Robert Harris - Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire

“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.

“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!”