*Father,' he started, *I beg you . . .'

He made a good start, I grant you. Son begging a father. They all like that.

*I beseech you . . .'

Beseeching? Even better.

*Have mercy . . .'

This is where it began to go wrong. Sebastian never had mercy on anyone.

*. . . on the people of this city . . .'

Sebastian's face began to colour. As if that was likely to happen. Considering the slights against him, all the times he had been ignored.

*Stop the sacking or you will have nothing left, no people to rule.'

There was truth in that. Sebastian relaxed a bit, or at least the blood stopped beating in his temple quite so hard.

*That is what I am trying to do. As you would know, if you had not run off to hide like a cowardly child.'

The young captain who had escorted us smirked. That was unfair. Stephano was as battered, besmirched and battle weary as any there.

*I did my share,' Stephano said, but his father wasn't listening.

*Ran off to see her, I'll warrant!' He pointed at Violetta. *I know what's been going on between you. Paddling palms in church. My own son consorting with the enemy. I should banish you as a coward and a traitor. You are no son of mine.'

*Disown me if you like,' Stephano said. *Banish me a" I'd welcome it. I only have one thing to ask of you.' The boy linked hands with Violetta. She smiled and nodded, encouraging him, as though they might have made this up together, stupid children that they were. *I ask only that, whatever our fate, we share it together. We will go away, far from here. We will never return. I give my word.'

That was a big mistake. Whatever they wanted, Sebastian would do the opposite, just because they wanted it. Surely the boy knew that? I wished I could have collected his words as they spilled and stuffed them back into his mouth.

Sebastian did not explode with rage. He spent a long time, as if considering, but that vein was pulsing in his temple again and the knuckles were white on his clenching fist.

*Your word? What is that worth? I have plans for her, and of one thing you can be very sure: you will never see her again. Her fate is decided. She is to be sold into slavery. I already have a buyer.'

*Father!' Stephano stepped towards him. *You can't do that! She's a duke's daughter and your own niece, your sister's child!'

He looked around, as if others would support him in his pleading, but they'd all turned away.

Lord Sebastian continued as if his son had not spoken.

*You will go into the service of Sale Reis, the Barbary corsair.' He indicated the man standing by his side. *He can do with you what he likes: galley slave or catamite. It is of no concern to me. I do not know from whose loins you sprang, but you are no son of mine.'

Stephano didn't lack for bravery. He leaped forward to defend his mother's name, grabbing the Turkish dagger from the table. He had it at his father's throat, the needle point p.r.i.c.king through the skin. Sebastian swallowed, bright blood trickling past his Adam's apple. The boy should have jammed the knife right in and ripped through his windpipe, but he couldn't do it, and then Sale Reis had the knife.

*To kill a father is a grievous sin in any man's religion,' the corsair said. *You do not want such a crime on your conscience.'

He was a big man, the dagger looked like a toy in his hand, but he had struck quicker than a snake to force Stephano's hand down. He smiled, his gapped teeth white against his swarthy skin, his glossy beard touched with henna. He wore a white turban and was swathed in robes in the manner of his people. He put the dagger back down on to the table. In case there was any more trouble, he rested his hand lightly on the short curved sword stuck into his sash.

Sebastian ordered the guards to seize his son, but Sale Reis put up his hand.

*He is mine now. I've lost many fine men. I need all I can get. What about the other one?' He nodded towards Guido. *What's your name, boy?'

*Guido Ad Romano, of Pavia.' The boy spoke up with courage and dignity.

*He will be hanged.' Sebastian turned to the guards. *Take him away!'

*You can't do that!' Stephano shouted. *He's a n.o.bleman's son.'

*I can do what I like.' Sebastian's lips stretched into a smile. He dabbed at the blood on his neck with a kerchief. One victim was better than none.

*I will take him too, if I may. As I said, I have lost many men in your service.' Sale Reis bowed slightly, as if in deference, but it was clear that Sebastian was in his debt.

*Very well. Take them.' Sebastian looked cheated, then he saw Violetta.

*Your father, the Tyrant Duke, is dead,' he said to her, his tone as curt and dismissive as if she were a kitchen maid. *He was killed in the fighting, which is unfortunate. I'd have had him blinded and hung outside his own tower for all to see, left there to starve to death. I could take your life as forfeit for his, but I have been prevailed upon to be merciful. You are sold into slavery. Meet your new master.'

A man stepped out from the shadows. It was sixteen years since I had last seen him, but I would have known him anywhere. He's got spindle sticks for legs and walks as if someone's stuck a stave up his a.r.s.e. Age had not improved his beauty. His goose-green eyes, once popping out of his head, were now sunk into little hammocks of flesh. His long upper lip curled back to show teeth a deeper shade of yellow and even more bucked than I remembered. His long face had grown pendulous and wattled; his hair seemed to have migrated from his head to eyebrows, ears and nostrils. I hardly had time to look at his face. I could not keep my eyes away from the great crucifix that hung at his chest. He had become a priest a" by the size of the cross, and the blackness of his robes, a Jesuit at least. He had found his true vocation. I almost put up two fingers in benediction. He moved with stately dignity, as befitted his station, and I smothered a smile. Monsignor Malvolio. And it got better. The Lady Francesca, whom everyone took for Sebastian's wh.o.r.e, was hanging on his arm, simpering up at him, her pale blue eyes bulging with fawning admiration.

In the old days, what a gift for fooling it would have been. These were not the old days, and this was no time to laugh, but sometimes solemnity only worsens the thing, just as a man on the gallows might notice a bubble of snot in the nose of the hangman, or a gob of egg on his chin. The desire grows until it can no longer be controlled. Every time I looked at him, I could see Sir Toby and Maria. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my cheek; I tried to think of other things. He was speaking now. Below his long nose, his upper lip quivered like the tip of an oliphant's trunk. I couldn't listen. Soon the tears were leaking and I was shaking. The laughter backed up until I could hold it no longer; I had to let it out or my bladder would give way. Sometimes laughter spreads like a contagion, with no man knowing quite why he is joining in. So it was now. My laughter spread through the hall like a quick-running fire, until all were roaring, except for Sebastian and Malvolio.

*What ails you, man?' Malvolio was shouting at me through the din. *Have you lost your wits?'

*Aye, I fear so, master. I'm a Fool!'

The laughter redoubled even though, as jokes go, it was in every way feeble. After laughing at nothing, men will find anything funny.

*Feste! You always were a barren rascal,' Malvolio snarled. *Amusing n.o.body but yourself!'

Robbed of speech, I gestured round at the laughter.

*You never made me laugh!'

*Quite so, my master,' I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. *Even the G.o.d of Laughter could not do that.'

*Enough of this roar!' Sebastian shouted through the noise, hammering on the table. *You!' He pointed at me. *We'll see how funny you can be when you are chained to an oar night and day. Get them out of here!'

The laughter died in my throat as Malvolio put out his long white hand to claim Violetta.

My lady was not his only prize. Venetian sailors and Uskok pirates were bringing in booty to be tallied and portioned. It looked like they were taking all the wealth of Illyria, and Sebastian did nothing to stop them. This was their share. Their help had come at a price. These were G.o.dless men. They handled crucifixes, gold crosses, jewelled Bibles and precious icons as if they were sticks of furniture. A Venetian captain came in bearing the most precious relic of all, the Cup of the Magi. This was not added to the other plunder from the cathedral. He brought it straight to Malvolio, who took it into his charge.

10.

*This fellow is wise enough to play the fool'

Violetta stood up and began pacing the small room. Recounting the story had made her restless, agitated, reminding her of how far they were from their purpose.

*That's the reason we are here. Feste and I escaped from our different captivities and we have been following this man, Malvolio, ever since. He is here and he has our precious relic in his possession. He stole it from us.' She turned to Will. *You must understand. The relic is Illyria. The country grew from the city, and the relic was the reason for our city's foundation. Since my father is dead, I am the rightful ruler. I have vowed to return it, for without it our country does not exist.'

*But what do you want from me?' Will frowned, puzzled. *You set yourself up in my way. You engage me in conversation. You tell me your story. Then there is this.' He picked up the Fool card from the table. *You insinuate it into a note telling me that we are in want of a clown . . .'

Time was running on. He needed to get back to the playhouse, with or without Feste. He felt the stirrings of annoyance. He was beginning to wish he had never set eyes on them. He did not like to be picked out in this way, selected and targeted like one of the marks that they tricked at cards.

*You talked to us, master,' Feste said. *Not t'other way about. If you don't want me to help you . . .' He threw the scroll he had been studying down on the table.

*Hush, Feste.' Violetta glared at him. *There is no point in pretending any longer.' She turned to Will. *We did deliberately put ourselves in your way. If we could get you to stop and watch, then we would have a chance to engage you, tell you our story, and you might be willing to help us.'

*But how, mistress?' Will's frown deepened. *You still have not told me.'

*We have been watching Malvolio,' she said, her expression intense. *We know he stays in the house of the Venetian Amba.s.sador, north of the river. Near the Strand. We thought, I thought, that your company might perform there, and if they did, we could come with you. Then, when the audience was occupied with the play, we could steal the relic back.'

The words came out all in a rush. Violetta looked at him, her blue eyes anxious, searching for his reaction. Will stared back. Of all the things he thought she might say, he had not been expecting that. He would have laughed, if the girl had not been in such dead earnest. Such a thing was impossible. His company had to be invited to perform. They could not just set up in a great house as if it were an inn yard. An instant refusal sprang to his mouth, but he bit it back. She was young and very beautiful, but she had used no feminine guile to win him to this. Quite the opposite. She believed in her cause, the rightness of it. Her belief that others would see it came from her youth, but also her station. Despite the darns in her sleeves and the ragged hem of her faded blue dress, she was a d.u.c.h.ess. Will could not meet her expectant eyes. The clown's face was already twisting into a cynical smile. He knew that Will would refuse. Likely knew that such a thing was not in his power, but Feste had protected her, kept the truth away from her, lest it crush the little hope that she had left. He looked from Feste to where Maria sat, hunched up on her little stool, the only real stick of furniture in the room. Bright hope was fading in her eyes too; her face was falling back into its tired, sad lines as she looked to the room where her man lay dying.

*You are very silent, sir,' Violetta said at last.

*I'm thinking.' Will looked up at her.

*And what are you thinking?'

He sighed. *That what you suggest is beyond my power.'

He had thought to be angry with them for presuming too far, for trying to trap him into helping them. Now that anger was fast turning to pity. Violetta saw it in his deep brown eyes that took in so much and gave so little away. She fought hard to hide her disappointment from him. She would not plead and she would not beg. Pride was all she had left. She would give it up for no man. Everything else had been taken from her. If he would not help them, so be it. They would find another way. But whatever happened, they would fulfil their part of the bargain. It was a matter of honour.

*Very well.' Violetta tried to smile and smooth her features. *I think Feste has the part now, Master Shakespeare. It is time we went to the playhouse.'

She led the way down the stairs. Will followed. He recognised all she had tried to hide. Her mask of affected indifference was as thin and brittle as gla.s.s. He might have been wis.h.i.+ng that he had never set eyes on her, but at that moment she won his heart.

Richard Burbage, actor and theatre owner, was standing in s.h.i.+rtsleeves shouting directions up at the stage.

*No, not there! To the right! That's left!'

Someone dropped something, which fell from the height of the theatre and landed in the pit, puffing up dust and scattering nutsh.e.l.ls. Three storeys up, the hammering and sawing stopped momentarily as the carpenters looked over to see if the fallen mallet had hit anybody or done any damage. Then it started up again. In the theatre, there was always something that needed doing: thatch replacing, holes patching, benches repairing, loose planks hammering back into place. Everyone shouted over the noise, adding to the din. The only time it was really quiet was in performance.

*I've found a new clown.'

Will brought Feste forward for inspection. Richard Burbage owned a lion's share of the theatre and felt losses keenly as pennies falling from his own pocket. If audiences were disappointed, they went elsewhere. Compet.i.tion was sharp, with two theatres within throwing distance, not to mention the bear garden.

*Good, that's good, Will.' He wrinkled his high forehead and pushed a hand through his thinning sandy hair. *Because until two minutes past, I thought you'd have to do it.' He looked at his playmaker and laughed. *You may be many things, but a clown isn't one of them.' He turned his bright brown eyes to Feste. *Is he any good? Will I have seen him in anything? His face looks familiar, but I don't recall from where. Who have you worked for, fellow? What company? Does he talk?'

*He hasn't worked here.' Will spoke for Feste. *He's a stranger. I found him performing in the street over by St Mary Overie.'

*That's where I've seen him. Juggling with chairs and such?' Feste nodded. Burbage turned from him to Will. *Are you out of your wits? We'll have the Revels Office down on us in a trice. Now, I've got a performance to stage.' He was already walking away.

*He's good!' Will followed after him. *He can do it. I swear it!'

*How can he?' Burbage turned back with an exaggerated sigh. *He can't have had time to learn it properly. Anyway, he's a foreigner! I'm not even sure it's legal. And who's this?' His eyes fell on Violetta. *What's she doing here? A playhouse before performance is no place for a woman. Get them out of here!'

*Wait, Richard. He's good, I promise! What's the harm?'

Feste left the two men arguing and pulled himself up on the stage. He was small, thin as a starved hound, but very strong. He scampered about, reciting s.n.a.t.c.hes of the play in different voices, peopling the stage with Rosalind and her cousin Celia; Touchstone himself, the banished Duke and his court, using Burbage's jaded, world-weary tone for the melancholy Jaques. Actors emerged from the tiring house to watch, led by Tod with a long blonde wig in his hand, his face already whitened for Rosalind. They stood about the margins and watched the little man leaping from place to place on the stage. When he finished with a curtsy, they let up a roar, clapping and stamping and shouting for more. Burbage joined in, wiping tears from his eyes.

*He's hired!' Burbage could already hear the money pouring in. *I've never laughed so much at one of your plays or seen one acted so lively. What's his name?'

*Feste.'

*Well, Mister Feste,' Burbage said as the clown jumped down from the stage, *let me shake you by the hand and welcome you into the company. Someone take Mister Feste and put him in Touchstone's motley. No foreign tricks, mind,' he said to Feste. *No tumbling or that kind of carry-on. Just stick to the play.'

Will took Violetta up to one of the small side galleries reserved for wealthy patrons.

*I'll make sure it's roped off,' he said. *You can watch the performance in peace from here. The crowd too. They are sometimes more interesting than what is happening onstage.'

He left her then, promising to be back when the performance began. The trumpets rang out above her and the place started to fill up with people. First a few, standing about in groups in the pit, dotted along the benches in the circling galleries, then more and more poured in until there were no s.p.a.ces left. The ground was a solid ma.s.s of heads. All the galleries were filled.

Will returned just as the crowd was beginning to quieten. He did not speak, other than to utter a cursory greeting, but sat hunched forward, gnawing at his thumbnail, watching the audience. Violetta was waiting with as much antic.i.p.ation as anyone. She welcomed any diversion from her own thoughts as they turned and twisted, meeting dead end after dead end. Something will turn up. That's what Feste always said. Just put one foot after another. But what if it did not? She was glad to turn away from it all, if only for a little while, and lose herself in the world of the play.

The crowd was taking a time to settle. There was a disturbance in the upper galleries. People turned to stare as two young men, richly dressed in the Italian style, made their way late to their seats. They were sitting directly opposite Violetta.

Violetta sat forward, her attention momentarily drawn away from the jutting stage. There was something familiar about the men, but she was too far away to see their faces. They both wore beards and their hats shaded their eyes. Her gaze lingered on them for a moment. Could it be? Her heart beat harder and she half rose from her seat but then sank back, dismissing the possibility. This had happened before. On crowded streets, busy docks, in marketplaces, she'd thought to catch a glimpse of him, but had always been disappointed. Fancy supplies the face we want to see.

The actors took to the stage and Violetta watched the opening scene, but every now and then her eyes strayed to the strangers in the upper gallery. When Feste came on to the stage, the smaller of the two young men nudged the other. He pointed and they both stared down, caught by more than the clown's words. The taller man looked up, his eyes searching the galleries, going through them row by row, studying each face carefully. His gaze stopped when he came to Violetta.

Will leaned forward, the girl's presence forgotten for the moment, his lips moving silently as other men spoke his words to the world. He always felt the same mixture of dread and desire when the actors took to the stage. The play became a greater and a lesser thing. It no longer belonged to him, but to the actors and the audience. He had no power, no control over what would happen.

Equally, he knew almost straight away whether it was going to go well or ill. There was an air of expectancy. All talk ceased. Vendors were ignored. People were too busy with the play to concern themselves with nuts and fruit, bottles of beer. This was going to be a good performance. He knew as soon as Feste walked on to the stage. He seemed to know how Will wanted this played. His wit and energy spread to the others like quick running fire, spilling from the stage so the groundlings stopped thinking about the ache in their legs or the rain beginning to fall and the people up in the galleries stopped signalling to friends or flirting with the ladies present. They ceased to notice the need of a cus.h.i.+on, or the lack of a back to the benches, or the hardness of the seats, because they were no longer in the theatre at all; they were in the Forest of Arden.

The performance was fast, funny to the last. Even Will found himself laughing. Something that almost never happened. He left the box when Tod began his Epilogue, knowing that they would call for him. He was standing at the side of the stage when the final word was spoken. There was a moment of silence when the audience seemed to wake from a dream they had all been sharing. After that came the roar, a wave of applause that rose from all sides and crashed on to the stage. The actors looked at each other and smiled. They took hands and bowed. The crowd shouted for the clown and they shouted for Rosalind and Celia, they shouted for the Duke, they shouted for Will and then they shouted for the clown again. The actors took bow after bow, the greasepaint running down their grinning faces, while the crowd roared and cheered, whistled and stamped. Then the jigs began. Will joined in, grasping his actors' sweating hands, as the crowd danced about the yard to the sound of fiddle, sackbut, flute and recorder. Feste pranced like an imp, playing on a short bone flute, keeping time on a tabor.

Violetta did not see them take their final bows. Just as the play was ending, one of the young men in the opposite gallery had signalled across to her. They met in the pa.s.sage that ran along the back of the galleries. Violetta looked from one to the other, studying their faces, measuring the changes. Stephano smiled, his teeth showing white against the fine growth of his beard, and Guido laughed, shaking back his long curly hair. She embraced them both, holding them to her. They were taller than her now and she could feel hard muscle under the velvet of their doublets. Guido stepped back but Stephano could not let her go. He pushed away a wing of hair in order to see her face better, as if to be sure that it was really her. He tucked the stray lock behind her ear and his fingers travelled to her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, dropping to the whiteness of her throat, as if he needed to touch her skin, find it warm, feel the beating of her blood. Then he tipped her face up to his and he kissed her. Violetta's heart s.h.i.+fted inside her. The applause from the crowd rose up and roared around them, bouncing from side to side and all about, but in that moment they were utterly alone.

She linked arms with the two of them, just as she had done in Illyria, as they went down the stairs and out of the Globe.

Will returned to Violetta in a high good humour, but the gallery was empty. She was no longer there. He glanced into the pit, thinking she might have gone down there to wait for Feste. The clown was still on stage, jumping about, but there was no sign of the girl. Will shouldered his way down the stairs and out into the open, thinking to find her among those streaming out of the playhouse, but he was quickly recognised and captured by the crowd: shaking hands, being clapped on the back while he nodded his thanks at the praise showering down on him. He thought he caught a glimpse of her, arm in arm with two young men going towards the river, but the press was too great to chase after her and he had other claims on his time.

He went back into the playhouse wondering who the young men might be. He didn't know she had any friends here, apart from Maria and Sir Toby. But what did he know about this girl? She kept much of herself hidden, like those ice islands said to float in northern seas. If the girl had chosen to make off with mysterious young men, then so be it. He went to collect the script. There were changes he wanted to make. What she wanted from him was impossible. His imagination was great, none greater. He could make cities, whole countries; people those with kings and princes, n.o.bles and commoners. He could make the past live again, could create worlds that had never been, but he had been unable to think of one single way in which he could help this girl.

He began to wish again that he had never crossed paths with them. It was not fair to lay this thing upon him. People had an exaggerated idea of what he could do in the world. He was a player, no more than that. His influence was confined to the wooden walls of the Globe. Any power outside of that was as counterfeit as actors' finery.

He could do nothing. That should be an end, and yet, even if he got his wish and never saw her again, he knew that he would not be able to stop thinking about her, gnawing at her problem as he gnawed his nails. She was young, younger than his own Susannah. Not that his daughter was likely to stir out of Stratford, but if she did . . . Life was precarious: death, disease, loss of fortune could tip the most ordered existence into chaos. Who knew what disaster could yet occur to force her to leave her home, to live among strangers? If that were to happen, he'd like to think that there were those who would offer what help they could give.

He went in search of the clown.