by Celia Rees
‘He’s not my man,’ Violetta said absently. ‘He’s my friend, and he’s quite capable of getting into mischief on his own.’
She could see them below her, in the garden. Robin was teaching Feste how to use a slingshot. They were like a pair of boys. She hoped they were not aiming at birds. A thrush plummeted to the ground in mid-song, its fall greeted by howls of laughter. There would be words.
‘We have been here for such a long time,’ the lady went on, timing her talk to the rhythm of her loom. ‘My husband’s family have owned this land since the time of King Arthur, when the forest was everywhere and they say that a squirrel could travel from one side of the country to the other without touching the ground. Now the woods ring with the sound of axes, and the heathland is turned by ploughs. That’s why my lord hates Sir Andrew. He lives not so very far from here, but his land is very different. The trees have all been cleared. Every year our world dwindles and grows smaller, thanks to him and his kind. The forest dwellers, charcoal burners, woodsmen and furze cutters who have lived in and about the woods time out of mind are driven from their shelters, and the travelling people, who find refuge here, have nowhere to go.’
Violetta sat by the window, listening to the clack of the loom, the hiss of the shuttle being passed back and forth, watching the tapestry grow one strand after another, until the picture came clear. The lady did not ask her anything about herself, her past, but bit by bit she began pouring out her heart.
If time seemed to move slowly for Violetta, it was moving swiftly for Will. Too swiftly. Performances meant every day was busy. Apart from the guildhall in Stratford, the company had been travelling about, setting up anywhere within a day’s ride: guildhalls, marketplaces and inn yards in towns large and small, village inns, village greens, private houses – anywhere that would let them perform.
Touring from a centre was easier than travelling from place to place, and it brought in just as much money. More importantly, it established their presence here. There were a number of great houses in the neighbourhood, as well as halls, manor houses and substantial private dwellings. Many of their owners were deserting London now that summer was coming, with its heat, stench, flies and rising bills of mortality. Once in the country, they were desperate for diversion. Those that stayed year round were always desperate for diversions. The local gentry were hungry for the kinds of entertainments available in London. The provinces had been starved of amusement since the companies had left off touring, and there was none to equal the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, inside or outside the capital.
Touring was very different from being in a proper playhouse with a whole company to call on, but Will was beginning to enjoy it. There were eight of them, all good men, with Mistress Maria in charge of properties, costumes and tiring. He had cut and sliced the parts to fit the available cast and devised a playlist pleasing to all. Although most of the actors had not been touring before, they seemed to relish the opportunity it gave for wit and ingenuity. The audiences were, for the most part, uncritically adoring, making a pleasant change from the surly London crowd, who had their pick of playhouses.
They performed in halls, in courtyards, in gardens, on lawns and had engagements from here to Michaelmas. The money was pouring in. Burbage would be proud of him, but that was not the sole reason for all this industry. If they appeared at one house, then they were invited to others, as the local families tried to outdo one another. Soon it would be obligatory for any household of note to invite Master Shakespeare and his men to entertain the company.
One day, towards the middle of June, Will came home to find the yard transformed into a grove. A cart stood in Chapel Lane, causing quite an obstruction to traffic coming up from Waterside, while men trooped back and forth, unloading trees and all manner of plants.
He hurried into the house to see what this was all about, to be met by Anne in a state of unaccustomed agitation.
‘Nan? What’s the matter? What is all this?’
‘There’s plums, cherries, apricots and quinces,’ Anne said, counting them off on her fingers. ‘Enough to stock the orchards of half the town. There are different kinds of berries, vines and mulberries, red and white. There are seeds of all kinds of things, and look at this!’
She held out a small bowl, a cluster of pale shoots just breaking the surface of the fine white sand. Anne delicately extracted a tear-shaped bulb covered in papery brown skin. She held it on her fingertips as if it were fashioned from gold and ivory.
‘Tulips,’ she said. ‘The first in Stratford!’
The first anywhere, outside a few great gardens. These were very rare. Will knew who had sent them.
‘Did any message come with them?’ he asked Anne. ‘Or a messenger?’
‘He’s in the parlour. George Price – the man who was with you when you first arrived.’
Will hoped Price appreciated the honour. The parlour was the best room in the house. The walls were covered in painted cloths that had come all the way from Oxford. They had cost Will deep in the purse, but they were Anne’s pride. The furniture gleamed, polished with beeswax, and the plate on the sideboard shone.
George Price stood up when Will came into the room. He was dressed as a gentleman today, in a black velvet doublet and silk hose.
‘I’ve come with plants for your wife and a message from my master.’
‘I thank him for his kindness,’ Will said. ‘He could not have sent a better gift. My wife values her garden and orchard above all things.’
‘Are our friends still safe?’
‘They are.’
‘The boy actor, Tod – when I left, he seemed less than happy with how things had turned out. I was worried he might do something rash.’
‘He did try to follow, but was misdirected. It has worked to our advantage. If he was in touch with Sir Andrew’s agents, he will have told them that Violetta and Feste travel north.’
Robin could be very persuasive. He was famous for the way he could beguile dogs and horses. Young men presented even less of a challenge.
‘How goes the other thing?’
‘It goes well. We have performed at nearly every house in the neighbourhood. That should be enough for Sir Andrew’s guests at Bardsley to demand that we entertain them too.’ Will smiled. ‘No one likes to feel left out.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sir Andrew will want to match his neighbours in the quality of entertainment he can provide. The families hereabouts jockey endlessly for position and are ever ready to do each other down. Besides, young Stephano is our agent. We will get our invitation. The Venetian Ambassador was in daily attendance at the Globe. Stephano will make sure he knows that we are here and ready to perform. Sir Andrew cannot refuse a request from so important a guest.’
‘Sir Andrew and his guests are due any day now. The other conspirators will arrive hard on their heels. This is the message from my master: He hopes your garden grows well and would have you know that by midsummer all should be ready for plucking.’ Price began to pull on his gloves. ‘You’d best get ready for the call.’
.
26
‘Present mirth hath present laughter’
There she is . . .’
Robin pointed towards the place where Violetta lay sleeping. She had found a shaded bank, fragrant with thyme and violets. She had meant to settle there to read while the lady tended her hives nearby, but the warmth of the sun, the scent of the flowers, the buzzing of the bees had sent her into reverie and then into sleep. Night was coming on, shadows were lengthening across the lawn, but the evening was warm and Violetta did not wake.
‘Come!’ Robin beckoned the young man forward. He had no idea why his lady had ordered this, the human heart was a mystery, but she would have the girl happy.
Stephano crossed the close-cropped emerald sward, releasing the scent of chamomile as he walked. He sat down on the bank, breathing in the tang of herbs and the sweet perfume of flowers. Violets for Violetta. He plucked a handfu
l of purple petals and scattered them over her sleeping form. He leaned over her, studying her face, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Then he lay down beside her.
Violetta woke to find him next to her and blinked, sure that she was still dreaming. His face was open, unguarded in sleep, allowing her a chance to study him: the arching curve of his brow, the sweep of his dark lashes, the straightness of his nose, the softness of his lips. His mouth curled up at the corners, as if he smiled in his sleep. He had shaved off his beard and she stroked a finger down the smooth skin of his cheek and traced the slight cleft in his chin. She could bear it no longer. She kissed the delicate lids and his eyes fluttered open. He lay bewildered for a moment, wondering where he was, what was happening, then her lips were on his.
‘What spell is it?’ Robin breathed. ‘What mystery? It always amazes me. What fools they are, if fools they be.’
He would have stayed on, to see what would happen next, but Feste pulled him away. It was not for them to see.
Stephano came to see her every night. He marvelled at how close they were to Sir Andrew’s house. It was hardly any distance at all, once you knew the way, although without a guide Lord Eldon’s estate might as well be in Illyria.
Robin had appeared in the stables at Bardsley the day after they arrived. The stable boys were wary of him, but the horses had all set to whinnying, wanting his attention. Robin was stroking the muzzle of a fine stallion that Sir Andrew found too mettlesome to ride. Stephano had offered to exercise the horse for him. He was swift but temperamental, shying at the slightest thing. The stable boys found it hard to even get a saddle on him; now here he was as docile as a nun’s palfrey, nuzzling at the strange boy’s shoulder, taking titbits from his palm.
Robin finished sharing a carrot with the horse, threw the reins to Stephano and said:
‘There’s a lady wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’
Violetta bathed and dressed as the sun went down and prepared to go out. She slipped across the garden while bats flitted overhead and white moths fluttered, attracted by the heady scent of flowers. She followed the path into the woods and found him, always in the same place, the open glade where the trees had once held Master Shakespeare’s verses.
Stephano left the roan stallion there, tethered, and they wandered off, hand in hand, through the black and silver of the moonlit woods, until they found a place under the spreading boughs of some great tree, or in a hollow filled with dried leaves, or on some mossy bank next to a stream, or in a meadow bleached of colour, the grasses still warm and fragrant from the day’s heat. They would sit and listen to the nightingales and the endless hushed whisper of the wind in the leaves. Sometimes they sat in silence, hands clasped, finding themselves in each other’s eyes, speaking soul to soul, or they would talk in murmurs, as if the woods were full of eavesdroppers, whispering of their love for each other, the life they would have together when they returned to Illyria.
‘It won’t be long now,’ Stephano whispered. It was almost midsummer. The stars barely showed through the canopy of leaves above them; the sky was still washed with the paleness of day. ‘I ride to Stratford tomorrow to tell Master Shakespeare that we are in need of entertainment and if his company would care to visit Bardsley Hall, they will be welcomed. All is ready . . .’
Violetta nodded. She knew. Feste and Robin had been rehearsing with Will’s players. They both had parts in the play. There was one for her too. ‘Only small,’ Feste had said. ‘No talking.’ But he had been taking her through it, as strict as Will.
Stephano’s grey eyes sparked excitement as he described what would occur on Midsummer Night, but Violetta felt a creeping sense of dread. That was the day after tomorrow. Who knew what it would bring? She did not want to think about that now. For all that time had seemed to move slowly here, now its passage was swift. Too swift. Whatever happened in the future, Violetta knew that the time that she’d spent with him here in the woods’ midsummer quiet would always be there, just beneath the surface of her mind, to be conjured like a summoning, and they would be young again, their love new and growing. No matter how old, she would be able to close her eyes and see again the oak leaves turned to silver, smell the delicate scent of wood sorrel, feel the warmth of his lips in the coolness of the night air. Violetta put her hand up to stop the prattle about numbers of guards and men-at-arms, the layout of the house. Men always talked as if success was already theirs, but this enterprise was filled with danger. This might be the last night together. Ever. A chill ran through her. She wanted his arms around her. Enough time had been wasted.
.
27
‘This is very midsummer madness’
This was the day. Will was up early. There was much to prepare. He went out into the yard. Swifts and martins shrilled above his head, swooping through the milky air, diving in and out of nests tucked into the eaves of the buildings. The mist from the river would soon burn away. It promised to be a hot day. Anne was already out with a watering pot, tending to the latest batch of tubs and little trees. They were coming faster than she could plant them, each consignment accompanied by a message from Cecil.
‘I have not questioned you about these gifts,’ she said as she tended the plants, ‘where they come from, who is sending them, but I am no fool. There’s talk.’
Wasn’t there always? Will frowned. ‘What do they say?’
‘That you are the favourite of a great lord. That he does you favours.’ Anne’s face grew flushed. She was flustered. ‘And . . . and much else besides.’
‘Let them think that.’ Will began to laugh with relief at the town’s foolishness. He took her in his arms and swung her round. ‘Let them think what they will. What would such a one want with me? A poor player. There’s no truth in it, but the further from the truth they stray, the better.’
‘Even so.’ Anne would not be mollified, despite his comforting. She had too much common sense for that. ‘Only a great man would have the kind of garden that grows such as these, and great men generally want something in return . . .’
He nodded solemnly. That they do.
‘So?’ She looked up at him. ‘What is expected of you?’
‘A favour. A performance. Tonight. At Bardsley Hall.’
‘Sir Andrew Agnew’s place?’
‘A party has gathered there. They are in want of entertainment. We are to offer our services.’
Anne shrugged. It seemed a little thing compared with all this.
‘You are to be paid in plants instead of money?’
Will smiled. ‘Something like that.’
‘What will you do?’
‘The Dream, of course.’ He laughed. ‘On this day, what else would we do?’
Violetta took one last look back at the hidden valley, the place where she had been so happy, and turned her pony’s head to what the future held.
They left by way of a wide ride through the forest that led down to a deep greenway, the path cushioned with bright, soft moss, the high banks thick with ferns. Lord and Lady Eldon would accompany them as far as the road; the lady was mounted on a white horse, the lord on a bay. Feste and Robin would be coming with her.
Eventually the path branched, the broader way going on in a straight line, disappearing into blue haze, the other becoming a country lane, with trees on either side. The surface was well trodden, full of dips and hollows from passing cattle, crusted and splattered with cowpats. The setting sun cast long shadows. A faint moon showed sketched white in the deepening blue of the sky. Up ahead, a boy whistled as he wielded a long hazel stick to drive his herd towards home.
‘This is where we leave you.’ The lord slipped from his horse and took her into his embrace. He smelt of horses and leather, like her father when he returned from hunting. Violetta felt her eyes prick with tears. ‘Fare you well.’
The lady held her for longer, and when she finally released her there were tears in her grey eyes too. She took the charm that Vio
letta wore and held it for a moment.
‘May she help and guide you,’ she said. ‘May you be blessed.
‘Robin will make sure no harm comes to you,’ she called as she rode off. ‘He has promised us both.’
They found Will and the company waiting for them at the crossroads.
‘Are you a player now, Master Price?’ Violetta asked as George Price gave her a hand up into the cart.
‘Not I.’ He laughed. ‘I’m here to help with the scenery and such. This place has proved a devil of a job to get in to. No new men taken on, only trusted servants of known families. Just as well we have Master Shakespeare’s help.’
Maria was ready with a headscarf for her and a shapeless gown. Violetta was a tiring woman again.
‘I’m so glad to see you!’ Maria exclaimed as she tied the scarf tightly, making sure no hair escaped. ‘I’ve been that worried! Master Shakespeare wouldn’t say where you were, just that you were safe, but that could mean anything. Here, put a bit of this on,’
Maria daubed some brown greasepaint on to her face. ‘You are so pale. Where have they been keeping you? In a cellar? The days have been so sunny, yet you look like you’ve only been out at night! Are you ready?’ She held Violetta’s hands tightly. ‘I have another costume for you in the hamper. No need to worry. Master Shakespeare knows you are used to performing. He will have a word with you as soon as we get to the place.’
Maria talked on as the cart rumbled towards Bardsley Hall, her chatter hiding her anxiety. Tod had left the company, gone back to London. He had been replaced by Edmond, Master Shakespeare’s brother, who had come back home because the theatres were shut. Violetta was only half listening. Her growing nervousness had nothing to do with acting a part in a play. Stephano said everything was planned, but nothing was sure. Her fear was building, but she knew that she had to control it. She had to use it, just like an actor before a performance, or she would be a liability, leading others into danger if they had to look after her. That she could never bear . . .