- -
- 100%
- +
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.”