Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire
Robert J. Harris

For Jill, who told me many years ago I was going to write this book.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

1 The Hunters Hunted

2 Lord Strange’s Men

3 The King Must Die

4 A Handful of Luck

5 Pilgrims in the Storm

6 The House of Doctor Dee

7 The Scarab

8 Pluto and Proserpina

9 The Goblin Court

10 The Mermaid

11 The Black Stone

12 Curtain Saturday

13 The Downfall of Adonis

14 The Game is Up

15 At the Sign of the Angel

16 Meta Incognita

17 Fallen on Hard Times

18 Crossed Swords

19 Fair Foes

20 A Prisoner of Spain

21 The Reluctant Pirate

22 A Hare in a Maze

23 A Pretty Piece of Thieving

24 Shooting the Bridge

25 Proof Positive

26 The Protector of England

27 Darkness and Light

28 Inconstant Allies

29 The Stage is Set

30 Deus Ex Machina

31 The Brimstone Circle

32 The Reign of Mercy

Afterword

Acknowledgements

Also by Robert J Harris

Copyright

About the Publisher

1 The Hunters Hunted

“I’d give a lot for a good horse right now,” panted Will Shakespeare, leaning heavily against the trunk of a looming oak tree. He wiped some sweat from his brow with the cuff of his jerkin and sucked in the sharp February air.

They had been running so hard his friend Hamnet could hardly summon the breath to speak. “I’d settle for a hole in the ground,” he gasped, “and some branches to cover ourselves with.”

“Look how they’re beating the bushes,” Will pointed out. “It’ll take more than a few twigs to save us.”

Hamnet poked his head out for a peek. Will caught the back of his jerkin and yanked him down. “Stay down, you clodpole! They’ll see you!”

“You wouldn’t think they’d be so stirred up over a few rabbits,” sighed Hamnet. “Maybe we should have just picked some berries and gone home.”

Hamnet Sadler was only a few months younger than Will and they had been friends for the entire fourteen years they had been growing up in Stratford. They had taken more than a few chances together, but if they were convicted of poaching a public whipping was the lightest sentence they could expect.

They both hugged the tree’s shadow as they spied on Sir Thomas Lucy’s men. There were a dozen of them, poking in the bushes with hunting spears, determined to flush out the young poachers. They were a tough, hard crew, the sort who could be depended on to carry out any order, no matter how cruel, as long as they were paid for the deed.

The squire himself perched uneasily astride his fat, grey gelding. He surveyed the ground and yapped out his orders. “There, Cobb, there!” he shrilled. “I swear by God I saw something move among those brambles.”

“Just a bird, sir!” Cobb called back.

Will sank back into the shadows. “That nag of his couldn’t outrun Widow Tanner’s donkey,” he said.

“It’s his men will outrun us if he spots us,” said Hamnet. “And they’re a mean lot.”

Will bit his lower lip and looked around. This was a wild, tangled country, too dense and thorny for deer – nothing for a proper nobleman to brag about – but Sir Thomas guarded it like it was the Garden of Eden. Charlecote Warren the locals called it, for it was rich in rabbits, hare and game birds.

Will fingered the bow that hung at his side, thinking of the pair of rabbits and the fat guinea fowl he had bagged. Hamnet had only got a stringy-looking hare, but he was well content with his prize. England’s longbowmen had once made her armies invincible, but in these days of gunpowder the bow had become a poacher’s weapon.

Hamnet shook his head like an old man. “I wish you’d stop getting us into fixes like this, Will. It was bad enough when we were just filching apples.”

“Life will be quiet enough when you’re in the grave,” said Will, giving his friend an encouraging thump on the arm. “Besides, somebody has to goad Old Lousy.”

“Come on, use your eyes!” Sir Thomas Lucy was telling his men. “They can’t have disappeared like vapour!”

“I think I recognised one of them, sir,” said one of the hunters. “John Shakespeare’s boy.”

“Shakespeare!” Lucy pronounced the name as a hateful hiss. “That insolent brogger! He’s been more trouble to me than floods and plague. But if I take his boy up on a poaching charge, that will knock the mischief out of him.”

“Will, they know who you are!” Hamnet exclaimed through gritted teeth.

“He’s just guessing,” said Will. “They weren’t close enough to see our faces. If we can get back to Stratford ahead of them, they won’t be able to prove a thing.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Hamnet asked. “Are you going to conjure up a griffin to carry us on its back?”

“No need for magic,” Will answered. “If we crawl on our bellies through the gorse there, we can make it to the stream without being spotted. Then we can wade through the water till we’re clear of Charlecote.”

“So we’re to be drowned, dirty…and…and…” Hamnet faltered over a final word.

“Desperate,” Will finished for him.

“That’s not what I was trying to say,” Hamnet complained.

“Come on,” urged Will, pulling his friend into the undergrowth beside him. “Desperate men can’t hang around waiting on luck to save their hide.”

Wriggling along on their hands and knees, they pressed through the rough bushes. Again and again they became snagged on thorns and had to carefully ease themselves loose without giving away their position.

All at once the drumming of hooves made them stop dead and press their faces to the earth. The hoof beats came closer and the shadow of a mounted figure passed over them. Hamnet squeezed his eyes tight shut in an effort to ignore the danger, but Will glanced up to see sir Thomas reining in only a few yards away. He could smell the horse’s acrid sweat and hear the breath puffing in its nostrils.

The squire stood up in the stirrups and peered off to the south and west. “Are you sure they came this way? I’ll not be made to look a fool.”

“They came this way as sure as there’s apples,” answered his man Cobb. “That’s not to say they ain’t sneaked past us like adders in the grass.”

“What’s that?” cried a voice.

“Where?” Sir Thomas demanded. “Where?”

“I saw something move, sir! Over there by the rocks!”

Will froze like a statue, but Sir Thomas was not looking in their direction. He spurred his horse into a lumbering canter, waving his men forward.

“Here’s our chance,” said Will, giving Hamnet a sharp nudge. They crawled on their bellies to the bank of the stream, then slid over the edge and into the shallow water.

“Oh, it’s cold enough to freeze your cullions off!” Hamnet moaned.

Will shivered. “It’s only till we get well out of sight, Hamnet. Stay down now!”

Crouching so low it made their backs ache, they sloshed along slowly, careful not to attract attention. They had only gone a short way when Hamnet slipped and plunged completely under the water. Will grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up, dripping and coughing.

“Hush!” Will warned.

They stood as still as stone, listening for some cry of alarm. Leaning on Hamnet’s shoulder, Will pushed himself up on tiptoes to scout around. “It’s all right,” he said. “They’re going the other way.”

Hamnet picked some dank weeds out of his hair and coughed again. “I think I’ve swallowed a minnow, Will.”

“Don’t worry, they’re not poisonous.”

“But I can feel it wriggling inside me.”

“That’s just your breakfast coming back on you. Forget about it. Come on.”

Will started forward then realised Hamnet wasn’t following. Turning round, he saw his friend had turned dreadfully pale.

“I’m going to heave, Will,” choked Hamnet. “There’s no help for it.”

Will backed away so quickly he almost toppled over himself. Hamnet doubled over and threw up with a noise like a drain emptying. He finished with a final cough and straightened up.

“Are you fit to go on now?” Will asked.

Hamnet nodded and forced a wan smile.

“Here, I’ll give you a hand,” said Will, taking his friend by the arm. As they waded onwards he muttered, “And I’ll remember not to fish here for a while.”

At the point where the stream flowed into the River Avon, the boys climbed up on to higher ground and headed south. It was a chilly day, and their sodden clothes clung to them like ice. Clopton Bridge, leading into Stratford, was as welcome a sight as a warm fire and a haunch of mutton. In summer children splashed about under its arches and boys waded about in search of trout and pike. It was too cold for that now and the otters had the run of the fishing to themselves.

Further downriver, the spire of Holy Trinity poked at the sky. The centre of the parish, the church was not the comforting symbol it once had been. Many had fallen foul of the law because of their refusal to attend the new services decreed by the government, Will’s own father amongst them.

Marching briskly up Bridge Street into town, the boys were startled by a sudden uproar of voices off to their left. “An ambush!” Hamnet cried, gripping Will by the arm. Will laughed and shook himself loose. It was only a raucous singsong starting off inside the Peacock Tavern. Weak-kneed with relief, they carried on up the road to the market cross.

“We’ll split up here,” said Will. “Nobody knows you were with me, so there’s no sense you catching any trouble.”

“I’ll take my share if it will help you, Will,” said Hamnet, shuffling his feet on the cobbles.

Will put a grateful hand on his friend’s shoulder and smiled. “I know you would, Hamnet. But for now, the best thing for us both is to lie low for a few days.”

“Will, look!” Hamnet exclaimed suddenly. He was pointing back they way they had come.

Will turned quickly and saw to his horror the mounted figure of Old Lousy crossing Clopton Bridge, with his minions filing along behind him.

2 Lord Strange’s Men

“Go!” said Will, giving Hamnet a firm shove.

Hamnet nodded and darted off down the High Street to the Sadler family home. Will dashed up Henley Street to his father’s house. Like the other houses on the street it had a frame of sturdy oak timbers filled in with walls of clay and mortar, the latticed windows shut tight against the cold.

The winter of 1578 had been grievously hard, especially for the Shakespeares, whose daughter Anne had died of a chill aged only five. The new year still hadn’t wriggled loose of winter’s grasp and Mary Shakespeare fretted anxiously over the rest of her children every time they set foot outdoors. Will knew she wouldn’t be pleased to find him soaked to the skin and caked with muck. As the eldest, he was expected to set an example for Gilbert, Joan and little Richard.

Opening the door as quietly as he could, he crept up the hallway, hoping he’d be able to clean up before—

“Will? Is that you?”

It was his mother’s voice, coming from the kitchen dead ahead. Before he could twitch a muscle, the door opened and Mary Shakespeare strode out, dusting flour from her hands as she came. She pulled up with a start and stared.

“Will! You look like somebody’s used you to plough up a field!”

“I fell,” Will said lamely.

His mother took a firm hold of his collar and steered him through the left-hand doorway. This was John Shakespeare’s workroom and he was bent over his table, cutting out a glove-shaped pattern from a stretch of soft kidskin.

There were oak rafters overhead, a brick fireplace and a floor that was a patchwork of broken stones, fitted together like the pieces of a puzzle. Animal hides in various states of preparation hung from the walls alongside a variety of blades for cutting them to shape. The far wall was covered by a painted hanging showing their local hero, Guy of Warwick, slaying the monstrous Wild Dun Cow. The cow had been a fairy beast that provided the whole county with milk, until a witch milked it dry and turned it into a man-eater. It was John Shakespeare’s favourite story.

As his wife and son entered, John looked up from his work and set aside his curved, razor-sharp knife. “What’s the bother?” he asked.

“You tell me!” answered his wife. “You said he was out running an errand for you.”

“Did I?” John Shakespeare hooked his thumbs into his leather belt and did his best to glower at his son. “Well, what have you been up to, Will?”

Will understood that this was one of those times when the best course was to tell the truth. “I was over in Charlecote Park, hunting for rabbits.”

His father sighed. “I took you out of school to help me at my work, not to poach off Charlecote land.”

“I thought I’d do us more good by bringing some food into the house instead of stitting around sewing up leather,” said Will. “I’m no good at that work anyway.”

John Shakespeare scowled a moment, giving his wife a sidelong glance to check that she approved of his stern demeanour. Then he leaned towards his son and asked in a conspirator’s whisper. “Did you catch anything?”

“That’s not the point, John!” Mary Shakespeare protested.

Will grinned and laid his bag down on the table. He yanked it open to proudly display the contents to his father. John Shakespeare raised his eyebrows appreciatively and poked the fat rabbits with his forefinger.

“Well, I’ll say this and not be denied: you’re a better poacher than you are a glover.”

“Maybe not,” Will said hesitantly. “We nearly got caught…and one of Sir Thomas’ men spotted me.”

Mary Shakespeare gave a start of alarm, but her husband raised a hand to calm her. “How good a look did he get?” he asked Will.

“Not good, but I heard him say the name Shakespeare.”

John Shakespeare rubbed his chin and pursed his lips, a sure sign that his shrewd brain was hard at work. “At a distance, on a grey day like this – we can deny it, make out you were elsewhere. Given time I can call in a few friendly witnesses.”

Right then a fist pounded at the front door and a voice bellowed, “John Shakespeare! Open up there!”

Will’s heart leapt in panic. “It’s them!” he gasped. “I’m caught!”

“Oh, look at the state of you!” fretted his mother, touching a finger to Will’s damp, dirty jerkin. “We can’t pretend you’ve been home all day.”

“Steady yourselves,” said John Shakespeare in a commanding tone. “I’ve a few tricks in hand yet. Mary, you answer the door, but take your time opening it. Fiddle the latch like it’s stuck. If they ask about Will, say he’s off in Wilmcote with your Arden relatives. Been there a day and a half.”

“John, you’re making a liar of me!” Mary accused. “Again!”

“You’ve such a pretty a tongue for lying I hate to see it wasted,” said John, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. He took Will’s bow and arrows and stashed them under the table with the bag of game. “Come on, Will, it’s out the back way for us. We’ll give them the dodge!”

Will couldn’t help but smile. His father was the fiercest schemer in all of Warwickshire, and even now, with his fortunes at their lowest and troubles on every side, his wits still leapt to a challenge, like Guy of Warwick drawing his sword on a dragon.

“John Shakespeare!” bellowed the voice again. There was more beating at the door, louder this time.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Mary Shakespeare called, moving down the hallway in tiny steps. “Give me a moment to make myself decent!”

Father and son bolted through the kitchen and out of the back door into the yard. There were two outbuildings here where John Shakespeare stored the supplies he needed for his leather business, as well as other items he traded in on the side, like wool and grain. Dodging behind one of these, they made sure the coast was clear before slipping out the back gate.

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.

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.”

“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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