London - Edward Rutherfurd [363]
The role of the old buccaneers had gone. The companies wanted settled trade. They were not even needed in England’s defence since King James had now made peace with Spain. The Puritans might dislike any hint of friendship with the Catholic enemy, but the fact was that England could not afford costly wars, and most men knew it. Buccaneers were no longer needed, therefore, to prey upon enemy ships. Men like Black Barnikel belonged in chains.
But Julius could not help being fascinated. In his mind’s eye, already, Black Barnikel had become an ogre, huge as a giant in a pageant, with furious whiskers, eyes like fireballs . . . And he might have started to day-dream if his father’s voice had not called him back.
“And now, Julius, I want you to learn one very important lesson from this chest.” Julius listened obediently. “Consider,” Sir Jacob continued, “if this treasure belonged to the king, would I guard it with my life?”
“Of course, father.”
“But it was entrusted to me by a pirate who deserves, I expect, to be hanged. Should I look after it therefore?” The boy hesitated. “Yes Julius,” his father admonished. “And why?” He paused solemnly. “Because I gave my word. And your word must be sacred, Julius. Never forget.”
And Julius never did.
Secretly, though, he wondered what had become of the pirate.
1613
At the end of June 1613 two wonders occurred: first, the Globe Theatre burned to the ground. It happened during a performance of Shakespeare’s Henry VIII: a cannon let off on stage sent sparks into the thatched roof and set the whole theatre on fire. Cuthbert, who had kept his word and not seen a play in two years, looked sad; but, seeing this was clearly a judgment from God, Martha felt a lightening of the heart.
And secondly, Martha married. Poor John Dogget, Cuthbert’s friend with the boatyard, had suddenly lost his wife. With five young children, the fellow was distracted. “He needs a wife,” Cuthbert told her; “a Christian woman to look after those children.” Hardly knowing what to think, she had agreed to meet the family and found Dogget a hard-working, good-hearted fellow, but overwhelmed with cares, and his children living in disorder. “They love one another, but they scarcely know the scriptures,” she remarked to Cuthbert. “You could save them. It would be a Christian duty,” he urged. And, touched that he should be so thoughtful of others, she agreed, if Dogget wished, to consider it.
For several days she had hesitated. Southwark held no appeal for her; but she could not deny that the Doggets’ need was great, and so, putting her own desires quietly aside, she went to see the boatbuilder.
“You must teach me how to be a wife,” she said sweetly, and, for the first time she saw him smile.
“I will,” he promised gratefully.
“There will have to be some changes,” she gently suggested.
“Of course,” the harassed father replied. “Anything you want.”
1615
Early one afternoon, in October 1615, two men prepared for an encounter. Neither man wished to meet the other. One was Sir Jacob Ducket. The man who came to meet him, aged about forty and wearing a dark robe and little white ruff, was in holy orders. Yet there was a certain elegance about him. When he reached the gateway to Sir Jacob’s house he paused. Then he sighed and went in.
Edmund Meredith was past his best. Fifteen years of his life had elapsed since the disaster of his play; but what had he to show for them? Three more plays that no one would put on. It was all the more galling because the theatre was more fashionable than ever. King James himself had become patron of the players at the Globe, which had been splendidly rebuilt after the fire. Instead of retiring, Shakespeare had gone from strength to strength. And when he had once complained to the Burbages that