by Celia Rees
‘Well now. I’d say . . .’ Feste began. Young men in love were ever tedious, this could go on all night and his head suddenly felt impossibly heavy. He put down his cup. He was too drunk for fooling. Time to end it. ‘I’d say . . .’ he went on. ‘I’d say, you don’t stand a chance. She’s promised to Stephano. Good as married. That’s an end to it. She likes you well enough, but liking is not love, is it?’ He spread his hands. ‘She won’t ever love you. She loves another. ’
‘I see . . .’ Tod stared at him. ‘No hope, you say?’
‘No hope at all.’ Feste said with finality. ‘She’ll be leaving soon, anyway. So you can go back to your other young wenches and village girls. Now I’m going to sleep.’
He fell over sideways and began to snore. Tod stayed for a while, finishing his ale, then he let himself out. He went back to the Bear, where he ordered more ale and sat brooding, turning the heavy gold ring that he wore on his left hand. It was a gift from an admirer, a noble lord. The stone could pass as ruby. It had been sent in appreciation of his Juliet. He was not used to rejection. Quite the opposite.
There were those there willing to join him, buy more ale and lend a sympathetic ear to a young player who was smarting from the unaccustomed slight and filled with sudden bitterness, feeling sad and sorry for himself.
.
24
‘A witchcraft drew me hither’
Get up and get washed before I dump you in the horse trough!’
Anne Shakespeare banged about with her broom, threatening to sweep Feste off the settle, none too pleased to find him asleep by the ashes of the fire, surrounded by empty flagons of her precious October ale. She would have words with Will about this.
Feste staggered off, his place at the hearth taken by Old Meg. She sat down heavily, spreading her skirts, her gnarled old hands, seamed with dirt, as brown and twisted as tree roots as she clutched the handle of her basket of herbs.
‘Been out before sun rising, gathering plants. ’Tis the best time.’ She sorted through the sweet-smelling froth of flowers, dark tubers and tender green leaves just beginning to wilt from being picked. ‘I got comfrey, lady’s smock, a tossie of cowslips, fumitory and hyssop from my own garden. I got a good bit of burdock root.’ She pulled out a thick, crusted length and snapped it in half to show the pinkish white flesh. ‘Look at that. Sweet as a nut.’ She broke off a piece, popped it in her mouth, earth and all, and chewed it before spitting the wad into the fire.
Anne looked over the contents of the basket. Nothing she couldn’t gather between here and Shottery, or find growing in her own garden. She began counting out the pennies nonetheless. It did not do to offend Old Meg and her kind, or the fire would not burn, the ale would not brew, the butter would not come in the churn, so they said. She wouldn’t like to put it to the test.
‘A word with your man, if I may,’ Old Meg added from her place by the fire. ‘And a drop of ale while I’m waiting wouldn’t go amiss, lass. I’m that dry. And a bit of bread and cheese if you have it. Or a bit of pie.’ She sniffed, as though scenting out the nature of last night’s meal. Old Meg had a rare ability to nose out leftovers. ‘I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s supper and I’m that famished.’
Anne drew her a mug of ale. Then she went to the pantry and cut a piece of pie, a hunk of bread and a chunk of cheese, loading them on to a wooden platter.
‘Thanks kindly, dear.’ She took the platter in her gnarled hand. The cheese disappeared into the pocket she wore round her waist. ‘Save that’un for later.’
Having seen to the needs of her guest, Anne went to tell Will of her arrival. He had risen early and had settled down at the table in their room, hoping to get a bit of peace to write before the household was properly stirring.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said as she went into him. ‘Old Meg is here. She wants a word.’
Will sighed. He’d hardly started. He had only just taken ink and paper from his writing box, set the table out how he wanted it and sharpened his quills. He had been gazing down into Chapel Street, watching the town rise and come alive, when he’d seen Old Meg hobbling round the corner from Scholar’s Lane. She had glanced up as she crossed the road and he’d caught her look, furtive but determined. He was already rising from his chair when Anne came into the room.
‘How do, maister.’ Old Meg looked up from her breakfast. She dunked a chunk of bread into the ale before beginning to chew. ‘Teeth ent what they were.’
‘I do well, Meg,’ Will answered her. ‘And you?’
‘Well enough. I’ve a message. I were out gathering early. Some herbs is better, stronger in their action, when picked by the light of the moon with the first sweat of dew newly upon them. Guess who I met.’
Will stood in front of her, arms folded. He nodded; he knew already or she wouldn’t be here.
‘Him and her.’
Old Meg answered her own question. It didn’t do to name them. Will nodded again. He knew who she was talking about. Anne’s broom stilled. Will felt his wife’s attention shift towards them.
‘He says for you to come tonight in the evening while,’ Old Meg said. ‘You know the place. You know the tree. Best be off now.’ She drained her mug and put the uneaten crust of the pie in her pocket. ‘You don’t trust me,’ she said as Anne handed her the basket, ‘but I never forget a kindness. Keep this.’ She gave her a slip of rowan. ‘Put it above the fireplace and may misfortune fly up your chimbley while luck walks in through your door.’
Anne took the sprig and accepted the singsong charm gracefully. She’d heard similar rhymes recited many times before. On the surface she regarded all such as superstitious nonsense, but belief ran deep. Better to be safe than sorry. She preferred to keep all sides happy. She would not want one of them to have a hank of her, she was certain of that.
‘What was that about?’ she asked as Old Meg hobbled out. ‘Did she mean who I think she means?’
‘I’ve got to get the girl out of the town. The clown too. What safer place could there be? Come, Nan.’ He put his arms around her. ‘They served us well once.’
‘There’s a strangeness about them. They never come into town, and folk do say –’
‘That’s all superstition.’
‘They are thick with Meg and her kind.’
‘They follow the old ways. Their estate is hard to find. I want to keep the girl secret. What better place?’
Will went off to find Violetta and Feste, warn them to be ready to travel. Then he gave out to the rest of the company that the pair would be leaving them.
‘Where are they going?’ Tod wanted to know.
‘I don’t know exactly,’ Will replied, which was no lie. ‘Moving on.’
‘Near or far?’
‘Far,’ Will said without offering more.
He did not invite Tod to see them on their way, but what did that matter? Tod intended to follow. There were those in town who would be interested to know where she had gone.
Violetta and Feste collected their things together and made ready for their journey. They set out just as the day was moving towards evening, taking the road north out of Stratford towards Henley-in-Arden. They passed close to Wilmcote, the home of Will’s mother’s family. The farm lay on the edge of the great Forest of Arden. As a boy, Will had often been sent to the farm in the summer, to escape the contagions of the town or when his mother was brought to bed with the birth of a child. He knew the country for miles around.
Long before they reached Henley, Will indicated that they should turn off and take a lesser road. Trees grew close on either side, the leaves on their lower branches layered in drifts like a pale green mist. The track saw little wheeled traffic. The way was smooth and unrutted, the horses’ hoofs muffled by moss, grass and wild flowers. The lane branched and branched again, all the time leading them deeper into the woods. The trees grew taller, their trunks thicker, their overarching branches meshed above their heads, making the lane into a kind of tunnel.
‘Where exactly are we going?’ Violetta asked him as they left the track and ventured under the shifting eaves of the spreading trees.
‘I’m taking you to some people I know. You will be safe with them.’
‘Who are these people?’
‘They live deep in the forest. The Arden. They have always lived here.’
They were in the ancient part of the forest. The ground was thick with leaves of gold and copper, their horses treading over the litter of centuries. There was no discernible path. The ground rose and fell like the swell of the sea.
Eventually they came to a wide clearing, a slight depression surrounded by towering beeches, their smooth grey trunks soaring upwards into a tumbling filigree of delicate leaves. Markings like long-healed scars showed in the blank smoothness of their bark.
Will signalled for them to stop and dismount. The sun’s rays slanted across the clearing, broken into long fingers by the canopy. The glancing beams held motes of dust, silken threads of spiders’ webs, flickering fragments of chaff and other shining stuff. Insects swarmed, the light catching the glitter of their wings, the metallic glint of their tiny bodies, as they rose and fell. A man and a woman were entering the clearing from the opposite side, stepping through the shafts of light.
‘Will! Well met! It has been a long time since we have seen you.’ He held Will by the arms and looked him up and down. ‘No longer the boy who used to haunt my woods, carving verses into the trees.’
Will glanced up at the space where time had erased his rhymes from the smooth parchment of the bark. He looked back, aware of how he had aged, how he must seem changed with his sallow, city complexion, his sunken eyes, his thinning hair receding from his lined forehead.
Lord and Lady Eldon were as he remembered them, dressed in hunting habit, both carrying bows. Red-and-white spotted dogs milled round their feet. Two keepers followed behind them, bearing a hart tied to a pole, game bags dripping blood. Lord Eldon’s face was weathered, as leathery as the battered jerkin he wore. His full beard was touched with grey, curled like frosted holly leaves. He wore a battered old hat stuck with pheasant tail feathers and his long dark hair flowed thickly down his back, a dull greenish black, like ivy veined with white.
His lady was thin as a willow wand. She wore a leather jerkin over her dark green riding habit, a quiver of arrows on her back. Her long hair was silvery, falling over her shoulders. Her face was lined but finely wrought, with high cheekbones and pale tilted eyes set wide apart.
‘I have a favour to ask, my lord, my lady.’ Will spoke to them with as much formality as if he was addressing Secretary Cecil and the Queen herself. ‘These people –’ he waved towards Violetta and Feste – ‘stand in need of your protection. I ask you to keep them hidden.’
‘Hidden?’ Lord Eldon smiled, intrigued. ‘From whom, may I ask?’
‘An enemy who would do them harm. You know him, I think. Sir Andrew Agnew.’
At the name, the lord’s face darkened as if there was no love lost between them. He looked to his lady, who nodded.
‘You are welcome.’ He put out his hand to Violetta and Feste. ‘You will be safe with me. I give you my word.’
‘We thank you, sir, madam.’ Violetta curtsied to one, then the other.
The lord smiled at her. His face was open, even kind, but there was fierceness in his blue eyes. He was like the mountain chieftains who had sometimes come to see her father. Men who lived by the old ways and whose word, once given, would not be broken. Next to her, Feste gave his best bow.
There was a rustle in the branches above them and a boy dropped down from a tree to land at their feet. At least, he appeared at first glance to be a boy. He was small and slender. He looked at Violetta, his odd eyes different colours, one as green as the leaves above them, the other light brown and streaked, like a hazelnut. His stare expressed mild interest, mixed with amusement that could easily tip into malice. Despite his slight stature, he was no boy. His brown mossy hair was braided and wound with threads of different colours, hung with beads and shells. He wore necklaces made from beads of bone, tiny skulls, rough dark stones like petrified snails.
‘This is Robin,’ the lady said.
‘They were followed.’ Robin looked up at his mistress. ‘A young one, unshaven, pretty as a girl.’
‘It’s one of our company,’ Will said. ‘He’s in love with Violetta. Likely he’s followed to see where we are taking her.’
‘It might not be lovesickness.’ Feste looked shifty. He turned to Violetta. ‘I told him about Stephano, told him he didn’t have a chance with you. He might not have taken it very well.’
‘He might be following for other reasons, then,’ Will considered. ‘He’s been acting strangely.’
Robin looked from one to the other and then at his master and mistress. ‘Shall I see to it?’
‘Don’t hurt him,’ Violetta said quickly.
‘No. No bloodshed,’ the lady told him. ‘Just send him a different way.’
Robin nodded and disappeared back into the branches.
Will did not go with them. He took the horses back to Stratford and left Violetta and Feste with their new hosts. Violetta did not feel the need to ask questions. As she walked with the lady, deeper into the woods, she was filled with a feeling of great quiet, of peace spreading through her after so many days, months, years of anguish and turmoil. They went on in silence, their feet making no sound on the forest floor. She had no way of knowing where they were going, and knew that she could never find her way back by herself, but that did not matter. No enemy would find her here.
A broad way opened before them, a wide ride through the majesty of trees. A faint mist was rising and the last of the sun, shining through the branches, made it seem as though they were walking on a cloth of gold. The ride rose by degrees, until they were standing on top of a ridge. Below them lay a hidden valley, a lost combe. Smoke drifted from the wide chimney of a low house just visible through creeping layers of mist, the thatched roof so thick and ancient and moss-covered that it looked like part of the landscape.
The house grew from a base of soft, grey eroded stone that could have been carved from bedrock. Great oak timbers, silvered by time, formed crucks, branching upwards, following the shape of the forest trees from which they had been fashioned, curving round irregular panels washed with ochre and umber, the colours of the earth. Ivy and climbing roses grew all about the front of the house, curling and twining round a great stone-lintelled door, which stood open like the mouth of a cave.
‘Welcome to our home.’
The lord led them into a great hall, lit by high, unglazed windows. The roof beams were supported by huge pillars fashioned from whole tree trunks. A log fire burned in the wide fireplace. An old red-and-white hunting dog, long-legged, narrow-flanked, heavy-jawed and deep-chested, lay stretched out by the hearth. He scrambled to his feet at the sound of his master’s approach and came forward, tail wagging, claws clicking on the stone floor.
The lord bent down to stroke the dog’s grizzled muzzle.
‘He’s too old to hunt now.’ He stood up and laughed. ‘Sometimes I feel like him, tempted to stay in and doze by the fire, but I do like to hunt.’ He handed his game bag to a serving man. ‘We will have some of these fowl roasted for supper. We live in a simple way, but while you are with us, this is your home. Rest, refresh yourselves, then we will eat.’
.
25
‘What is love? ’Tis not hereafter’
Time was slippery. There were no clocks and the valley was deep, surrounded by trees, impossible to tell the hour by the sun. The days went slipping by, each one passing in a golden haze.
The lord went out hunting with his hounds. Sometimes the lady went with him but usually Violetta found her in the garden or in her solar at her loom. Violetta liked to sit with her. The loom stood under high pointed windows, and the stone walls were hung with her tapestries. It reminded Violetta of Marijita’s room in Illyria.
&nb
sp; ‘Your mother used to weave?’ the lady asked her when she first came to watch her work.
‘No.’ Violetta shook her head. ‘A friend. She gave me this.’ She offered the cimaruta for the lady’s inspection.
‘A powerful charm,’ the lady said. ‘May it protect you. Do you want to learn the loom?’
Violetta shook her head. ‘I would not have the patience. I’m content to sit and watch you.’
She came to the solar most days, but how many days had it been? One day was so like another. She tried to keep track but kept getting muddled and losing her count.
‘My husband regards clocks as dangerously newfangled notions.’ Lady Eldon laughed when she explained her confusion. ‘We go by the sun and the seasons. They do say time passes differently here. Sometimes slower, sometimes faster. The country people regard us with deep superstition. Some will not venture into the valley, in case they never return. They call us the Lord and Lady of the Wood. Some won’t even name us – we are just Him and Her. They leave gifts: a round of cheese, a pail of berries, baskets of nuts or mushrooms as if we were the fairy folk. It is nonsense, of course. We are all too mortal. My sight is not as keen as it was, and sometimes my hands pain me so much that I can hardly throw the shuttle. I can’t vouch for Robin though.’
‘He is not kin to you?’
‘Oh, no. Although he has become like a son. We don’t know where he came from. My husband found him one morning curled up asleep with the dogs. He had been living wild in the woods. He spoke no language, or none known to us, although the dogs seemed to understand him well enough. He went on all fours for years and is still happier up in the trees than on the ground. Whether he had been abandoned in the forest, or left behind by the travelling people, or had always been there, we’ve never found out. We cannot have children, so we took him as our own. My husband has done his best with him, but he’s only half civilized.’ She laughed. ‘I couldn’t introduce him into company. He doesn’t take to people as a rule, apart from anything else. He seems to like your man, Feste. I hope he doesn’t lead him into mischief.’
