Will Shakespeare and the Pirate's Fire Read online

  Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire

  Robert J. Harris

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2006HarperCollins Children’s Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London, W6 8JB

  www.harpercollinschildrensbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Robert J Harris 2006

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © MAY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-007-35935-6

  Robert J Harris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

  Conditions of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my wife Debby for all her help with this book and for everything else as well; my friend Jane Yolen for making me a writer; my agent Elizabeth Harding for all her support and encouragement; and to my editor Stella Paskins for her unfailing good nature.

  Also by Robert J Harris

  Leonardo and the Death Machine

  By Jane Yolen and Robert J Harris

  Jason and the Gorgon’s Blood Odysseus and the Serpent Maze

  For Jill, who told me many years ago I was going to write this book.

  1 The Hunters Hunted

  “I’d give a lot for a good horse right now,” panted Will Shakespeare, leaning heavily against the trunk of a looming oak tree. He wiped some sweat from his brow with the cuff of his jerkin and sucked in the sharp February air.

  They had been running so hard his friend Hamnet could hardly summon the breath to speak. “I’d settle for a hole in the ground,” he gasped, “and some branches to cover ourselves with.”

  “Look how they’re beating the bushes,” Will pointed out. “It’ll take more than a few twigs to save us.”

  Hamnet poked his head out for a peek. Will caught the back of his jerkin and yanked him down. “Stay down, you clodpole! They’ll see you!”

  “You wouldn’t think they’d be so stirred up over a few rabbits,” sighed Hamnet. “Maybe we should have just picked some berries and gone home.”

  Hamnet Sadler was only a few months younger than Will and they had been friends for the entire fourteen years they had been growing up in Stratford. They had taken more than a few chances together, but if they were convicted of poaching a public whipping was the lightest sentence they could expect.

  They both hugged the tree’s shadow as they spied on Sir Thomas Lucy’s men. There were a dozen of them, poking in the bushes with hunting spears, determined to flush out the young poachers. They were a tough, hard crew, the sort who could be depended on to carry out any order, no matter how cruel, as long as they were paid for the deed.

  The squire himself perched uneasily astride his fat, grey gelding. He surveyed the ground and yapped out his orders. “There, Cobb, there!” he shrilled. “I swear by God I saw something move among those brambles.”

  “Just a bird, sir!” Cobb called back.

  Will sank back into the shadows. “That nag of his couldn’t outrun Widow Tanner’s donkey,” he said.

  “It’s his men will outrun us if he spots us,” said Hamnet. “And they’re a mean lot.”

  Will bit his lower lip and looked around. This was a wild, tangled country, too dense and thorny for deer – nothing for a proper nobleman to brag about – but Sir Thomas guarded it like it was the Garden of Eden. Charlecote Warren the locals called it, for it was rich in rabbits, hare and game birds.

  Will fingered the bow that hung at his side, thinking of the pair of rabbits and the fat guinea fowl he had bagged. Hamnet had only got a stringy-looking hare, but he was well content with his prize. England’s longbowmen had once made her armies invincible, but in these days of gunpowder the bow had become a poacher’s weapon.

  Hamnet shook his head like an old man. “I wish you’d stop getting us into fixes like this, Will. It was bad enough when we were just filching apples.”

  “Life will be quiet enough when you’re in the grave,” said Will, giving his friend an encouraging thump on the arm. “Besides, somebody has to goad Old Lousy.”

  “Come on, use your eyes!” Sir Thomas Lucy was telling his men. “They can’t have disappeared like vapour!”

  “I think I recognised one of them, sir,” said one of the hunters. “John Shakespeare’s boy.”

  “Shakespeare!” Lucy pronounced the name as a hateful hiss. “That insolent brogger! He’s been more trouble to me than floods and plague. But if I take his boy up on a poaching charge, that will knock the mischief out of him.”

  “Will, they know who you are!” Hamnet exclaimed through gritted teeth.

  “He’s just guessing,” said Will. “They weren’t close enough to see our faces. If we can get back to Stratford ahead of them, they won’t be able to prove a thing.”

  “And how are we going to do that?” Hamnet asked. “Are you going to conjure up a griffin to carry us on its back?”

  “No need for magic,” Will answered. “If we crawl on our bellies through the gorse there, we can make it to the stream without being spotted. Then we can wade through the water till we’re clear of Charlecote.”

  “So we’re to be drowned, dirty…and…and…” Hamnet faltered over a final word.

  “Desperate,” Will finished for him.

  “That’s not what I was trying to say,” Hamnet complained.

  “Come on,” urged Will, pulling his friend into the undergrowth beside him. “Desperate men can’t hang around waiting on luck to save their hide.”

  Wriggling along on their hands and knees, they pressed through the rough bushes. Again and again they became snagged on thorns and had to carefully ease themselves loose without giving away their position.

  All at once the drumming of hooves made them stop dead and press their faces to the earth. The hoof beats came closer and the shadow of a mounted figure passed over them. Hamnet squeezed his eyes tight shut in an effort to ignore the danger, but Will glanced up to see sir Thomas reining in only a few yards away. He could smell the horse’s
acrid sweat and hear the breath puffing in its nostrils.

  The squire stood up in the stirrups and peered off to the south and west. “Are you sure they came this way? I’ll not be made to look a fool.”

  “They came this way as sure as there’s apples,” answered his man Cobb. “That’s not to say they ain’t sneaked past us like adders in the grass.”

  “What’s that?” cried a voice.

  “Where?” Sir Thomas demanded. “Where?”

  “I saw something move, sir! Over there by the rocks!”

  Will froze like a statue, but Sir Thomas was not looking in their direction. He spurred his horse into a lumbering canter, waving his men forward.

  “Here’s our chance,” said Will, giving Hamnet a sharp nudge. They crawled on their bellies to the bank of the stream, then slid over the edge and into the shallow water.

  “Oh, it’s cold enough to freeze your cullions off!” Hamnet moaned.

  Will shivered. “It’s only till we get well out of sight, Hamnet. Stay down now!”

  Crouching so low it made their backs ache, they sloshed along slowly, careful not to attract attention. They had only gone a short way when Hamnet slipped and plunged completely under the water. Will grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up, dripping and coughing.

  “Hush!” Will warned.

  They stood as still as stone, listening for some cry of alarm. Leaning on Hamnet’s shoulder, Will pushed himself up on tiptoes to scout around. “It’s all right,” he said. “They’re going the other way.”

  Hamnet picked some dank weeds out of his hair and coughed again. “I think I’ve swallowed a minnow, Will.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re not poisonous.”

  “But I can feel it wriggling inside me.”

  “That’s just your breakfast coming back on you. Forget about it. Come on.”

  Will started forward then realised Hamnet wasn’t following. Turning round, he saw his friend had turned dreadfully pale.

  “I’m going to heave, Will,” choked Hamnet. “There’s no help for it.”

  Will backed away so quickly he almost toppled over himself. Hamnet doubled over and threw up with a noise like a drain emptying. He finished with a final cough and straightened up.

  “Are you fit to go on now?” Will asked.

  Hamnet nodded and forced a wan smile.

  “Here, I’ll give you a hand,” said Will, taking his friend by the arm. As they waded onwards he muttered, “And I’ll remember not to fish here for a while.”

  At the point where the stream flowed into the River Avon, the boys climbed up on to higher ground and headed south. It was a chilly day, and their sodden clothes clung to them like ice. Clopton Bridge, leading into Stratford, was as welcome a sight as a warm fire and a haunch of mutton. In summer children splashed about under its arches and boys waded about in search of trout and pike. It was too cold for that now and the otters had the run of the fishing to themselves.

  Further downriver, the spire of Holy Trinity poked at the sky. The centre of the parish, the church was not the comforting symbol it once had been. Many had fallen foul of the law because of their refusal to attend the new services decreed by the government, Will’s own father amongst them.

  Marching briskly up Bridge Street into town, the boys were startled by a sudden uproar of voices off to their left. “An ambush!” Hamnet cried, gripping Will by the arm. Will laughed and shook himself loose. It was only a raucous singsong starting off inside the Peacock Tavern. Weak-kneed with relief, they carried on up the road to the market cross.

  “We’ll split up here,” said Will. “Nobody knows you were with me, so there’s no sense you catching any trouble.”

  “I’ll take my share if it will help you, Will,” said Hamnet, shuffling his feet on the cobbles.

  Will put a grateful hand on his friend’s shoulder and smiled. “I know you would, Hamnet. But for now, the best thing for us both is to lie low for a few days.”

  “Will, look!” Hamnet exclaimed suddenly. He was pointing back they way they had come.

  Will turned quickly and saw to his horror the mounted figure of Old Lousy crossing Clopton Bridge, with his minions filing along behind him.

  2 Lord Strange’s Men

  “Go!” said Will, giving Hamnet a firm shove.

  Hamnet nodded and darted off down the High Street to the Sadler family home. Will dashed up Henley Street to his father’s house. Like the other houses on the street it had a frame of sturdy oak timbers filled in with walls of clay and mortar, the latticed windows shut tight against the cold.

  The winter of 1578 had been grievously hard, especially for the Shakespeares, whose daughter Anne had died of a chill aged only five. The new year still hadn’t wriggled loose of winter’s grasp and Mary Shakespeare fretted anxiously over the rest of her children every time they set foot outdoors. Will knew she wouldn’t be pleased to find him soaked to the skin and caked with muck. As the eldest, he was expected to set an example for Gilbert, Joan and little Richard.

  Opening the door as quietly as he could, he crept up the hallway, hoping he’d be able to clean up before—

  “Will? Is that you?”

  It was his mother’s voice, coming from the kitchen dead ahead. Before he could twitch a muscle, the door opened and Mary Shakespeare strode out, dusting flour from her hands as she came. She pulled up with a start and stared.

  “Will! You look like somebody’s used you to plough up a field!”

  “I fell,” Will said lamely.

  His mother took a firm hold of his collar and steered him through the left-hand doorway. This was John Shakespeare’s workroom and he was bent over his table, cutting out a glove-shaped pattern from a stretch of soft kidskin.

  There were oak rafters overhead, a brick fireplace and a floor that was a patchwork of broken stones, fitted together like the pieces of a puzzle. Animal hides in various states of preparation hung from the walls alongside a variety of blades for cutting them to shape. The far wall was covered by a painted hanging showing their local hero, Guy of Warwick, slaying the monstrous Wild Dun Cow. The cow had been a fairy beast that provided the whole county with milk, until a witch milked it dry and turned it into a man-eater. It was John Shakespeare’s favourite story.

  As his wife and son entered, John looked up from his work and set aside his curved, razor-sharp knife. “What’s the bother?” he asked.

  “You tell me!” answered his wife. “You said he was out running an errand for you.”

  “Did I?” John Shakespeare hooked his thumbs into his leather belt and did his best to glower at his son. “Well, what have you been up to, Will?”

  Will understood that this was one of those times when the best course was to tell the truth. “I was over in Charlecote Park, hunting for rabbits.”

  His father sighed. “I took you out of school to help me at my work, not to poach off Charlecote land.”

  “I thought I’d do us more good by bringing some food into the house instead of stitting around sewing up leather,” said Will. “I’m no good at that work anyway.”

  John Shakespeare scowled a moment, giving his wife a sidelong glance to check that she approved of his stern demeanour. Then he leaned towards his son and asked in a conspirator’s whisper. “Did you catch anything?”

  “That’s not the point, John!” Mary Shakespeare protested.

  Will grinned and laid his bag down on the table. He yanked it open to proudly display the contents to his father. John Shakespeare raised his eyebrows appreciatively and poked the fat rabbits with his forefinger.

  “Well, I’ll say this and not be denied: you’re a better poacher than you are a glover.”

  “Maybe not,” Will said hesitantly. “We nearly got caught…and one of Sir Thomas’ men spotted me.”

  Mary Shakespeare gave a start of alarm, but her husband raised a hand to calm her. “How good a look did he get?” he asked Will.

  “Not good, but I heard him say the name Shakespeare
.”

  John Shakespeare rubbed his chin and pursed his lips, a sure sign that his shrewd brain was hard at work. “At a distance, on a grey day like this – we can deny it, make out you were elsewhere. Given time I can call in a few friendly witnesses.”

  Right then a fist pounded at the front door and a voice bellowed, “John Shakespeare! Open up there!”

  Will’s heart leapt in panic. “It’s them!” he gasped. “I’m caught!”

  “Oh, look at the state of you!” fretted his mother, touching a finger to Will’s damp, dirty jerkin. “We can’t pretend you’ve been home all day.”

  “Steady yourselves,” said John Shakespeare in a commanding tone. “I’ve a few tricks in hand yet. Mary, you answer the door, but take your time opening it. Fiddle the latch like it’s stuck. If they ask about Will, say he’s off in Wilmcote with your Arden relatives. Been there a day and a half.”

  “John, you’re making a liar of me!” Mary accused. “Again!”

  “You’ve such a pretty a tongue for lying I hate to see it wasted,” said John, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. He took Will’s bow and arrows and stashed them under the table with the bag of game. “Come on, Will, it’s out the back way for us. We’ll give them the dodge!”

  Will couldn’t help but smile. His father was the fiercest schemer in all of Warwickshire, and even now, with his fortunes at their lowest and troubles on every side, his wits still leapt to a challenge, like Guy of Warwick drawing his sword on a dragon.

  “John Shakespeare!” bellowed the voice again. There was more beating at the door, louder this time.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Mary Shakespeare called, moving down the hallway in tiny steps. “Give me a moment to make myself decent!”

  Father and son bolted through the kitchen and out of the back door into the yard. There were two outbuildings here where John Shakespeare stored the supplies he needed for his leather business, as well as other items he traded in on the side, like wool and grain. Dodging behind one of these, they made sure the coast was clear before slipping out the back gate.