Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories

by Leon Garfield

  A shadow deepened under the lid, like a thin black smile. Little by little, it grew deeper and wider, until it was a monstrous yawn. The trunk had opened. Silently, Iachimo crept out.

  His heart was thunderous within his breast as he moved towards the bed. He gazed down upon the sleeper, and her beauty flooded his soul with longing. “But kiss, one kiss!” he breathed; and, bending low, touched her red lips with his own.

  He drew back, fearfully; but her sleep was deep; she did not stir. He peered about him, at the furnishings, the painting on the ceiling, the pictures on the wall. His sharp eyes observed everything; and, taking out a little book, he noted down every last detail of the bedchamber. This done, he turned his attention back to the sleeping Imogen. There was a golden bracelet on her arm. With infinite care, he drew it off; and in so doing, disturbed her covering sheet. His breathing quickened with excitement. “On her left breast a mole cinque-spotted,” he whispered, “like the crimson drops i’ the bottom of a cowslip. This secret will force him think I have picked the lock and ta’en the treasure of her honour!”

  His task completed, he crept back inside the trunk and shut the lid. Crouching in the suffocating dark, he sweated with fear. “Though this a heavenly angel,” he whispered, as the image of the sleeping Imogen lingered in his mind’s eye, “hell is here!” But he comforted himself with the thought that he had learned enough to persuade Posthumus that he had been admitted, not only to his wife’s bedchamber, but to her bed and her love. He would win the wager, if not by fair means, then by foul.

  Outside Imogen’s window, an admiring group was gathered.

  “Hark, hark, the lark at heaven’s gate sings,

  And Phoebus ’gins arise . . .”

  The voice was light and melodious, and the accompaniment sweet and true; but no Princess Imogen appeared at her window to smile upon the serenader. Prince Cloten scowled. He had gone to some expense to engage the musicians, having been advised that music in the morning would bring the lady to heel.

  “His steeds to water at those springs

  On chaliced flowers that lies . . .”

  warbled the singer; but still no Imogen.

  The two lords who waited on the Prince looked at one another. “That such a crafty devil as is his mother should yield the world this ass!” marvelled one; the other shrugged his shoulders; and the singer continued with his song.

  “And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes;

  With every thing that pretty is, my lady sweet, arise:

  Arise, arise!”

  She didn’t. Angrily Prince Cloten dismissed the musicians and his attendants. He had wasted his time and his money. But he was not yet at the end of his resources. He had great faith in the power of gold. He knocked on the door. A lady answered. “What’s your lordship’s pleasure?” she asked.

  “Your lady’s person,” said he, and gave her a golden coin. But his gift proved needless. Before the lady could depart, the Princess herself appeared. Once more Prince Cloten had wasted his money.

  “Good morrow, sir,” said Imogen, striving to keep her temper with the clumsy royal lout who kept pestering her with his hateful attentions. “You lay out too much pains for purchasing but trouble.”

  “Still I swear I love you!” cried the Prince, flinging wide his arms as if in expectation of the lady rushing into them. She did not. Nor did she give him any encouragement of any future rushing, save away from him.

  “You sin against obedience, which you owe your father,” he accused, changing the line of his attack. “For the contract you pretend with that base wretch, is no contract, none!” And he went on to abuse Posthumus in the vilest terms he could think of, concluding with, “The south-fog rot him!”

  “Profane fellow!” cried Imogen in a fury. “His meanest garment is dearer in my respect than all the hairs above thee!”

  Prince Cloten staggered back. “His garment?” he repeated, as if unable to believe his ears. He had never been so insulted in his life.

  While the Prince stood brooding on the outrage of his pride, Imogen summoned Pisanio. She had lost the golden bracelet from her arm. “Shrew me if I should lose it for a revenue of any king’s in Europe!” she said, with a troubled frown. It was Posthumus’s gift; it was her manacle of love.

  “ ’Twill not be lost,” Pisanio assured her; and went away to search for it, while Imogen shut her door.

  The sound of the door closing awoke Prince Cloten from his gloomy reverie. He looked up, saw the shut door, and scowled heavily.

  “I’ll be revenged!” he swore. Then the deadly insult returned to haunt him. “His meanest garment? Well!”

  In Philario’s house in Rome, the talk was of war. Britain, once conquered by Rome, had refused to pay her yearly tribute, and Rome threatened to send legions to demand it by force.

  Staunchly, Posthumus declared that his countrymen would never yield to Roman arms; but scarcely had he uttered the words than Iachimo, fresh from King Cymbeline’s court, entered the room to tell him that Britain, or the most precious part of it, had already yielded to a Roman conquest, and in a single night! The Italian had won the wager: Posthumus’s much-praised wife had fallen at the very first assault!

  Posthumus would not believe it. Iachimo was lying. He demanded proof. Iachimo shrugged his elegant shoulders. “First, her bedchamber,” he began; and went on to give so close an account of all its furnishings that Posthumus’s faith began to falter. Then he recovered himself. All that Iachimo had told him might easily have been got by hearsay.

  “Then if you can,” said Iachimo, with a smile, “be pale, I beg but leave to air this jewel.”

  Posthumus did indeed grow pale: Iachimo was holding out the golden bracelet that he himself had put on Imogen’s arm.

  “She stripped it from her arm,” murmured Iachimo, keenly observing the sudden anguish in Posthumus’s eyes. “She gave it me, and said she prized it once.”

  A flood of bitterness and anger rose up in Posthumus’s heart. “There, take thy hire,” he cried, casting the diamond ring down on the table, “and all the fiends of hell divide themselves between you!”

  “Have patience, sir,” urged Philario, “and take your ring again, ’tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it—”

  “If you seek for further satisfying,” interposed Iachimo, as Posthumus hesitated, “under her breast (worthy her pressing) lies a mole, right proud of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kissed it. You do remember this stain upon her?”

  “Ay,” whispered Posthumus, “and it doth confirm another stain, as big as hell can hold!”

  “Will you hear more?” asked Iachimo; but Posthumus had heard enough. Quietly, Iachimo slipped the diamond ring onto his finger and, together with Philario, left Posthumus seated at the table, with his head clutched in his hands, and tears running out and over his fingers, like silver rivers of despair.

  Presently, Posthumus raised his head, and displayed a face ravaged with rage and dismay. All love was changed to hatred; all tenderness to an iron-hard resolve. Like Prince Cloten before him, all he desired was to seek vengeance upon Imogen.

  There were writing materials on the table before him. Quickly, and with a trembling hand, he began to write two letters: one to his servant Pisanio, the other to his faithless wife.

  Lucius, a Roman general, had been dispatched to the court of Cymbeline to make a last demand for the tribute that was owing. He was met with bold defiance; and the lords who attended on the King were amazed to see how the prospect of saving money inspired even the crafty Queen and her stupid son with noble patriotism. “Why should we pay tribute?” demanded Prince Cloten, thrusting out his big chest in opposition to the Roman. “If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute!”

  The lords politely applauded him; but Lucius sighed and turned to the King. He was a courteous gentleman who had no personal quarrel with Cymbeline or his
people; but it was his duty to speak for the Emperor, his master. Sadly he pronounced that, in consequence of Cymbeline’s defiance, he must be prepared to face the fury of Rome’s mighty legions; Rome and Britain were now at war.

  The Emperor’s stern decree was not the only threat of bloody vengeance that had come from Rome: there had also been the letters from Posthumus.

  “O master, what a strange infection is fallen into thy ear!” whispered Pisanio, staring in horror and disbelief at what his master had written. Imogen was unfaithful! He, Pisanio, was ordered to murder her, and send a cloth, dipped in her blood, as proof that she was dead! The letter Posthumus had written to Imogen contained such news as would persuade her to give Pisanio the opportunity to kill her secretly.

  “O damned paper, black as the ink that’s on thee!” he cried in despair; and hastily concealed it as Imogen approached.

  “Madam,” he said, striving to hide his feelings, “here is a letter from my lord.”

  Eagerly she took the letter and broke the seal.

  Posthumus had written to tell her that he was in Wales, near Milford-Haven, and he begged her come to him there. “O for a horse with wings!” she cried, looking up from her letter. “Hear’st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford-Haven!” and, her words tumbling over one another with all the excitement of a birthday child, she demanded how far it was to Milford-Haven, how might she get there, when might she start—”Prithee speak, how many score of miles may we well ride ’twixt hour and hour?”

  “One score ’twixt sun and sun, Madam’s enough for you,” answered Pisanio, “and too much too,” he added under his breath. He turned aside, for he could no longer bear to see his mistress’s ardent longing to set out for the wild mountains of Wales, where her husband had planned that she should be murdered.

  “Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place was near at hand,” complained Imogen, growing more and more impatient to be at Milford-Haven and meet with Posthumus. She and Pisanio had travelled far. Already they had reached the wild and mountainous land of Wales. They had left their horses behind, for the path was steep and rocky, and fit only for goats and eager lovers . . . and murderers, thought Pisanio, as he followed his mistress with an aching heart.

  His master’s terrible command weighed on him like lead. It was crushing him. He could scarcely lift his eyes to look at Imogen.

  “Pisanio! man!” she demanded suddenly. “What is in thy mind that makes thee stare thus?”

  He bowed his head. He could no longer hide the truth from her. Silently, he gave her the murderous letter. He watched her read it. He watched her cheeks grow pale as her heart turned to ashes within her. “What shall I need to draw my sword,” he wondered wretchedly, “the paper hath cut her throat already!”

  Imogen looked up. Her world had perished; nothing remained to her but death. She spoke quietly to Pisanio. “Come, fellow, be thou honest, do thy master’s bidding.” He did not move. She reached towards him, and quickly drew his sword from its scabbard. She offered it to him. “Do his bidding,” she commanded, “strike!”

  He shrank back. “Come,” she urged him, “here’s my heart—” She began to tug at her gown, to make her breast an easier target for Pisanio’s sword. She frowned. There was a paper hidden there, a paper that she had treasured. It was Posthumus’s letter, breathing love. She flung it from her, as if it had been a viper at her breast. Pisanio bent to pick it up.

  “Where’s thy knife?” demanded Imogen. “Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding when I desire it too.”

  “O gracious lady!” wept the wretched Pisanio. “Since I received command to do this business I have not slept one wink.”

  “Do’t, and to bed then.”

  Violently he shook his head. Nothing would persuade him to harm his mistress. “Good lady, hear me with patience,” he pleaded, and unfolded a plan he had devised.

  First, she must disguise herself as a man. He had brought clothing with him for that very purpose. Then she must make her way to Milford-Haven where Lucius, the Roman general, was expected, and offer herself to him as a page. It was likely that he would take her with him to Rome—

  “Nay, be brief!” interrupted Imogen, her hopes reviving. “I see into thy end, and am almost a man already!” In Rome she would be able to discover how Posthumus had been deceived!

  Pisanio, thankful to see his mistress recover her spirits, breathed more easily. He told her that he would send word that she was dead; and her absence from the court would seem to confirm it.

  As he talked, and tried to tell her how to conduct herself as a man, he fumbled in his bag for the clothing. Suddenly his fingers encountered something he’d forgotten. It was the little box the Queen had given him. She’d told him it contained a drug that had many times saved the King’s life. “If you are sick at sea,” he said anxiously, thinking of the rolling, turbulent journey to Rome, “a dram of this will drive away distemper.” He gave it to her; and, bidding her change her garments without delay, bade her farewell. “May the gods direct you to the best!” he prayed; and set off for the court as swiftly as he could.

  He rode through day and night, fearful that his absence would be discovered and that he would be suspected of helping in Imogen’s flight. At last, he reached the palace, and was instantly greeted with the red-faced fury of Prince Cloten.

  “Villain, where is thy lady?” shouted the cheated lover, brandishing his fist before the alarmed Pisanio’s face. “Is she with Posthumus?”

  “Alas, my lord,” cried Pisanio, “how can she be with him? When was she missed? He is in Rome.”

  But the Prince was not to be put off. He blustered and raged and threatened Pisanio with death unless he confessed all he knew. Trembling for his life, Pisanio drew out the letter that Imogen had cast away, the letter that told of a meeting-place at Milford-Haven, and gave it to the Prince.

  While Cloten frowned and mouthed the words in his efforts to read—for he was an imperfect scholar—Pisanio reflected that by the time the fool would have reached Milford-Haven, Imogen would have gone.

  At length, having mastered the contents of the letter, Prince Cloten smiled grimly. “Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?” he asked. Pisanio nodded. He had the very suit that Posthumus had worn when last he’d taken leave of Imogen. “Fetch that suit hither,” commanded the Prince; and his smile grew broader.

  He had not forgotten the deadly insult that Imogen had offered him. She had said that Posthumus’s meanest garment was worth more than his entire person. Now he would be revenged. In the very clothing that she had so praised, he would go to Milford-Haven, kill Posthumus, and ravish her in the sight of her husband’s dead body.

  When Pisanio brought him Posthumus’s clothing, he straightway put it on and set out for Milford-Haven, and his revenge.

  Imogen was weary. Before Pisanio had left her, they had stood upon a mountain top, and he had shown her Milford-Haven, sparkling in the distance. Now it had vanished, and the mountains crowded round her, like quiet giants in the gathering mists. “I see a man’s life is a tedious one,” she sighed; for her man’s clothing had done less for her than her woman’s gown. “Two beggars told me I could not miss my way,” she remembered bitterly; and wondered how poor folk could tell such lies.

  She stumbled on, talking to herself to keep up her spirits, which were in danger of sinking into her manly boots; for every crouching bush alarmed her, and hunger was gnawing her to the very bone. Suddenly she paused. The way ahead had divided: one path led upward, the other towards a patch of blackness in the rock which, on closer inspection, proved to be the entrance to a cave.

  “Ho! who’s here?” she called out in a voice that, despite her best efforts at boldness, trembled with fear. There was no answer. She approached nearer, for there was a smell of food proceeding from the cave that drew her as irresistibly as a lover’s arms. “Best draw my sword,” she counselled herself; and, drawing from its scabbard that fearsome weapon that Pis
anio had left her with, and hoping it would frighten any possible enemy as much as it frightened her, she crept into the cave. “Such a foe!” she whispered, as she thought of her fearful, shaking self. “Good heavens!”

  Once within, the black opening through which she’d entered, was transformed into a patch of fading light, which revealed, dimly, the interior of the cave. It was furnished like a humble cottage. There were three beds, three stools, and a rough table on which were three dishes and a joint of cold cooked meat. With a cry of delight, and a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the gods for what they had provided, she fell upon the meat and ate it all up.

  She had scarcely swallowed down the last morsel, when terror seized her again. She heard voices outside, and the tramp of approaching feet! The inhabitants of the cave were coming home! From their talk, it was plain they were returning from hunting, and that they were hungry. “There is cold meat in the cave,” said one, “we’ll browse on that whilst what we have killed be cooked.”

  Miserably, Imogen looked at the table. She had finished their meal, right down to the bone. Suddenly, a shadow overwhelmed her. A head had appeared in the cave’s opening, a shaggy, bearded head, with fierce, astonished eyes. It vanished almost as abruptly as it had appeared, and she heard its owner tell his companions what he had seen: the empty dish, and herself.

  There was no help for it. She summoned up what shreds of courage there remained to her, and went outside to face the hunters whose home she had invaded, and whose dinner she had eaten. They stood before her: an old man, and two youths. At first glance, they were wild and savage enough to have killed and eaten her in place of the meal they’d lost; but at second glance, she thought she spied some hope.

  “Good masters, harm me not,” she begged timidly, and, holding out her hand with money in it, offered payment for what she’d eaten.