Читать книгу Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire - Robert J. Harris - Страница 6

“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.