Will Shakespeare and the Pirate's Fire

by Robert J. Harris

  “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you,” said Dee. “It comes from Lok’s country. It has unusual properties and it seemed to induce certain spiritual visions in Maddie.”

  “That was obviously just a trick to get her hands on the book,” said Walter.

  Dee gave a grudging nod. “You’re right, of course.”

  “She has a colourful imagination,” said Walter. “Colourful enough to spin her yarn out for day after day until she learned where you kept the book hidden.”

  “Yes, that’s so,” Dee admitted dolefully. “She must have been fully awake when I thought her entranced and spied on me as I concealed it behind the false panel.”

  “I still don’t know what all the fuss is about,” said Will. “What’s so valuable about that book?”

  “It’s better you don’t concern yourself with that,” Dee cautioned him.

  “And this Devil’s Fire business,” said Walter. “What in blazes is that all about?”

  “The Devil’s Fire,” Dee mused, tapping his lower lip with his forefinger. “Do you suppose there’s some allegorical significance to it? A warning against spiritual dangers such as pride and ignorance?”

  “No, it’s a real danger,” said Will. “I’m sure of it.”

  “It takes great depth of philosophy to be absolutely sure of anything, Will,” Dee admonished him.

  There came a tap at the door and Henry Beeston entered. “I hear the woman Maddie is gone,” he said, removing his cap and toying with it.

  “Yes,” Dee confirmed, “vanished as mysteriously as she appeared.”

  “And might I inquire,” Beeston continued, “if the queenly robe she had on loan from my supplies has also vaporised?”

  “No, it’s in her room,” said Walter. “Go take it if you want. I’d give a lot to know where she got those mannish clothes we saw her in.”

  “Probably from the same man that left her the note,” said Will.

  Dee and Walter stared at him.

  “What man?” asked Walter.

  “What note?” asked Dee.

  Will told them the whole story of the boat on the river and the message Maddie had retrieved.

  “Why didn’t you mention any of this before?” asked Dee.

  “Because it didn’t make any sense,” said Will. “It still doesn’t. I mean, it’s Saturday tomorrow. Is that Curtain Saturday?”

  “That was the note?” Henry Beeston interjected. “Curtain Saturday? Just those two words?” Will nodded and Beeston smiled. “I can tell you about the Curtain, Will. It’s a place.”

  “What sort of a place?” asked Will.

  Beeston beamed all across his face. “Why, it’s the most splendid place in all the world. A playhouse!”

  Walter smacked himself on the brow with the flat of his hand. “Of course, I’ve heard of it!”

  Will stared at him. “A playhouse? What’s that?”

  “It’s a building constructed entirely for the purpose of staging plays,” Beeston explained, “with rows of seating for the audience. It’s a new idea. Old Burbage built one a couple of years ago and called it the Theatre. If you ask me, giving it a fancy Greek name’s only going to put people off.”

  “But what about the Curtain?” Dee pressed him.

  “Ah, now that’s Laneman’s establishment, built last year. They’re both in Shoreditch in London. I don’t think there’s much love lost between those two fellows, for I doubt London can support two playhouses.”

  “That’s it then!” exclaimed Will, understanding at last. “She’s to meet someone at the Curtain on Saturday.”

  “Meet whom?” asked Dee, his brow creasing in thought.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” said Walter with a steely gleam in his eye. “Will, would you recognise this sailor if you saw him again?”

  “Yes, definitely,” Will replied.

  “Good. Then you’re coming with me to London. The game is up, Will, and you and I are the hunters!”

  Mortlake, XVIIth Daye of August, 1579

  Dearest Father and Mother,

  I have time to write you only the briefest note, but it must be writ, for I think it likely I may soon be dead. I am bound for London with Walter Raleigh and I quake when I think on the perils that lie ahead. Walter has told me many times of his brave exploits, even without being asked, and by his own account, even though he has been fortunate enough to survive those encounters with Storms, Pirates and the Might of Spain, his comrades have fared less happily. He has described in unsqueamish detail how many of them were stabbed, slaughtered and drowned. I cannot help but foresee a similar fate for myself, yet I will not dishonour the name of Shaxpere by giving waye to craven fear.

  There is at least this comfort: that I am now relieved of the burden of Pluto and Proserpina. It is almost finished and I have handed it over to Master Henry Beeston to put the final touches. I wish him good luck!

  The purpose of our journey is to retrieve property stolen from Dr Dee by Maddie, who has been revealed more Cunning than Mad. Though I cannot tell you the object of our quest, its recovery is a matter of the most vital import. Even now Walter is pounding on my door, urging me to horse. I call for him to be patient lest he break his fist.

  I praye to God to keep me safe, but should I not return, I wish you both to know the depth of my affection for you. Father, you have laid before me a goodly example of industry, invention and courage. Mother, you set me on the road of Godly duty and devotion, and if I have erred from this course, the fault lies in my own nature, not in you.

  Say goodbye to my dear friend Hamnet for me and tell him it is well I did not drag him protesting into this particular adventure. But for all that, I do miss his honest company and kindly face.

  If Sir Thomas Lucy pursues me still, please see that these verses are set before him:

  Thou might be deemed a lion,

  Except thou art so mousy.

  Thou might be called good Lucy,

  Except that thou art Lousy.

  Let these, my last words, be affixed to the gate of his manor that he might ever remember

  Your Loving and Affectionate Sonne,

  William Shackespere

  15 At the Sign of the Angel

  On the way into London, Will counted three heads, five arms and something he didn’t recognise impaled on spikes at the top of the gate. He wanted to ask who these men were, but his mouth gaped wordlessly.

  “Traitors,” said Walter, answering his unspoken question. “Hung, drawn and quartered. Their body parts are displayed here as a warning to others of their kind.”

  “What kind is that?” Will managed to ask.

  “Catholics, most likely,” Walter replied. “Looking to overthrow the Queen and take the country back into the Roman ways of worship.”

  Will felt a chill run through him as he thought of the Latin prayers his family chanted behind closed doors and the statue of Our Lady his mother kept hidden under the stairs. Did they risk the same fate by persevering in the old faith?

  Passing through the gate, they set out across London Bridge surrounded by travellers making the crossing into the City. Will was seated behind Walter on the back of his chestnut gelding.

  “Nobody seems very bothered about those chopped up bodies,” Will observed.

  “From the looks of them they’ve been rotting up there for four or five days,” said Walter. “People lose interest.”

  London Bridge was built on arches of square stone, thirty feet wide and twenty feet apart. It opened up before them like a street, with shops and houses rising up to four storeys on either side. Compared to this, Will thought, Clopton Bridge back in Stratford was like a line of stepping stones.

  Off to the East he could see the white walls and bastions of the Tower of London. He had heard tales of the awful things that happened there, of a torture chamber in the deepest dungeon filled with unspeakable instruments that could break a man’s soul. Will had once heard a Puritan preacher at Stratford market
deliver a thundering sermon on the torments of hell, and ever since the thought of torture made him squirm.

  Between the Tower and the Bridge nearly a hundred tall-masted ships were crowded into the harbour. Huge mechanical cranes loaded and unloaded their cargo while busy officials scurried about, collecting the custom duties.

  On both sides of the Bridge the river was crowded with barges and tiny wherry boats that flitted about like fireflies, delivering passengers to all parts of the city. As they left the bridge and entered the crowded streets, Will saw to the West the colossal bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral soaring up 300 feet into the sky.

  Walter delivered a commentary on the various sights as they rode northward. All about them wagons rumbled by, peddlers coaxed their donkeys along and street vendors gave out their raucous cries. Eventually they reached the Bishopsgate area where the buildings thinned out and the stink of the refuse that littered the streets began to fade.

  “This is the best place in the city for inns and taverns,” Walter explained. “There’s food, ale and lodging, and no man asks your business. Here’s the one for us – the Angel.”

  He turned the horse into a passage marked with a peeling painting of an angel. This led into a cobbled courtyard where a stable boy immediately ran up to take the reins. Once they had dismounted, Walter dumped his bags into Will’s arms and tossed the boy a coin, leaving him to tend to the horse. Grunting under the weight of the luggage, Will followed him into the Angel Inn.

  There was a score of large tables set about the taproom, though only a few were occupied. At the far end was a wide counter set out with tankards, jugs and plates. Behind the counter, cutting up a game pie, stood a broad-shouldered, large-chested woman whose ruddy face was topped by a cascade of peppery curls.

  “Mistress Swift!” Walter hailed her as they approached.

  The woman looked up and beamed, her apple cheeks glowing. “How now, Master Raleigh!” she cried. “I thought you were safely at sea. What brings you back to port?”

  “The hope of a good supper served at your fireside,” Walter answered with a grin. “That and the sight of your pretty face, Mistress Swift.”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Heaven bless you for that verdict if it’s an honest one!”

  Walter rented them a room and they were soon upstairs where Will was glad to lay down their bags. Walter immediately laid claim to the four poster bed and pointed Will to the sleeping pallet in the corner.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting on to the Curtain?” Will asked.

  “It’s only Friday, Will,” Walter reminded him. “We’ll go there tomorrow for the afternoon performance. In the meantime, freshen yourself up and we’ll treat ourselves to a fine supper.”

  The taproom had filled up by supper time and the food was as delicious as Walter promised. Standing at her counter like a general, Mistress Swift dispatched her servants with jugs of ale and platters of beef, her voice rising above the din like the blare of a trumpet on a battlefield.

  Walter and Will were just cutting into a fresh joint of mutton when a nasal voice hailed them:

  “Raleigh! I say, Walter Raleigh!”

  The cry came from one of a group of men who were seating themselves at the next table. All three of them looked to be of an age with Walter and like him were dressed in the latest fashion.

  Walter raised his tankard to salute each of them in turn. “Will, this is Johnny, George and my good friend Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford.”

  “I’m sure I’m very pleased to meet you all,” Will said.

  The three men ignored him and started questioning Walter about his tailor. Will was aware that something had changed in his companion’s manner since these three friends of his had appeared. He was guarded now, his good humour forced rather than genuine.

  Studying the faces of the newcomers, Will was sure it wasn’t the round-faced George or the nasal voiced-Johnny who had affected Walter, but the third man, Edward de Vere. He was older and more extravagantly attired than his companions, and there was something unpleasant about his dark hooded eyes and the sensuous mouth beneath his black moustache.

  As he downed his third glass of wine, the earl’s eye lighted upon Will at last. “I see you’ve got yourself a servant, Walter,” he said, “and not before time.”

  “He’s a cabin boy, or I’ll be bound,” snorted George.

  “Will’s a friend of mine,” said Walter. “I’m planning to get him a place at court.”

  “Best get one for yourself first, Raleigh,” Johnny sneered.

  “On the subject of courting,” said George, “there’s a rumour the French King’s brother, the Duke of Anjou, has come to London in disguise to woo the Queen.”

  “I never listen to rumours,” said Walter, “unless they’re about me, of course.”

  “Ah, but he’s an ugly little fellow,” said Johnny. “Pox-faced and hunch-backed. If he had any decency he’d go disguised all the time.”

  His friends laughed heartily at the joke.

  “Well, knowing how he’s hated in England,” said Walter, “I doubt Anjou has the courage to come here, disguised or no.”

  “Didn’t you hear what happened to the lawyer Stubbs?” George continued in the same gossipy fashion. “He published a pamphlet saying that the suit is a French plot to ruin England. He was dragged off to gaol and—”

  “His right hand was publicly chopped off with a butcher’s cleaver,” de Vere interjected with relish. He raised his own right hand and made a fist. “Stubbs lifted up the bloody stump so the whole crowd could see and declared he was a loyal Englishman devoted to his Queen.”

  There was a moment of grim silence.

  “I hope we’re all that,” said George feebly.

  Will decided that all three of these friends of Walter were loud, arrogant and stupid. Although they fancied themselves as wits, their jokes were cruel rather than funny. Eventually he was so sick of them he made an excuse about being tired and left the table. It didn’t surprise him that none of them paid him any attention.

  Collecting a lighted lantern from their hostess, Will marched upstairs and stamped into the bedchamber, still seething with annoyance. Seeing Walter’s saddlebag lying on the floor, he vented his rage by giving it a hefty kick. The bag popped open and to Will’s surprise a book fell out.

  He picked it up and examined it curiously. It was called The Steele Glasse by George Gascoigne. Flipping through it, Will was disappointed to find it was merely a collection of satirical verses, but when he turned to the first page he couldn’t help but grin. It was headed:

  WALTER RALEIGH OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE IN COMMENDATION OF THE STEELE GLASS

  Beneath this was an eighteen line poem written by Walter, recommending the book to the reader. Will shook his head and smiled. Then he noticed that the front cover had an odd bulge to it. Examining it more closely, he found a pocket concealed under the leather with a folded sheet of paper fitted inside.

  Will slipped it out, supposing it was another of Walter’s poems, or perhaps a letter of thanks from George Gascoigne, the author of The Steele Glasse. When he unfolded it he was surprised to find a map. It was not a sea chart but the layout of Mortlake House and its grounds. Most particularly marked were the spots picked out for the performance of the forthcoming play and the area where Dr Dee intended to seat his guests.

  It was puzzling enough that Walter should want to make a plan of all this, but more worrying was the fact that he had labelled certain locations as being “of goodlie concealement”. Not only had he pinpointed these hiding places, he had sketched a broken line showing a route from the river to the house that was shaded from view by trees and bushes, so that a party of men could approach without being seen.

  Worst of all, the area where the guests would be seated was marked with a crown. That could mean only one thing: Queen Elizabeth herself would be attending the performance! Much as Will hated to believe it, he could draw only one conclusion.

  Walter Raleigh was a trai
tor.

  16 Meta Incognita

  Will replaced the map and the book and paced the floor anxiously. What was he to do? He thought long and hard about running back to Mortlake and telling all to John Dee, but for all he knew the doctor himself was in on the plot.

  At the sound of footsteps on the stairway he threw himself down on his pallet and pretended to be asleep. He opened his eyes the merest crack as the door opened and saw Walter enter with Edward de Vere close behind.

  “Stay out there, Edward,” said Walter in a hushed voice. “I don’t want to risk waking the boy.”

  “Be quick then,” said de Vere. “I’m not used to being kept waiting in doorways.”

  Will kept up his pretence of sleep as Walter crossed the room and took the map from its hiding place. Returning to the door, he handed it over to de Vere.

  “This is a fine service you’re doing,” said the earl in an oily drawl. “My friends will be very appreciative.”

  “Just make sure my name isn’t mentioned,” Walter cautioned him.

  “Oh, I’ll keep you out of trouble as surely as I will myself,” said de Vere. “Let somebody else take the chances. Still, what a jape it’s going to be, eh?”

  “You should go now before somebody spots you,” said Walter, closing the door.

  “You worry like an old woman,” de Vere chuckled from the other side before heading back downstairs.

  Tossing his sword belt on to the bed, Walter leaned over a porcelain basin and splashed his face with water. Will was so filled with disgust that he could hardly keep still. Was there no end to the deceit going on around him? Right then he made his decision. He would confront Walter, however dangerous that might prove.

  Rising silently, he edged towards the bed until his hand was in reach of the sword. Goaded by the certainty that this was his only chance of forcing an answer, he slid the blade from its scabbard and pointed it at Walter.

  Alerted by the rasp of steel, Walter turned. He stared at Will for a long, hard moment, then he carefully folded the towel and set it down on the table.