Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire

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.

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.

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 Jupiter, 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.”