by Alan Gordon
“I prefer to dwell in the present,” said Sir Andrew.
“And yon merchant dwells in the future, being a speculator,” concluded Sir Toby. “We are the very Fates sitting here, only I can’t weave worth a damn. Back to the topic—how did Viola seem?”
“I could not see her face. She was still veiled.”
Toby glanced at Andrew and shrugged. “To each his own, or her own, I should say. But that isn’t healthy, either. She is too much in mourning. Give it a month, then move on to the next one, I say. She’ll turn nun shortly, mark my words, and that’ll be the waste of a damn fine woman. I hope when I go that my Maria will have a good, long cry, a respectable two weeks of bereaving, then go carousing through every tavern in town looking for a replacement.”
“Why waste two weeks on you, you drunken reprobate?” said Maria, standing in the doorway.
“Good God, it’s the wife!” roared Sir Toby. “Come to my arms, my love, and give us a kiss.”
“In front of all these people? ’Twould be scandalous,” she protested, approaching nevertheless.
“Would everyone kindly turn their back while I kiss my wife?” he cried, looking about the room. No one moved. He looked at her and shrugged, then pulled her into his embrace. “I asked, my dove, I asked politely.”
“You did at that,” she said. “I guess there’s no help for it.” She threw her arms around him, well, almost around him, and delivered her lips with force enough to drown most men and then resuscitate them. We applauded heartily.
“May I present the noble merchant Octavius?” said the knight after a lengthy disengagement. “My loving wife, Maria.” I bowed low and she smiled, that same wicked grin that crossed her face when she was first enticed into forging the letter from Olivia to gull Malvolio. She had become plump since then, though still slender next to her husband.
“As one who has never married, I stand in awe of such a perfect match,” I said, lifting my cup.
“Is he drinking mead?” she asked her husband. “It must be, for honey has coated his tongue. I dislike flattery, sir, except when it is directed at myself, so you are most welcome.” I bowed again. “As for the two of you, it’s past time you came in for dinner. Our turn for the mince pie, Andrew?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’m really going to manage it this year. A different house and a mince pie for every day of the twelve.”
“And when your luck changes, what do you plan to do?” asked Toby.
Andrew looked startled. “I’ll do what I always do, but this time successfully.”
“And does mince pie truly have this miraculous power?” I asked.
“We’ll see,” he said. “And if it doesn’t, then no harm done. And, truthfully, I do love a mince pie.”
“No sign of it,” said Maria, inspecting his frame critically. “Me, I just look at one and I get fat.”
“I remember when you used to say that about me,” commented Sir Toby with a wink at the crowd. She slapped him gently.
“To think I believed I was marrying a gentleman,” she said ruefully. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Signor Octavius. We’ll have you to dinner later this week.” I bowed, and they left.
Fabian sauntered in a little while later, nodded at me. “Have you seen that fool hereabouts? He was to help me at the rehearsal, teaching the demons how to fall.”
“Alas, he should have rehearsed himself first,” I said. “I heard he took a drunken tumble yesterday and is mending at the Duke’s villa.”
“Bad luck,” he grumbled. “Just when a fool would come in handy, and to have one actually available. Buy you a drink?”
There was nothing I would have rather had, but I declined politely and took my leave.
* * *
The shakes came that night, and I was thankful I had supped lightly during the day for I had a chance to revisit the meal. I slept poorly again, hearing the same evil laugh in my dream. It was Malvolio who became my juggling partner in the forest, sending his missiles at me at a pace that would have overwhelmed even Brother Timothy. They writhed in my hands as I returned them, and I saw that they were people, not clubs. We were juggling living souls in our duet, and Orsino already lay twisted and broken at my feet.
I woke with a sour stomach and disposition to match. I staggered to the window, threw open the shutters, scooped some snow from the sill, and rubbed it into my face. I didn’t feel any better afterwards.
* * *
The first order of business was to visit my wounded colleague. Bobo waved weakly when he saw me.
“How’s the search going?” he asked.
“Badly,” I said. “How’s the thinking going?”
“Also badly,” he said. “Thinking made my head hurt when I was healthy. You can imagine what it’s doing to me now. They’ve left me some food. Want some?”
My stomach lurched, but I forced down some bread.
“One thing I’ve been wondering,” he continued. “How do you think Malvolio knew who you were?”
“Maybe he sought me out at the Guildhall before he came here. Maybe some spy of his sent my description to him. Maybe someone in the Guild betrayed me.”
“That’s a frightening thought. Any evidence?”
“I prefer to leap to conclusions without evidence. It saves time.”
“Then here’s another hurdle for you. If he knew who you were, why did he wait so long to attack?”
I tore off a particularly tough piece and chewed it for a while.
“Opportunity?” I ventured.
“He had ample opportunity. You thought you were unrecognized, so you blithely wandered all over the place. A dark alleyway, a quick thrust of the knife, and there’s a dead merchant in town and none the wiser.”
“But no gloating that way.”
“True enough,” he conceded. “But he could have figured out something. Why wait?”
“I give up. What do you think?”
He lay back, rubbing his head. “I’ll let you know what I think when I get another thought. I’ve used up today’s ration.” He closed his eyes and soon was breathing deep.
Just like a fool to pose riddles and leave them unsolved. He began to snore, which left me unable to think at all. I tiptoed out the room to find a lady in black walking towards me. I bowed.
“Good day, Milady.”
She glanced around, then raised her veil. “It’s the real Duchess,” said Viola. “How is your companion?”
“Not out of the woods yet, if I am any judge. Will Claudius be making any appearances today?”
“In this holy season, Claudius usually repairs to some private chapel for constant worship. The Duchess’s social obligations outweigh the steward’s commercial ones.”
“It works out nicely. Shall we walk for a while?”
She nodded and lowered the veil.
“How fares your son?” I inquired as we ascended the steps leading into the main house.
“Much improved, thank you. Andrew’s visiting with him now. He’s been a godsend to Mark, reading to him, playing chess. It’s good to have a man paying attention to him with his father gone.”
“Even if the man is Sir Andrew?”
“That’s unkind, Feste. He is a gentle creature for all his flights of folly, and such are to be prized in these ungentle times.”
“True enough, Milady,” I conceded. “Mark has so little childhood left to him and now has the title thrust upon him prematurely.”
“I worry more about the former than the latter. He’s like me—determined, intelligent. He’ll run this town well enough when he’s ready.”
I tried to gauge her feelings about this, but her tones were as veiled as her expressions. We walked the halls with no particular end in mind, while servants scurried about with bedding, chamberpots, and fresh rushes to scatter on the floors to improve the smell of the rooms.
“What will you do then?” I asked. “Settle into the role of the Duke’s aging mother?”
“But I am the Duke’s
aging mother. It’s an easy role to play.”
“And Claudius?”
“Claudius will continue to serve the Duke.”
“And Viola? What will become of her?”
She stopped by a window that looked out to sea. “Who is Viola? A blank. Someone who plays parts in grand pageants not of her design. That is my fate, Feste. That of most women, only I’m lucky to have had this one adventure.” She turned, and I could scarcely discern her features.
“Poor monster,” I said. “You need not stop living now.”
“Really? What are my prospects? I’m hardly in a position to remarry. My wealth now belongs to my child. Do I seek permission and a dowry from an eleven-year-old boy?” She laughed sadly and again looked out to sea. “You know, on New Year’s Eve, I looked into my glass at midnight, just like a little girl, wondering if my next husband would be revealed to me.”
“And what did you see, Milady?”
“Myself, alone. It’s a silly superstition, anyway.”
Something glistened under the veil, caught the light for a moment, then slid down her cheek.
“By your leave, Milady,” I said bowing. “I must depart temporarily.”
“There was a time,” she said slowly, “when Feste would say something amusing to comfort me in my troubles.”
“Who is Feste?” I asked. “If Viola is a blank, then Feste is something less than a blank, for Feste was nothing but a sham.”
“Not the one I knew,” she said, keeping her gaze seaward.
I bowed again and left her there.
* * *
The play was being rehearsed in the square again, providing more unintentional amusement for the onlookers. Fabian was screaming at the poor demons.
“Really, this is appalling,” he shouted. “Not one convincing pratfall by the four of you. Look, Astarte, just imitate Sir Andrew and it will go just fine.”
An inspired bit of direction. The four looked at one another in a shared epiphany and simultaneously fell backwards. The choir roared with laughter, and Fabian applauded.
“Now, where’s the Count?” he asked, looking about. Sebastian was nowhere to be seen.
“Probably down at the Elephant,” he muttered, then noticed me. “Good merchant, would you be so kind as to stop by the Elephant and tell His Eminence that he is needed?”
“I will inform him that Heaven and Hell await him,” I replied, and sped down to the tavern.
He was there. He had been there for some time, judging by the level of inebriation he had reached.
“It’s the traveling bachelor,” he bellowed when I entered. “Come and drink, for tomorrow we may die. Or worse, be married.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and roughly held a cup to my lips. “Drink, damn you. Drink the health of my wife.”
“Forgive me,” I sputtered. “I have sworn off drink for the New Year.”
“So have I,” he exclaimed in surprise. “How easily oaths are broken. Oaths to the New Year, oaths to the Church, oaths of fidelity. My wife fancies you, I think. So, you’d better drink her health if you want to stay on my good side.”
“Some water, Alexander,” I said, signaling desperately. Agatha raced over with a cup. Sebastian knocked it away and she shrieked, cowering behind the bar. I saw Alexander take a short club out of his apron but hesitate, fearing to strike the local nobility. Sebastian noticed it as well and fumbled for his sword.
“Enough!” he shouted, drawing it and waving it wildly as the nearest revelers threw themselves onto the floor. “This churl will drink my wife’s health, and he will do it now before I let his blood and turn it into wine. I can do that, you know. I’m Jesus this year.”
I didn’t value my resolution that much, so I lifted the cup he handed me.
“To the health of your noble wife,” I said, and drained it.
He looked at me wearily and lowered his sword.
“Damn you all,” he croaked, and started weeping.
Fabian appeared in the doorway and took in the scene in an instant.
“Oh, dear God, Count,” he sighed. “Pull yourself together. You’ve embarrassed yourself in front of enough people here. Do you want the rest of the town to see you like this?”
“Who cares?” muttered Sebastian.
“Now, now, you have a rehearsal to attend. Many are counting on you, Count. It’s an honor to play Our Lord. Act like it.”
Sebastian drew himself up in a feeble approximation of dignity.
“I will not be spoken to like that by a servant,” he announced haughtily. “Conduct me to the rehearsal as befits your station.”
Fabian stood still for a long moment, then turned on his heel and led the way. Sebastian followed, and I trailed them, ready to catch him if he fell.
But not ready enough, as it turned out. He stepped squarely on the first patch of ice we encountered, and his legs flew out from under him as if they were possessed. It was all I could do to keep his head from smacking into the flagstones. Fabian began laughing uncontrollably.
“Behold the true test of divinity,” he howled. “For Jesus could walk on water, yet his portrayer cannot even stand on ice.”
Sebastian started cursing and struggled to his feet, reaching for his sword. He slipped again, and Fabian looked down at him, his lips pursed in a precisely calculated expression of contempt.
“You are a mere shadow of a man, Count,” he pronounced. “Come join us when you are able. I expect the Second Coming will happen first.” He turned, took one step towards the gate, and promptly fell. Now, it was the Count’s turn to start laughing. He roared, pushing himself up, using his sword as support.
“Come, fellow,” he cried. “We’ve both kissed the flagstones, so now we’re even. It is meet that two fallen souls should walk together to Hell. Give me your hand.”
Only Fabian didn’t get up, and the ice and snow around him slowly turned red.
I grabbed the Count and hauled him with a strength I did not know I had behind a low wall.
“What…” he began in confusion and I signaled him to keep still.
“There,” I whispered, and pointed to the base of the door to the Elephant. The Count looked and turned pale when he saw the crossbow bolt sticking out of it. I peered around the edge of the wall but saw no one.
“Guard!” I shouted. “Ho, guard!”
Two came running from the gate, then more. Perun came galloping up a few minutes later, and actually dismounted, so horrible was the sight before him. He looked up at me.
“Who did this?” he demanded.
“I do not know,” I answered. “We were walking out of the Elephant when it happened.”
“We?” he said, then glanced behind me to see Sebastian cowering by the wall. Perun rolled his eyes.
“Take the Count home to his wife,” he barked, and two of the soldiers, smirking, lifted Sebastian to his feet.
“But I have a rehearsal,” protested the Count.
“Not anymore,” snapped Perun. “One second, Count. Was this man with you when it happened?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, earning my immediate gratitude.
“You, merchant. Show me where he stood when he was struck.”
“Where his feet are now,” I said. “He fell right away.”
“Hold him up,” commanded Perun, and two of his men lifted the late steward so that his feet dangled over the last footprints he would ever make. Perun examined the wounds, both front and back, then went to the bolt and sighted back at the corpse.
“Shot from on high,” he said, and we all turned and looked up. Looming past the wall was the scaffolding around the facade of the cathedral. “Go,” he said, and four men ran. I must say that I admired his efficiency in a crisis. “And seize the merchant and take him to the jail.” I changed my mind as two guards clapped me in irons and summarily hauled me away.
* * *
Tumbling is a handy skill when you’re being hurled headlong into a cell. I broke my fall without difficulty and sat on a l
ow bench as the door was bolted behind me. It was some kind of holding cell, large enough to hold six or seven unfortunates if they took turns breathing. Not a proper dungeon at all compared to some I have been in. Nevertheless, it was not the most convenient place for me to spend the afternoon, especially as it left me completely at the mercy of Perun. And I remembered that mercy was not one of his strong points.
The guards had taken my sword and knife but had missed the dagger in my sleeve. I loosened it for quick deployment, but there were too many doors between me and the outside. I decided to play this one out.
By the time Perun unbarred the door, I had examined every stone and traced the inscriptions scratched into them. He removed my chains himself, then turned his back on me and led me up a narrow flight of steps to his office, not once looking behind him. I followed meekly, making sure I would provide him with no excuse to defend himself.
He sat behind a plain pine table on which rested an oil lamp and a pile of maps. He motioned me to a small stool in front of it.
“I speak with prisoners in two rooms,” he said. “In this one, they talk without assistance. In the other, they talk with assistance.”
“I like this room,” I said quickly. “I like it a lot. What do you wish to talk about?”
He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “You have by your appearance here created a fascinating quandary for a simple soldier such as myself.”
“You are far from simple, Captain.”
“True,” he agreed, smiling. “But still a soldier. Send me into battle, and the subtleties of terrain and tactics are my joy. Put an unwilling informant in the rack, and I will tickle the knowledge out of him in ten minutes. Simple tasks, obvious goals, that’s how I like it. But the larger intrigues are beyond my ken.
“It is no secret that I think you are a spy. Come, come,” he admonished me as I began to protest. “Anyone who comes into town this time of year is a spy. Your story is less flimsy than most, quite imaginative to be sure, but I would suspect the Three Kings themselves if they appeared in Orsino on Christmas Eve.”
We observed each other closely as we spoke, a little dance of the eyes. We both knew I was lying. I thought he was as well, but only he knew for certain. I am used to prevarication, but usually under the cover of whiteface. I found it harder with only the mask of my face to shield my thoughts. So he watched me to trap the lies of my words, and I watched him to trap the lies of his aspect. Take one steward, add time, hardship, imprisonment, wars, madness. Would the sum total equal Perun? I saw details I hadn’t noticed before. Did Malvolio have that small scar over his left eye? That shape of a nose? I couldn’t remember anymore. And scars can be acquired and noses broken and reshaped.