“That’s a far cry from magic.”
“But I’ve heard you say he talks to spirits,” Kit insisted. “Maybe he’s upset some of them and caused this foul weather.”
“Hush, Kit,” said Beeston. “The man’s eccentricities should not be misinterpreted as sorcery, especially since we plan to spend the night at his house. We can lay this storm at Nature’s feet and leave it there.”
The wagon jolted to a halt then lurched to one side so sharply it almost tossed Will from his seat. He clapped the book shut and stuffed it away in his pack. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“If this were a ship, I’d say we were sinking,” said Kit.
Henry Beeston pulled a wide brimmed hat out of one of the costume boxes and planted it on his head. He climbed out of the back of the wagon with Will following curiously. Ralph had dismounted from the driver’s seat to calm the horses, which were stamping and snorting. Will could see that the wheels on the left side had sunk into a soft patch of mud and the animals hadn’t the strength to pull them loose.
Beeston surveyed their predicament from under the broad brim of his hat. He twisted some strands of beard around his finger and was about to speak when a cry of alarm interrupted him. Will looked round to see the second wagon shudder to a stop as it also tipped over to one side.
“Matthew,” Beeston addressed the driver testily, “could you not see the bind we’re in?”
Matthew spat at the muddy ground. “Who can see anything in this murk?”
Ralph bent down for a closer look at the problem. “We’ll have to pull out some boards and use them to prop up the wheels before we can pull free,” he said. “It’s going to take a while.”
“It’s a fix,” Beeston declared grimly. “The very devil of a fix.” He peered into the darkness like a mariner trying to spot land. “We can’t be more than a mile or two from Dee’s place at Mortlake House. Tell you what, Ralph, you get the wagons unstuck while I go on ahead to arrange our quarters.”
He strode back to the rear of the wagon and gathered the players about him. He struck a regal pose and issued his instructions like a king arraying his army. “Kit, you oversee the operation, and make sure the rain doesn’t get into the baggage. Master Shakespeare, fetch down that chest of books and follow me.”
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
