Читать книгу Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire - Robert J. Harris - Страница 9

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!”