by Celia Rees
A length of white wool hung in the frame of her loom. She had been weaving her own shroud. The shuttle was carved from a man’s thigh bone, the warp weighted with skulls filled with sand. She must have finished just as they broke in on her. The last thread was cut, but the stool by the loom had been overturned and there was blood on the scissors that she held in her hand. I had a feeling it was not hers. She had something else. I bent down. A folly stick, bound to her bosom the way working women tie their babies to them with a shawl. I lifted it away from her. It was stained across the head with her blood, like a baby new-birthed. I looked at the face and saw the likeness. She had been making it a long time, looking for the right burl of wood. Olive. Hard to carve with that little knife she had, but smooth as silk to the touch. It hefted heavy, as newborns are wont to do. A little Feste. He was mine now. I stuck him in my belt.
This happened quicker than the time it takes to tell it. I picked up a sound, faint and stealthy. We were not alone. I motioned Violetta to keep out of the way and quiet. I took out my knife and my little friend from where I’d stowed him. As good as any cudgel.
Someone was creeping along the wall from Marijita’s balcony. I could hear the shallow whistle of his breath. I waited until I saw the flash of a sword and sprang forward. If Violetta had not called out, he would have been gutted and his brains all over the floor.
‘Stephano!’
The boy started back in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked as he lowered his sword.
‘Violetta must get out of the city,’ I said. ‘We came to Marijita. We came . . .’ Who knows why we came? ‘What are you doing here, more to the point?’
‘I had a sudden feeling that I must come, to see if she was all right. If she was safe . . .’
‘She is neither.’ I turned on him. ‘Thanks to your father.’
‘I know . . .’ The boy stood, head bent, taking the shame on himself. ‘I surprised them, a gang of Venetians,’ he said, a shake in his voice. ‘Marijita was dead, and the birds, but they had hardly got started. Do you think there would have been anything left? If . . .’ He reached up to wipe his face with his sleeve. ‘If you don’t believe me, you’ll find what’s left of them underneath the balcony. They won’t be coming back again. It’s a long way down to the rocks.’
And whose fault is it that they were here in the first place? I wanted to say, but held my tongue. There was no point in blaming the boy for his father’s pride and ambition. Fathers are as like to heed their children as they are to listen to Fools. Her father was just as bad, neglecting his dukedom for dreams fed by a charlatan. Who suffers for it when the world turns mad?
I left the two wronged children to comfort each other and went back to Marijita. She was the nearest thing that I’d ever had to a mother. I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand. I had business to do before I left this place.
Violetta helped me lay her out. Stephano cut the shroud from the frame with his sword. We placed her upon it and I covered her eyes with coins for the ferryman. Before we wrapped her, I lifted the cimaruta from her neck and gave it to Violetta.
‘This is for you. She would want you to have it, to keep you from harm.’ I looked at Stephano. ‘Where is the shirt she promised you?’
We found it folded neatly, the yataghan on top of it.
‘It is almost as though she was expecting us,’ Stephano said.
‘Almost.’ I held the shirt out to him. ‘You had better put it on.’
There was scuffling and shouting coming from below. It was time to go. I’d left the boy, Guido, on guard at the foot of the stairs. It sounded as though he was no longer alone down there. I took the Turkish sword, then kicked wood shavings and threads together and threw Marijita’s little oil lamp on to the pile.
Guido was holding his own, but the Count’s men were forming a line to fight him. I joined in at his side, wielding the yataghan. The sword was his, but I’d blood it for him. I thought we were going to have a tussle, but as soon as the men saw Stephano they put up their weapons. The captain of the guard, tall and young, twenty or so, bowed low, calling Stephano ‘my lord’. Very polite, but his offer to escort us to the Count’s headquarters was not one that we’d be refusing. His men formed a guard around us. They were ten to our three fighting men. None of us would risk Violetta. We had no choice but to go with them.
My Lady Olivia’s beautiful palazzo had turned fortress. The windows were covered in metal sheets. The fancy bronze gates that gave on to the street had been taken down to be melted into cannon, replaced by wooden doors as thick as a tree. The captain banged with the heel of his sword and there was a lot of throwing back of bolts and removing of barricades. Eventually, the doors creaked open and in we went.
The courtyard garden was trampled dust dotted with piles of manure. The ante-rooms, once so delicately perfumed, stank of men and horses. We were taken through to the Hall of the Horses. In Lady Olivia’s day it had been the Hall of the Muses, a place for conversation and recitals. Muses dancing with Apollo and playing on the flute and lyre had all been painted over. Replaced by great snorting warhorses, hunting scenes and prick-eared, big-bollocked mastiffs. The room was full of men going about the business of conquering, standing about in huddles talking or hunched over maps, with messengers moving to and fro and boys and women serving wine. Lord Sebastian stood at a table, leaning over a plan of the city, using a Turkish dagger as a pointer. The room went still as we came towards him, but only a lift of an eyebrow showed that he knew we were there. He was going to ignore us for as long as it suited his purpose. It left me time to taste how much I hated him, like bile in my mouth. Eventually he looked up. His eyes are darker than his sister’s and without her depth or sparkle, opaque and lustreless, like lapis. His lip curled, as if he did not like what he was seeing. He left his map and came towards us.
He had been considered good-looking – my lady thought so anyway – but he would never get back the bloom he had when she first saw him. The weakness that had been there all along was beginning to show; his cheeks were broken-veined and florid from too many nights drinking with his men, the youthful pout was gone from his mouth and the lips were thin and the colour of half-cooked liver, compressed into a line that pulled down at one side. His dark curls were greying and arranged carefully to hide what he was lacking. That jade Francesca was standing near, simpering and fawning, offering a wine cup to him. She had taken my lady’s place in his bed. Now she stood at his side, as bold as you please, the double-dealing Venetian whore.
Stephano spoke first, trying to soften his father’s wrath. He only made it a thousand times worse. The young are fools enough to put us poor clowns out of a job.
‘Father,’ he started, ‘I beg you . . .’
He made a good start, I grant you. Son begging a father. They all like that.
‘I beseech you . . .’
Beseeching? Even better.
‘Have mercy . . .’
This is where it began to go wrong. Sebastian never had mercy on anyone.
‘. . . on the people of this city . . .’
Sebastian’s face began to colour. As if that was likely to happen. Considering the slights against him, all the times he had been ignored.
‘Stop the sacking or you will have nothing left, no people to rule.’
There was truth in that. Sebastian relaxed a bit, or at least the blood stopped beating in his temple quite so hard.
‘That is what I am trying to do. As you would know, if you had not run off to hide like a cowardly child.’
The young captain who had escorted us smirked. That was unfair. Stephano was as battered, besmirched and battle weary as any there.
‘I did my share,’ Stephano said, but his father wasn’t listening.
‘Ran off to see her, I’ll warrant!’ He pointed at Violetta. ‘I know what’s been going on between you. Paddling palms in church. My own son consorting with the enemy. I should banish you as a coward and a traitor. You are no son of mine.’<
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‘Disown me if you like,’ Stephano said. ‘Banish me – I’d welcome it. I only have one thing to ask of you.’ The boy linked hands with Violetta. She smiled and nodded, encouraging him, as though they might have made this up together, stupid children that they were. ‘I ask only that, whatever our fate, we share it together. We will go away, far from here. We will never return. I give my word.’
That was a big mistake. Whatever they wanted, Sebastian would do the opposite, just because they wanted it. Surely the boy knew that? I wished I could have collected his words as they spilled and stuffed them back into his mouth.
Sebastian did not explode with rage. He spent a long time, as if considering, but that vein was pulsing in his temple again and the knuckles were white on his clenching fist.
‘Your word? What is that worth? I have plans for her, and of one thing you can be very sure: you will never see her again. Her fate is decided. She is to be sold into slavery. I already have a buyer.’
‘Father!’ Stephano stepped towards him. ‘You can’t do that! She’s a duke’s daughter and your own niece, your sister’s child!’
He looked around, as if others would support him in his pleading, but they’d all turned away.
Lord Sebastian continued as if his son had not spoken.
‘You will go into the service of Sale Reis, the Barbary corsair.’ He indicated the man standing by his side. ‘He can do with you what he likes: galley slave or catamite. It is of no concern to me. I do not know from whose loins you sprang, but you are no son of mine.’
Stephano didn’t lack for bravery. He leaped forward to defend his mother’s name, grabbing the Turkish dagger from the table. He had it at his father’s throat, the needle point pricking through the skin. Sebastian swallowed, bright blood trickling past his Adam’s apple. The boy should have jammed the knife right in and ripped through his windpipe, but he couldn’t do it, and then Sale Reis had the knife.
‘To kill a father is a grievous sin in any man’s religion,’ the corsair said. ‘You do not want such a crime on your conscience.’
He was a big man, the dagger looked like a toy in his hand, but he had struck quicker than a snake to force Stephano’s hand down. He smiled, his gapped teeth white against his swarthy skin, his glossy beard touched with henna. He wore a white turban and was swathed in robes in the manner of his people. He put the dagger back down on to the table. In case there was any more trouble, he rested his hand lightly on the short curved sword stuck into his sash.
Sebastian ordered the guards to seize his son, but Sale Reis put up his hand.
‘He is mine now. I’ve lost many fine men. I need all I can get. What about the other one?’ He nodded towards Guido. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Guido Ad Romano, of Pavia.’ The boy spoke up with courage and dignity.
‘He will be hanged.’ Sebastian turned to the guards. ‘Take him away!’
‘You can’t do that!’ Stephano shouted. ‘He’s a nobleman’s son.’
‘I can do what I like.’ Sebastian’s lips stretched into a smile. He dabbed at the blood on his neck with a kerchief. One victim was better than none.
‘I will take him too, if I may. As I said, I have lost many men in your service.’ Sale Reis bowed slightly, as if in deference, but it was clear that Sebastian was in his debt.
‘Very well. Take them.’ Sebastian looked cheated, then he saw Violetta.
‘Your father, the Tyrant Duke, is dead,’ he said to her, his tone as curt and dismissive as if she were a kitchen maid. ‘He was killed in the fighting, which is unfortunate. I’d have had him blinded and hung outside his own tower for all to see, left there to starve to death. I could take your life as forfeit for his, but I have been prevailed upon to be merciful. You are sold into slavery. Meet your new master.’
A man stepped out from the shadows. It was sixteen years since I had last seen him, but I would have known him anywhere. He’s got spindle sticks for legs and walks as if someone’s stuck a stave up his arse. Age had not improved his beauty. His goose-green eyes, once popping out of his head, were now sunk into little hammocks of flesh. His long upper lip curled back to show teeth a deeper shade of yellow and even more bucked than I remembered. His long face had grown pendulous and wattled; his hair seemed to have migrated from his head to eyebrows, ears and nostrils. I hardly had time to look at his face. I could not keep my eyes away from the great crucifix that hung at his chest. He had become a priest – by the size of the cross, and the blackness of his robes, a Jesuit at least. He had found his true vocation. I almost put up two fingers in benediction. He moved with stately dignity, as befitted his station, and I smothered a smile. Monsignor Malvolio. And it got better. The Lady Francesca, whom everyone took for Sebastian’s whore, was hanging on his arm, simpering up at him, her pale blue eyes bulging with fawning admiration.
In the old days, what a gift for fooling it would have been. These were not the old days, and this was no time to laugh, but sometimes solemnity only worsens the thing, just as a man on the gallows might notice a bubble of snot in the nose of the hangman, or a gob of egg on his chin. The desire grows until it can no longer be controlled. Every time I looked at him, I could see Sir Toby and Maria. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my cheek; I tried to think of other things. He was speaking now. Below his long nose, his upper lip quivered like the tip of an oliphant’s trunk. I couldn’t listen. Soon the tears were leaking and I was shaking. The laughter backed up until I could hold it no longer; I had to let it out or my bladder would give way. Sometimes laughter spreads like a contagion, with no man knowing quite why he is joining in. So it was now. My laughter spread through the hall like a quick-running fire, until all were roaring, except for Sebastian and Malvolio.
‘What ails you, man?’ Malvolio was shouting at me through the din. ‘Have you lost your wits?’
‘Aye, I fear so, master. I’m a Fool!’
The laughter redoubled even though, as jokes go, it was in every way feeble. After laughing at nothing, men will find anything funny.
‘Feste! You always were a barren rascal,’ Malvolio snarled. ‘Amusing nobody but yourself!’
Robbed of speech, I gestured round at the laughter.
‘You never made me laugh!’
‘Quite so, my master,’ I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. ‘Even the God of Laughter could not do that.’
‘Enough of this roar!’ Sebastian shouted through the noise, hammering on the table. ‘You!’ He pointed at me. ‘We’ll see how funny you can be when you are chained to an oar night and day. Get them out of here!’
The laughter died in my throat as Malvolio put out his long white hand to claim Violetta.
My lady was not his only prize. Venetian sailors and Uskok pirates were bringing in booty to be tallied and portioned. It looked like they were taking all the wealth of Illyria, and Sebastian did nothing to stop them. This was their share. Their help had come at a price. These were godless men. They handled crucifixes, gold crosses, jewelled Bibles and precious icons as if they were sticks of furniture. A Venetian captain came in bearing the most precious relic of all, the Cup of the Magi. This was not added to the other plunder from the cathedral. He brought it straight to Malvolio, who took it into his charge.
.
10
‘This fellow is wise enough to play the fool’
Violetta stood up and began pacing the small room. Recounting the story had made her restless, agitated, reminding her of how far they were from their purpose.
‘That’s the reason we are here. Feste and I escaped from our different captivities and we have been following this man, Malvolio, ever since. He is here and he has our precious relic in his possession. He stole it from us.’ She turned to Will. ‘You must understand. The relic is Illyria. The country grew from the city, and the relic was the reason for our city’s foundation. Since my father is dead, I am the rightful ruler. I have vowed to return it, for without it our country does not exist.’
&
nbsp; ‘But what do you want from me?’ Will frowned, puzzled. ‘You set yourself up in my way. You engage me in conversation. You tell me your story. Then there is this.’ He picked up the Fool card from the table. ‘You insinuate it into a note telling me that we are in want of a clown . . .’
Time was running on. He needed to get back to the playhouse, with or without Feste. He felt the stirrings of annoyance. He was beginning to wish he had never set eyes on them. He did not like to be picked out in this way, selected and targeted like one of the marks that they tricked at cards.
‘You talked to us, master,’ Feste said. ‘Not t’other way about. If you don’t want me to help you . . .’ He threw the scroll he had been studying down on the table.
‘Hush, Feste.’ Violetta glared at him. ‘There is no point in pretending any longer.’ She turned to Will. ‘We did deliberately put ourselves in your way. If we could get you to stop and watch, then we would have a chance to engage you, tell you our story, and you might be willing to help us.’
‘But how, mistress?’ Will’s frown deepened. ‘You still have not told me.’
‘We have been watching Malvolio,’ she said, her expression intense. ‘We know he stays in the house of the Venetian Ambassador, north of the river. Near the Strand. We thought, I thought, that your company might perform there, and if they did, we could come with you. Then, when the audience was occupied with the play, we could steal the relic back.’
The words came out all in a rush. Violetta looked at him, her blue eyes anxious, searching for his reaction. Will stared back. Of all the things he thought she might say, he had not been expecting that. He would have laughed, if the girl had not been in such dead earnest. Such a thing was impossible. His company had to be invited to perform. They could not just set up in a great house as if it were an inn yard. An instant refusal sprang to his mouth, but he bit it back. She was young and very beautiful, but she had used no feminine guile to win him to this. Quite the opposite. She believed in her cause, the rightness of it. Her belief that others would see it came from her youth, but also her station. Despite the darns in her sleeves and the ragged hem of her faded blue dress, she was a duchess. Will could not meet her expectant eyes. The clown’s face was already twisting into a cynical smile. He knew that Will would refuse. Likely knew that such a thing was not in his power, but Feste had protected her, kept the truth away from her, lest it crush the little hope that she had left. He looked from Feste to where Maria sat, hunched up on her little stool, the only real stick of furniture in the room. Bright hope was fading in her eyes too; her face was falling back into its tired, sad lines as she looked to the room where her man lay dying.
