‘I want no part in your pleasures nor any in your business in Venice either. If that is the reassurance that you seek.’
The tall man leaned back against the tree. ‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ he said.
Isabella’s heart seized and held in hard grip, knowing she had read him right.
‘I doubt there are any in Venice who now remember me,’ Prospero smiled, ‘save you.’
He leaned forward and tossed the remains of the apple to the boy, Angelo, who seeing it was now nothing but core and seeds angrily threw it aside.
‘Such a temper on him,’ said Prospero.
‘Who is he to you, Giovanni?’ asked Isabella.
‘No one,’ he answered, ‘but I know he is someone to you.’
In his voice lay such a pitiless lack of regard that Isabella felt a tear spring, unbidden, to her eye. She understood the boy’s presence was Prospero’s threat. A sign that he could reach in and take all that she held dear, if he wanted it.
‘I leave Venice again shortly for business in Verona, but I shall return. It would be better,’ Prospero continued without waiting for reply, ‘should we encounter each other while I am in Venice, to be as strangers to each other.’
‘There will be no difficulty in that, Giovanni, for I see now that we are and always have been strangers to each other.’
Prospero reached forward and wiped away the tear from her face. His fingers light on her skin.
‘How green you are and fresh in this old world, Isabella. Your cloak’s colour suits more than your complexion.’
He rose to his feet. He looked down at her.
‘For the love I bore you,’ he said, ‘though you deny it now, I give you this warning. It will be the only one. I will have silence. One way or another.’
He paused. ‘Come, Angelo,’ he said, drawing the sulky child to him.
‘Leave the boy,’ Isabella said quietly. ‘I will see him home.’
Prospero shrugged. Then he stalked back through the garden and disappeared into the house. Isabella stayed sitting on the blanket till her heart returned to a more sedate beat. Then she rose and brushed her skirt and walked to the canal gate where the gondolier sat waiting for her. The little boy trotted at her heels. All the long ride home she pondered how she might thwart her old lover Prospero, the assassin. She would not let another suffer as she had done.
Act Three
The Road to Venice, June 1585
Exeunt omnes
William set forth from England in strange company. The small troupe of players had gathered at the house near Ely Place as instructed. Aboard their cart were the pieces of set dressing and the far more valuable collection of costumes that Hemminges and Oldcastle had acquired in their playing careers. William had been surprised by the ostentation of some of the pieces. Nor did the cart bear all their accoutrements. Sir Henry’s steward, Fallow, had insisted that to carry all the costumes was an impossibility. Hemminges and Oldcastle had insisted that to perform without costumes was equally inconceivable.
As Arthur had put it in his piping voice, ‘I can’t be a Queen in a sackcloth, can I?’
A compromise was reached in which some part was sent ahead by ship. Hemminges had clucked over their packing as a hen over her eggs.
Sir Henry had provided a horse and driver for the cart that carried the rest. The horse was an unhappy beast, more ass than horse. The driver, an Irishman by the name of Ben Connor, was copy to the animal he drove and poor company. Save to grunt out his name he exchanged not one word with the players in preparation of departure.
The players occupied one of three carts in the embassy’s small train. At its head rode Sir Henry on his palfrey. By his side, astride a small mare, his steward, Fallow. The embassy made for Dover and there took ship to France.
They crossed the Channel in a small and, to William’s unseasoned eye, poorly kept ship. The voyage, though turbulent, was swift. The chief entertainment came from the sight of Oldcastle and Hemminges both turning an unusual and unnerving colour of green at the tossing of the sea, prompting many jibes from William. Oldcastle, dignity offended and slow to recover from his seasickness, had refused to speak to William from Calais to the outskirts of Paris. In retrospect, a period of blessed quiet. From Paris, the embassy travelled south through France past Burgundy towards Piedmont. From there to pass through the Duchy of Savoy and then of Milan and on to Venice. As they went Oldcastle continued his benevolent education of the poor country boob, Shakespeare.
‘You’re fair enough at a galliard, boy,’ Oldcastle said, ‘and I have no doubt even in the godforsaken countryside, where you were unfortunate enough to have been born, they offered you sufficient learning to read a prompt-book when it is placed before you. But there is more, far more, to being a player than the spouting of lines and an occasional rustling of the legs in time to a lute. Ours is the careful study of the nature of man.’
In this vein days passed. Not all of William’s time was spent listening to Oldcastle wax profound upon the nature of the player’s art. Oldcastle and Hemminges took time to run through the parts that he would be expected to play; correcting him on his lines, demanding of him a certain subtlety of delivery. In the evenings, should the opportunity present itself, William would practise his dancing with Hemminges and the boy Arthur while Oldcastle looked on. Then Hemminges would make him fence until the light grew too little for safety. Finally, all would retire to the hearth of the inn. Tired, drilled endlessly and in near constant battle with Oldcastle in word games and wit, William was enjoying the journey greatly.
In their enjoyment of the journey the players stood alone.
Sir Henry sought to keep the passage of his embassy through France secret. He desired no distraction before his destination. Nor did he think it wise for a party of English Protestants to make anything but noiseless progress through France. Such a policy had wisdom but not comfort in it. It meant back roads, small inns and long days. All this burden fell on the carters, the household servants and the grooms. The sight of Oldcastle enthroned on a cart while they trudged beside him, William and Arthur capering of an evening while they sweated over luggage and horses, was the fuel to a building fire. Near Lyons it burst into open flame.
A plague of sighing and grief
As the dark of evening drew in William entered the inn. He was panting and ripe with sweat from his practice with Hemminges in the inn’s yard. He collected a mug from the bar, sat at the common table and drank. His seat was furthest from the fireplace, for he and Hemminges had stayed at it long after the others had finished stowing the gear and stabling the horses after the day’s journey.
Closest to the fire sat Oldcastle in a tall-backed chair, his feet resting on a small cushioned stool. His face glowed red from the fire and the heat of wine. He talked generously, not caring who received the bounty, but offering it loudly to all.
Sat nearest to Oldcastle was Sir Henry’s squire, Hal. A lad of fourteen, the son of a cousin of Sir Henry’s. He gave credent and attentive ear to Oldcastle’s story.
‘Of course, I was there,’ said Oldcastle.
‘In Brill?’ Hal asked.
‘Yes, lad. The year our Queen expelled the Gueux from our ports. I was in the Netherlands. I saw them capture Brill from the Spanish. A bloody day that one but a great one.’
‘You fought?’ said Hal.
‘I played my part,’ said Oldcastle.
He waved away the anticipated praise. William noted that no detail came of the part Oldcastle had played.
Gathered at the common table were the others of their small embassy: Coll and Jack, the cart drivers; Foulkes, Joiner and Nate, of Sir Henry’s household; Francis, Sir Henry’s groom; and Ned and Tom Alkin, the brothers who assisted Fallow in his work. They sat in various states of attention to Oldcastle’s talk, finishing their meals.
‘There’s a war that’s not yet won. We English shall play our part, mark my words,’ Oldcastle continued.
‘I should like to f
ight,’ said Hal. He sat up straight on his stool.
Oldcastle gestured at him with his glass. ‘Of course you would. There’s fire in your eyes, lad.’
He drank.
‘Remind me of myself at your age. All pepper and vinegar,’ he said.
Not all sat at the common table. The carter, Connor, sat by himself on a stool at one side of the room hunched over his food, a pot of dark beer by his hand. Watkins sat, as was his habit, at one side of the room against the wall. He drank little and watched all. He nodded to William as he entered. Such nods were the extent of their commerce in the three weeks since leaving London.
The lad Arthur was at the kitchen door. He paid no attention to Oldcastle. His interest was taken by the inn’s maid. She seemed both flattered and flustered by Arthur’s attention. She laughed and pushed at him one moment, tutted and shooed at him the next. William absently admired Arthur’s ability to make himself understood to the French girl. For simply by his dumb discoursive show he went about his wooing.
The steward Fallow emerged from the snug of the inn to join the company. Behind him Sir Henry could just be seen. He sat at the table of the small, private room. His dinner finished and Fallow dismissed, Sir Henry studied a chess set. He cradled a small glass of wine in his hand.
In the common room, Oldcastle returned from his reverie on military matters, leaned forward and patted Hal on the knee. ‘Do not be so eager for it though, boy. A terrible business, war. Much sadness in it.’
‘Faugh!’ Connor smacked the table and twisted on his stool. ‘Stop filling the lad’s head with your lies, Oldcastle.’
‘Lies?’ Oldcastle’s feet dropped from the stool and he held his hand to his heart, where Connor’s words had wounded him.
‘Aye,’ said Connor.
‘No lies, sirrah,’ protested Oldcastle. ‘True every word.’
‘Give over,’ interrupted Coll the carter. ‘If you’ve seen the pointed end of a pike it was only when the bailiff took you in for drunkenness.’
‘And what would you know of war, Coll?’ demanded Oldcastle.
‘More than you, Oldcastle,’ the carter replied, ‘and all I know of soldiering is what I learned at my grandfather’s knee, who was drunk more nights even than you.’
‘My grandam was more soldier than you,’ joined Connor. ‘Soldiering’s work and I’ve seen none of that from you or your troupe these weeks past.’
William watched Connor’s face grow red. Now, in the laughter that came from the rest of the company at Connor’s words, he heard the dispute grow an edge. So did Fallow, who spoke to curb it.
‘Enough of this,’ the steward said. ‘The players will have work enough when we reach Venice. Yours is the business of the road.’
Connor would not be quieted. ‘I’ll do my business,’ he said, ‘but I see no reason, Master Fallow, why I must endure this prating fool’s lies while I am about it.’
William looked about him. The company was surly. None spoke in support of Oldcastle. None looked at William. The hush that fell in the room was not the quiet of calm but of the eye of the storm. Oldcastle opened his mouth to speak. William willed him to silence, in vain.
‘It does not surprise me, Connor,’ said Oldcastle, ‘to find you cannot tell lies from truth.’
Connor was up before Oldcastle had finished speaking.
‘You fat paunch. Call me liar and, by the Lord, I’ll stab you.’
Watkins had risen with Connor. William saw then that Hemminges had entered the inn. He moved quietly to a place behind Connor. His presence emboldened Oldcastle.
‘You’d not dare, Connor,’ Oldcastle said as he looked about the gathering. ‘I’ve ridden better men than you into the ground.’
‘Ride?’ said Connor. ‘There’s proof of a lie. The horse isn’t born that could take your weight.’
‘I do not shy to be called great, Ben Connor.’ Oldcastle rose from his chair and thrust an arm in the air. ‘So were the Titans called who came closest to the gods in strength.’
‘I know none of that,’ said Connor. ‘I know only that you are fat. Fat and loud and full of pompous wind.’
Connor’s words brought mutterings of agreement from the others.
‘Still nimble enough in mind to dance about you, Connor,’ said Oldcastle.
‘I’d like to see you dance, Oldcastle. Though I fear I’d see your knees crack. We’d have to put you down. Like any horse you’d ridden,’ said Connor.
Oldcastle swelled with injured dignity. ‘Why, for a penny I’d pitch you in the dust, Connor.’
‘I’ll wrestle with you and gladly,’ said Connor. ‘You horseback breaker, you guts, you bag of wind. Best of three falls.’
He looked around for support and finding it turned back to Oldcastle. ‘Or are you coward?’
Oldcastle drew himself up to his full height. ‘Coward?’ he boomed. ‘I’ve seen my death in a cannon’s mouth. I’ve outfaced the Spaniard in his rage. I’ll see you overthrown. I’ll give you odds – have three for two and still I’ll beat you. At dawn we’ll see your mettle, Connor. If we see you at all.’
Oldcastle stamped from the room.
The bubble reputation
‘I am undone,’ Oldcastle groaned.
Hemminges ignored him. He paced the small room the players shared.
‘Weeks we shall be in this company. Weeks.’
Hemminges spoke as he walked. ‘We’ve been so wrapped up in our own affairs we’ve not noticed how little loved we were of the others. Well, now we know. For that alone we can give thanks to your foolishness.’
Oldcastle sat on a bed. William watched from the corner where he stood. Only Arthur was absent. He had matters more pressing than Oldcastle’s impending doom to attend.
‘A little drink, John. That was all. A little drink and good cheer. It was not me that started to quarrel,’ Oldcastle said, his chin pulled down to his chest.
‘No, but when it came you pushed it to a higher pitch,’ Hemminges said. He stopped before Oldcastle. ‘Jesu, Nick, know when is enough.’
Oldcastle hung his head.
‘What shall be done?’ asked William of the pacing Hemminges.
‘I would I knew,’ said Hemminges. He looked at Oldcastle. ‘Even if he were sober by the morning Connor is half his years and half his girth. He’ll crack him like a nut.’
Oldcastle’s head flung up. ‘I shall submit to him.’
‘And have us mocked?’ Hemminges rounded on Oldcastle. ‘Your brave show has made our small band of players more hated of the rest. Submit now and we’ll add cowardice to the list of sins they say besets us. Cowardice and a braggartly nature. No, Nick, no. You’ll fight.’
Hemminges ran his fingers through his hair.
‘I shall be broken,’ Oldcastle moaned. ‘He has a vicious and ungentle manner. He’ll not spare me.’ He looked from Hemminges to William. ‘I would I had never drunk a drop. My brain was washed in ale yet feels the fouler for it.’
‘Pluck up, Oldcastle,’ said Hemminges. ‘This is an injury of your own making.’
Hemminges left him to his self-pity. William followed.
‘What shall we do, John?’ he asked.
Hemminges stood in the inn’s yard looking up at the moon. ‘No clue,’ he answered. ‘I’ll speak to Watkins. He stands high in the regard of the others. He might persuade Connor to call off the challenge.’
He bit at a fingernail. ‘Though I doubt it,’ he continued. ‘I thought that Connor a coward. He’s itched for a fight with our little band since we first met him. He’d never had come against me or you. Against poor old Oldcastle he’ll be a Tartar.’
Hemminges rubbed his face. ‘There’s greater trouble here than Nick’s fat mouth and staying the beating that’s to come for him,’ he said with a sigh. ‘We players will have uncomfortable lodging in this embassy unless we mend this rift.’
‘Indeed,’ came a voice from behind them.
Hemminges rose and William turned at Sir Henry’s ap
proach.
‘Hemminges, Shakespeare,’ Sir Henry nodded to them. He looked out at the yard. ‘The poison of division has infected our embassy. It must be drawn.’
He turned to look at the two players. ‘Both sides may find release in the morrow’s tourney. At the same time, I can’t have my player injured, nor my carter. I need them both.’
Hemminges and Shakespeare waited. Sir Henry looked at the yard again.
‘Some stratagem is needed,’ he said.
‘You have some plan in mind, Sir Henry?’ Hemminges asked.
‘Alas, no,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I am no Ulysses. Would I were. For when the Greeks could not breach Troy’s walls nor the Trojans drive the Greeks from outside them, it was Ulysses who broke the savage balance by making the Trojans think the Greeks were other than they were.’
‘Your command could end the strife,’ said Hemminges.
‘I think not. If I step into the ring then it will be said I take the players’ part.’
Sir Henry tapped a hand on the wooden wall of the stable. ‘Should be a morning full of events,’ he said and turned back to the inn.
Hemminges sighed.
‘I’ll speak to Watkins,’ he said. ‘One trouble at a time. If Connor breaks Oldcastle there’ll be a breach that has no possibility of repair.’
William put a hand on Hemminges’ shoulder. ‘A thought has come to me.’
He leaned in and spoke hurriedly to Hemminges.
When he’d finished Hemminges grunted. ‘If your cozening works then both men will learn a lesson.’
‘And we will be the richer,’ said William.
‘True. Oldcastle should pay a price for his swaggering.’ Hemminges shook his head. ‘Sir Henry, at least, will see through the scheme.’
‘And if he does?’ said William. ‘The man as good as suggested the scheme with his talk of Troy.’
Hemminges rubbed his face for the twentieth time.
The Spy of Venice Page 15