Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire

“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.

His elbows found purchase on the window ledge and with a hefty kick he heaved himself head and shoulders through the gap. Legs dangling, he wriggled forward until suddenly he overbalanced and tumbled headlong into the dark.

Will thudded down on to a hard, earthen floor, jarring every bone in his body. Outside a roll of thunder drowned out his squawk of pain as he tentatively fingered his ribs to check that nothing was broken.

“Not too bad then,” he thought. Even bruised and winded, he was still glad to be out of the storm. But what sort of place was this?

He struggled to his feet and gazed around him, straining to penetrate the gloom. He appeared to be in some sort of storeroom, though there was little enough stored here. Lightning flashed again, showing him a table with two broken legs, a small tub of mouldy flour and a pile of moth-eaten blankets.

Not exactly a wyzard’s treasure, Will thought.

He put a hand over his nose as the stink of rat droppings pricked his nostrils. With his other hand he felt his way to the door and pushed it open. He stepped out into a cramped, dusty passage and followed a faint, distant gleam to a wider corridor where a few shafts of grey light slipped through the slats of a shuttered window.

Buffeted by the storm, the house was creaking and groaning at every joint. It was easy for Will to imagine the noise as the weeping and moaning of restless ghosts. He wanted to call out for someone to come and lead him through the dark, but he was afraid any voice that answered might not come from a living tongue.

He pressed on, leaving damp footprints and a trail of droplets from his sodden clothes. Passages branched off this way and that, some ending in blank walls, others splitting into more forks or opening on to narrow stairways, some of wood, some of stone. Remembering that a couple of the upstairs windows had been lit, Will worked his way upwards.

As he mounted a final steep stairway, he heard a strange noise coming from above. It was a whirring sound, like the fluttering of a bird’s wings but much more rapid. At the top of the stairs he emerged into a branching corridor. To the left the walls disappeared into darkness, but the right-hand passage led to a door with yellow light spilling out from under it. This was the source of the unnerving noise.

Along with the whirring he could now hear a regular metallic grinding, like a pair of knives being scraped together. He swallowed hard and started cautiously down the passage. The wall to his left was covered by faded hangings, to his right the rain rattled on some shuttered windows.

Suddenly he heard a stealthy footfall at his back. A poacher’s instincts made Will duck as a heavy iron pan whooshed over his head and smashed a chunk of plaster out of the wall. With a loud clang, the pan clattered to the floor.

Will spun round to confront his attacker. He barely had time to glimpse a pair of malignant black eyes glaring at him out of a round, sallow face when he was seized by the arms and lifted off his feet. Rough, powerful hands slammed him against the wall with a force that made his teeth quiver.

“You’re a sneaky thief,” rasped the stranger, “but not sneaky enough to outfox Caleb Cook!”

Will tried to protest his innocence, but Caleb Cook slammed him into the wall again and bashed the breath out of him. His heart hammered and a red mist spread over his eyes. If he didn’t fight back, this man was going to kill him. He twisted his arms free and locked his fingers around his attacker’s neck.

“You don’t beat Caleb like that,” croaked his sallow-faced opponent, shaking Will’s fingers loose with a guttural cry of triumph.

He caught Will under the shoulders and hoisted him off the floor, swinging him about like a doll. Then he gave a mighty heave and flung the boy across the passage. Will hurtled backwards into a window. The shutters banged open and he toppled out into the dark and empty air.

7 The Scarab

When Will dared to open his eyes he was horrified to find himself clinging to a shutter, dangling four floors above the rain-drenched garden. He kicked frantically, trying to swing the shutter towards the window and safety, but the violent wind was against him. His arms stretched like tent ropes and his wet fingers ached from the strain of holding on.

Caleb’s face loomed at the window like a baleful yellow moon. “There’s the price of burglary,” he said. He cast a glance down at the ground below. “I doubt you’ll have a bone left unbroken after this fall.”

One of Will’s hands slipped. Choking back his panic, he tried to think. “I’m not a burglar,” he pleaded. “I’m here with Master Henry Beeston.”

“And what’s he to me?” Caleb growled.

“He leads Lord Strange’s Men,” gasped Will. “He’s come to see Dr Dee. For the love of God, they know each other!” He kicked at the air again, but that only moved him further away.

Caleb drew back from the window.

“Wait!” shouted Will. His shoulders were burning and his sinews were drawn tight. “We’ve brought something precious for Dr Dee!” The pain was becoming unbearable and Will braced himself to plunge to his doom. “I-can’t-hold-on-much-longer.”

A hand reached out and grasped the shutter. With a wordless grunt of disgust Caleb hauled it towards the window. Will threw his legs over the ledge and swung himself inside. He dropped to the floor and slumped there, puffing like a fish out of water. Caleb stared down at him, an angler deciding whether his catch was worth keeping.

“If you’ve come to bring trouble,” he said in his cracked, unpleasant voice, “I’ll not be blamed for it.”

Wiping the raindrops from his face with a shaky hand, Will looked up at his attacker. Caleb looked to be only a few years older than Will, but he seemed prematurely aged by sheer meanness of spirit. The cast of his features was sour and unwelcoming, and his shoulders were hunched as though he were expecting to be struck from behind.

“No trouble,” Will assured him. “Master Beeston has brought Dr Dee some books.”

“Books,” said Caleb with a sniff. “If less was spent on books, we could buy more oil for the lamps, more fuel for the fire.”

He started down the passage, walking in a peculiar stooped gait. “The doctor is this way,” he growled over his shoulder, with a curt nod towards the lighted doorway.

Will picked himself up and followed his sullen guide. As he approached the door the whirring noise grew louder and more sinister and he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

“What’s going on in there?” he asked.

Caleb shrugged his twisted shoulders. “It’s the doctor,” he said flatly, as if that were explanation enough. Stepping aside, he caught Will by the arm and launched him forward as he flung the door open. Will stumbled into the room and almost screamed as a monstrous flying shape swooped down on him from above.

It was a gigantic beetle, as big as a horse. Its pincer-like jaws snapped like a pair of clashing swords and its wings fluttered furiously as it bore down on him. Will jumped back, bumping into Caleb who was blocking the doorway. A rush of air ruffled Will’s hair as the monster whirled past, the light of a nearby lantern flashing off the silver-blue sheen of its body.

“Don’t just stand there!” boomed a voice. “Lend me a hand!”

Snapped out of his shock, Will saw that there were ropes attached to the huge insect, guiding it in a circular path around the room. He ducked as it swept by again, its jaws chomping, its six legs flailing.

Caleb shoved past and scuttled over to where one of the ropes was attached to a winch. He seized the handle and with a strenuous effort started to crank it.

“You too, boy!” came the commanding voice.

On the far side of the spinning monstrosity, Will could see someone waving him towards another rope that was secured to a hook. As he walked towards it, the voice shouted, “Untie it and pull it taut!”

There was a snap of authority in the words that prompted Will to obey. Loosing the rope, he grasped it tightly in both hands and was almost yanked off his feet as the beetle careered past him.

“Hold firm and pull!” came the order.

Will planted his feet firmly and heaved back on the rope. It fed through an overhead apparatus of cogs, shafts and wheels before attaching itself to the body of gigantic insect. Will’s fear lent him strength, for he was sure that if he let go, the beetle would pounce on him and use those awful pincers to rip the flesh from his bones.

He hauled with all his might until the rope was taut, wondering how anyone could have captured this monster. Then the truth dawned on him. As the beetle slowed down he could see it was no living creature, but a clever construct of wood, plaster and paint, as false as the props used by Lord Strange’s Men.

He saw Caleb cranking the handle with single-minded determination, reining the huge insect in, while the doctor pulled and pushed at a sequence of coloured levers. As the anchor ropes tightened, the monster stopped dead at a central point above their heads. Its jaws gave a final click, the wings twitched to a standstill and at last it dangled lifelessly in the air.

The master of the house came out from behind his levers and circled the floor under the beetle. He stroked his wavy silver beard as he scrutinised the machinery that held the creature in place. His face was flushed with exhilaration as if the whole exercise had been a huge bit of fun, oblivious to the horrid ordeal Will had experienced.

Steel-grey hair curled up under the brim of his round scholar’s cap and a long blue robe hung down to his feet, making him resemble a priest or – Will could not help the thought – a wizard.

“It still needs a few adjustments, Caleb,” he said. “I’ll give you a list of the parts I’ll need.”

“Yes, doctor,” Caleb answered dully.

Dr John Dee turned to Will as if noticing him for the first time. “And what’s this you’ve dragged in? He looks like he’s been mislaid.”

“I caught him sneaking round the house,” said Caleb. “He says he’s here with somebody called Beeston.”

“Henry Beeston?”

“The same, sir,” said Will. “He’s waiting at your front door and I’m sure he’d be obliged if you’d let him in out of the rain.”

“No doubt he would,” Dr Dee agreed. “Caleb, go and fetch Master Henry Beeston up to the library.”

Caleb slouched resentfully out of the room, without a word.

“What are you doing in here?” Will asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Dee. “I’m building a giant mechanical beetle. I modelled it on the scarab, the beetle god of the ancient Egyptians.”

“I can see that,” said Will, “but why?”

“Now you’re asking a sensible question,” Dee beamed. He headed for the door, leaving Will still gaping up at the huge insect. “I wouldn’t hang around here,” he advised, plucking a lantern from the wall. “It might fall down at any moment and crush the life out of you.”

Will hurriedly followed Dee out the door. As they headed down the passageway, he saw the doctor moving his fingers in intricate patterns, as though he were assembling some device in the air in front of him.

Suddenly he stopped and thrust a decisive finger upward, his face lit up with sudden inspiration. Then he frowned. “No, that won’t work,” he concluded, brushing the thought away with a sweep of his hand that made his long sleeve flap like a ship’s sail.

The doctor threw open a door and stepped into a room filled with jars, bottles and flasks of powder, arranged on a set of shelves that went all the way up to the ceiling. He retreated rapidly, closing the door with a puzzled expression.

“That’s not right,” he sighed. “I sometimes think I should put up signs.”

“I suppose that would help,” Will said politely.

Two more doors failed to open on to the correct room, but Dee just laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, my young friend. You’re thinking that this house surely isn’t large enough to contain so many rooms.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” said Will.

“It isn’t?” Dee looked genuinely surprised. “That’s odd. I think that all the time.”

In fact Will was thinking that Doctor John Dee was the strangest man he had ever met and he wondered what other horrific devices he had constructed. He felt an almost overwhelming impulse to run for his life, but he was afraid he would become hopelessly lost in this unearthly house. Will didn’t know about wizards, but he had no doubts that he was trapped here with a pair of dangerous lunatics.

8 Pluto and Proserpina

At last Dee found the correct door. It opened on to a cavernous dark so immense that the lantern seemed to shrink before it in fear. The doctor plucked a taper out of a nearby vase and lit it. As they walked deeper into the library he used it to ignite a series of lamps that were placed strategically throughout the vast room. With each new flare of light more and more bookcases became visible, each ten or twelve feet high. They formed crooked passages that zigzagged this way and that from one end of the room to the other, turning the library into a gigantic maze. Crammed on to each shelf were volumes of every imaginable size, shape and colour.

“There must be thousands of books here,” Will gasped.

“I dare say there are,” said Dee, “though I’ve never found time to count them.”

The doctor strode on, lighting lamps as he went with scarcely a pause. Will stumbled along after, unable to tear his gaze away from this wondrous array of books. He had not imagined there were this many in the whole world. Running his eyes over the titles on the bindings, he saw that there were volumes on mathematics, astronomy, logic, mythology, saints, falconry and magic. Surely everything that could be known was contained in this library.

“Keep up! Keep up!” Dee’s voice prompted him.

Will looked around and realised he had lost sight of the doctor. “I can’t see you!” he called back.

“Well, keep looking!” came the response. “I must be around here somewhere!”

Will headed left, then right, straight into a dead end. He resisted the impulse to call out for help. This was only one room after all: he could surely find a way through it.

Then he spotted a ladder set at a steep angle upon a wedge-shaped wooden frame. Obviously it was designed for reaching the upper shelves, but if he climbed to the very top he might be able to spot the doctor over the tops of the bookcases.

Darting over to the ladder, he jumped on to the bottommost rung. To his shock the apparatus shot off sideways on unseen wheels. Rows of books flashed by in a giddy rush and a wall loomed suddenly ahead. Will shut his eyes tight and braced himself.

With a jolt, the framework crashed into the wall, knocking loose two rows of books. Opening his eyes with a sigh of relief, Will carefully dismounted. He began to wonder if this entire house was one huge death-trap.

He knelt to replace the fallen books.

“Ah, there you are!” came a voice from above.

Will looked up and saw Dee’s face peering down at him through a gap in one of the upper shelves. “I’ve warned Caleb not to oil the wheels so freely. One day there might be a serious accident.”

The face vanished and a moment later Dee appeared by Will’s side. He led the way to the centre of the library, which was lit by three separate lamps. There was a large table here, strewn with books, papers, pieces of crystal and mathematical instruments.

“With all this,” said Will, staring about him, “how do you find the books you want?”

“This library is arranged according to a thematic system of my own devising,” Dee explained. “It would take a very long time to explain.”

“I’m sure it’s very clever,” said Will.

He peered at one particular book that lay on top of a sheet of incomprehensible calculations. It’s green cover looked new, though the title made it sound very old: A True Treatise on the Construction of the Labyrinth of King Minos.

He was about to open it when Dee whipped it out from under his nose and set it to one side. “I can’t think what that’s doing here,” he murmured distractedly.

“Dr Dee?” called a familiar voice from somewhere in the direction of door.

“Beeston, is that you?” Dee responded.

“Right here, doctor. Is my boy Will with you?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Will interposed, “wherever here is.”

A few moments later Caleb appeared with Henry Beeston at his shoulder.

“No matter how many times I’ve been here,” said Beeston with a shake of his head, “I’m sure I would still get lost in this room without a guide.”

“Lost? Not a bit of it!” said Dee. “You simply have to remember to always take the left turn. Or is it the right? Anyway, it’s the simplest thing.” His eye lighted on the box Beeston was carrying. “So what’s this you’ve got for me?”

“A few volumes I know will interest you.”

“Excellent!” Dee enthused. “Drinks, Caleb!”

“What sort of drinks?” Caleb asked dully.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Dee. “Something hot. Isn’t there any of that apple punch left?”

“I’ll see if I can find some,” said Caleb, shuffling off.

Beeston gazed after him. “I can’t think why you keep such a surly servant about the place.”

“He’s my assistant, actually,” said Dee. “There are servants too, but they come and go. None of them stays for long. I can’t think why.”

Beeston set the box down on the table. As soon as he opened it, Dee reached inside, clearly delighted. He lifted the books out one by one, handling them as carefully as if they were made of eggshells and gossamer.

“Tully’s translation of the Cyropaedia! Splendid! And what’s this? The Voyage of Prince Madoc. This is treasure indeed! I’ll be sure to pay you double the usual fee, Master Beeston, as soon as I am in funds.”

“In funds?” Beeston’s smile drooped. “Not now?”

“Sadly my finances are at a low ebb,” said Dee absently, leafing through one of the books. “But even now I am taking steps to improve my situation.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Beeston, “but perhaps in the meantime…”

“Where’s the rest of your company?” Dee asked. “Not abandoned you, I hope?”

“The wagons were bogged down in the mud,” Beeston retorted stiffly. “They’ll be here presently.”

“In that case, Master Beeston, it’s not chance that brought you here but the guiding hand of all-seeing providence.” Dee set the book aside and looked up with a broad grin. “I am laying on a very special entertainment in two weeks time and the centrepiece of this revelry requires a troupe of players. I had thought of hiring Worcester’s Men, but—”

“Worcester’s Men?” Beeston cut in. “You can’t be serious! Tunstall can barely speak two lines without spraying the audience in spittle. And as for Dick Andrews, I’ve seen baboons that could pass for a woman better than he, no matter how much makeup they cake on him.”

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