Will Shakespeare and the Pirate's Fire Page 11

  Ten paces away stood a table laid out for a stage banquet with platters of fish and fruit moulded out of plaster. Gathered round the table were the sailor, the ambassador and Graziano. Hanging on the wall behind them was a painted cloth showing the city of Rome, lending a grandiose backdrop to their furtive meeting.

  Will blinked, wondering what role the Italian swordsman could possibly be playing in this venture. He craned forward to hear what they were saying.

  “I would not be so foolish as to carry such a large sum of gold on me when meeting with a notorious pirate, Signora O’Malley,” Mendoza stated bluntly in barely accented English. “Show me the book first and I will send for your money.”

  The sailor spat on the floor in disgust. “I warned you not to trust him, Grace!” He pulled out a dagger. “Should I carve my name on him for a keepsake?”

  “I came here to do important business,” Mendoza sneered at him, “not to listen to your cut-throat bravado.”

  “Quiet, Donal!” Graziano told the sailor. “We’re all friends here.”

  He swept off his hat, sending a cascade of long back hair tumbling down over his shoulders. Then he plucked off his mask and flashed a wickedly familiar smile.

  Will stifled a gasp of amazement. Graziano was Maddie! And there was a bigger surprise to come.

  “I’m a blockhead for not seeing it, Will!” Walter hissed through his teeth. “Our mad Maddie is Grace O’Malley, the Irish pirate queen.”

  “Pirate queen? Are you serious?”

  Walter nodded grimly. “She and her cut-throats are the devil’s own crew. She’s buried more men than the plague, her husbands included.”

  Will fingered to his throat, remembering how close he had come to joining Maddie’s other victims.

  “Come, cease this womanish coyness,” said Mendoza. “Produce the book and let us settle our business.”

  “Woman or no, I’d be as brainless as a barnacle to have it on me, would I not?” Grace O’Malley retorted.

  “Is this just caution or something else?” asked the Spaniard.

  “I was thinking,” said Grace, “now I have my hands on it, that the price you offered hardly matches so precious a treasure.”

  Mendoza bristled. “The price was agreed.”

  “That’s surely true,” said Grace, “but as you pointed out yourself, I’m a pirate, and I’ve a reputation to think of.”

  Donal chuckled, drawing an icy glare from the Spaniard.

  Walter tensed, one hand gripping his sword hilt. Before Will could ask what he intended to do, a loud Welsh voice boomed out from behind them.

  “Ho there! What are you knaves up to, skulking there in the shadows?”

  It was Fluellen, his face flushed with wine, waving the jug as if it were a weapon. Grace’s sword leapt into her hand. “Who’s there?” she challenged, striding towards the wooden dragon.

  Walter jumped up and pushed the Welshman aside. “Damn you, you loggerheaded lump!” he cursed, sweeping his sword from its sheath.

  “Walter Raleigh!” Grace exclaimed. She clucked her tongue like a scolding mother. “Did I not already teach you the folly of drawing on me?”

  “It’s my turn to give you a lesson today,” said Walter, “unless you’ve the sense to surrender.”

  Grace laughed and cast a sidelong glance at the ambassador. “You’d best withdraw, Signor, while I clout this overdressed blusterer.”

  With a sweep of his crimson cape, the Spaniard disappeared among the mountains of props. Sidestepping the banqueting table, Donal drew his curved sword.

  Fluellen gaped at Grace in disbelief. “A wench?” he moaned. “Oh no, let no man say Fluellen was bested by a wench!”

  “Draw, man!” Walter urged him. “These are the enemies of your country!”

  “I’ve already trounced that brabbler, Walter,” Grace taunted. “Let’s see if you’ve more fight in you.”

  She lunged at Walter, her sword point flickering like quicksilver. Walter whirled his blade round in a flashing arc to meet her attack and the two swords collided with a resounding clang.

  “Very deft,” said Grace. “But how long can you keep it up, I wonder?”

  She lunged again and Will winced at the harsh clatter of steel on steel.

  Fluellen drew his sword and shook it at Donal. “I’ll thank you to keep clear and let them fight fair!”

  “Away with you, you sot,” Donal barked, “before I stick you like a hog!”

  Fluellen tossed away his jug and struck a heroic pose. “Villain!” he declared. “Now you’ll know what it is to stir the temper of a Welshman!”

  He marched straight at Donal and the two men squared off, their blades dipping and darting.

  Still concealed behind the dragon, Will looked around for something he could use as a weapon. There came a steely chime as Walter and Grace matched blows again. The pair of them stepped back to catch their breath.

  “You’ve more fire in your blade than I would have credited after our last encounter,” Grace complimented her opponent.

  “And you wield a sword like I never thought a woman could,” Walter returned. “If you’ll give up the book to me, then, as a mark of respect, I’ll let you flee.”

  “Flee?” Grace exclaimed. “You arrogant lout! I’d as soon run from a gnat!” She snatched a plasterwork trout from the banqueting table and flung it at Walter’s head. As he ducked the missile, she renewed her attack with redoubled fury.

  Meanwhile Fluellen was being forced back by Donal’s assault. Step by step he retreated until he collided with a towering heap of wooden planks and gaudy tents. Before he could make a move to escape, the whole mass of it came crashing down, burying him under a mountain of theatrical rubble.

  Leaving the Welshman groaning, Donal whirled about to strike at Walter’s back.

  19 Fair Foes

  Seeing Fluellen’s sword arm sticking out of the debris, Will leapt out of hiding. Making a dive for the weapon, he yanked it from the Welshman’s limp fingers. Donal was weaving this way and that, poised to strike at Walter’s unguarded back, when Will took him by surprise. Lashing out with Fluellen’s sword, he dashed the pirate’s blade from his grasp. It flew end over end through the air and clattered out of sight under the table.

  Donal rounded on Will and whipped a dagger from his belt. “Are there a score of you whoreson rats lurking about here?” he snarled.

  He made a vicious sidearm slash. Will stumbled backwards and only just managed to deflect the blow. Donal closed swiftly, his dagger flicking out like an adder’s tongue. Will parried clumsily – left, right, left – then recoiled as the pirate’s blade slashed the front of his jerkin.

  “Will, remember what I taught you!” Walter called.

  “Look to you own guard, Walter!” Grace advised, aiming a thrust at his belly. Walter jerked away just in time and beat her blade back.

  If all you do is defend, Will remembered, you’ll be forced into a corner. This was no time to be a frightened boy, he realised. He must play the part of Robin Hood when he challenged the evil sheriff as he had seen Ralph perform it. He would make Robin’s courage his own.

  With a wordless cry of defiance he planted his feet. Gripping the sword in both hands he rammed the blade forward into the dagger’s path. The meeting of blades jarred him to the elbow, but it was Donal who fell back.

  That tiny victory lit a fire in Will’s heart. “Have at you then,” he yelled, repeating Robin’s own battle cry, “and God’s curse on him that flees!”

  He charged forward, wielding the sword like a flail. Caught off balance, Donal reeled back and stumbled into the wooden dragon.

  “Now, Will! Strike!” Walter yelled as he beat at Grace’s blade.

  Acting on pure reflex, Will drove his sword point straight at the pirate. Donal flinched aside, escaping by an inch as Will’s blade buried itself up to the hilt in the soft wood. He tied to pry it loose, but it was stuck fast.

  Seeing his enemy disarmed, Donal renewed his att
ack. Will dodged and scrambled away, cursing his bad luck.

  “Run, Will! Raise the alarm!” Walter cried.

  Will needed no further urging. He took to his heels crying, “Spies! Pirates!”

  “After him, Donal!” Grace ordered her man.

  Will wove a nimble path among the towers of props. Behind him he heard Donal’s blundering pursuit. Seeing the curtain ahead, he charged blindly through, bowling over the physician who had come to investigate the commotion. Next instant Donal flung himself into the curtain and was caught up like a fish in a net.

  Will scrambled clear as the pirate’s dagger ripped through the thin cloth and his crimson face poked through the rent.

  “I’ll have you now!” Donal threatened.

  Will made a dash for the nearest door and crashed right through. To his amazement he found himself stumbling across the stage with a multitude of flabbergasted faces staring up at him.

  “Away with you, boy!” said the president, shooing him off. “We’ve a match about to start.”

  Before Will could even turn round, Donal burst through the door and bashed into him. They hit the stage in a rolling tangle of limbs to the delighted hoots of the audience.

  “Nobody said there’d be clowns!” yelled a voice.

  “An added attraction!” the president improvised. “Some innocent buffoonery to provide a respite from the savagery of steel.”

  He stepped briskly over to the struggling combatants and pinned Donal’s right arm under his foot. Bending down, he pulled the dagger from the pirate’s grasp. “Get off the stage,” he told them in a low voice, “and settle your drunken brawl somewhere else.”

  Donal aimed an angry kick at the president, giving Will the chance to punch his opponent in the ear and hold him down. The pirate elbowed his way free and lashed out with both fists while Will paid him back, blow for blow.

  Suddenly a colossal roar from the crowd made them freeze in mid-punch. They looked up to see Walter and Grace come crashing through one of the stage doors in a flurry of flashing steel. They circled each other in a whirlwind dance, feinting, stabbing and parrying.

  “Look at that garb! That’s the Italian!” someone cried.

  “Begad, he’s a woman!” exclaimed another.

  “Even so, I’ll wager four shillings on her! She’s a tiger’s heart under that woman’s hide!”

  “My money’s on the other! He’ll tame the wildcat!”

  Yells of encouragement rang out for both fencers and gamblers barked out their wagers. Walter’s advantage in size and strength was matched by Grace’s speed and it seemed neither could land a decisive blow on the other.

  “This Amazon princess spent five years as a prisoner in the harem of the Turkish Sultan before escaping to ply her trade with the sword,” the president informed his delighted audience. “This strapping fellow is the youngest son of the King of Navarre, who once held the gates of Agragassa single-handed against a thousand bloodthirsty Moors.”

  Fingers clawing viciously at his throat brought Will’s attention back to his own fight. He twisted about and butted his knee into Donal’s chin. The pirate grabbed his leg and wrestled him over on to his back. Pummelling each other with fists, knees and elbows, they rolled across the stage towards the fencers.

  Grace made a quick side-step to avoid them. That moment’s distraction was all the chance Walter needed.

  Slipping past her guard, he scored a bloody gash across her sword arm. Grace uttered a violent curse as the blade dropped from her fingers and she fell back, clutching her wound.

  “A hit, a palpable hit!” announced the president. “Victory to the young prince!”

  The spectators stamped their feet, clapping and cheering in a frenzy of excitement. In the heat of the moment, Walter turned unthinkingly to acknowledge the applause with an airy wave of his hand.

  At that moment Donal broke loose of Will’s grasp and surged to his feet. He launched himself at Walter like a battering ram, striking him solidly in the back. Both men shot off the edge of the stage and plunged headlong into the cheering throng. They disappeared among the sweaty bodies like they had been sucked into a whirlpool.

  Grace grabbed her sword and ran off through the stage door. Groaning, Will clambered to his feet and raced after her, his body aching from the beating he had taken. He ran through the tiring house and out the back door. Grace was only a few yards away, sagging against the wall. Her sword was sheathed and her teeth were gritted against the pain of her bleeding arm.

  All at once Will saw not a dangerous pirate queen, but simply an injured woman. Pulling out a kerchief he went to her aid.

  “Here, let me bandage that,” he said.

  Grace tensed at his approach, then smiled crookedly through her pain when she saw he was trying to help.

  “So you’re still dogging my heels, eh, Will?” she said as he tied his kerchief round the wound. “It must be love for sure. You’ll be writing me poems next.”

  “It’s only Christian to help somebody who’s hurt,” Will said stiffly, “even if it’s an enemy.”

  “Well, you’re a fair foe to be sure,” said Grace.

  “I don’t think you’re the ruthless creature Walter says Grace O’Malley is either,” said Will.

  Grace gave a soft laugh. “Those tales have a way of growing. But don’t put my mercy to the test, Will. Be off with you.”

  They both started at a sudden rumble of wheels and the snorting of two black horses being reined in. A coach richly emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Spanish crown pulled up in front of them. Two men jumped off the back, grabbed hold of Will and bundled him inside. He was pressed into a seat opposite the Spanish ambassador Mendoza, who produced a pistol from beneath his cloak. As his men climbed back aboard the ambassador leaned out of his window to address Grace.

  “Signora O’Malley, I see that this boy is one of your crew. If you want him to live, bring the book to my house and we will complete our business on my terms.”

  The driver set a whip to the horses and the coach lurched off. As they raced down the road to London, the ambassador settled back in his seat and adjusted the points on his lace collar. He eyed Will with a thin smile and pointed the pistol at his heart.

  “My king pays a bag of silver for every English pirate slain,” he said. “You had best pray your lady captain sets a higher price on your life than that.”

  20 A Prisoner of Spain

  The carriage rumbled through the Bishop’s Gate and on into the City. Will weighed the notion of jumping out, but he knew he would not be quick enough to dodge a bullet.

  Mendoza appeared to read his mind. “Do not think to escape,” he said. “You are a pirate after all, and if I shoot you, I have only to say you forced your way into my carriage to rob me.”

  Will looked at the pistol and the firm grip the ambassador held on it. For all his fine clothes, he had the air of a military man and Will had no doubt he was a deadly shot.

  “Tell me your name,” said Mendoza, “so if the worst should happen I can see you decently buried.”

  Will considered telling the whole truth, but promptly abandoned the idea. It would be signing his own death warrant to tell Mendoza that he was working with Walter Raleigh to recover the Meta Incognita and keep it out of the Spaniard’s hands. Right now all that was keeping him alive was the ambassador’s belief that he could use him as a bargaining chip with Grace O’Malley.

  “My name…” he said, wondering what would be a good name for a pirate. “Robin’s my name, Robin Goodfellow.”

  “Good fellow,” said Mendoza, amused. “Your English names are very quaint.”

  “You’d best not do me any harm,” Will warned. “The captain has a dreadful fondness for vengeance.”

  Mendoza raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Oh really?”

  “Yes,” said Will grimly. “She once killed a man, his wife, all five of his children and two of his cousins, all because he kicked the ship’s cat.”

  “Yes, I am su
re she is very formidable,” said Mendoza unconcernedly. “So tell me, Master Goodfellow, how did one so young and mild of appearance come to be part of this bloodthirsty crew?”

  Will ransacked his brain, pulling together scraps from the many stories he had heard and read. “I’m an orphan,” he said. “My parents were killed when lightning struck the roof of our church one dark Sunday and brought it crashing down on the heads of half the parish. Forced to make my own way in the world, I travelled on foot to Portsmouth and signed on as a cabin boy aboard an honest merchant vessel.”

  “That is very enterprising of you,” Mendoza complimented him.

  “Well, we set out on a dangerous voyage far across the Atlantic,” Will continued, “and three weeks out we sailed into the blackest storm that ever darkened the sky. The wind ripped away our sails and the waves cracked our hull like it was a nut. The ship was wrecked and only I survived to be washed ashore on an unknown island in the far west.”

  “Surely God has blessed you with a special care,” said Mendoza, drawing a cross in the air with the barrel of his pistol.

  “Yes, I thank God for preserving me,” said Will, crossing himself. “I lived by hunting wild beasts with a spear I made from a tree branch and a sharpened piece of shell. One day a pirate vessel landed there to take on fresh water. They offered me the chance to be one of their crew or be left in lonely isolation for the rest of my days. I decided that human company, of whatever sort, was the better choice, so I joined them and bound myself to the captain with such oaths as it would freeze your blood to hear.”

  Mendoza set his pistol down and clapped. “Storms, shipwreck and wild beasts!” he laughed. “That’s a tale to match the romances of Boccaccio and Ariosto.”

  “Stranger things happen every day than what you read about in books,” said Will feelingly. He was beginning to learn just how true that was.

  “Well, if God still has a care for you,” said the ambassador, picking up his gun again, “he will send your captain promptly to trade for you. If not, you will wish you had stayed on your island.”