Act III

 

 

The backstreets of Apollonia.

 

The echo of a hundred accents and languages sound here even in wartime. The voices of sailors and merchants, hurrying to their beds as night draws on, cries of street vendors, distant music from taverns, the ringing of the watchman’s bell. The air throngs with the sounds of a hundred vices and depravities, such that only the vilest specimens of mankind would frequent such a place.

 

Enter PAROLLES.

 

 

ALL NATIONS HAVE their ports, but all ports in their way belong to one nation. Parolles had seen enough of them, now, to find his way in any of them. His Rousillon grey he’d disguised under a cloak donated by an incautious laundress.

About abandoning Helena, he felt no guilt. They had never been friends, and Parolles was only on this embassy in her company because her husband suspected her virtue. The idea that Helena might be unfaithful would be plausible to anyone, Parolles thought, who did not know her. She was comely enough, and she and her lord could barely stay in the same room as one another anymore. She was too cold to find a new love, though, Parolles guessed—and too unwilling to have another man meddle in her affairs. Even the King of France, whose life she had saved, had begun to fear her. The perfect emissary, therefore, to wizard Prospero.

There had been a time, back before she was either married, important or powerful, when she and Parolles had been able to exchange civil words. She’d had a keen wit on her, back then. The thought of that had almost given him pause as he fled. But then the witch-storm had been close, and his courage was a quality more boasted about than evidenced.

So let her fight it out with the Scot’s witches. Parolles had other priorities. Ever since he had discovered the shore on which they had been cast up, his thoughts had been of treasure. Despite Helena’s caveat, in this one thing he was truthful. A man—a man in a tavern, admittedly—had indeed prophesied he should find a treasure should he find himself on Illyrian soil.

He had certain particulars, vouchsafed by the same man—and he had read some books and heard some tales. The idea of Parolles engaged in research would no doubt have made Helena laugh him to scorn, but wealth and power were a strong goad. Parolles felt he had been hanger-on for long enough.

“And, when I am lord and others came to beg, I’ll make them crawl and flatter,” he swore to himself. He had just left his third tavern, buying drinks from another man’s purloined purse and asking covert questions. So far, all word led the same way—a daunting way, truly, but Parolles felt himself nothing if not resourceful. “And those who mocked me—all those false friends who spurned me—well, they shall come to me and feign their friendship anew, and perhaps I shall not deign to recognise them, or I shall set them tests of loyalty.” This was sounding good. “‘Mercy, Great Parolles!’ they’ll cry. ‘We always saw the star of greatness in you, but were misled!’ and I’ll say—” But just what Parolles would have said to those hypothetical supplicants was lost when someone stepped up behind him and thrust a bag over his head.

He squawked in fright, but there were arms about his, and a low voice whispered, “Quiet, or your next sound is your last,” in a guttural accent. Obediently, imagining a world of knives beyond the darkness of the bag, Parolles went limp and let himself be led.

They took him some place enclosed, that reeked of animal—a stables was his guess—and there set him down on a barrel top. One man held his arms, and he tensed for a blow, but what he heard was a rapid foreign gabble, strongly accented and utterly unintelligible. His carefully constructed story about sympathy to the Illyrian cause fell apart in his mind. Some rogues of a country far further afield had apparently got hold of him.

“Gentle lords, please,” he got out, his voice muffled by the bag. “Are you Turks? For I do hear the Sublime Porte is in alliance with Ilyrria—”

“Not Turkishmen,” said the fierce voice that had spoken to him before. “Know you not the tones of Muscovy?”

Parolles racked his brains and failed to find any reason why a party of Russians should have swiped him off the streets of Apollonia. “Then, gentlemen of Muscovy, pray tell...?”

Again that babble, that now came to him on a cold wind all the way from the steppe—no doubt the magnate of these Tartars giving instructions to his interpreter.

“Pray tell you tell us, Sieur French, what cause you have to skulk about this town,” the voice whispered in his ear. Parolles pictured sabres half-drawn, wanting only a mis-spoken word to find his flesh.

“Please, sirs, if you but spare me,” he got out, “I can make you rich! There is a treasure here within this town, was promised me by a man—some gambling fellow, some drunken fellow, but very sage nonetheless; some rosbif braggart, Will of Stratford his name. Spare me slavery or death, and I shall lead you to it.”

More gabble, and then the interpreter was at his elbow once again. “Why, Sieur French, you are so generous. What is this treasure of which you speak?”

“The treasure that divides the world, the knife that ransoms nations,” Parolles trotted out. “So the fellow said. I thought him mad, but he assured me that there was a thing, a simple blade, that all the powers of Europe would empty their coffers for. Please, my friends, if wealth can move you, will you not be moved by wealth such as that?”

“A knife...?” And if the voice at his ear had somewhat less of an accent for a moment, Parolles failed to mark it.

“I know, I know, and I was wroth with him for playing me and trying to settle his stake with idle fancy, but he swore on it, and powerful convincing he was! A knife, a magic knife that can sway destinies, and here in Illyria waiting for me to claim it!”

“Stay put, Sieur French,” the Muscovite told him, and then the three of them retired off and muttered together, a sinister buzz of conspiracy just past his ability to eavesdrop on. He might have reached up and taken off the bag, then, and bolted for the door—except perhaps there were another three Russians between him and freedom, and no doubt they’d be unamused with the attempt. He sat tight, and prayed that greed would quell even the legendary bloodthirstiness of Muscovy.

“Sieur French.” The interpreter was at his ear once more. “You did not come alone, on this hunt of yours. We know others were spared from the wreck. What of them?”

“I cast them off!” Parolles assured them hurriedly. “An anchor to my ambitions, no more. What were they but a witch of a woman with a heart of stone, two haughty boasting Spaniards whose talk ever outstripped their skill, a beardless boy so rustic that he prizes his wife as a wrestler, and a dotard greybeard overflowing with bad simile. I left them in the woods to quibble with the witches and the Illyrians. Do you want them? I shall lead them to you, or you to them, only please”—and he felt the interpreter grip the bag as though about to twist the edge of it like a noose about his neck—“please spare me, spare poor Parolles and he shall be your servant always.”

And then the bag was off, and Parolles’ fear-wide eyes stared into the cheery face of Ganymede, and beyond him Benedick and Jacques. In that moment, his mind served him up a dozen different stories that might have cleared him of blame—how he had only been going along with his kidnappers to stall them, and would have tricked them or trapped them, or... But instead he hung his head in utter despair at himself.

“Not again,” he got out. “How many times will I fall for this one trick?”

“No bold words, valiant Parolles?” Benedick asked him. “Perhaps you wish to slight my skill again?”

“No, sir,” Parolles mumbled.

“Or will you lead us to ourselves? Betray us to ourselves, perhaps?” Ganymede put in.

“Or shall the knave cast the name of ‘fool’ upon the learned?” Jacques asked archly.

“For you, old man, I know only shame that you should disgrace your grey beard by playing bibble-babbler in this mummer’s show,” Parolles told him hotly.

“What ignorant men shall call a babble, learned men shall know as the most exquisite tongue of Muscovy,” Jacques told him frostily.

“And have you now no boasts of how you abandoned Helena and John?” Benedick put in.

“Helena has no use for me or you or any mortal man anymore,” Parolles said bitterly, “and as for your countryman, he abandoned us first into the very arms of the enemy. It was as though he wanted to be caught.”

All Benedick’s mockery vanished with the news. “Tell me everything,” he said flatly.

“And tell us more about this magic knife,” Ganymede added. He was plainly intrigued, and Parolles marked that. I can use you, lad. I can always use a naïve boy who listens to stories.

 

 

A tavern.

 

Raucous with the sound of merriment, the clink and slosh of tankards, the air hazy with smoke and fumes, the alcohol strong enough to make the eyes water. In the shadows, just out of sight, fortunes are being won and lost. In all, just the place where foreign visitors might come, if seeking news of a magical treasure.

 

Enter VIOLA and FESTE, disguised.

 

 

VIOLA CAST A sharp eye about the taproom. “I don’t see them yet. But if they keep their course they’ll end up here sure enough. Four foreigners, some say French and some say Russians, but asking curious questions—aye, of the garrison and prisoners there, but other matters too. And not of barkeeps or ship’s masters, but of pox doctors and threadbare street magicians and wise women. So, let us be what they seek, and perhaps they’ll tell us what they’re after.” She was attired as a man still, but had supplemented her doublet and hose with spectacles and a scholar’s robe. Feste, for his part, had the hooks of a luxurious false beard over his ears and a divine’s cassock over his uniform.

“I shall be Edward Kelly, alchemist and speaker with spirits,” Viola decided.

“Father Topaz, I,” Feste said, in a broad country accent.

Viola gave him a look. “Again with Father Topaz?”

“Why, and sure as the sun breeds worms in milk, those who dwelleth in the dark mire of ignorance seek only the light of the church cast to illuminate their problems.” Feste chewed his beard and made a vague benediction, then, in a sharper voice, he said, “But attend: they’re here.”

Viola watched the quartet of foreigners duck in: an old man who could have been Father Topaz’s close cousin in beard-chewing, a swaggerer, a well-made nobleman and a youth with a bow over his shoulder. The ancient was already heading for the fire to warm his bones, whilst the noble jostled his way towards the barkeep. The other two glanced around and, of course, bespied the learned-seeming pair at their corner table.

“Save you, masters,” the foreign boy called out. “Pray, let youth and ignorance buy age and learning a drink.”

“Why,” Feste broke in before Viola could stop him, “the blessings of Saint Quinculencus upon you, generous swain! For all too oft we men of craft and lore, who hold within our hands the—”

“You are most kind,” Viola spoke over him. “And pray, will you not join us, who has such respect for learning?”

They passed some moments exchanging compliments, then sent the noble Spaniard off for more mugs, consigning him to the seven-deep scrum about the tapster. Viola let Feste ramble, watching the two foreigners try to follow his baffling loops of logic. At last she said, “Aye, we two are belike the foremost men of learning in all Illyria, and yet you see how fortune treats us! I myself have converse with angels and airy spirits most nights, and have studied with no lesser man than Doctor Dee, while Father Topaz has honed his craft in the invisible college of Veruccoporcus and conjured the stone philosophical. It has been many a cold week since last a stranger showed kindness to two poor scholars such as we. So, tell us, how may we recompense you?”

The youth was about to say something cautious, no doubt, but his swaggering soldier friend broke in eagerly. “Well, if you’ll pay us back the respect we give you, wise friends, perhaps you’ll assist us in settling an argument of ours? For this young strip, he says—and it chimes well with your own words—that Illyria’s no place for magician nor conjurer, for the place is barren as a desert for those of learning such as yours. But I, masters, have heard tales of marvels to be found in Illyria that all the world would envy. Why, amongst so many, let me name only a knife, which they say would sunder nations, a singular blade of potency unquestioned. Am I right to place faith in such rumours?”

“Faith, sir, ’tis clear as night you’re a fellow with ears so open there’s space b’tween them,” Feste rambled hurriedly, for Viola had gone very still. I came in with a fool and now I have found a whole pack of clowns. Is it that they’re after, the madmen? She cast a glance around for the other two. The Spaniard was still trying to purchase more drinks, and the old man seemed to have nodded off.

“I know the thing you speak of,” she said softly, a touch to the elbow silencing Feste’s incoherent exposition. “It is not of Illyria, but I know well it is in Illyria this very moment. But you are fools to seek it for, whilst it has wandered from time to time, you’ll find it now back in the hands of its first master.”

“Who might that master be?” the youth asked her, Viola’s grim manner beginning to infect him.

“His name is not spoken; men call him only by the country he once ruled. And the blade you seek was the instrument of his ascent. With that knife, which came to him from who knows what infernal forge, he united murder and betrayal in a stroke. So that’s your goal: the Scottish Blade?”

“You mean Macbeth?” the soldier drawled.

Swift as a serpent, Viola lashed out and rammed a knife into the tabletop, pinning the man’s sleeve to the wood. She had another knife out in an instant, holding it before their faces, while Feste was out and around the table, boxing them in.

“In the name of Orsino, Duke of Illyria, I arrest you,” Viola declared. “And if you have the wits you were born with, do not speak that name again!”

While the soldier cursed and scrabbled at the point that pinned him, the youth kicked backwards, ramming an elbow into Feste’s chest and shouting, “Benedick!” Viola made to threaten the boy with the knife but, even as she did so, she registered how very dark the taproom had become. Dark and cold, and smelling of the tomb.

“You imbecile!” she spat into the face of the soldier, who stared at her, slack-jawed.

The revellers were abruptly clearing a space in the room’s centre, for a figure stood there in armour of five centuries before, holding a great pitted blade two-handed before him. Sunken eyes beneath the lip of an antique helm searched the room.

“Who spoke my name?” demanded the Scot.

“Feck, i’faith,” Feste muttered, ripping Topaz’s beard off. “We are all the fool now.”

Viola looked the foreign youth full in the face, mind racing. The Scot was approaching them, and what he might do to these two lackwits was anyone’s guess. She had no particular regard for the soldier, but the boy... he was fair of face and very young, and reminded her of her brother, or herself.

With a quick levering motion she had the dagger out of the table, freeing the soldier’s arm. “I’d have you for Illyrian justice, but not for antique Scottish execution. Run.”

They bolted, and she turned to find her view all armour and grave dust and cobwebby darkness.

“You know me, Scot—I am Orsino’s man, the servant of your ally,” she tried.

“My name was uttered,” the ancient warlord grated. “I am owed a death.”

“There’s none that is your lawful prey,” Viola insisted. “Go back to where you came from.”

Then she was skipping back hurriedly as the Scot lifted that sword, remembering how many times she had wished this dread apparition had never come to aid her husband’s cause. Feste tried to get between them, but she slung him to one side. If this was going to end in tragedy, she’d make it hers alone.

Then a gleaming point appeared, lancing out through the Scot’s broad chest between the links of his mail. With a bark of triumph the Spaniard had run his rapier into the small of the Scot’s back.

“All steel and no substance within,” he declared, merrily, then saw how everyone was looking at him.

“Go,” Viola advised him. “Go, now.”

The Scot shuddered, but more with exasperation than with any attempt at shuffling off the mortal coil. Instead he turned, the rapier sliding free of him, until he faced the Spaniard. The hollow laugh that issued from within his helm chilled every listener to the bone.

“Alas,” the Scot informed them all, “I am bloody, bold and resolute, and fear no man, for none of woman born may harm Macbeth.” He hefted his great sword. “One man thought he’d slain me once—aye, and I thought it too; but my mistress will not be denied on a lawyer’s quibble. So the Thane of Fife met a most unnatural end and here I still stand, triumphant and invulnerable!”

“Ah, well, then,” and the Spaniard waggled the bottle of spirits in his other hand. “Drink?”

The Scot growled like breaking metal and drew his blade back, but hesitated, his eyes fixed upon the bottle. Viola craned past him and saw the label, crudely printed: A woodcut of trees and the words, Birnam Wood Special Reserve. Something about it gave the Scot pause for just a heartbeat, and then the Spaniard smashed the bottle across the warlord’s face and turned a very creditable pair of heels, racing out of the taproom. The Scot cursed foully, ancient Scottish words blistering the air as he rubbed the stinging liquid from his eyes. Feste was already tugging at Viola’s elbow.

And their work had not been entirely spoiled by the Scot’s intervention, for in the midst of their hurried exit they snagged the old foreigner from where he rested by the fire, forgotten by his fellows.

 

 

The Illyrian forest by night.

 

The moon’s cold light gleaming through the branches’ lattice throws a grid of shadows. The owl cries and the vixen screeches over the faint whickering of batwings. A night of ill omen, fit for dark deeds and wickedness.

 

Enter HELENA, fleeing.

 

 

THE STORM HAD gone. Eventually the witch had realized that carrying her own personal tempest about with her was a poor aid to hunting. Now the ancient hag glided silently between the trees, hook-nailed hands reaching out to find her way, her face a withered prune of wrinkles, eyes long lost amongst the lines.

Helena had been on the run ever since the witch had got the scent of her. For all her pride in her hard-learned abilities, the raw power of this ancient thing was a daunting prospect. They had different ways, back then. Five hundred years this crone had been chained to the Scot’s coat-tails, and who knew how long she had practised her craft even before that. Helena had read accounts of how magic had worked, back in the days before Paracelsus, Roger Bacon and Prospero. In those old days it had been all deals with devils and powers of the ancient world; always being the slave and not the master. She saw before her precisely where that road to power truly led: withered and undying and the plaything of others.

But strong; she could not deny that. The creature had driven her in a wide circle about the wood, fumbling for her through the trees, smelling her out, reaching for her. Helena knew that if the hag had seized on her, or even had a plain idea of where she was, this would already have ended badly. And the Scot had three of these things at his beck and call, bedevilling the battlefields of Europe.

Yet Helena had stayed that one vital step ahead, and sometimes more than one. She had darted in and out of the witch’s senses, led her on for what seemed half the night, making a broad arc through the forest.

She was almost back to her original campsite, the fire long since gone dark. There she would make her stand, pitting her young powers against the wickedness of ages.

“Come, then!” she called. “You’ve pursued me far enough. I grow tired. Come, bring your witchcraft and we’ll see what powers I can raise against you.”

The witch cackled as she drifted into view, her horn-nailed feet trailing with the hem of her dress, inches above the leaf litter.

“Well met, we two,” she hissed through toothless gums. “A clever little child you are, to lead me such a dance. Why do you flee your older sister, girl? It’s been a long time since our mistress Hecate had a new maidservant. We’ll find a place for you at the fire, dear heart.”

“Meaning hellfire, no doubt,” Helena threw back at her. “The power I muster will not be squandered in the service of fairies or devils or antique gods. It’s mine and mine alone.”

The crone cackled again, claw-like hands spread as she floated closer. “They all say that, my dear,” she whispered, and then she had crossed over the lines Helena had drawn in the dirt. With a single motion of her foot, the woman completed the circle and stepped back.

“Now, test yourself against my craft, will you?” In truth, Helena was tensed to flee: while she had practised these restraints against little spirits, ghosts and sprites, this creature was another order of being entirely. For a moment, the witch just hung there in the dark, muttering to herself and reaching out. Then the old woman touched the boundary of the circle and greenish fire exploded about her hands. She shrieked and cast herself backwards, only to meet the same boundary behind her. Helena watched as she rattled about the circle like a fly in a bottle, seemingly incapable of understanding that she was closed in on all sides.

“Sisters, aid me!” the old creature wailed. “Mistress Hecate, I am caught!”

Helena waited, listening with senses natural and unnatural, but answer came there none.

“You are caught indeed,” she told the witch. “For you are strong, but I have studied, and my understanding of the world’s secret ways is a science, whilst yours is mouldering superstition.”

“My mistress shall strike you down for this impertinence!” the witch vowed.

Helena kicked about the campsite until she found Benedick’s emptied flask. It had held spirits from Scotland, the man had boasted. The thought appealed to her. She smiled as she faced her spitting captive.

“If I had listened to those who told me that I could not, or I should not, or that I’d suffer if I did, I’d been nothing but a gentlewoman married off to some backwoods squire,” she remarked pleasantly. “Lords, teachers, physicians, wise men—even he who would become my husband—all have told me what my place and station are, and I have heeded none of them. Nor will I now hold back for all your prophecies. So, ‘older sister,’ I have here a vessel of silver which I mark with the characters of your prison. I apologise for the smallness of the cell, but perhaps you shall have grander quarters later, if you please me. For now, I conjure you within the flask, and then you shall answer my every question.”