match the bears in the garden. Only when he had finished did Will suggest that he might take a group on tour. The very idea brought on another bout of snarling. Burbage hated touring, declaring he had done enough of that in his youth, traipsing behind a cart, covered in mud or choking on dust. He wasn’t about to start again now. He did not like leaving London, or the comforts of home. Unlike most actors, he was notoriously uxorious, enjoying the company of his wife in a house that swarmed with children.
‘I did not say you,’ Will pointed out, ‘but I. Perhaps north. Up to Stratford. I have been thinking of paying a visit. Kill two birds with the one stone.’
‘Hmm.’ Burbage left off his railing. ‘Not a bad idea. At least we’d have some money coming in.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Not a bad idea at all. You can’t take my best men,’ he warned, ‘in case we open again.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of doing so.’ Will smiled. ‘Just a small company, mostly ’prentices and men who live in the shadow of others. We can double parts, triple if need be. We will need a few props and costumes, but it might be worth it. We could do well.’
‘That you could, that you could. Might as well put the trappings to work as let them lie idle. Men too. High Wycombe, Oxford, Banbury . . .’ He began counting off towns on his fingers. ‘Not less than twenty shillings in a small place, forty in a larger. I’ll dust off the cart, pack it with the things you need. Axles need greasing. Hasn’t been used for a long time. You collect your company together. And be sure to keep strict charge,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Don’t let them get into fights!’
Will left Tod to get the word around to those he wanted to take with him. He had a meeting to attend.
The new house
that Cecil was having built on the Strand was a vast mansion facing on to the river. It was not quite finished. Cutters worked on blocks of pale stone, and the facade was still covered in a framework of wooden poles.
‘I hear that you are now a man of property, Shakespeare,’ Cecil said, rolling up the plans that he had been studying.
‘Why, yes.’ Will tried not to sound surprised at how much Cecil knew about him. ‘I have bought a new house in Stratford, although it is little more than a hovel compared with this and has needed much work doing to it.’
‘Houses are a grievous expense. They eat money.’ Cecil looked up, his eyes hooded. He had a way of making the most innocent utterance sound like a threat. ‘You must be anxious to see how it goes.’
‘It should be done by now.’
‘In my experience, the work is never done. One job begets another. There always seems to be some other thing to do.’ Cecil glanced about as all around men scurried, wheeling barrows, carrying hods, shinning up and down ladders. His presence acted like a stick in an ant heap, stirring the workmen into frantic activity. ‘I find I must visit often or nothing is accomplished.’
‘My wife, Anne, oversees the work.’
‘The good Mistress Anne, quite so. She must miss you when you are in London.’
Will assented.
‘Another sound reason to return to Stratford. We must keep our intention well hid, as I’ve said to you before. I’ve closed the theatres, so you are free to tour.’
Will nodded again. ‘I’ve just come from the Globe. They are preparing the cart.’
‘When do you intend to depart?’
‘We go tomorrow. We’ll join up with the carrier Will Greenaway. He leaves from the Bell Inn on Carter Lane.’ It was best to travel in company as a safeguard against thieves and rogues on the road.
‘Very wise. You’ve met my man George Price?’ Cecil did not wait for an answer. ‘He and some of his men will be joining you, to keep an eye on things. Now, it is my understanding that the party of interest, this Sir Andrew, the Jesuit Malvolio and the Venetian Ambassador, will also be travelling shortly.’