Act V
VERTUMNUS WOKE SHIVERING, with Pomona’s head resting on his bare chest. He stretched his right arm out and pulled the thin blanket over both their bodies, trying not to wake her, but she lifted her head and looked, not at his face but at the bright window.
“Was that the lark?” she asked.
“Mmph,” he answered, and put an arm around her. Their clothing was strewn about the floor: her green-stained petticoat held congress with his doublet; his shirt with her stockings. Her straw hat lay against the wall, like a cat waiting for its master.
“Never done that with a fairy before,” she said, her voice muffled, echoing in his body.
“Never done it with a witch,” he said, and laughed.
“I suppose it must often happen with prisoners.”
“A night in prison is a small price to pay, then,” he said.
She smiled, and sat up, and pulled her smock over her head. Then she rubbed her lip, looking at him.
“What is it? What’s worrying you?”
“It is only... well, a prison dalliance is only that. A fleeting romance. It cannot last, Vertumnus.”
He shivered, and to cover it, reached for his shirt. She was right, of course. He had his life and she had hers, and when hers was over he would live on, cruelly immortal. Perhaps—oh, he was wrong to wish, even for a moment, that Orsino would keep them in prison just one day more, for that would mean that the war would come one day closer.
“Both of us are long past the age of fooling ourselves about such matters,” he said, as gruffly as he could.
The door opened and they both jumped. Vertumnus was still naked, save the blanket, which he pulled up around him. Pomona at least was covered in her smock, but her kirtle and apron were on the far side of the room.
But the man at the door looked the most startled of all. An ancient friar, thin and crooked as an old besom. Had Orsino sent him to take their confession?
“Father,” Pomona gasped.
“What is this?” the friar gasped in return. “William told me only that I would find you here, Pomona. He said—he said nothing about a dog, but he was much distracted, poor soul. Where is the fairy, then?”
Vertumnus put his hand out, but the friar pulled back. He was not aghast at the naked man, no, but at the dog here sharing Pomona’s blanket. Vertumnus laughed, and the friar backed up another step.
“We met Hecate on the road,” Pomona said, pulling herself to her feet. “This is the fairy. This is Vertumnus, disguised.”
“Then—” The friar pointed at Vertumnus, and then looked at the kirtle, at the hose, and the doublet.
“I’ll leave you a moment,” he said, and backed into the hall.
“That’s for the best,” said Pomona weakly. Then, aside to Vertumnus: “On my life, I feel fifteen again.”
Vertumnus laughed, not caring if the world heard him baying.
“Dress yourself,” Pomona hissed, thrusting his hose at him. “The friar is a good man, and the best friend we have here.”
Any friend at all was more than they had yesterday. Perhaps this friar would carry a message to Oberon for him, if he could get the old man alone for a moment.
The friar waited for them each in turn to dress and use the pot, and then walked them through the chilly corridors.
“There are strange portents in the skies,” said the friar, short of breath. “Streaks of red like blood. And in the rivers, sounds as of horrible laughter.”
Sylphs were marking their battle plans, then; and nymphs were preparing their minds for war.
“Oberon’s armies are amassing,” Vertumnus said.
“Already!” Pomona cried.
“And Titania is come to Orsino’s court, brought by Malchi’s summons, and demands to see the witch who stole Vertumnus.”
The great hall was full of people, although it was early morning still. Had they stood here only yesterday? The world outside their cell seemed like a dream. But last night was the dream, that was the interlude, and this bright confusion was life.
Titania stood in the middle of the hall with all her retinue. There were fairies he had not seen since he was a boy—there were Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed, all floating a foot above the floor, trailing their gossamer trains and wringing their hands.
When Vertumnus had last seen Titania a month ago, she had been frenzied, black-haired, mop-capped, spilling out of a peasant’s bodice. Today her hair was red as rubies and growing straight up in thick curls like a candle-flame. Her heavy gown was bedizened in gold. Had she made her neck a little longer? It was hard to say, but Vertumnus thought so: the better to show the silver ridge-backed amphisbaena that she wore as a ruff, each of its two heads trying to snatch the other, its horny feet scrabbling on her shoulders.
It seemed the fairy queen had chosen to take Orsino’s court seriously, at least for as long as it amused her to do so.
Titania looked straight at Vertumnus and wrinkled her perfect nose.
“You have the stink of witch on you.”
He glanced at Pomona, who did not look at him.
Titania floated toward him and then floated round and round him, sniffing, her train tracing a circle around his feet.
“Let us have you back in a form these assembled worthies will understand,” she said, and stretched out her hands. Her magic shivered on Vertumnus’ skin, and the air shimmered. He looked to the crowd to see their awe at his transformation, but they only frowned and whispered. Titania scowled, and a satyr elbowed his way forward, his hoofs clicking on the tile floor.
“What witch laid this stubborn enchantment on you?” Titania grumbled. “Not this one, surely.”
“A powerful witch indeed,” said Pomona. “You are right. It is beyond my powers to transform a man.”
“It is not beyond mine.”
Titania spun around Vertumnus until she became a whirlwind of red and gold, and this time the shimmer brought tears to his eyes and all his skin was gooseflesh. He fell to his knees, his muscles and joints weakened.
Ah, there was the hush, the murmur. He lifted his head and saw the courtiers pointing at him. His body looked no different to him than it had a moment before.
“Woof,” he said weakly, and all the courtiers laughed.
“Vertumnus, it is you,” said Orsino, striding forward and taking his hand. “Or is this now some spell, some trick of yours, Titania?”
“What reason have I to trick you, Orsino?” she sniffed.
“To lull us into believing we had no cause to fear your husband’s armies,” said Viola.
“Oh, you have every cause to fear his armies. I expect blood and glory, and much amusement.”
“But Vertumnus is safe!” Orsino cried, pointing at him. “So you admit that his abduction was all a ploy.”
“Oberon knew nothing of it. I had my own business with this fairy. But I am pleased to see the armies gather. I shall goad my husband on to war, I think. I have a certain influence on him.”
“It must be a strong influence indeed, to last despite the distance between your courts and the mischiefs you play,” said Viola, with a glance at her husband.
“Not despite, you wet-eared wench; because. When you have been married a thousand years, come to me and tell me you play no games, that you make no wagers in your pillow-talk. You know what I mean, don’t you, my Mab?”
Titania opened a pocket at her waist and out flew the little fairy in her chariot, swooping around Vertumnus and Pomona.
“They must be punished,” Mab screamed.
“Oh, they will be,” Titania said with a smile. “They will see Illyria suffer for their treachery. All my darling husband’s tedious playing at diplomacy shall come to nothing, all his plans dashed and his favourites brought low. Then Oberon shall make his obeisance to me, and we begin again, as we have always done, and will always do.”
Vertumnus glanced at Pomona but she did not look at him; her jaw was set. This was not her fight, and yet here she stood beside him. She had acted only out of loyalty to Orsino and the law, when she had worked for peace and her duty. All she wanted was to bring her book to her dead friend’s son, wherever he might be, and Vertumnus would see to it that she could, if he had any choice in the matter.
“My queen, your quarrel was with me,” said Vertumnus. “Let it end with me.”
“Oh, but Vertumnus, you must learn your place. My little changeling boy, all grown into his old man’s body, and pretending to be a diplomat! My pet, the fairy-king’s confidant! You can dress an elephant in jewels, but that does not make it a prince.”
His face burned. A peal of jackdaw laughter came from the crowd. He looked over and saw that the satyr was doubled over in mirth.
Pomona, beside him, said very quietly, “You are the one dressed in counterfeit jewels, Titania.”
POMONA DID NOT even know what she meant by it. She was angry, because Silenus was laughing. And she had had enough of fairy politics.
But the queen’s white face went as red as her hair. At Pomona’s elbow, the friar hovered, then stepped back. The poor old dear.
“Insults from a wyrtwitch?” breathed Titania.
Soft footsteps on the tiles: Malchi walked toward them. She cocked her head, the ostrich plume in her headdress all a-quiver.
“My lady, I think perhaps there is something you do not know.”
“And what is that?” Titania turned to her.
“If the witch insults you, she speaks not out of hatred for you. Pomona and Vertumnus are in love.”
“In love!”
A murmur swept the hall. Silenus, thank God, was choked into silence, probably from an excess of laughter.
What could possess this woman to mock and shame them here? What had Pomona ever done to the Ottoman Empire?
Vertumnus opened his mouth as if to speak, but Malchi held up her hand to him and Pomona, quieting them.
“I know very well,” the Ottoman ambassador continued, “how the court of Titania worships love above all else, how the Silk Road provides the sheets for your bowers and the perfumes for your shoulders. Surely you cannot harden your heart against these two who met by chance in such an unlikely place, cannot be aggrieved at a love that overleapt your garden walls?”
Titania put her long, red-painted fingernail to her lips.
“Is it true, Vertumnus?” she asked, frowning. “Is that why the witch meddled?”
“Pomona has only ever been guided by her duty as a subject of Illyria,” he said.
Malchi, behind Titania, rolled her eyes and threw up her hands.
“It is true,” said the friar, stepping beside Pomona. Him, too!
“God save my soul,” the old man continued. “This morning I found them in their cell, intertwined as lovers are.”
Pomona could barely hear the roaring from the courtiers over the pounding of angry blood in her ears. She took the old fool’s arm and steered him a few steps away.
“Tell me what you are about, you meddlesome old man,” she hissed.
“At Titania’s court, love is the only sacrament,” said the friar. “If we convince her, she might soothe her husband.”
“Or it might send her into a rage. And, friar, it is a lie.”
“It is true,” said Vertumnus, loudly. “I love her.”
His voice caught; perhaps he was not quite fairy enough to lie prettily. Pomona let the friar go, threw up her hands. She might as well talk to the walls as talk to anyone here, friend or foe.
“Hmm,” said Titania. “I don’t believe it. Prove it.”
“Prove it? How may I prove I love?”
“Convince me,” the fairy queen said, spreading her hands. “Tell me why you love her.”
Vertumnus clasped his hands behind his back and paced. He loved an argument, above all else.
“If you wish to know why Cupid’s arrow strikes when and where it strikes, that I cannot tell you, any more than I can tell you why it was my fate to be born to a mother who was the fairy queen’s friend, or why it was my mother’s fate to die.”
“No, Vertumnus. I mean for you to rhapsodize. Speak to me of your love. Lay it out upon the table like a mercer and let me judge its weight.”
He really meant to do it, the fool. He was walking into the trap. Malchi had some friendship with Titania. She must have set this up to mock them. Not enough that they should be drawn and quartered, but they must be the ones to spill their own guts upon the floor for the amusement of the court.
“I love her because—” Vertumnus said, and stopped.
“He does not love me,” scoffed Pomona.
“I love her because she argues with me.”
A roar of laughter from the courtiers.
Titania raised her eyebrows.
“Well spoken, sir, well spoken. Saying nothing about her appearance, yes, well that’s for the best.”
“I do love her appearance,” said Vertumnus.
Oh, God.
“I love the line between her eyebrows, and I love the dirt around her fingernails, and I love the way her cheeks go round as apples when she laughs.”
Now, the courtiers were silent. Waiting. Watching.
“And you, witch? Tell me, do you love my changeling?”
Pomona’s smile dropped. She looked first at Malchi, whose expression was a blank. Then at Vertumnus. Oh, dear God, he meant it. He was being honest, or he thought he was. Pomona’s stomach lurched as if she were flying, only this time there was no vine to tether her to the earth. There was nothing to save her if the wind carried her away.
She shook her head, and traitor tears welled in her eyes. She could not love him. She was not capable of such a thing. She was old, and tired, and bound on a quest that could take her far from Illyria. He was immortal, and she could only cause him grief.
He reached out and took her hand, and she grabbed on to it and found she did not want to let go.
“I do,” she whispered softly.
“What?” Titania asked. “What’s that, witch?”
“I do love him, God help me.”
The lines around Vertumnus’ eyes crinkled.
“Prove it.”
“I love”—she looked at him, trying desperately to think—“his shoulders.”
“Ha!” Titania laughed again. “My philosopher has found a lusty love. Good! Vertumnus, give us another.”
“I love her because she loves my shoulders,” he said without thinking.
“I love him because he put his hand to my cheek, when he thought I was sleeping, and traced the line of the bone as though he would study me.”
“I love her because she is powerful, because the plants obey her as though she were Demeter herself. I love her because she is wise. Because she is loyal. Because she is honourable.”
What could she say? What could she offer, that would not shrink and wither next to what he had offered her?
“I love him because he gave me a book. I love him because he walked on the stairs I made for him without hesitation or fear. I love him because his head is in the clouds.”
“I love her because her feet are on the earth.”
They stopped, and now they were looking at each other. Pomona was smiling at him, almost laughing. They had stumbled over the truth in trying to lie.
Titania clapped her hands.
“Now this is an unexpected delight! Why did you not tell me, Vertumnus? My Vertumnus, my dear one. In love. When shall we have the wedding? This very night? I shall ask Cobweb to play the harp.”
Pomona looked at Titania, and then to Vertumnus. Surely they had done all that was required. They had declared their love, here in front of all the gawkers, and now could they not be alone? She did not want a fairy wedding.
“I am most grateful,” she said. “But I have a promise to keep, and I cannot marry until I discharge it. I will be leaving Illyria, if the Duke permits, as soon as I may.”
She turned away from Vertumnus. Of course he must know she could not stay with him. Love was all very well, but she had given Sycorax her word.
“Leaving!” Titania looked horrified. “Certainly not. What duty could you have? Is the coven gathering, and what is it gathering? Toads and eels? Leave behind such toil, and come and live with us! You can be a spirit of the air, or a dryad of the forest, or go like a canker upon a leaf—whatever you desire.”
Pomona bowed her head. “I desire only the freedom to take ship to Milan, once I can pay my passage, and look for a man whose birthright is in my possession.”
“And for that you’d leave your lover?”
“She will not have to,” said Vertumnus. “If Oberon wants no further task from me, as I expect he will not, then I am free to travel with her. And if she will not be too vexed by my chatter, I will do so.”
Pomona whirled to look at him. He was grinning.
“And I will pay your passage, as the reward for returning the ambassador and ending this war,” said Orsino.
Viola frowned, and paced, but said nothing.
“Well,” said Titania, sinking into a throne that was suddenly there behind her, all built of cobwebs and shadows. “Vertumnus, you are forgiven. I give you your fairy powers again. Fly where you will, and take whatever shape you like. Be an old woman, if that pleased you. Or a dog! What you will!”
A cloud of silver dust flew from Titania’s fingertip and settled over Vertumnus’ skin so that it sparkled in the shards of sunlight that broke through the hall’s great windows.
“What form will you take, Vertumnus?” asked Malchi with a sly smile.
“Whichever best pleases Pomona,” he said, and he took his lover’s hand.