Fyrefall (Phoebe and the Wanderers, Book 1)

3 - Shakespeare, who?

Just behind the stage, where a track lead away from the square, stood a gypsy caravan, with a rounded wooden hood painted bright shades of green and red and sprinkled with fresh snow. On the back end of the caravan, a canvas curtain opened a crack. “Psst,” came a summons snaking towards the stage.

The boy turned. The crack widened, the curtains drawn back by long red fingernails. A young woman, red lipped and curvy, emerged from the darkness and stood hand on hip on the caravan’s back steps. She wore scarlet. Her skirt spread wide down to her ankles and gathered at her waist into a low-cut bodice that was trimmed with black lace and embroidered with pearls.

She looked about twenty-one, with olive skin and long chestnut curls that rolled across her bare shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a coat. She dressed as if she didn’t give a damn about the cold. She positively radiated heat.

Alexander exhaled hard through his nose. It wasn’t a happy sound.

“Will Shakespeare!” The woman called in a voice that was husky and warm, like a wind across the desert.

 “Aye,” the boy said, stepping towards her.

“Shakespeare?” I hissed at Alexander. “The Shakespeare?”

Alexander glared at me. “Shsh.”

“You like to watch the players, eh?” the woman said to Shakespeare. Her words were clipped, with a hint of a foreign accent. Her eyes — feline and deep set — made her look like she was laughing at a secret joke.

Shakespeare stepped closer, eyes open wide. “You feel the call, don’t you?” she said, reaching out to touch his cheek.

Shakespeare glanced at her hand. “I…I…”

“It’s a wild life on the stage,” she said. “You can be anyone you want to be. Live a thousand lives.” She ran her hand from his cheek to the patch of flesh just inside his loose shirt collar. “You want it. Don’t you?”

“Will!” Another voice, clear and bright, called. “Where are you?”

Shakespeare turned towards the voice and the woman in red vanished. To Shakespeare’s distracted eye, it might have looked like the woman had re-entered her caravan. But I was watching closely and I could have sworn she was there one moment and gone the next, just like a flame snapping out.

A woman pushed her way out of the crowd. She was older than Will, pale skinned with light brown hair pulled back from a pretty round face.

“Who’s that?” I said.

He sighed. “Don’t they teach you anything in school?”

I flashed him a glare. He sounded annoyingly like my Dad.

The woman rushed to Shakespeare and seized his hand. “Bartholomew let me come if I brought Aunt Susanna. But she’s so old and slow…what ails you, Will?”

His gaze lingered on the caravan. The woman laid a hand on his arm. Will shook his head, as if to clear it. “Nothing, Anne” he said. “I am yours to command.’ He kissed her on the forehead then tilted up her chin and kissed her lips. “Could you picture yourself married to a player?”

“Aah. That’s his wife isn’t it?” I whispered.

Alexander shook his head. “Not yet.”

Anne stepped back and gave Shakespeare a playful swat on the arm. “You jest, surely? I am a gentle woman with a goodly inheritance. Why would I marry myself to a travelling clown?”

“You are right, I suppose,” Shakespeare said, but his eyes drifted back to the caravan.

“Come,” Anne took his hand and tugged him back towards the crowd. “To dream of watching the players, I can understand. But to become one is the flight of fancy of an unoccupied mind. And I can think of better ways to occupy it.” She winked and Shakespeare laughed. He pulled her towards him, but as he glanced up, he saw Alexander.