need for physicians and apothecaries with their unholy magic and conjuring of spirits.’
He might say such things, but Jane knew her husband worried even more than she did about the boy.
‘Boltfoot Cooper, I do sometimes think the years you spent at sea turned your brain to pease pudding.’
Boltfoot smiled at his wife then leant into the cot and kissed the boy. He patted Jane on the small of her back and was about to take his leave of her and go in search of Mr Shakespeare, when she stayed him.
‘Why is it that we never celebrate your birthday, Boltfoot? What day were you born?’
‘You say my brain is turned to pease pudding, Jane. What of yours, to be asking such daft questions? I don’t even know the year I was born, let alone the day.’
Jane let him go. How was she to discover the information Dr Forman needed to cast a chart if Boltfoot did not know it himself?
They were all living in cramped quarters, in the part of the house that had survived the fire of last year. There were still smoke-black marks on timbers, but the structure, close to the Thames at Dowgate, was sound enough. The part of the building that had been utterly destroyed had been cleared away and was already being rebuilt, from the ground up. This time the house would be smaller, with a larger garden and improved stabling.
Shakespeare looked up from his table, where he had been scribbling a note to Cecil, telling him of the meeting with the Countess of Kent and her circle. He would need to speak with Lady Susan again, and preferably without the distractions of her companions. He wished to learn more about her ward, the sullen Beatrice Eastley, too. Something seemed not quite right there. He would also welcome another meeting with Lady Trevail; but that was another matter.
‘You summoned me, master?’
‘Ah yes, Boltfoot. I take it there is still no word of Mr Garrick Loake?’
‘No, master.’
Shakespeare cursed. The man had disappeared like smoke in air. Well, Loake would have to wait. He would add word of this in the letter to Cecil, and urge him to engage Anthony Friday to find the would-be informant. Friday was unreliable, but no one knew the world of players and playhouses better than he did.
Shakespeare turned back to Boltfoot. ‘We are riding for Buckinghamshire. Have horses saddled.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘And Boltfoot . . .’
Boltfoot stopped. It seemed to Shakespeare that he had aged five years in the past few months since the fire. This latest sickness afflicting their child had only made matters worse.
‘How does little John fare?’
‘Better, master. Better.’
‘Good. Well, if he requires remedies or if you wish him to be seen by a physician, I will bear the cost.’
‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. I am sure we won’t need that.’
‘As you will, but the offer is there. And send Andrew to me, if you would.’
Shakespeare continued to write his note to Cecil. Within a minute his adopted son, Andrew Woode, appeared in the doorway.
‘Andrew.’
‘You wanted me, Father?’
‘I had meant to talk with you at length this day, Andrew. But I must be away on Queen’s business. For the present, I desire you to know that I have been considering your suggestion with great care and I have concluded that you are truly set on a seafaring life. So, yes, you may go with Drake and Hawkins with my blessing, if they will accept you. Mr Hakluyt’s book Principal Navigations has much to answer for, I fear.’
Andrew beamed. ‘Thank you, Father.’
‘You should talk with Boltfoot. No man knows the hazards and joys of the sea better than he does.’
Andrew laughed. ‘I have already spoken with Boltfoot. He thinks I am mad to even consider going with Drake on his voyage. He says he will rob me and treat me like a dog. Also, that I will die of scurvy if I have not first drowned or been killed by a Spaniard.’
‘And you are not deterred? You may have the size and strength of a man, Andrew, and I know how brave you
He might say such things, but Jane knew her husband worried even more than she did about the boy.
‘Boltfoot Cooper, I do sometimes think the years you spent at sea turned your brain to pease pudding.’
Boltfoot smiled at his wife then leant into the cot and kissed the boy. He patted Jane on the small of her back and was about to take his leave of her and go in search of Mr Shakespeare, when she stayed him.
‘Why is it that we never celebrate your birthday, Boltfoot? What day were you born?’
‘You say my brain is turned to pease pudding, Jane. What of yours, to be asking such daft questions? I don’t even know the year I was born, let alone the day.’
Jane let him go. How was she to discover the information Dr Forman needed to cast a chart if Boltfoot did not know it himself?
They were all living in cramped quarters, in the part of the house that had survived the fire of last year. There were still smoke-black marks on timbers, but the structure, close to the Thames at Dowgate, was sound enough. The part of the building that had been utterly destroyed had been cleared away and was already being rebuilt, from the ground up. This time the house would be smaller, with a larger garden and improved stabling.
Shakespeare looked up from his table, where he had been scribbling a note to Cecil, telling him of the meeting with the Countess of Kent and her circle. He would need to speak with Lady Susan again, and preferably without the distractions of her companions. He wished to learn more about her ward, the sullen Beatrice Eastley, too. Something seemed not quite right there. He would also welcome another meeting with Lady Trevail; but that was another matter.
‘You summoned me, master?’
‘Ah yes, Boltfoot. I take it there is still no word of Mr Garrick Loake?’
‘No, master.’
Shakespeare cursed. The man had disappeared like smoke in air. Well, Loake would have to wait. He would add word of this in the letter to Cecil, and urge him to engage Anthony Friday to find the would-be informant. Friday was unreliable, but no one knew the world of players and playhouses better than he did.
Shakespeare turned back to Boltfoot. ‘We are riding for Buckinghamshire. Have horses saddled.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘And Boltfoot . . .’
Boltfoot stopped. It seemed to Shakespeare that he had aged five years in the past few months since the fire. This latest sickness afflicting their child had only made matters worse.
‘How does little John fare?’
‘Better, master. Better.’
‘Good. Well, if he requires remedies or if you wish him to be seen by a physician, I will bear the cost.’
‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. I am sure we won’t need that.’
‘As you will, but the offer is there. And send Andrew to me, if you would.’
Shakespeare continued to write his note to Cecil. Within a minute his adopted son, Andrew Woode, appeared in the doorway.
‘Andrew.’
‘You wanted me, Father?’
‘I had meant to talk with you at length this day, Andrew. But I must be away on Queen’s business. For the present, I desire you to know that I have been considering your suggestion with great care and I have concluded that you are truly set on a seafaring life. So, yes, you may go with Drake and Hawkins with my blessing, if they will accept you. Mr Hakluyt’s book Principal Navigations has much to answer for, I fear.’
Andrew beamed. ‘Thank you, Father.’
‘You should talk with Boltfoot. No man knows the hazards and joys of the sea better than he does.’
Andrew laughed. ‘I have already spoken with Boltfoot. He thinks I am mad to even consider going with Drake on his voyage. He says he will rob me and treat me like a dog. Also, that I will die of scurvy if I have not first drowned or been killed by a Spaniard.’
‘And you are not deterred? You may have the size and strength of a man, Andrew, and I know how brave you
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