Will Shakespeare and the Pirate's Fire Page 3

  Will jumped off the back of the wagon and ran to his father. “Are you here to take me home?” he asked.

  “Things are a mite hot for that yet,” said John Shakespeare.

  He took his son aside and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You know Lucy’s been hounding me for a long time now, looking for some excuse to cast me in gaol. Unlucky for him, I’ve a lot of friends in these parts ready to stand up for me.”

  “Maybe you should just go to church and say the prayers they tell you to,” said Will. “Life would be easier then.”

  His father’s face clouded into a frown. “You know my loyalties, Will. I grew up with the Roman way and I’ll not cast it off like a craven tossing away his sword to flee the field of battle. But it’s a canny game I have to play and you’d best keep out of it for a while.”

  “For how long?” Will asked anxiously.

  “A month or two, maybe more,” his father answered. “Until all this blows over and Lousy Lucy finds somebody else to vent his spite on. I tried to give Harry some money for your upkeep, but he’d have none of it. Said you’ll be working for your keep.”

  Will pulled a face. “No more acting, I hope! Being made a fool of once is enough.”

  John Shakespeare hefted the leather bag he was carrying at his side. “I’ve brought you a few comforts. There’s some clothes and some of your mother’s best cakes inside. And there’s this too.”

  He loosened the cord that fastened the neck of the bag and pulled out a book. “Your mother wanted you to have it,” he said, handing the book to his son. “She bought it in the market at Coventry and was keeping it for your birthday, but now…”

  Will opened the book and ran his fingers gently down the page like he was testing the softness of silk. “It’s Goldsmith’s translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses” he breathed. This was the book he had loved best at school.

  “That’s a jawcracker,” said John Shakespeare. “What’s it about?”

  “Gods and monsters,” said Will with a gleam in his eye. “The Flood and the fall of Troy.”

  “Heroes too, I hope,” said his father. “And speaking of heroes, I’ve brought you a gift of my own.”

  Will closed the book and looked up expectantly. His father spread an empty hand before him. Will stared hard, but all he could see were the lines on his bare palm.

  “What is it?”

  “Why, it’s good luck, Will, ripe as a blueberry and ready for plucking. But you must be quick to catch it. Go on!”

  Will knew this game well, for they had played it many times before. John Shakespeare would offer his son some raisins or dates in the flat of his hand, but Will had to snatch them before his father closed his fist.

  Will licked his lips, met his father’s gleeful gaze – then grabbed quick as a blink. Has father whipped his hand away and each of them held his fist tight shut in front of his face.

  “Let’s see then,” said John Shakespeare, slowly uncurling his fingers. His eyebrows arched up and a slow whistle slipped though his lips.

  “You’ve whisked most of it away, and that’s for sure,” he said. “But you’ve left a wee bit to see me through. I’d best keep it safe until its needed,” he added, putting his hand in his pocket.

  Will opened his own hand and nodded approvingly. “That’s the prettiest luck in all England,” he said. “You couldn’t buy better at the Queen’s own court.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” asked his father.

  Will stuffed his hand in his pocket to keep the luck safe. “Come back a few inches taller,” he said, “and maybe a few pennies richer.”

  “Just make sure you come back with some stories to tell me,” said John Shakespeare.

  Norwich, XVIIth Day of June, 1599

  Caris Parentibus a filio suo amantissimo,

  That is how they taught us to write letters at School. In Latin. “To my deare parents from their loving sonne” it says. Well, that’s enough of that! Master Henry Beeston has granted me a sheete of his precious paper to write to you. I am glad of a change from copying out scripts for the Players. Ever since he learned how neatly I can write, Master Beeston has been employing me on such tasks until I sweare my pen fingers are benumbed.

  I had thought to alter a word here and there, but Master Beeston took me strongly to task and warned me against such interference. “A word is a dangerous thing, Master Shaxpere,” says he. “Misplace one word of the Bible and all Religion is overthrown; speake one hasty word to the wrathful mob and bloody rebellion is loosed.” I think he protests too much. I only wanted some of the lines to sound better.

  We have travelled far these past many weekes, to townes whose names I had not even heard. We set up our show in halls, courtyards and innes, and when there is no other sort of stage, the backs of the two wagons serve as such. I have played some small parts, though only twice more have I suffered to be a girl. The parts of queens and suchlike noble ladies are played by Tom Craddock, while Master Beeston’s son Kit acts the milkmaids and serving girls. They have forced upon me some lessons in walking with a woman’s gait, though it is a skill I do not prize.

  I have been learning other parts of the Player’s Art also. Master Henry Beeston has been teaching me to talk very loudly, which he calls Declamation. Kemp has offered me lessons in dancing, but I fear I might injure myself if I accept his offer, so boisterous is his jigging.

  Ralph has given me lessons in how to make a fine showe of a sword fight on the stage. One of our most popular showes is The Tale of Robin Hood, and how the crowd do cheere when Robin attacks the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham with a cry of “Have at you and God’s curse on him that flees!”

  Master Beeston, I have noted, takes every opportunity to visit shoppes and markets where he can purchase old bookes, and yet most of them he never takes time to read. I questioned him on this and he told me he is buying them for collectors all over the country who paye him well for this service.

  He sayes that when King Henry the VIIIth abolished the monasteries, the crown and the nobles took the monks’ lands and belongings. Their libraries were sold off and bookes they had collected for centuries were scattered far and wide. These are most specially valuable.

  There is one among them so strangely writ, to my eyes it might as well be Greek. When I asked Master Beeston about it he laughed most heartily and said, “That is no ordinary booke there, Master Shaxpere. That is bought for a Wyzard, Dr John Dee by name.” He intends to deliver this booke and take payment for it on our way to London. I don’t know if I want to meet a Wyzard or no, except that it would make a tale very worth the telling.

  I hope you are all well in Stratford, that father’s businesse prospers, and that Gilbert, Joan and Richard are all in good health. I trust God to keep you safe and I pray He may put an end to my troubles with Squire Lucy. I Will be back with you soone, I hope, for I have a Will to be so.

  Your wandering and affectionate Sonne,

  Will Shaxpere.

  5 Pilgrims in the Storm

  A violent storm came roaring across the land, cuffing the trees this way and that like a gigantic bully. Bulging, black clouds wrestled each other across a sky lashed by whips of lightning, while the rain beat down in torrents, pounding the earth into mud. It was so dark it was as if someone had flung a shroud over the whole country, and Will had to peer intently to make out the words on the page before him. He was huddled up at the back of the wagon beside Kit Beeston, the book his mother had given him propped up on his knees. Henry Beeston sat opposite, silently mouthing a dramatic speech from one of his plays.

  The wagon moved in fits and jerks as the horses dragged their hooves through the mud. Everyone cringed when a ferocious gust of wind threatened to rip the cover off the wagon and a flurry of rain rattled along the sides.

  “It’s lucky for us these things are built sturdy,” Kit commented nervously. When there was no response he said, “Still reading that book, Will?”

  Will nodded. “This bit is about Jupi
ter, the king of the gods, sending a flood to drown the world.”

  Kit made a pained face. “Sounds a bit close to home, that.” He peeped over Will’s shoulder, but couldn’t make out a word in the gloom. “Let’s hear it then,” he urged.

  Will picked out a passage he thought would impress and started to read:

  “As soon as he between his hands the hanging clouds had crushed,

  With rattling noise adown from heaven the rain full sadly gushed.

  The floods at random where they list, through all the fields did stray,

  Men, beasts, trees, and with their gods were Churches washed away”

  As if to accompany Will’s reading, a clap of thunder boomed out like the roll of a monstrous drum.

  “Do you hear that, Dad?” Kit asked his father.

  Beeston looked up with a start, as though jolted out of a sound sleep. “What? Oh yes, very fine, very fine. A most appropriate verse, Master Shakespeare. Though you might infuse your tone with a greater measure of drama.”

  The wagon shook under another peal of thunder.

  “Is this some of Dr John Dee’s magic, do you think?” asked Will. “You said we were getting close to his house at Mortlake.”

  Beeston laughed. “When I said he was a wizard, Will, I only meant that some ignorant folk have called him that on account of his arcane studies. In truth he is a scholar, a philosopher, and – luckily for me – an insatiable collector of rare books.”

  “He’s court astrologer to Queen Elizabeth,” Kit told Will, “and she thinks he can read the future.”

  “Yes, he set the date for the queen’s coronation after consulting the stars to divine the most favourable day,” his father agreed. “That’s a far cry from magic.”

  “But I’ve heard you say he talks to spirits,” Kit insisted. “Maybe he’s upset some of them and caused this foul weather.”

  “Hush, Kit,” said Beeston. “The man’s eccentricities should not be misinterpreted as sorcery, especially since we plan to spend the night at his house. We can lay this storm at Nature’s feet and leave it there.”

  The wagon jolted to a halt then lurched to one side so sharply it almost tossed Will from his seat. He clapped the book shut and stuffed it away in his pack. “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “If this were a ship, I’d say we were sinking,” said Kit.

  Henry Beeston pulled a wide brimmed hat out of one of the costume boxes and planted it on his head. He climbed out of the back of the wagon with Will following curiously. Ralph had dismounted from the driver’s seat to calm the horses, which were stamping and snorting. Will could see that the wheels on the left side had sunk into a soft patch of mud and the animals hadn’t the strength to pull them loose.

  Beeston surveyed their predicament from under the broad brim of his hat. He twisted some strands of beard around his finger and was about to speak when a cry of alarm interrupted him. Will looked round to see the second wagon shudder to a stop as it also tipped over to one side.

  “Matthew,” Beeston addressed the driver testily, “could you not see the bind we’re in?”

  Matthew spat at the muddy ground. “Who can see anything in this murk?”

  Ralph bent down for a closer look at the problem. “We’ll have to pull out some boards and use them to prop up the wheels before we can pull free,” he said. “It’s going to take a while.”

  “It’s a fix,” Beeston declared grimly. “The very devil of a fix.” He peered into the darkness like a mariner trying to spot land. “We can’t be more than a mile or two from Dee’s place at Mortlake House. Tell you what, Ralph, you get the wagons unstuck while I go on ahead to arrange our quarters.”

  He strode back to the rear of the wagon and gathered the players about him. He struck a regal pose and issued his instructions like a king arraying his army. “Kit, you oversee the operation, and make sure the rain doesn’t get into the baggage. Master Shakespeare, fetch down that chest of books and follow me.”

  Will hauled the box off the back of the wagon and grunted under the weight. “Do we have to bring these along?”

  “It will make an excellent impression, Will, and that is all-important,” said Beeston. He strode off, leaving Will to heave the box along after him.

  As the rain buffeted them relentlessly, Will was sure they would be lost within the hour, but Beeston marched confidently on as if their way were lit by a beacon. Will felt like the king’s fool following his mad master on some insane pilgrimage. He toiled on under the weight of the box, afraid he might lose sight of Beeston and be utterly lost in the storm.

  He was glad when they paused to rest amid a thicket of maple trees. The interlacing boughs provided some shelter from the downpour. Will set the box down and sat on it, shaking droplets of rain from his hair.

  “We’re going to an awful lot of trouble to deliver some books,” he huffed.

  “Delivering the books isn’t the half of it,” said Beeston, leaning against one of the trees, “not even the quarter.”

  “What’s the rest of it then?”

  “Dr John Dee is more than just a customer of books, Will, he’s a valuable contact at court. I’ve spent years leading my players from town to town, playing to the cheers of the commons. It’s time we had the chance to play before the nobility – royalty even – that’s where the real rewards lie.”

  “But you have your noble patron, Lord Strange,” said Will.

  “He’s not a favourite of the Queen, unlike the Earl of Leicester. It’s Leicester’s Men that get the tasty jobs, like providing the royal revels, not poor old Henry Beeston and his boys.”

  “So how will Dr Dee help?”

  “He has the Queen’s ear, lad. If he were to drop a few compliments about Strange’s Men, arrange for us to perform at the court, then we would be welcomed with open arms into the home of every noble in the land. And there’s more. It would provide us with protection.”

  “Protection?” Will echoed, puzzled.

  Beeston nodded solemnly. “We players have our enemies, those who would ban our plays because they consider them immoral, obscene even. Some think we even stir the common folk to thoughts of rebellion. Yes, these are dangerous times, Will, when a word in the wrong place can send a man to the gallows.”

  Will coughed, feeling a sudden constriction in his throat. He thought he’d escaped a whipping by running off with the players. Could it be he’d let himself in for an even worse danger? He felt his breeches squelch as he shifted his rear upon the chest. “No time to tarry!” Beeston declared, stirring from his reverie. “Onward!”

  Will rose wearily to his feet and picked up the chest. Abandoning their shelter, the pair trudged out once more into the howling storm. After what felt like miles of trekking through the rain and mire Beeston finally pulled up short. He spread out his hands dramatically before him, as if there was a whole crowd of people there to witness his performance instead of one bedraggled boy.

  “There it is, Will,” he announced, “Mortlake House!”

  6 The House of Doctor Dee

  Will stared ahead but could see only a vague black bulk set against the rain-drenched gloom. Then a bolt of lightning cracked the sky and in the flash Will saw the whole house.

  It was a vast, rambling structure. The central, stone-built bastion reared up five storeys high, the upper floors piled crazily on top of each other like badly balanced bricks. Adjoining wings jutted out on both sides, their roofs capped with mismatched gables and turrets. At ground level, further extensions sprawled out this way and that like the roots of some enormous tree. Will had never seen anything so bizarre.

  And then it was gone, swallowed up in the darkness of the storm. Will rubbed his eyes. It was as if he had caught a glimpse of some grotesque goblin palace.

  “Ah, Will, what an entrance we’ll make!” Beeston exclaimed. “Like two shipwrecked mariners emerging from a tempest!”

  The possibility of shelter, a warm fire, perhaps even a hot meal, renewed Will’s
strength as he and Beeston hurried through the ill-tended grounds towards the great house. Yellow lights glimmered at one or two of the upper windows, but other than that the house was as dark as the surrounding landscape.

  There was a brass knocker on the door in the shape of a crescent moon. Beeston gave two loud raps then stood back, his eyes raised to the floors above. When there was no response, he rapped again – louder this time – but still with no result.

  “Maybe they can’t hear us over the wind and the rain,” Will suggested. “I suppose we could just wait here for the others to arrive.”

  “What? Stand here shivering for an hour or more?” Beeston exclaimed. “What sort of an entrance would we make then?” He huddled under the lintel and wiped a trickle of rain from the end of his nose. “Here’s a notion, Will. You investigate the rear of the house, see if you can find some means of ingress.”

  “You mean break in?”

  “I mean find a way to get us inside before we are washed away in the flood,” said Beeston. “You can leave the box with me.”

  Will set the box of books down at Beeston’s feet and looked out at the rain. Bowing his head against the downpour, he stepped out into the storm. As he made his way round the side of the house he saw the blurred outlines of a garden and some straggly trees set out in an orchard pattern.

  At the back of the house he discovered a door, but it was firmly bolted. He knocked several times, but – as he expected – there was no answer. Then he looked up and saw above him a small, high window lying ajar.

  He tried a standing jump, but his fingers never even touched the sill. Cursing his luck, he cast a look around and spotted a rain barrel, full to the brim and with water spilling down its sides. It was just the thing to give him the boost he needed. With a decisive heave, he toppled it over, sending a tide of water cascading over the sodden ground.

  Shaking the rainwater out of his eyes, Will turned the barrel upside down and wrestled it over to the wall under the open window. Mounting the upturned base, he shoved the flapping shutters back and pushed off with a grunt.