Robert Harris - Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire

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!”

Will stared ahead but could see only a vague black bulk set against the rain-drenched gloom. Then a bolt of lightning cracked the sky and in the flash Will saw the whole house.

It was a vast, rambling structure. The central, stone-built bastion reared up five storeys high, the upper floors piled crazily on top of each other like badly balanced bricks. Adjoining wings jutted out on both sides, their roofs capped with mismatched gables and turrets. At ground level, further extensions sprawled out this way and that like the roots of some enormous tree. Will had never seen anything so bizarre.

And then it was gone, swallowed up in the darkness of the storm. Will rubbed his eyes. It was as if he had caught a glimpse of some grotesque goblin palace.

“Ah, Will, what an entrance we’ll make!” Beeston exclaimed. “Like two shipwrecked mariners emerging from a tempest!”

The possibility of shelter, a warm fire, perhaps even a hot meal, renewed Will’s strength as he and Beeston hurried through the ill-tended grounds towards the great house. Yellow lights glimmered at one or two of the upper windows, but other than that the house was as dark as the surrounding landscape.

There was a brass knocker on the door in the shape of a crescent moon. Beeston gave two loud raps then stood back, his eyes raised to the floors above. When there was no response, he rapped again – louder this time – but still with no result.

“Maybe they can’t hear us over the wind and the rain,” Will suggested. “I suppose we could just wait here for the others to arrive.”

“What? Stand here shivering for an hour or more?” Beeston exclaimed. “What sort of an entrance would we make then?” He huddled under the lintel and wiped a trickle of rain from the end of his nose. “Here’s a notion, Will. You investigate the rear of the house, see if you can find some means of ingress.”

“You mean break in?”

“I mean find a way to get us inside before we are washed away in the flood,” said Beeston. “You can leave the box with me.”

Will set the box of books down at Beeston’s feet and looked out at the rain. Bowing his head against the downpour, he stepped out into the storm. As he made his way round the side of the house he saw the blurred outlines of a garden and some straggly trees set out in an orchard pattern.

At the back of the house he discovered a door, but it was firmly bolted. He knocked several times, but – as he expected – there was no answer. Then he looked up and saw above him a small, high window lying ajar.

He tried a standing jump, but his fingers never even touched the sill. Cursing his luck, he cast a look around and spotted a rain barrel, full to the brim and with water spilling down its sides. It was just the thing to give him the boost he needed. With a decisive heave, he toppled it over, sending a tide of water cascading over the sodden ground.

Shaking the rainwater out of his eyes, Will turned the barrel upside down and wrestled it over to the wall under the open window. Mounting the upturned base, he shoved the flapping shutters back and pushed off with a grunt.

His elbows found purchase on the window ledge and with a hefty kick he heaved himself head and shoulders through the gap. Legs dangling, he wriggled forward until suddenly he overbalanced and tumbled headlong into the dark.

Will thudded down on to a hard, earthen floor, jarring every bone in his body. Outside a roll of thunder drowned out his squawk of pain as he tentatively fingered his ribs to check that nothing was broken.

“Not too bad then,” he thought. Even bruised and winded, he was still glad to be out of the storm. But what sort of place was this?

He struggled to his feet and gazed around him, straining to penetrate the gloom. He appeared to be in some sort of storeroom, though there was little enough stored here. Lightning flashed again, showing him a table with two broken legs, a small tub of mouldy flour and a pile of moth-eaten blankets.

Not exactly a wyzard’s treasure , Will thought.

He put a hand over his nose as the stink of rat droppings pricked his nostrils. With his other hand he felt his way to the door and pushed it open. He stepped out into a cramped, dusty passage and followed a faint, distant gleam to a wider corridor where a few shafts of grey light slipped through the slats of a shuttered window.

Buffeted by the storm, the house was creaking and groaning at every joint. It was easy for Will to imagine the noise as the weeping and moaning of restless ghosts. He wanted to call out for someone to come and lead him through the dark, but he was afraid any voice that answered might not come from a living tongue.