Will Shakespeare and the Pirate's Fire Page 2

  Looking as casual as possible, so as not to draw attention from passers-by, they made their way through the empty cattle market, back towards the town centre.

  “Where are we going?” Will asked.

  John Shakespeare pointed towards the spire of the Guild Chapel. “Just there, boy.”

  “The Guild Hall?” said Will, puzzled. “But why?”

  “Have you forgotten? Henry Beeston and his lads are in town,” replied his father. “You know – Lord Strange’s Men.”

  “The players you mean?” said Will.

  “I did a favour or two for old Beeston when I had charge of public entertainments,” said his father. “He’s just the man to help us out.”

  Will knew that whenever players were in town they put on their show in the Guild Hall. Back when his father was the leading man on the council, they had front row seats for every performance. He remembered being taken along and delighting in the clowning, swordfights and dances which enlivened the plays.

  But that was some years past, before the wool market collapsed, before men suffered financial punishments for not falling into line with the government’s religion. John Shakespeare had been forced to sell off much of his property and incurred heavy debts in order to sustain his business. Yet still the prospect of a brighter future kept the sparkle in his eye.

  “Will,” he would tell his son, “one day we’ll be the ones living in a manor house with our own coat of arms over the door, and the likes of Lousy Thomas Lucy will come begging to sit at our table.”

  “If we’re going to have a coat of arms,” Will would reply, “you need to make your mind up about how Shakespeare is supposed to be spelled.”

  They walked briskly down Ely Street then turned sharp right up Chapel Street until they came to the Guild Hall and its adjoining chapel. Will knew the building well. The school he had attended from the ages of seven to twelve was located on the upper floor.

  When his father had taken him out of school to help with his ailing glove-making business Will had been both happy and sad. Most of the lessons were as dull as mud, but he had loved the stories they read. Some were in English, some in Latin – and there were poems, comedies and histories, tales of faraway places and long ago.

  “This way, Will,” said John Shakespeare, leading his son away from the front entrance. “We’re not here for the show.”

  Slipping unnoticed through a side door, they made their way down a wood-panelled passage, only to find their path blocked by a stout man carrying a stick.

  “Out you go!” he boomed. “We’ll have no spectators backstage and no free peeks at the show!”

  He placed a hand on John Shakespeare’s chest and started to push him back. Will’s father immediately planted his feet and gave the man a hefty shove that almost toppled him over. He thrust out his chin and jabbed an angry finger in the air.

  “I’ve no time for your fiddle-faddle,” he intoned. “I’m here on behalf of the Queen’s Commission to report any hints of treason or immorality. If you don’t step aside, I’ll have you in the stocks before you can cough!”

  Will’s father had held many prominent positions in Stratford, from ale-taster to bailiff, and he could assume the manner of a belligerent official as easily as putting on a hat.

  The stout man hastily swept off his cap and made a humble bow. “A thousand apologies, your honour,” he said. “Nobody told me there was to be an inspection.”

  “Only your ignorance makes me lenient,” said John Shakespeare, sweeping grandly past him. As they entered the great hall he turned to Will and said with a chuckle, “These fellows aren’t the only actors around here.”

  With that they passed through the door into a different world.

  3 The King Must Die

  A curtain had been hung across one end of the Guild Hall, giving the players a private place screened off from the audience. The whole area was filled with bustle as costumes were tossed about, props exchanged and scripts passed from hand to hand.

  A boy’s voice singing some sort of hymn filtered through the curtain and a moment later the boy himself came offstage, lifting his skirts as he traipsed down the small wooden steps. He was dressed as an oriental queen.

  Women were forbidden by law to appear on the stage, so female roles were played by clean-shaven young men. The boy was accompanied by two older men dressed as murderous ruffians with daggers in their hands.

  “Don’t handle me so rough out there,” the player queen complained peevishly. “You’re creasing me royal robes.” He pulled off his crown and the long black wig that was pinned to it, then rubbed a hand over the short-cropped hair beneath.

  One of the ruffians poked him with the butt end of his dagger and laughed. “It’s Cruel and Murder we’re playing, Tom, not Kind and Coddling.”

  A young man in the colourful patchwork costume of a clown was bounding up the steps. “Spice it up out there, Kemp!” one of the others encouraged him as he disappeared through the curtain. His appearance on stage brought a cheer of recognition from the crowd.

  There were seven or eight people backstage now, but they were milling around so busily they seemed like twice that number. Piled all about were boxes of fabric, boxes of wigs, pots of paint and flasks of powder. John Shakespeare bobbed this way and that, trying to see past them. Only slightly muffled by the curtain, Will could hear the clown declaiming on the stage:

  “Cambyses put a judge to death – that was a good deed – But to kill the young child was worse to proceed, To murder his brother, and then his own wife – So help me God and holydom, it is pity of his life!”

  At the far side of all the backstage bustle stood a regal figure with long white hair and a bushy beard, a painted plaster crown perched on his head. He was mouthing words off a script in his hand while a boy fastened a belt round his midriff. Sticking out from this belt was the hilt and half the blade of a wooden sword daubed with red paint.

  “There’s the man,” said John Shakespeare, elbowing his way through the other actors.

  The boy pulled down the makeshift king’s robe so that the fake sword poked out through a convenient rent in the purple cloth then stood back, regarding his work with satisfaction. “You’re properly done to death there, dad,” he said.

  “Harry!” said Will’s father, offering his hand. “Harry Beeston!”

  Beeston looked up from his script with a smile of recognition. “John Shakespeare!” he said, giving a vigorous handshake. “I heard you had – shall we say – retired from public life.”

  “You know what it is to have creditors hounding your tracks, Harry.”

  “I do indeed,” said Beeston, setting aside his script and making sure his crown was sitting straight. “You’ve come a bit late to catch my Cambyses, John. Show’s nearly done and we’re off in the morning.”

  “I didn’t come for the play,” Will’s father began.

  “No time to chat, John,” Beeston interrupted. “About to go on stage and die.”

  John Shakespeare put a restraining hand on Beeston’s arm as he made to go. “Cling to life a little longer, if you please, Harry,” he said. “My boy Will here’s in a spot of trouble, and you owe me a favour, if you recall.”

  Beeston tapped his head with his forefinger. “I keep an exact ledger of every kindness right here, be sure of that. What’s the pickle?”

  John Shakespeare leaned close so that only Beeston could hear him. “Sir Thomas Lucy’s after him for poaching.”

  “Lucy?” Beeston bristled at the name. “The villain that tried to ban our show? Claimed it was lewd – and seditious to boot?”

  “The very same, Harry.”

  “Then the favour’s yours, John. We’ll hoodwink that pompous poltroon.”

  One of the other players, who was peering round the edge of the curtain, turned and said, “There’s some trouble out there, Harry. A bunch of louts forcing their way through the crowd.”

  John Shakespeare took a look for himself and ground his teeth. �
�It’s Lousy Lucy and his men,” he said. “No time to waste, Harry.”

  Beeston tapped the boy who had been dressing him on the shoulder and pointed at Will. “Kit, trick him up in a wench’s garb. Quick change now!”

  “I’m not dressing up as a girl!” Will protested, raising his hands to keep Kit at bay.

  “Do as he says, Will!” said John Shakespeare sharply. “You stay with Harry and his crew until I tell you otherwise. I’ll get out front and stall Lucy and his boys.” He slipped around the curtain and out of sight.

  Will’s shoulders slumped and he let Kit pull an outsized crimson dress over his head, yanking it down to cover his filthy clothes. The boy tutted as he struggled to straighten out the folds on the ill-fitting gown. “We’re going to have to wash this as soon as it’s off.”

  “Briskly, Kit, briskly!” Beeston urged. “Must get him on stage before the squire’s men start poking around back here.”

  “On stage!” exclaimed Will in shock, as Kit planted a russet wig on his head. “Dressed like this?”

  Beeston tapped himself on the nose and winked. “A man can’t see what’s right under his nose, not unless his eyes fall out.” He whipped out a kerchief and wiped the worst of the dirt from Will’s face. “A spot of red there, Kit, that should set the whole thing off.”

  Kit brushed the trailing locks of the wig aside and dabbed red make-up on to Will’s cheeks. “There!” he said. “Your own mum would hardly know you now.”

  “She wouldn’t want to,” said Will glumly.

  “Right, up you go!” said Beeston, propelling him towards the stage steps.

  Out front Kemp the clown was uttering his climactic lines to introduce the king:

  “He has shed so much blood that his will be shed. If it come to pass, in faith, then his will be sped.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?” Will protested. “I’m no actor.”

  “Stand in the background and look pretty,” said Beeston, “or stupid. Makes no difference. When I make my entrance, look appalled if you will, shed a tear even. There’ll be few enough of those for old Cambyses.”

  Irritably, Kemp repeated the king’s cue, louder this time:

  “If it come to pass, in faith, then he is sped!”

  Will tried to resist but Beeston and Kit pushed him up the stairway and through the curtains. He stumbled out on to the stage, almost tripping over the hem of his overlong dress. The crowd gave a roar of laughter at his clumsiness and he looked up to find himself confronted by a sea of expectant faces.

  Some of them murmured and pointed, wondering who the newcomer was supposed to be. “That’s not King Cambyses!” somebody called out. “Looks more like my sister Kate!” yelled another.

  Will glanced to his left and saw Sir Thomas Lucy and his men force their way through the side curtain into the backstage area. Will’s father was in the midst of them, firmly held between two of the squire’s minions. None of them were looking at the stage.

  “It’s as I told you,” Will could hear his father saying, “I came here alone to pay a visit to my old friend Henry Beeston. My boy’s been gone at least a day.”

  Kemp the clown was as surprised as the audience to see Will emerge. He fiddled with the tassels on his patchwork costume as he recovered his composure then struck a confident pose and gestured towards Will, saying,

  “Ah yes, you wonder, good people, who might this be, A mysterious maid, but she is known to me…”

  He waved his hand vaguely, as if trying to conjure up more words out of the air.

  “Though strangely changed by death she surely has been, I swear this is the spirit of the lately murdered queen.”

  A great “Ooh!” went up from the crowd at this revelation and many of them made pitying noises over the queen’s awful fate.

  Before Will could decide what to do, the curtain fluttered behind him and Beeston came barging past. A chorus of boos and jeers greeted the king as he staggered to the front of the stage. The fake sword was sticking out of his side and he clutched it tight with his right hand. Looking up to the heavens, he gave a deep groan that resonated throughout the hall.

  “Out! Alas!” he moaned. “What shall I do? My life is finished! Wounded I am by sudden chance; my blood is minished.”

  “Good riddance to you!” bawled a stout woman at the back of the hall, sparking an uproar of agreement.

  “As I on horseback up did leap,” groaned King Cambyses, his voice hoarse with pain. “My sword from scabbard shot, and ran me thus into the side – as you right well may see.”

  He displayed his bloody wound to the crowd who let out an enormous cheer, then he slumped to the floor and continued his dying speech. Kemp stood over him pulling faces, but warily, as if the king were a wounded beast that might still turn on him.

  Some of Lucy’s men came out front and started pressing through the crowd, searching for their fugitive. Sir Thomas himself reappeared, John Shakespeare close behind. Will’s father was doing his best to distract the squire by talking about the bad winter, the price of bread and anything else he could think of.

  Finally King Cambyses breathed his last and Kemp leaned over him with his hands on his hips. “Alas, good king!” he said sadly. “Alas, he is gone!” He allowed himself a long pause then added loudly, “The devil take me if for him I make any moan!”

  The crowd roared their approval.

  Will hoped fervently that the play was done, and that he could vanish behind the curtain once more. But Kemp was still speaking, and worse – Sir Thomas Lucy had turned to stare directly at the stage.

  4 A Handful of Luck

  Will flinched, as if the squire’s eyes were a pair of musket balls about to be fired at him. He toyed with his wig, tugging the russet locks in front of his face.

  Just as he was thinking of making a run for it, Kemp launched himself into a mad dance. He capered round the royal corpse like a prisoner set free of the gallows. He hopped this way and that, twirled left, then right, then leapt over the dead king to land precariously on the very edge of the stage. He tottered there, his arms windmilling frantically as he tried to keep balance.

  The crowd roared and clapped, and Will saw that even Lousy Lucy was laughing and applauding the clown’s acrobatics. Kemp drew out his predicament a little longer then flung himself into a back somersault that carried him right over the dead king to land on his feet with a flourish.

  The hall was rocked by whistles, guffaws and cheers. Three lords marched solemnly on to the stage and lifted the king up. As they carried him away, Kemp hooked his arm through Will’s and hauled him off through the curtains.

  “Where the duck eggs did you churn up from?” he asked.

  “I think you mean ‘turn up’,” said Will. He couldn’t help but smile. He felt as if the continuing applause was not only for the play, but his own narrow escape as well.

  “If I meant to call you a turnip I would have said so,” the clown informed him haughtily as they reached the bottom of the steps.

  The king had come back to furious life and stood fuming indignantly at the clown. “Kemp!” he said. “How many times have I told you to keep within the bounds of the script?”

  “More times than I can count,” Kemp answered him. “But it’s hardly my fault if you see fit to introduce a ghost into the play, or whatever this new boy of yours is supposed to be.”

  “Dad,” said Kit, tugging at Beeston’s sleeve, “your bows.”

  “Well recollected, Kit,” said the king, his bad humour melting away. He bounded up the steps as quickly as a man half his age and presented himself on stage to wild applause.

  “I must go take my bows also,” said Kemp to Will. “But I advise you to stay congealed back here, Mistress Spirit.”

  “I’ll keep out of sight,” Will assured him. “I’ll be indivisible.”

  The clown laughed to hear his own word plays turned about on him, then raced up on to the stage with the other actors to accept the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd.
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  The early morning air was so cold their breath hung in misty clouds before their faces. Lord Strange’s Men had risen with the dawn for, as Henry Beeston told Will, “We want to be long gone before that simple-minded squire notices that he might have been tricked.”

  After a hasty breakfast they had loaded all their costumes, props and other baggage on to two horse drawn wagons and set out on the north-bound road towards Warwick. Will was reclining at the back of the lead wagon beside Kit Beeston.

  Henry Beeston was seated beside the driver, his nose deep in a thick script. Also in the wagon were young Tom Craddock, who had played Cambyses’ queen, and Ralph, a burly fellow who had been one of the queen’s murderers.

  “Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, is our patron,” Kit was explaining. “He lives many miles away in Derby, but his name stands as surety of our honesty and good behaviour.”

  “But why should he lend you his name if he never even comes with you?” Will asked.

  “Lord Strange’s Men were in origin entertainers to the Stanley family,” Kit replied, “and when we took our act out into the country at large, Lord Strange continued his patronage. Other nobles have their own companies, the Earl of Leicester for one – and he’s the Queen’s favourite. The Queen’s ministers have forbidden players to perform unless they have the patronage of some nobleman or other.”

  All of a sudden the horses were reined in and the wagon stopped with a jolt that nearly threw Kit out the back.

  “What’s this?” Kit wondered. “Surely there can’t be robbers this close to Stratford?”

  Will craned around for a look and saw to his surprise that it was his father who had caused the halt. John Shakespeare walked up to the wagon and shook hands with Beeston. The two men drew their heads in close and exchanged a few words.