The Fool's Girl (22 page)

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22

‘More matter for a May morning’

There was no hope of an early start. The cart was left in the inn yard. The whole village was parading down the long main street, with drummers drumming and pipers piping to welcome in the merry morning of May. They were led by the Queen of the May, the prettiest girl in the village, crowned with flowers, borne shoulder high with her attendants around her. She was accompanied by Jack o’ the Green, a young man caged all in leaves. The Morris sides were out, their faces blacked, many-coloured ribbons fluttering on their tatter coats, bells jingling, kerchiefs waving, accompanied by hobby hoss and clown. Feste broke away to join them, greeted by shouts of welcome. Will led his company, joining in at the end of the procession to go to the celebrations round the Maypole on the green.

Violetta, still wearing the garland of flowers fashioned that morning, took Stephano’s hand and led him into the dance. The steps were simple, like the circle dances of their native land. Stephano cut an exotic figure in the intricate courtship of the dance. He had stripped off his doublet, and his fine cambric shirt billowed as he danced, showing glimpses of burnished, golden skin, so different from the poultry-white local boys. His long dark hair flew out as he turned, and his earring flashed. All the girls looked in his direction. Every maid, every matron, wanted a turn with him, but his gaze never left Violetta. He wove through the dancers with grace and energy, but his only aim was to return to her. She was his Queen of the May. None more beautiful would be crowned that day.

Ever the watcher, Will stood to one side, supping his ale, refusing all entreaties to join the dancers. He was impatient to get home, but he would let them dance yet awhile. It was a perfect day for it. No chilling rain, as in recent years, or rough winds to spoil the promised arrival of summer. He’d been wondering how young Tod would take the sudden appearance of a rival, but Violetta did not seem to have bruised his heart too much. One minute he was dancing with the Queen of the May; the next, Will saw them slipping away.

Stephano left them and they went on, a merry party. Some of the villagers were coming along with them to visit other towns and villages on the way to Stratford, the Queen of the May among them, riding on a pony, her crowning garland slightly askew. Not far to go now. Will felt his heart quicken in both dread and anticipation as he noted the landmarks that meant he was nearing home, crossing the Stour at Newbold, sighting the windmill above Alderminster. A few miles on, just off the road on the left, stood the lone boundary oak. Behind the antler-spread of its bare upper branches lay the long back of Meon Hill. Woods cloaked its slopes like a dark mantle. At the summit, a lone thorn tree stood stark against the sky. Another witches’ hill. It was several miles across country, but he could almost smell the smouldering embers of the Beltane fire that had blazed there last night.

It was late afternoon before they came to the bridge that would take them across the Avon into Stratford. The sun was bright, but Violetta shivered.

‘It is always cold down by the river,’ Will said to her as the cart began to rumble over the nine spans of the bridge.

He felt a chill of his own as boys left off fishing and messing on the bank and came to run alongside them, attracted by the painted wagon. He caught himself looking for his own lad, Hamnet, among them, although he’d have been too old to play by the river. He was eleven when he was taken by a sudden fever. He lay in Holy Trinity churchyard now, eleven for ever. There was a fair at the bridge foot and up Bridge Street. Will directed Tod along Waterside, up Sheep Street and into High Street. Chapel Lane would be too narrow for the cart.

New Place occupied the corner plot, opposite the Guild Church. It was an impressive building of brick and timber, built on three storeys with five gables. News of their arrival had already spread and Anne and his daughters were standing outside ready to greet them, with caps straightened and aprons hastily discarded. His wife was a tall woman, still handsome, with fine grey eyes. Her face was smooth, but lines of care and worry were beginning to show about her mouth and across her forehead. She was already casting an eye over the company, calculating how many beds they would need, how many mouths there would be to feed. Next to her stood two girls of about sixteen and eighteen; the younger was shorter in stature, with an open, pretty face. She darted forward to embrace her father as soon as he had dismounted. The older and taller of the two held back, looking on with her father’s dark eyes and watchful expression, waiting for her mother to make her husband welcome, as was seemly. Anne Shakespeare did not look to be a woman who wore her emotions for the world to see, but there was a tear in her eye as Will came forward and put his arms round his family. After a moment’s quiet, they were all talking at once, countering one question with another as they walked through the gate and to the door of the house. Violetta could barely look at them. No matter where she went or how far she travelled, she would never again feel a mother’s hand on her shoulder, a father’s arms gathering her into his embrace.

Violetta wandered the garden, shooed out of the kitchen by the other women. Maria was making herself useful, but Violetta was more hindrance than help. She had many talents, but cooking and sewing were not among them. Will had gone off to visit his father, who was sick, Mistress Anne said, and to see the town council, to seek permission to perform in the guildhall. He had known most of them since boyhood, so did not anticipate any problems with that. The company had repaired to the Bear. Mistress Anne was glad of that. She didn’t want players cluttering up the place, eating them out of house and home.

Mistress Anne told Violetta not to go out on her own. She did not know who this girl was, but there was more to her than Will was saying at the moment. He’d tell her in his good time, no doubt.

‘This is a small town,’ she’d said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘You’ll stick out like a jay in a flock of starlings. So no further than the garden gate.’

Mistress Anne had a frank way of speaking and a stern manner. Violetta had no intention of disobeying her. She looked round the garden. Mistress Anne had already started her planting. It was a fine plot, with sunny walls for vines and fruit trees. There was an orchard off to one side, with the apples and pears, cherries and plums all in blossom.

‘It’s a good garden and will come better.’ Mistress Anne had come out in search of herbs for the stew she was preparing. ‘Once the builders have gone.’ Half the land was trampled and piled with blocks of stone, stacks of bricks and lengths of timber. ‘No sooner do they finish one thing, then they find something else needs doing. I want Will to have a word with them. Here he comes now. Tell young Lambert,’ she said to her husband, ‘I want this lot cleared up and I want them out within the month.’

She went back into the house with her bunch of herbs. When Will had talked to the builder, he came back to Violetta. They walked about, Will asking her opinion on where they should have flower beds.

‘After I’d been to father’s house, I went to the Swan,’ he said as they walked from one part of the garden to another. ‘I found my old friends there. They welcomed me in, making room in their circle as if I’d never been away. We talked of this and that – they are important men in the town now and I had favours to ask – then Richard Quiney said, “I hear you travel with a princess from a foreign land and her clown. A droll little fellow, by all accounts.” I near choked on my ale.’

‘Who told him that?’ Violetta looked at Will, alarmed. ‘How could he know?’

Will shrugged. ‘News travels quicker than fire through straw round here. Some sparks fly east, some fly west, some down to London and some t’other way.’ Will had felt the town close round him. ‘No man’s business is his own in a place like this. Cecil’s spies have nothing on the good people of Stratford. I told them that there was a young woman who joined us for safety, travelling north to visit kin, but I don’t like it. I have to get you away.’ He was silent for a while, thinking. ‘When I come home, I like to go to the churchyard,’ he said. ‘Put some flowers on my lad Hamnet’s grave. Perhaps you would care to come with me? There’s someone there that I think you should meet.’

Violetta helped him pick flowers to make a posy. A graveyard was a strange place to meet someone. Who could this be?

They walked down a long avenue of limes towards an old woman sweeping winter leaves from the porch. She left off sweeping as they approached and leaned on her broomstick to watch.

‘Old Meg.’ Will nodded to her. ‘She sweeps the church porch and keeps the paths tidy. She’ll be over shortly. You’ll see.’

Will found the little mound that marked his son’s grave and bent down to lay his flowers.

‘He lies next to my sisters,’ he said, reaching out to pass a hand over the short growing grass that covered three other mounds. ‘They all died young.’

The graves were near the river, under the church elms. Will stood looking down at the brown swirling water. He was thinking about poor Kate Hamlett. She’d been in his mind lately, partly to do with the play he’d been writing. She’d drowned near here while gathering flowers, or that’s what the family put out, but they might well have said that to get her a Christian burial. The gossips whispered that she had drowned herself, in grief over a lost lover. Will saw her drifting, buoyed up by her billowing skirts, her hair spreading out, mixing with the weed, starred by the white flowers of crowsfoot, her posy slipping from her slackening grasp. Flowers of the water margin: daisies, white nettle, flag iris, purple loosestrife . . .

‘What are you thinking?’ Violetta looked at him.

He thought of her drowned mother, the bodies she’d seen floating in the harbour.

‘Nothing. A poet’s fancy,’ he said.

‘Master Shakespeare.’ A voice came from behind them. ‘Back from London. Who’s this young miss?’

‘This is Violetta.’ Will introduced her. ‘Meet Old Meg – she keeps the graveyard.’

‘Mother Margaret to you, Will Shakespeare. Let’s have a bit more respect.’ She turned to Violetta. ‘Not from round here, are you?’ She eyed the cimaruta around her neck, and her eyes sparked with recognition. ‘Long way from home, I’d say.’ She turned back to Will. ‘Your old man’s grievous sick, so I hear. Sexton will be making space for him before the leaves turn.’ She nodded to the plot that contained the other Shakespeare graves. ‘Damp down this part,’ she added. ‘Safer in the chancel.’ She nodded towards the church behind them. ‘Bones don’t last long out here.’

‘He won’t be planted in there,’ Will remarked. Only gentry and men of importance were buried inside the church.

‘He might not, maister, but you might be. Don’t touch him. He scratches,’ she said to Violetta as a grey-striped, hollow-sided, lop-eared cat began to rub himself about her legs. She looked up at Will. ‘What do you want then?’

‘I want a message taken to the lord and lady.’ He nodded towards Violetta. ‘I need their help.’

‘Don’t know if they’re about. Might have gone travelling. Could be anywhere from here to the Severn.’ Will gave her one coin, then another. ‘I’ll see what I can do. My cousin Janet and her lass Eliza, visiting from Balsall way, going back tomorrer. They might oblige.’

She nodded to two women who had sprung from nowhere. The girl regarded them boldly, with large black eyes. She was one of them, learning the craft. They weren’t all old hags.

‘We’ll let you know.’

Old Meg hobbled off, her silent companions in attendance, followed by the brindled cat.

‘Who are these people you want to get a message to?’ Violetta asked.