by Celia Rees
Lady Francesca dropped her eyes as he ranted and listened with every show of piety, like a corrupted nun. At length he sat back, passing a hand over his mouth to wipe away the spittle that had collected at the corners.
He was talking about the relic of the Magi, the precious vessel kept in the cathedral.
‘It is here.’
He went to a large iron strongbox that the sailors had struggled and sweated to bring on board. He opened the gold reliquary and lifted out the little silver cup.
There had been a storm brewing. Now lightning flashed and thunder crashed, but the sea remained calm, the lamp hanging from the roof was hardly moving. The ancient silver shone and the precious stones glinted. Outside the cabin, the ship was alight with a strange blue fire that ran everywhere but consumed nothing. The sailors were crossing themselves, shouting, ‘God save us, corpus sancti!’ and calling to each other that these were spirit candles: St Peter’s Fire.
‘One of the most holy relics in Christendom.’ When Malvolio spoke, he was as awed as the sailors.
I had seen him receive it, but did not think that he would dare take it from Illyria. Lord Sebastian was weak and despicable to allow such a thing. To think that he was now ruler of Illyria! I swore to myself in that cabin, before the holy vessel, that I would take it back.
‘What is the point of it languishing in some poor church in some obscure country,’ he said, as if he could hear my thoughts, ‘when it can be put to such good work elsewhere? It belongs to the world.’ As he spoke, his eyes glittered with fresh intensity. ‘The world is full of godless men. Heretics abound. I have been chosen to root them out. The Cup of the Magi will be taken to wherever the godless reign. Heretics will be put to the Question. They will be put to the flames.’
For such a marvellous thing to be used for such a dreadful purpose, to justify torture, to feed the bonfires of persecution, it was hideous. I knocked over my own king. He had won the game.
‘That is a powerful story,’ Will said when Violetta had finished. ‘You believe in this thing?’
Vials of the Holy Blood, shards of the True Cross, the chains of St Peter, the bones of saints: these things were no longer venerated in England. They belonged to a past age. The pilgrimages had stopped long before Will was born, the shrines torn down, the rich reliquaries plundered, the relics cast aside as dross. Churches had been turned into places for plain and sober worship, the statues had been smashed, the rood screens taken down, the doom paintings whitewashed.
‘Of course I believe in it!’ Violetta looked at him as though he was mad. ‘Illyria will not prosper until it is returned to its rightful place in the cathedral. My father and mother are both dead. I am the Duchessa, so it is my duty to find it and return it to my country. I swore a holy vow before it. That is why I am here. Malvolio has brought it to your country for a fell purpose. You are heretics, ruled over by a heretical monarch. In his mind, it is logical. He has brought it here to rally the faithful, to overturn your Queen.’
That was treason. No wonder Cecil was interested. Will gave up a silent prayer of thanks that he had taken a private room.
‘What about you?’ he asked Feste. ‘Do you believe in the power of this thing?’
‘Not me, master.’ Feste shook his head. ‘It’s just a piece of tin. I believe in this.’ He tapped his temple. ‘And this.’ He grabbed his groin. ‘The rest is nothing.’
‘So why do you help her?’
‘I hate Malvolio,’ the clown said simply. ‘Besides . . .’ He stopped and his face grew dark and brooding. ‘What is it to you, poet?’ he snarled. ‘You would not understand!’
Feste was devoted to his young mistress. Whatever he said, it was obvious that his heart overrode his reason, or his other parts.
Will looked out. Night was coming on. Little lights were beginning to show from the opposite bank, trembling across the water. The bend in the Thames prevented him from seeing Whitehall, but soon the lights would be blazing out from the great palace, rippling like a great golden carpet across the black expanse of the river. He thought of Cecil, working away in his room where the high windows looked out on to nothing, setting traps to catch the wary and unwary alike. But Will had been trapped long before his encounter with Cecil. He had been caught from the first moment that he had stopped to watch Feste performing. Lured by their tale, hooked by the tantalising prospect that they had more to tell.
‘What’s your story, master?’ he asked the clown.
FESTE
In the world there is a land, and in the land there is a town, and in the town there is a wall, and in the wall there is a door, and through the door the babies go, posted at the dead time of night, put there by deflowered maidens, merry widows, sober goodwives, drunken whores, the women of the town and countryside around. In the morning the nuns find sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes more, squirming all together like puppies in a litter. That’s how I started, master. Plucked out of the hopper. Never knew who my parents were, never knew my ma. Brought up by the Poor Sisters. That’s where I met Marijita. She was Sister Mary, then, of course: Sister Mary Magdalena. She looked after the children. We called her ‘little mother’, but not loud enough so the other nuns would hear. When she wasn’t tending us, she worked in the pharmacy, brought us treats: honey drops and liquorice.
I’d have stayed there, passed on to the Brother House to work in the fields or in the kitchens when I was old enough, if Old Feste hadn’t come walking past one day. He saw me through the open door, doing tricks and tumbling. I could always make the other children laugh. The nuns too. Well, some of them, one or two. Old Feste was looking for a likely lad to make ’prentice, so he took me off with him. He was clown to the old Count, Lady Olivia’s father. I didn’t have a name, not one that I owned to, and he was the nearest thing I’d ever had to a father, so I called myself Feste after him. He was a good old man, a kind master and a great clown. He taught me all he knew and over the years I’ve added more to the store.
Old Feste had grown stiff and stout but he taught me the trick of it. I was small and thin. Escaping became one of my specialities. It still is. No ropes, no chains can hold me. When I was taken, I was left on the dock with the others who were destined to be galley slaves. No one bothered to guard us. We were trussed like ducks. Who would want to stand on a cold dock watching a bunch of prisoners, when there was drink and women there for the taking? First I freed myself, then the others. They came back to find a pile of ropes. Those guards are probably pulling on oars for their carelessness. I hope so, anyway.
I left the town and followed the coast north. I’d seen my lady put aboard a Venetian galley and I’d seen Malvolio winched on to the selfsame one. I knew where they were bound. I hate Venice. It’s a stinking, rotten city, full of supercilious pricks, forever wearing masks to cover the pox sores on their faces. I picked up a carrack at Pula that was taking a cargo of timber across to the Serene City.
When I arrived, I set out to find where Malvolio lived. A palazzo on the Grand Canal. He’d done well for himself. There was a grand gondola with a covered felze moored at the steps to ship his fat carcass about. I kept watch. He was not much in evidence, but there were plenty of messengers coming and going. I tracked them to the Palazzo Mazzolini. That was a busy place. Tradesmen going away with orders, delivering clothes, fabrics, paintings, furnishings. I found the place where the messengers stopped off to refresh themselves, going to and fro being thirsty work. I’d invite them to share a bottle, have a quick game of cards. I’d have the letters read, sealed back up and replaced in their pouches before they were back from the jakes. Signore Mazzolini had a new posting as Ambassador to England, and Malvolio was to be a member of his entourage. Before long, I knew which ship from what port, who they would be visiting, how long the journey would take. Malvolio was always a one for detail. I even had the address of the Ambassador’s house in London.
When I wasn’t getting acquainted with Malvolio’s business, I was looking for Violetta. There
was no sign of her at the palazzo, so I kept watch on the churches, especially La Maddalena in Cannaregio. It didn’t take much thinking to work out the fate Malvolio would likely have in store for my lady. He is as greedy as he is vicious. He hoards up slights and grudges like some usurer, waiting to pay back with interest. He would not forget the insult Viola paid to him. He would take great delight in turning her daughter into a courtesan and selling her off to some rich man.
Whores are on their knees in church nearly as often as nuns. Not many people know that. They go to plead to La Maddalena to intercede on their behalf, as they might well do, standing in dire need of God’s taking pity on them and sparing their spotted souls. I took up my place with the beggars at the door. I had to fight for my position. The girls are generous with their alms. They came in a steady stream until the candles inside were blazing like a forest on fire. I took up my station every day, and sure enough, before the week was out, along they came. It grieved me sore. I could tell by the way they had dressed her hair, by the clothes she wore, that my lady was well on the way to becoming a courtesan.
They were keeping her in a house in the Cannaregio. The woman’s name was Alessandra Stambellino. It was her task to turn my lady into a cortigiana onesta, the highest class of courtesan. Signora Stambellino must have been fine in her time, but was too old now to practise the trade and had set herself up training others instead. I went to the ghetto to get myself some suitable clothes, hired myself a gondola and began paying court. I sang to her, I played to her, I laughed my way into her bed and I laughed her out of the keys to the house. She was a game old bird, I can tell you. Hadn’t been . . .
‘The short of it is,’ Violetta cut in, motioning Feste to be quiet. She would take over the story now. Feste could be rather too robust and rude in his speaking, adding salt where none was needed. She did not want Master Shakespeare thinking that she had been corrupted even in the slightest by La Stambellino, or by keeping company with a clown. ‘The short of it is,’ she went on, ‘Feste got me away and we joined a group of roving players. They worked the northern Italian states, across to France. We left them in Genoa and took ship to England, using the money we had earned to pay our passage. It took many months for us to get from Venice to England. Malvolio and the Venetian Ambassador had an easier and swifter journey. We arrived to find that they were already in residence.’
‘How do you know that Malvolio has brought this thing you seek?’
‘Oh, we know,’ Feste said. ‘Not all the letters leaving the palazzo were to the Venetian. Some were for his Jesuit brothers in Santa Maria del Rosario on the Fondamenta delle Zattere, alongside the Giudecca Canal. The Jesuits are intent on bringing your country back to the Church. They see it as a holy mission.’ He looked up at Will. ‘Perhaps that is what interests your man of power.’
‘Oh, that is certain.’ Will sighed. The trap had just yawned wider, but at least he would have something to tell Cecil tomorrow.
‘I thought the stone would show us the way,’ Violetta said, ‘tell us what to do.’
‘The stone?’ Will asked.
‘The shewstone.’
‘You have it?’
‘Yes. Would you like to see it?’
Will nodded. He’d never seen one before.
‘Show him, Feste.’
The clown took out his folly stick. He twisted the puppet’s little jester’s cap and the whole of the top of the head lifted off. Dr Dee’s stone was said to be made from a piece of black rock, shiny as glass, smoothed and polished on one side to make a dark mirror. This was nothing like that. It was oval in shape, pale and translucent, packed about with layers of soft natural wool.
Violetta gently removed it from its casing. The stone lay in her hands, a pale greenish duck’s-egg shade of blue. The surface was clouded, but the stone was translucent, filling her palms with light.
She held the stone up to the window. It picked up colour from the last rays of the sun and immediately became transparent. Will looked through and saw the bridge in reversed image, bathed in orange and red with the piers in the sky, towers and roofs in the river. She held it in her cupped hand.
‘Look into it now. What can you see?’
The surface had turned milky again. All Will could see was a patch of reflected light from the window.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘That’s the trouble.’ She looked at him. Her eyes held tears. ‘Neither can I.’ Her fingers went to the amulet that she wore round her neck, telling the charms like beads on a rosary. ‘Last night I came near to complete despair. I had caused trouble for Toby and Maria, bringing death and danger to their house like uninvited guests. I went to where Feste was sleeping. I took out the stone. I wanted to ask what we should do. Was this the right place to be? Should we stay, or no? But the stone gave me no answers. It was as blank as it is now.’ She looked out of the window at the dark clouds of evening. ‘Marijita’s magic doesn’t work under these grey skies. We will have to shift for ourselves.
‘When we first met you,’ she went on, ‘I had an idea that you could help us. A scheme so foolish that I blush to think of it. You couldn’t do what I wanted, but you listened to our story and that was help of a kind. Then you needed Feste to be your clown.’ She looked at him. ‘Now we need each other. Our lives have become twisted together.’
She smiled. In his mind Will saw two strands of yarn: one drab and one bright.
.
15
‘My shroud of white, stuck all with yew’
Sir Toby was being buried in St Mary’s, Lambeth. The party left from Forman’s house. The coffin, draped in black, was carried by six pall-bearers, Maria, Violetta and Feste following along as chief mourners. Will and Forman fell in behind them. There were no others. If Sir Toby had any friends, they had melted away. A few people stopped to watch as they passed by, the men snatching off their caps as a mark of respect.
Sir Toby had been a big man. It was with some relief that the sweating pall-bearers laid the coffin on the wooden hearse, ready to be taken into the church. Violetta stepped forward and set down the posy that she had gathered in Forman’s garden: rosemary, fennel and rue. The funeral party formed up to follow the hearse down the aisle.
Will and Forman joined the mourners scattered through the pews. Most of them seemed to be creditors, come to see that he was really dead.
‘When do you next see our crookback friend?’ Forman whispered as they bowed their heads.
‘Three this afternoon. I go directly from here.’ Will glanced up at Violetta’s slim black form kneeling in the first pew. ‘The girl has a shewstone,’ he added quietly. ‘Did you know?’
‘I did not. She’s been keeping that well hid. A shewstone? Has she really?’ Forman whistled softly through the gap in his teeth. ‘You’d better keep quiet about that when you see Cecil.’
‘Why?’ Will asked, disconcerted to find yet another unsuspected snare in his path. ‘What interest could he have?’
‘It is an intelligencer’s dream,’ Forman whispered. ‘They love them. Or the idea of them, I should say. That is why Cecil, and Walsingham before him, took such an interest in the good Doctor Dee and his Mister Kelley. Except the man was a charlatan, with Dee his dupe. If this girl has such a thing, and has the skill to use it, the possibilities are infinite.’
‘She says it doesn’t work here,’ Will whispered back.
‘They don’t know that!’ Forman hissed. ‘Best they don’t find out.’
The minister’s voice rose and they fell silent.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’
The words from the Book of Common Prayer, plain and simple, pure as rain dropping about them, bowed every man’s head and turned his thoughts to his own mortality.
The minister found it hard to describe Sir Toby as a spotless and God-fearing man, but he was generous in
his eulogy. He took as his text a sinner come back to the fold, and there was truth in that. For all his faults, Sir Toby had been a merry fellow, kind and generous. There were worse things to be.
‘We are mortal, formed of the earth, and unto earth shall we return. For so thou didst ordain when thou createdst me, saying, “Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”’
The service over, Sir Toby began his last journey to the burying ground. Will did not follow. It was nearing the time for his appointment with Cecil. As they left the church, the bell began to sound. The minister was holding out his hand. Forman was paying for it to be tolled. He reached into his wallet for the fee and found the chart that he had prepared for Will. He’d forgotten he had it on him until that moment.
‘Will!’ Forman called after him. ‘Your chart!’
The poet had other things on his mind and was already on his way to the Horseferry. Forman tucked the scroll back into his wallet. There was to be a funeral feast later at the Three Compasses. He would give it to him there.
Will presented himself at the Palace of Whitehall and was shown into Cecil’s private office. To his relief, the Secretary seemed pleased. He walked up and down as Will told him the girl’s story, his gait a trifle ungainly, keeling to the right as though the twist in his spine threw his body off balance.
