The two men drew their heads in close and exchanged a few words.
Will jumped off the back of the wagon and ran to his father. “Are you here to take me home?” he asked.
“Things are a mite hot for that yet,” said John Shakespeare.
He took his son aside and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You know Lucy’s been hounding me for a long time now, looking for some excuse to cast me in gaol. Unlucky for him, I’ve a lot of friends in these parts ready to stand up for me.”
“Maybe you should just go to church and say the prayers they tell you to,” said Will. “Life would be easier then.”
His father’s face clouded into a frown. “You know my loyalties, Will. I grew up with the Roman way and I’ll not cast it off like a craven tossing away his sword to flee the field of battle. But it’s a canny game I have to play and you’d best keep out of it for a while.”
“For how long?” Will asked anxiously.
“A month or two, maybe more,” his father answered. “Until all this blows over and Lousy Lucy finds somebody else to vent his spite on. I tried to give Harry some money for your upkeep, but he’d have none of it. Said you’ll be working for your keep.”
Will pulled a face. “No more acting, I hope! Being made a fool of once is enough.”
John Shakespeare hefted the leather bag he was carrying at his side. “I’ve brought you a few comforts. There’s some clothes and some of your mother’s best cakes inside. And there’s this too.”
He loosened the cord that fastened the neck of the bag and pulled out a book. “Your mother wanted you to have it,” he said, handing the book to his son. “She bought it in the market at Coventry and was keeping it for your birthday, but now…”
Will opened the book and ran his fingers gently down the page like he was testing the softness of silk. “It’s Goldsmith’s translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses” he breathed. This was the book he had loved best at school.
“That’s a jawcracker,” said John Shakespeare. “What’s it about?”
“Gods and monsters,” said Will with a gleam in his eye. “The Flood and the fall of Troy.”
“Heroes too, I hope,” said his father. “And speaking of heroes, I’ve brought you a gift of my own.”
Will closed the book and looked up expectantly. His father spread an empty hand before him. Will stared hard, but all he could see were the lines on his bare palm.
“What is it?”
“Why, it’s good luck, Will, ripe as a blueberry and ready for plucking. But you must be quick to catch it. Go on!”
Will knew this game well, for they had played it many times before. John Shakespeare would offer his son some raisins or dates in the flat of his hand, but Will had to snatch them before his father closed his fist.
Will licked his lips, met his father’s gleeful gaze – then grabbed quick as a blink. Has father whipped his hand away and each of them held his fist tight shut in front of his face.
“Let’s see then,” said John Shakespeare, slowly uncurling his fingers. His eyebrows arched up and a slow whistle slipped though his lips.
“You’ve whisked most of it away, and that’s for sure,” he said. “But you’ve left a wee bit to see me through. I’d best keep it safe until its needed,” he added, putting his hand in his pocket.
Will opened his own hand and nodded approvingly. “That’s the prettiest luck in all England,” he said. “You couldn’t buy better at the Queen’s own court.”
“What are you going to do with it?” asked his father.
Will stuffed his hand in his pocket to keep the luck safe. “Come back a few inches taller,” he said, “and maybe a few pennies richer.”
“Just make sure you come back with some stories to tell me,” said John Shakespeare.
Norwich, XVIIth Day of June, 1599
Caris Parentibus a filio suo amantissimo,
That is how they taught us to write letters at School. In Latin. “To my deare parents from their loving sonne” it says. Well, that’s enough of that! Master Henry Beeston has granted me a sheete of his precious paper to write to you. I am glad of a change from copying out scripts for the Players. Ever since he learned how neatly I can write, Master Beeston has been employing me on such tasks until I sweare my pen fingers are benumbed.
I had thought to alter a word here and there, but Master Beeston took me strongly to task and warned me against such interference. “A word is a dangerous thing, Master Shaxpere,” says he. “Misplace one word of the Bible and all Religion is overthrown; speake one hasty word to the wrathful mob and bloody rebellion is loosed.” I think he protests too much. I only wanted some of the lines to sound better.
We have travelled far these past many weekes, to townes whose names I had not even heard. We set up our show in halls, courtyards and innes, and when there is no other sort of stage, the backs of the two wagons serve as such. I have played some small parts, though only twice more have I suffered to be a girl. The parts of queens and suchlike noble ladies are played by Tom Craddock, while Master Beeston’s son Kit acts the milkmaids and serving girls. They have forced upon me some lessons in walking with a woman’s gait, though it is a skill I do not prize.
I have been learning other parts of the Player’s Art also. Master Henry Beeston has been teaching me to talk very loudly, which he calls Declamation. Kemp has offered me lessons in dancing, but I fear I might injure myself if I accept his offer, so boisterous is his jigging.
Ralph has given me lessons in how to make a fine showe of a sword fight on the stage. One of our most popular showes is The Tale of Robin Hood, and how the crowd do cheere when Robin attacks the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham with a cry of “Have at you and God’s curse on him that flees!”
Master Beeston, I have noted, takes every opportunity to visit shoppes and markets where he can purchase old bookes, and yet most of them he never takes time to read. I questioned him on this and he told me he is buying them for collectors all over the country who paye him well for this service.
He sayes that when King Henry the VIIIth abolished the monasteries, the crown and the nobles took the monks’ lands and belongings. Their libraries were sold off and bookes they had collected for centuries were scattered far and wide. These are most specially valuable.
There is one among them so strangely writ, to my eyes it might as well be Greek. When I asked Master Beeston about it he laughed most heartily and said, “That is no ordinary booke there, Master Shaxpere. That is bought for a Wyzard, Dr John Dee by name.” He intends to deliver this booke and take payment for it on our way to London. I don’t know if I want to meet a Wyzard or no, except that it would make a tale very worth the telling.
I hope you are all well in Stratford, that father’s businesse prospers, and that Gilbert, Joan and Richard are all in good health. I trust God to keep you safe and I pray He may put an end to my troubles with Squire Lucy. I Will be back with you soone, I hope, for I have a Will to be so.
Your wandering and affectionate Sonne,
Will Shaxpere.
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