For the 16th century, a vagrant was someone who operated outside of societal norms, someone who moved around without a fixed home, or produced a profit without the oversight of a noble patron.

In a culture that highly prized both hierarchy and organization, someone who fell outside these categories was cast under severe scrutiny, seen as a potential threat, and faced harsh punishments specifically aimed at preventing vagrancy.

During Shakespeare's lifetime, new laws were being passed to aggressively define and control the vagrant, casting a net that often saw players and playwrights like William Shakespeare caught right up in the chaos.

To help us understand how those categories worked — and why they mattered — we're joined by Dr. David Hitchcock, Reader in Early Modern History at Canterbury Christ Church University. Dr. Hitchcock's research focuses on poverty, mobility, and the cultural meaning of vagrancy in early modern England.

He's here today to help us explore why early modern England was so focused on vagrancy, what the laws were that tried to prevent it, and how these laws impacted theater, and Shakespeare specifically.

In Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part 1, Hotspur delivers a chilling threat against King Richard:

"I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him
To keep his anger still in motion."

It's a line rooted in the politics of kingship and rebellion—but it also hinges on something strikingly practical. The idea of teaching a starling to speak wasn't poetic fancy. It was entirely possible. In fact, it was happening in Shakespeare's lifetime.

This week, we're stepping beyond the metaphor to explore the real bird behind the threat. What was the behavior, temperament, and reputation of the starling in early modern England? Were they truly trained to mimic speech? Were they kept as pets—or even raised for the table alongside other fowl?

Here to guide us into the world of the early modern starling is Lee Raye, author of Creatures of Story and Song: Tracing Britain's Lost Species. Lee's work traces the historical presence of wild animals and plants, and today, they help us uncover how fact and drama intersect in the history of one of the world's most fascinating birds.

In Shakespeare's Othello, the Second Senator in Act One warns of a Turkish fleet bearing down on Cyprus. Later in that same scene, the Duke of Venice remarks, "The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you."

References to Cyprus appear again and again throughout the dialogue—calling attention to wars, naval battles, and the conflicts surrounding the island, including, as Iago puts it, the struggle between "grounds Christian and heathen."

Shakespeare places Othello in Cyprus at a moment of extreme tension. In the play, the island has just faced an imminent invasion by the Ottoman Turks. The Venetian fleet is mobilized, generals are dispatched, and Cyprus is on high alert. It makes for an exciting story—but what's even more compelling is that the setting Shakespeare chose mirrors real history almost exactly.

In 1570 and 1571, Cyprus—then a Venetian possession—was attacked by the Ottoman Empire. The final and most famous stronghold was a city called Famagusta, whose siege became infamous across Europe.

For Shakespeare's audience, Cyprus under Turkish threat was not fictional—it was recent news. When Othello opens with fears of invasion, Shakespeare is tapping into a collective memory of terror and loss that was still emotionally raw.

To help us explore how the play connects to the real history Shakespeare's audience would have recognized immediately, I'm delighted to welcome our guest today, Michael Walsh.