in front of his face.
Just as he was thinking of making a run for it, Kemp launched himself into a mad dance. He capered round the royal corpse like a prisoner set free of the gallows. He hopped this way and that, twirled left, then right, then leapt over the dead king to land precariously on the very edge of the stage. He tottered there, his arms windmilling frantically as he tried to keep balance.
The crowd roared and clapped, and Will saw that even Lousy Lucy was laughing and applauding the clown’s acrobatics. Kemp drew out his predicament a little longer then flung himself into a back somersault that carried him right over the dead king to land on his feet with a flourish.
The hall was rocked by whistles, guffaws and cheers. Three lords marched solemnly on to the stage and lifted the king up. As they carried him away, Kemp hooked his arm through Will’s and hauled him off through the curtains.
“Where the duck eggs did you churn up from?” he asked.
“I think you mean ‘turn up’,” said Will. He couldn’t help but smile. He felt as if the continuing applause was not only for the play, but his own narrow escape as well.
“If I meant to call you a turnip I would have said so,” the clown informed him haughtily as they reached the bottom of the steps.
The king had come back to furious life and stood fuming indignantly at the clown. “Kemp!” he said. “How many times have I told you to keep within the bounds of the script?”
“More times than I can count,” Kemp answered him. “But it’s hardly my fault if you see fit to introduce a ghost into the play, or whatever this new boy of yours is supposed to be.”
“Dad,” said Kit, tugging at Beeston’s sleeve, “your bows.”
“Well recollected, Kit,” said the king, his bad humour melting away. He bounded up the steps as quickly as a man half his age and presented himself on stage to wild applause.
“I must go take my bows also,” said Kemp to Will. “But I advise you to stay congealed back here, Mistress Spirit.”
“I’ll keep out of sight,” Will assured him. “I’ll be indivisible.”
The clown laughed to hear his own word plays turned about on him, then raced up on to the stage with the other actors to accept the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd.
The early morning air was so cold their breath hung in misty clouds before their faces. Lord Strange’s Men had risen with the dawn for, as Henry Beeston told Will, “We want to be long gone before that simple-minded squire notices that he might have been tricked.”
After a hasty breakfast they had loaded all their costumes, props and other baggage on to two horse drawn wagons and set out on the north-bound road towards Warwick. Will was reclining at the back of the lead wagon beside Kit Beeston.
Henry Beeston was seated beside the driver, his nose deep in a thick script. Also in the wagon were young Tom Craddock, who had played Cambyses’ queen, and Ralph, a burly fellow who had been one of the queen’s murderers.
“Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, is our patron,” Kit was explaining. “He lives many miles away in Derby, but his name stands as surety of our honesty and good behaviour.”
“But why should he lend you his name if he never even comes with you?” Will asked.
“Lord Strange’s Men were in origin entertainers to the Stanley family,” Kit replied, “and when we took our act out into the country at large, Lord Strange continued his patronage. Other nobles have their own companies, the Earl of Leicester for one – and he’s the Queen’s favourite. The Queen’s ministers have forbidden players to perform unless they have the patronage of some nobleman or other.”
All of a sudden the horses were reined in and the wagon stopped with a jolt that nearly threw Kit out the back.
“What’s this?” Kit wondered. “Surely there can’t be robbers this close to Stratford?”
Will craned around for a look and saw to his surprise that it was his father who had caused the halt. John Shakespeare walked up to the wagon and shook hands with Beeston. 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
