by Celia Rees
‘Come and join us.’ Malvolio made a mocking gesture of welcome. ‘Did you really think that we would not see through your little plot? Did you think that we were that stupid? This is a sideshow. A sham. Devised as a decoy to draw attention away from our true intent. Sir Andrew and a few brave companions are even now riding through the night so that they can be ready to ambush Her Majesty.’
‘They will not get near her!’ George Price stepped out of the shadows. ‘Many have tried. All have failed.’
‘That is because of the methods they used.’ Malvolio was fairly crowing, carried away by his own cleverness. ‘She will be travelling by barge tomorrow. Is that not so? There are cannons hidden either side of the river ready to blow her to the infernal realm where she belongs.’
‘Not if I can get there first!’
George Price strode towards the gatehouse. An arrow splintered the wood on the door; another bedded itself in the lintel of the window by his side.
‘No one is leaving.’ Malvolio turned about in the middle of the courtyard. ‘Drop your weapons or my men start shooting. They have orders to pick off the players and the women first, then dispose of the rest of you.’
Arrows thudded, reinforcing the warning. George Price dropped his knife, nodding to the men he had brought in with him to do the same. Stephano stood defiant.
‘Do what I say,’ Malvolio hissed at him, ‘or I will put your friend out of his misery.’
He pointed towards where Guido stood, his arm hanging useless, blood dripping from his fingertips on to the flagstones. Stephano’s sword clattered to the ground. A group of Venetian gentlemen had sprung up to defend the Ambassador, swords drawn. The Ambassador signalled to them to sit down. He would see how this thing played out. Two of them remained standing, their swords now pointing at their master’s throat. So that was the way of it. The Ambassador stared at Malvolio with undisguised hatred.
Violetta looked around, trying to control the first flutterings of panic. The men of Venice were playing false, or else they had given up their swords. The players were unarmed or carried weapons that were mere props, useless for fighting. This was a stout house, surrounded by a moat. It was impossible to get out once the gates were shut, the bridge drawn up – impossible to get in either. So there could be no help from outside. But there was one way . . . She caught George Price’s eye. He had seen it too.
‘I know what you are thinking: we are trapped in here with you.’ Malvolio gave her a look almost of pity. ‘Not so. Sir Andrew’s house is well equipped with the means of escape – as long as you know where to find them. We will be leaving soon. Our work here is done. I would love to take Your Excellency –’ he bowed to the Venetian Ambassador – ‘but I fear our alliance is over. I serve other masters now. The gold we have collected from the Faithful across the country is going to Spain. As is the relic. Spain has long wanted a base in the Adriatic. Illyria will provide that service. We no longer need the help of Venice. You betrayed us to Cecil. The intelligence you fed him was false, but it was a betrayal none the less. Betrayal has to be punished.’
He signalled to the young Jesuit to take the reliquary from Violetta. She held on to her precious burden, resisting the attempts of the priest to take it from her. She would not give it up now, even if it meant her life.
‘Unhand her!’
Stephano leaped to her side, dragging the priest away from her. Malvolio nodded to one of the bowman on the roof. He loosed the bolt of his crossbow. Stephano’s arms flew out and he fell face down. Violetta dropped to her knees beside him, the relic forgotten.
George Price took advantage of the confusion, setting off at a run and jumping up on to the low wall that served as the fourth side of the courtyard. Arrows showered around him as he dived into the moat. A couple of his men tried to circle round and seize Malvolio. They were picked off by the men on the roof, but how many more might be lurking? Things were not going as Malvolio had planned. It was all the girl’s doing. He would finish this once and for all. As he stepped towards Violetta he slipped a long knife out from under his cloak. The boy was dead. Now it was her turn. He crouched over Violetta, seized her by her hair, pulling her head back and angling the thin blade of the knife inwards towards her exposed throat.
‘I want for one more thing. The shewstone. Did you think I had forgotten it? Step forward, Feste. I know you are here and I know you bear it.’ He tugged Violetta’s hair harder, the point of the blade nicking the whiteness of her neck. ‘Bring it to me, or I spill her blood.’
Feste took Little Feste from inside his jerkin. He’d been using him as padding for his part as Bottom the weaver.
‘Here, master,’ he said. He offered the folly stick to Malvolio. ‘The stone’s in the head.’
‘Hidden inside the Devil’s doll. How very appropriate.’
He passed Violetta into the priest’s care and took Little Feste in both hands, meaning to dash the head against the pavement.
‘No!’ Feste turned away, unable to bear it.
Malvolio began to laugh. It was a rehearsal for what he would do to Feste after he had disposed of the girl. Then he would be rid of the whole nest of them. He swung the folly stick up, intending to crack it against the ground, but there was no forward momentum, he continued to fall backwards, gargling and choking on his own blood. He tore at his throat, unable to breathe, his groping fingers failing to find the little arrow buried so deep only the fletching showed.
He fell on his back, fighting for breath.
The men guarding the Ambassador had orders to kill him and his daughter, but the game was over. Malvolio was as good as dead. They lowered their swords, but it was too late for that. One died from a rapier thrust to the heart, the other fell with a dirk in his back. His Excellency wiped his sword on his pale satin sleeve and turned to comfort the girl who wept by his side.
Up on the rooftops, the men-at-arms faltered. First one crumpled where he stood, then another toppled from the turrets to the ground below, felled by little arrows or stones from a slingshot. From across the moat came the roar and flash of gunfire. Most of the balls missed their targets, but the firing was enough for the remaining men-at-arms. They left their posts and went scrambling over the roofs.
The young priest seized the reliquary and backed away, uncertain what to do now that his master was dead. He had not taken two steps when his knees went from under him. By the time he hit the ground he was already dead, felled by a slingshot to the forehead.
When the trouble started, the players had dived behind any bit of scenery that could provide cover. Will called them out now and sent them to help Price’s remaining men to open the gates and lower the drawbridge. Maria came from where she had been sheltering, already tearing a cloak into strips to tend to Guido. The Ambassador’s daughter ran to him, offering her silk scarf to bind his shoulder. But there seemed little anyone could do for the young man lying by Violetta. Robin was there beside her, probing for the place where the crossbow bolt was lodged. He brought his hand away and looked at his fingers. There was no blood. He pulled at the bolt. It was not lodged in flesh, but caught in the rings of the mail shirt he was wearing under his clothes. Violetta touched the slippery close-textured metal, exploring to see if it had been penetrated. There was no break in the fine mesh. Marijita’s shirt had held. It had saved him. She sat back on her heels hardly knowing if she would laugh or cry.
Will helped Robin to turn Stephano over. There was a livid bruise forming on his forehead where he had fallen and he was deathly pale, but his eyes were moving under the lids. Will called for water and dashed some on to his face. The eyes fluttered open. He was alive.
Robin left the boy and looked to where the other one dripped blood on the ground. He swarmed up the woody vines that had spread themselves over the sides of the house, crawled along under the eaves of the house, then swung himself back down again.
‘Here.’ He gave a ball of moss and cobwebs to Maria. ‘Sovereign for wounds, my lady says. Pack the cut wi
th it and bind it tight.’
He walked over to Malvolio and reached down to wrench his flint-tipped arrow out of the dead man’s throat.
‘They are hard to fashion.’ He twirled the bloody shaft between his fingers, wiped it on his jerkin and put it back into the quiver he wore on his hip. He took the folly stick from the dead man’s grip. ‘And here.’ He handed it to Feste. ‘I know how fond you are of the little man.’
There was a clatter of hoofs and the sound of marching feet. George Price was leading his men across the drawbridge and into the house.
‘Give me the folly stick!’ Violetta ordered. ‘Quickly now!’
She took it from Feste, twisting the head to release the hidden chamber. She took the stone in her hand. The milky surface reflected the blackness of the sky, the thin crescent of the moon, the sprinkle of stars around it. She did not look further. She did not look into its depths, to seek to know what would happen next. She hefted its weight in her hand before throwing it as far as she could. There was a distant splash as it hit the dark, still waters of the moat.
‘Let them seek it there,’ she said.
‘I have sent riders to warn Sir Robert of this attempt on Her Majesty’s life,’ Price said as he came towards them. ‘My master will be grateful to you both. I’m sure he would like to thank you in person and I think Master Shakespeare can look forward to a performance before the court.’ He looked at Violetta. ‘There is the matter of the shewstone . . .’
‘You’re too late, master,’ Feste gave him a wry smile. ‘She’s thrown it in the moat.’
‘Perhaps that is for the best.’ Price looked out towards the black glitter of the waters that surrounded them. ‘These things only bring trouble.’ It would certainly bring trouble to the young woman standing before him, and he did not want his master putting faith in such things. His superiors might have other ideas. He wanted her out of here. ‘I will tell my master that it was lost in the melee. I know that you have pressing business in your homeland. We will deal with all this here and get the Ambassador safe away. I don’t see any reason to delay you any further.’
The cart was already packed and ready. The actors were scrambling on board, still in their costumes.
When they were out on the road and under the shelter of the trees, Robin put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. No sound came out, or none that anyone could hear, but out of the darkness trotted two horses, one white, one black.
‘My lord and lady have sent their horses for you.’ Robin brought them forward by their bridles. ‘They are a gift.’ He looked up at Violetta. ‘My lady sends her blessing with them. She would like you to ride them in triumph, when you reclaim your country.’
Violetta mounted the lady’s grey, the precious relic stowed behind her. Stephano took the bay.
‘Come, Feste.’ Stephano reached down. ‘Ride up with me.’
‘No.’ Feste shook his head. ‘Let Guido ride with you.’ He looked from Stephano to Violetta, as if to say: She’s in your care now. ‘I want to stay here awhile. There’s things I want to do.’
He went off down the road with Robin, singing a little tune.
‘With hey, ho, the wind and the rain . . .’
Will arrived back in Stratford tired to the marrow of his bones, but he could not rest. He got up from Anne’s side and went to his writing table. He could not sleep for the need to write. He would start this very night. He sat for a while in reverie. He thought of the girl riding through the night, on her way to London, there to take ship for her homeland and who knew what fate. He thought of the events that had brought her here and all that had happened from that time to this. He sat for a while longer, viewing how it might be. He would go back to the beginning of the story. The play would start with music and continue in mirth and joyous humour that would banish unhappiness and dispel all the misery that lay between that time and this.
He cleared away the papers that had been occupying him. They could wait. He took up his quill and used his little knife to cut a new nib. Then he took out a ream of fresh paper, squaring it in front of him. When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he began to write.
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EPILOGUE
‘But that’s all one, our play is done’
6th January 1602
Cecil was a man of his word. The night was bitter cold, with flurries of snow falling and starring their cloaks as they set off from the Globe. The Thames was flowing black and slow and had the look of ice upon it as they crossed the bridge. They rode in ranks of three, the whole company, some twenty or so of them. Under their riding cloaks they wore their official livery, blue coats marked on the shoulder with the Lord Chamberlain’s insignia, a silver swan flying. They were accompanied by a pair of outriders, each with a staff torch in a stirrup holder, to light their way. Behind them came a group of attendants, their sturdy ponies burdened with cloak bags and hampers. Maria rode with them. It was unusual for a woman to attend the company, but she had been up nights brushing, ironing, sponging, repairing, embroidering and sewing until her hands shook from exhaustion and her fingers bled. The costumes were costly and she would not see them creased and mauled, or her wigs and head tires mangled by clumsy boys and men. Besides, she would not miss this performance for worlds.
Will and Burbage rode at the head of the column, with Robert Armin between them. The diminutive actor perched on his broad-backed cob, his stirrups as short as a child’s, his chin tucked into the collar of his cloak. He was clean-shaved, at Will’s insistence, and it was mighty cold. They were outside the city walls now, climbing the long incline of Fleet Street, the mud frozen into ruts under their horse’s hoofs. They bunched together to pass under the wooden archway of Temple Bar.
‘I hope it goes well,’ Will said, almost to himself.
‘Well? Well?’ Burbage boomed back at him over Armin’s head. ‘Of course it will. To think other will bring bad luck. It will be a sensation. It’s good, Will, very good. A change from the last gloomy piece, although that went better than I thought it would. Ghosts are always popular, as are graveyards and drownings. That fight, too, at the end – excellent! But this is different. What do you think, Armin?’
‘Good. Good.’ The actor looked from one to the other. ‘Excellent stuff. Best Fool’s part ever written.’
Will smiled and thanked him. ‘Are you happy with the arrangement?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
Armin waved a gloved hand as if the favour asked was of no moment. Will smiled. Armin was not only a great clown, he was also a good and generous man.
They passed the great mansions set along the Strand: Essex House stood darkened, its courtyard empty, while Somerset House was ablaze with lights. Cecil’s new house was finished now, the gates and court full of activity, the elegant frontage lit with torches. Burbage signalled for the company to close ranks as they stepped on to the King’s Road, which would take them to Whitehall.
When they got to the Court Gate they threw back their cloaks to show their livery and announced themselves as ‘My Lord Chamberlain’s Players’. They knew the way. They had been before. Wide stone steps led up to the great hall where they would be appearing, but they turned off, drew rein and dismounted under the adjacent archway that led to the stables, where the Lord Chamberlain’s man and a Groom of the Revels stood waiting for them. They shouldered the baggage and hampers and made their way to the chamber where they would get ready. They left their baggage there and followed the Groom to the Buttery Bar to get their bever, a measure of the special revel ale.
‘Good stuff.’ Burbage toasted Will. ‘But not as good as Mistress Anne’s October brew.’
Will gulped down one cup and took up another. He had hardly tasted it. He waited for the liquor to plane the edge from his anxiety. He wanted it to begin, and soon, but the court moved at its own pace. Feasting was still going on in various chambers and then there would be dancing. They were due to perform at nine o’clock and there was no hastening time. He listened
as the Groom of the Revels reeled off a list of the assembled guests: My Lord this and My Lady that, His Grace, Her Grace, His Excellency the Archduke, His Royal Highness, Prince of some other place . . .
‘Anyone would think that he had invited them himself,’ Armin muttered as he poured more ale.
Will smiled. His smile broadened when the Groom mentioned a young duke and duchess from a small country bordering the Middle Sea.
It was time to go and check that the properties and scenery had arrived and that the scene men knew what to do with them. The great hall, the Noon Hall, where they would play, was brightly lit with hundreds of candles set in branches hung from wires strung across from one side of the room to the other. There was a huge coal fire in the wide chimney place, and the high windows were hung with rich tapestries to keep out the draughts. At one end of the room stood a great dais for the Queen’s canopied throne. All around, tiered seats rose in ranks up above the floor where they would perform. Will stood alone, measuring the room with his eyes. It was big, ninety feet by forty, but with the seating the playing floor was reduced to twenty feet wide or less. He went through the play in his mind, the movements, exits and entrances.
Trumpets were sounding, announcing the end of the feasting and the beginning of the dancing. They could hear voices, laughter, people were coming. Time that had seemed to trickle, grain by grain, was now pouring through the glass.
The dancing over, the dancers honoured the throne and returned to their places. Will saw Burbage reach out to softly knock wood for luck and, in the momentary hush before their master, Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon, held up his white staff of office, he was sure that the whole assembly, including the Queen, would hear the thudding of his heart. Hunsdon’s signal sent the scene men scurrying. Within seconds they were back, the scene set. Hunsdon’s staff went up again. Trumpets rang out, making Will start. It was the signal for Will and Burbage to step out and lead the company up the chamber. The high ranks of tiers seemed very close, the floor even smaller. They advanced towards Her Majesty, every eye upon them. The jewels she wore, from her delicate crown to the hem of her gown, picked up the light from the blaze of candles so she seemed all a-glitter. She seemed impossibly distant, her dark, hooded eyes looking down from far above. Her face, devoid of expression, a white mask under the vivid red of her hair, seemed to float above the delicate layers of her wide ruff. Will tried not to let his eyes linger as he and Burbage bowed low three times. To do so would be to risk being caught by the awe of being in her presence and frozen, as if by the basilisk.
