Thirteenth Night (28 page)

Oh, if you could have seen her, standing before us in all her regal beauty. A cold fury burned within her and a presence so commanding that none could take their eyes off her for a moment. She raised her right hand and snapped her fingers. In a trice, Malachi and three other burly manservants materialized around her. She pointed at me.

“Seize the fool and bind him fast,” she ordered. I froze as they ran towards me.

Then past me.

He put up a fierce struggle, I must say. A knife produced from somewhere left its mark on one of the men, but they were four to his one, and they prevailed. He sat, glaring, bound to his chair. I squatted down and looked him in the eyes.

“You were very good, Señor,” I said. “Very good, indeed. You've studied our ways well enough to fool even a fool. The white lead was a mistake but a small one. Now, answer me a few questions. What is this?” I held up a chess piece.

“What?”

“Answer him,” said Malachi, a knife at his throat.

Bobo gulped. “A king.”

“And this?” I said, holding another one.

“A queen. Feste, what are you doing?”

“And this?”

“A bishop.”

“And this?”

“A knight, of course. And that one's a rook. Let me go, Feste.”

I stood. “Allow me to continue my discourse on foolery. As you can see, we have our traditions. Although some would trace our lineage to King David, who played the fool to escape his pursuers, we of the Guild look to the First Fool, Our Savior, Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“This is sacrilege!” thundered the Bishop.

“Bear with me. He spoke the truth as well, through parable and paradox. And at the supreme moment, when he could have saved himself by doing a few simple magic tricks for the King, he chose silence. Then, he was led in a mock royal procession through the streets of Jerusalem to his doom and saved us all.” I pulled my cap out of the bag. “Consider the jester's cap, Milord and Miladies. Some say because of this tradition that the fool parodies the King, and that this donkey-eared thing is our crown. But that is not the tradition of the Guild.” I placed it on my head and shook it so that it jingled. “Mark, I must catechize you for my proof. How many kings on one side of a chessboard?”

“One, of course.”

“How many queens?”

“Also one.”

“How many bishops?”

“Two.”

I turned to the Bishop. “How many bishops in a bishopric?”

“One,” he replied.

“Mark, is that not strange? Two on a chessboard and one in life.”

“I suppose it is. I've never thought of it before.”

“How many sections to my cap?”

“Three,” he said. “And they all flop down.”

“And who else in this room wears a hat that has three sections?”

“Well,” he said, looking around. Then he looked at me. “The Bishop.”

“Very good, Milord. As much as anything, the Guild's tradition is to mock the Church. For that reason, we wear the three-sectioned cap. The French, who understand folly better than anyone, know this and call the piece that stands at the side of the king and queen—that avoids the gallant leaping of the knight and the straightforward approach of the rook and chooses instead to stagger drunkenly through enemy lines on the diagonal—the fool. And no jester who comes through the training of the Fools' Guild would ever call it anything else, especially a bishop. It was during the course of the chess game that I realized that the wolf in fool's clothing on the other side of the board was Malvolio.”

There was a long silence, broken by Bobo screaming, “That's it? That's your proof?”

“Basically,” I said.

“Milords, listen to me,” he begged. “I am indeed Bobo the Fool. This is madness, literally madness. I was sent by the Guild to keep an eye on Feste. We were concerned that he had lost his wits after hearing of Orsino's death. Malvolio is dead. He's been dead for years, and we have known about it since it happened, yet this poor simpleton has continued to rave about him. When he set off on this mythical Crusade, this quest, I came to prevent him from doing any harm. He is an honored fool, we owed him that much. But don't condemn me on the basis of this rambling diatribe.”

“Oh, there was also this,” I added, beckoning to Malachi. He left with the other servants and shortly returned with a shrouded figure on a plank. I pulled off the shroud to reveal the dead man from the woods. Some in the crowd shrank back, others leaned forward. “Captain, your professional opinion, if you please.”

Perun stepped forward and examined the body. “He was tortured,” he said immediately. “His ear was cut off, as well as two fingers. There's…” He stopped, puzzled. “There's very little blood, all things considered.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “After I realized that Malvolio had come in the place of the fool I was expecting, I went looking for the original. I believe that this is the real Señor Bobo. I found him a short distance from the north road. My guess is that Malvolio was lying in wait for me, having sent the message to the Guild after killing Orsino. Instead, Bobo showed up. The poor fellow was ambushed, taken and tortured to reveal what he knew. Learning that I was not acquainted with the fool I was expecting, Malvolio improvised a clever plan: He assumed Bobo's identity, gained my confidence, and continued his revenge under the best of covers. He took the poor fellow's earring and finger rings the hard way, then scrubbed the body until no trace of makeup remained. One Bobo leaves the Guild, and then another arrives in Orsino.”

I took the washbasin and a cloth and began scrubbing the makeup off his face. “Then he staged the attack on the cliff to throw me off the scent. Brilliantly done, sir. I heard Malvolio's voice from your own mouth, and the minor injury you inflicted upon yourself added to your bona fides. It also gained you entry into the Duke's villa, the very heart of your enemies.” It was done. A bald, clean-shaven man glowered at me from the chair. The crowd gathered around.

“It could be him,” ventured Maria.

“It's him,” said Olivia. “I think.”

“I really can't say,” said Sebastian.

“Well, there are ways to find out for sure,” I said. “We can send to the Guild for someone who knows the real Bobo. Or perhaps we could call on the skills of the good Captain. You could use that other room you mentioned.”

“Delighted to be of help,” said Perun.

“Please,” said Bobo. “I can prove to you I had nothing to do with any of this. Brother Fool, may I catechize you now?”

“Be my guest.”

“First, at the cliffs, did you not find me lying on my back, with my head bleeding?”

“I did.”

“Did you find the crossbow which I supposedly used to attack you?”

“I did not.”

“Very good. How did it vanish from the scene if I used it to attack you? Second, was I not in the Duke's villa from then on?”

“You were.”

“Malachi, please remove that blade from my throat and answer me this: Did I ever leave that room from the time I was brought in until just now?”

“You did not,” replied Malachi, the blade remaining in place.

“Then I conclude: It was impossible for me to have killed Fabian or arrange the fire at the play, because I never moved from that spot. Or are you accusing me of sorcery as well?”

“I never said you killed Fabian,” I said mildly. “Nor did I ever say that you acted alone.” Glances shot around the room again, then bounced back in my direction.

“It is clear that you had to have had a confederate. There was more than one set of footprints at the site of Bobo's abduction and murder. Someone struck you on the head to enhance the deception, ran away with the crossbow, then used it to kill Fabian. The confederate had to have been someone with the knowledge that Viola and Claudius were one and the same, because he knew he could guarantee the Duke's isolation by the simple expedient of poisoning Mark.”

“Poison?” gulped Mark.

“Yes, Milord. Nothing fatal, just enough to make you ill for some time. But it had to be poison, because no one else at the meal suffered any consequences from the food.”

“Go on, Feste,” he commanded.

“It goes back to the events of fifteen years ago,” I continued. “Another wronged man. One who has undoubtedly picked up a little knowledge of Greek fire and herb lore in his studies, who was of Orsino's inner circle, who was in fact sitting right next to Mark at that fatal dinner.…”

“Please,” said Sir Andrew. “I don't want to hurt her.”

He was standing behind Viola, a knife at her throat.

“When did he recruit you, Sir Andrew?” I asked. “When you were imprisoned in the Crusade? Later on, with some promise of hidden knowledge of the Elixir of Life?”

“Andrew! What on earth is this about?” cried Sir Toby. “I thought we were all friends.”

“F-f-friends?” stammered Andrew. “You left me there for a month! They tortured me, you know. Wanted to know what I knew, but I never knew anything because none of you bothered telling me. And it was a month because Orsino was haggling over the ransom. For God's sake, I wanted to die in there. Friends! You've been sponging off me for fifteen years, and what have I gotten in return? Couldn't find poor Andrew a bride, could you? I lost Olivia, and not once did someone think to toss me the slightest bone of a girl, not once.”

“Andrew,” cried Mark. “Why did you try to kill me?”

“He didn't,” I said. “That fire was meant for Jesus. For Sebastian. You pulled Mark out in the nick of time, after you found out he was taking over the role, didn't you?”

“Yes,” he shouted. “I saved you, Mark. I would never let any-thing happen to you. I would have been a real father to…” He stopped short and screamed, “No closer! I will kill her.” Perun, who had been edging along the wall, stopped. A drop of blood slowly crawled down Viola's neck. She winced and stayed as still as she could.

“You killed that boy, didn't you?” accused Olivia. “Because he would have known how you arranged the fire. You stabbed a child in the heart, Andrew?”

“I had to,” he mewled. “I won't go to prison again. I'll kill her if you try and stop me from leaving here.”

“Excuse me, but I haven't finished my lecture,” I said.

“Really, Feste, this is hardly the time,” protested Sir Toby.

“Oh, but it is,” I replied. “Timing is one of my great skills. Behold!” With a flourish, I produced my marotte from my bag. “Observe,
mesdames et messieurs!
The jester's scepter. The French, bless them, have a separate word for it,
La Marotte.”
I shook it, and the tiny bells on its cap tinkled merrily. “Most useful for defending one's person from thrown vegetables. Regard the head, Sir Andrew.” He gawked at it. “See the skull beneath the makeup, grinning at us all. There is one more tradition associated with fools. Death, Sir Andrew, the greatest mocker of them all, the Fool who brings all men down to the same level.” I began shaking it over my head in a peculiar rhythm. “You've studied much ancient lore, Sir Andrew. There are secrets of smiths, of midwives, and of fools. Ours are rarely invoked, for it is a poor fool indeed who resorts to such drastic measures. But Folly walks hand in hand with Death and may call upon him in dire emergency. It would be a terrible thing to die unconfessed, noble knight. For the love of Mark, spare his mother or I will pronounce your doom.”

His hand shook but stayed where it was. “Very well, then. Just as the setting sun marks the end of the day, so the descending skull marks the end of your days. Watch it closely, Sir Andrew. It will be the last thing you ever see.”

I began waving it back and forth, slowly lowering my arm to point in his direction. He couldn't take his eyes off of that little skull with the tiny green diamonds under each eye. He peered over Viola's shoulder, his mouth hanging open.

“Kill her, you idiot!” screamed Malvolio. “Kill her now!”

The marotte came level. The knife fell from his hand, and he staggered back, clutching his throat, coughing violently. The expression? Horror? More like an accusation, but whether it was directed at me, Malvolio, or the whole assemblage was too difficult to say. He stumbled over a low stool and fell backwards. It was his final stumble.

Perun rushed forward, sword at the ready, but there was no need. He bent over the dead knight, then looked at me. “Neatly done,” he said. “How did you do it?”

I shrugged. “I didn't say I would reveal every secret I knew, Captain. Oh, by the way. You challenged an Augsburgian merchant to a duel tomorrow. The merchant is no longer here. Would a postponement, a permanent one, be acceptable?”

He drummed his fingers on his sword, looking at the Death's head on my marotte.

“Perun!” shouted the Duke. The Captain turned, startled, as the boy strode up to face him. “This fool is under our protection. No harm shall come to him from you or anyone directed by you. Need I remind you where your loyalties lie?”

Perun was silent for a few seconds. Then he bowed. “Not at all, Milord. There is no need for concern. There is no honor in dueling fools.”

“None whatsoever,” I agreed. “Thank you, Milord. Now, if I may prevail upon the Captain to escort Malvolio to his new quarters, we can then conclude. I will visit you in the morning, Senor. I'll bring a chessboard.”

He grinned wolfishly. “You'll lose again, Feste. You can't beat me.”

“I think I just did,” I said. They carried him away.

“What now, Feste?” said Sebastian. “Are you going to sing us something to finish?”

“I am finished, Count,” I replied. “I am a bit weary, so I will, with your permission, remove myself. But you have some work to do. The world is changing too rapidly to delay appointing a regent any longer. The boy will rule like his father all too soon. I urge you to set aside your squabbles and choose now.” I swept my gear into my bag, leaving the icon, and turned and bowed.