Day of Deliverance Page 7

  Fanshawe sobbed louder.

  Suddenly, Fanshawe’s small wooden chest was thrown from the back of the cart and Stave jumped out after it.

  “I found this.”

  He booted the chest which flew open and Fanshawe’s precious papers scattered across the muddy ground.

  Fanshawe wailed hysterically.

  The ringleader prodded him with his stick. “Shut your mouth – or you’ll get more of this.”

  He strode over to the chest. “What is it?”

  Trinculo and Monk were silent.

  He turned back to them and snarled, “I asked what is it?”

  Monk said quietly, “Plays, poems.”

  Trinculo mumbled, “They’re not worth anything.”

  But the ringleader had a glint in his eye. “Not what I hear. You can get ten shillings for a play… maybe more, if it’s any good.”

  The bandits gathered round the papers, suddenly interested.

  Jack whispered to Angus from the side of his mouth, “Any ideas?”

  “Tony and Gordon carried the only weapons, but I did manage to sneak this with me… was at the bottom of my school bag for some reason.”

  Angus opened his doublet fractionally for Jack to see what was inside. He had brought his catapult. And it wasn’t the one made from a bit of wood hewn from a tree with an elastic band attached. Angus had a slingshot of high-tensile industrial rubber tethered to a carbon fibre frame. Jack had seen Angus use this favourite ‘toy’ to shatter a beer bottle fifty metres away. He opened up the other side of his doublet.

  “And I found a couple of these in the VIGIL prep area… pocketed them while the others weren’t looking,” he whispered.

  A couple of tubes poked up from his inside pocket. Jack didn’t know what they were.

  “Thunder flashes,” Angus said guiltily.

  The bandits had become bored with the papers and they hurriedly stuffed them back into the wooden chest. The ringleader turned back to them.

  “What else have you got?”

  Angus reached into his pocket, pulled out one of the thin tubes and held it out.

  “I have this… But I don’t know if you will want it.”

  “What is it?”

  Angus looked at Jack who interjected, “We use it in our plays… it is, er, a musical stick. It makes music.”

  “Loud music,” Angus added.

  The ringleader came closer. “I have never heard of such a thing… how does it work?”

  “Easy,” Angus said. “See that rock over there. Well, you just bang the bottom of the music stick on it… and then hold it in your hand… and wait for the music.”

  Stave barged forward. “I want to do it!”

  “No me…” Butcher said.

  “Stand aside – I will do it – I am the leader.”

  The ringleader took the thunder flash, marched over to the rock and manfully banged one end onto the rock. “Like that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Angus, “just like that.”

  They waited.

  The ringleader looked at them questioningly. “It’s not work—”

  Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light and an earsplitting bang as the thunder flash went off in the bandit’s hand. It was as if the entire forest had gone up. For a second he was invisible in the swirling blue smoke, but as it cleared, the man staggered blindly around, clutching his hand and wailing in pain.

  His friends raced over to help him. Angus whipped out his catapult and selected a stone from the ground. In one movement he stretched back the rubber, extending it all the way from his outstretched arm to his ear lobe. He closed his left eye and narrowed his right along the length of the rubber and… released. Jack could have sworn he heard the stone hiss angrily through the air. It caught Stave in his kneecap and he sank to the ground, emitting a low guttural grunt. Butcher turned, his face red with anger, and pelted towards them wielding his club as he came. But Angus had coolly reloaded the catapult and unleashed a second shot. It was extraordinary that a small pebble could stop a grown man in his tracks. But it did. Angus had again skilfully targeted the leg, and now all three of their assailants were on the ground. Alive, but in a great deal of pain.

  Angus reloaded for a third time, but Jack put his hand up.

  “I think we’re done.”

  Angus lowered the catapult.

  Fanshawe was soon on his feet, wrapping Angus and Jack in a bear hug.

  “Thank you, my friends.”

  Trinculo immediately performed another jig – just as embarrassing as the first.

  Jack and Angus approached the three bandits who groaned in the mud.

  “Will they be okay?” Jack asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes, they’ll be limping around for a day or two… and what’s-his-face will have a nasty burn on that hand… but they’ll be fine.”

  Jack looked down at the three men. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but tried his best tough-man voice. “Right you lot. Come near us again… and well… we’ve got a load more tricks up our sleeves… and you’ll regret it – we’ll, er, be calling 999.”

  Angus tried not to smile. The bandits looked up at them with a mixture of confusion and fear. They seemed to have got the message.

  *

  They made the long approach to Cambridge from the north-west in the afternoon of the following day. Despite being trouble free, the journey had been tough and progress painfully slow along the pitted roads. They had taken it in turns to ride up on the cart… but most of the time they had walked. Since their impromptu lunch they had eaten very little, although Jack and Angus had, on occasion, dipped surreptitiously into their emergency rations. It was only because of this that they had managed to keep going and Jack had no idea how the others had survived the journey.

  Despite little food, Fanshawe had babbled incessantly. Subjects included their miraculous escape from the bandits, the details of which Fanshawe and Trinculo repeated again and again, their exploits becoming braver and more exaggerated each time. Angus, in particular, was being likened to a demigod for his role in beating off the attackers. Even Monk added grudging words of thanks. Then Fanshawe turned to his great plans for the future of the Fanshawe Players and how, working with the young genius whom he had ‘discovered’ – one Jack Christie – they would all become famous and make their fortunes. Finally, he talked enthusiastically about their forthcoming meeting with Christopher Marlowe and their final destination, the town of Cambridge. As he called it, “The most exquisite in all of Christendom.”

  *

  As they finally crossed Magdalene Bridge into Cambridge, Jack got a sense of why Fanshawe had been so animated at the prospect of visiting the town. To his left, the red brick buildings of Magdalene College stretched gracefully out along the River Cam. To his right, he set eyes upon a number of beautiful stone buildings and the spires of churches, which rose gracefully above the rooftops. The town was a stark contrast to the dirty hovels and huts that they had passed on their journey from Fotheringhay. They pressed on into the centre and the crowds became thicker. The streets were busy and they frequently had to navigate their way past oncoming carts or gaggles of students, hawkers or even monks. They turned right and passed St John’s College and then Trinity College with its Great Court. As they progressed it was as if each building became bigger and grander. Finally, they reached King’s College Chapel, a magnificent stone building, which towered fifty metres into a grey sky, eclipsing everything else around it. At each corner stood a high tower and there was a glorious stained-glass window built into the front elevation – itself nearly twenty metres high. Soon they were all gazing up in wonder at the great building, even the irascible Monk.

  After a little while, they walked on, past the entrance to King’s College until, finally, Fanshawe announced, “We’re here.”

  To his left Jack peered through an archway into the courtyard of yet another college. It was certainly not as large or as grand as the great colleges they had passed
already, but it was still very beautiful. Opposite the arched gateway, Jack could see an elegant chapel set into the college buildings.

  “Is this Corpus Christi College?”

  “Yes – this is where we will meet my friends and I have made arrangements for us to stay. You can make your way down to your lodgings at Queens’ later. First things first, however – we must see to the cart and donkey…”

  As they got themselves organised, they were distracted by a group of young men who approached from further down the street. They appeared to be in good humour and were singing loudly. They had been drinking. As they neared the college gate, Fanshawe went up to one of the men, who had wavy auburn hair and wore a black cloak with large buttons. He was a young man with a roundish, pale face, a light moustache and beard – not unlike Fanshawe’s. He was unstable on his feet and he put out one hand to steady himself on the college wall.

  “May I help you, sir?” Fanshawe asked the man. Fanshawe looked a little closer, peering into the man’s face, his brow furrowed. “Marlowe? Christopher Marlowe?”

  Marlowe looked back at Fanshawe, blinking and trying to focus his eyes. He let out a strange, strangled giggle, swayed again and was violently sick.

  They were standing in the great wood-panelled hall of Corpus Christi College. Dinner had finished and Marlowe’s group of players had been permitted to clear the far end of the hall to complete an evening rehearsal of his new play, Tamburlaine the Great. The arrival of Jack, Angus, Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk had caused quite a stir among the players. Contrary to Monk’s expectation, Fanshawe was well known to Marlowe and a number of his actors. They had been welcomed (particularly as there was a shortage of extra soldiers for the play); however, things were not going according to plan.

  Marlowe himself, having been sick at the college gates when they met, was now flat out on the floor at the far end of the hall, sleeping off a heavy afternoon in the nearby pub, The Eagle. Meanwhile, the actor playing Mycetes, enemy of Tamburlaine, was rapidly following Marlowe into a comparable stupor, having discovered the key to the wine cellar beneath the hall. In addition, progress had been further delayed, as Marlowe had insisted that, in order to mark the occasion of the first public performance of Tamburlaine, he would arrange for a local artist to paint a portrait of the group. Prior to each rehearsal at college, the painter had lined up the entire cast in full costume and started scratching away at his easel. He was fussy and temperamental and the arrival of Fanshawe, who insisted that they should also be in the picture, had nearly caused him to walk out. Reluctantly, he had been persuaded to stay and the group posed appropriately, with Jack and Angus off to one side.

  Once the actors had been standing for forty minutes they were starting to get bored and impatient to get on with the rehearsal. It had also become apparent that Mycetes had, in fact, smuggled an entire case of wine from the cellar and was happily circulating bottles around the group. Gradually the noise level increased and the behaviour and language became increasingly coarse. When half a loaf of bread left over from dinner flew from one side of the hall to the other, rapidly followed, in the opposite direction, by a large lamb chop, Jack felt it was probably time to leave. He didn’t want to be there when the college master turned up to witness them in the middle of that most ancient of university traditions – the drunken food fight.

  Jack nudged Angus. “Think it’s time to move.”

  “Just when it was getting interesting.”

  Jack turned to Fanshawe, who seemed to be the only one taking a rather dim view of the proceedings. “Harry – shouldn’t we see how Marlowe is doing… remember your plays… you wanted to show them to him?”

  Fanshawe, and the faithful Trinculo, needed no excuse and they slipped over to the far end of the hall where Marlowe lay, still snoring loudly. They woke him and he slowly regained his senses. He pulled himself to his feet and stood unsteadily, clutching his head and groaning.

  “What happened?” he asked woozily, gazing across at the melee in the hall. Monk had compensated for weeks of starvation rations by satiating himself with food and wine. Then, somehow, he had managed to suspend himself from the chandelier that hung from the centre of the vaulted ceiling. He now swung gently to and fro, slurping from a bottle.

  The artist finally packed up his things and marched towards them in a furious temper, the unfinished canvas under one arm.

  “I will send you the bill,” he announced as he flounced past. Jack caught a glimpse of the unfinished painting as it swished before them, and saw a preliminary outline of Fanshawe, Trinculo, Monk, Angus and himself.

  Marlowe groaned. “No chance of rehearsals now. In fact, there will be beatings at the buttery hatch for this mess, for sure.” A sudden look of concern washed over his face. “But come, we have more pressing business. We should retire to my rooms.”

  Marlowe had acquired two adjoining rooms in the college and the embers of a log fire still smouldered in the grate. Despite this, the room remained icily cold. Fanshawe stoked up the fire and added a couple of logs, which sparked to life. The room was a mess – papers and clothes were strewn everywhere. As Marlowe sobered up, it became increasingly apparent that he was nervous about something. When they had met that afternoon, he had been blind drunk and seemed not to have a care in the world. But now he was different. On entering his rooms he had carefully locked the door behind them and peered furtively from the window down to the quad below. Next, he had reached for a large bottle of brandy, which sat in front of them on a small wooden table. Having only just recovered from one drinking bout, he nevertheless poured some brandy into a glass tumbler and drank the whole lot in one go before refilling his glass. He then reached for four more tumblers and filled them all to the brim. Jack remembered Beattie’s translation of the words beneath Marlowe’s portrait in her book: What feeds me destroys me.

  In fact, the playwright looked a bit like his portrait. He had intelligent eyes, wavy brown hair, a round, somewhat pallid face and a thin moustache and beard. Jack felt he should be in awe of the man who had so influenced the theatre. But instead Jack found himself surprised by his youth. Marlowe was only twenty-three – scarcely eight years older than Jack. It was hard to think of him as a great literary figure. Jack remembered that in only four years Marlowe would be dead – killed by a dagger stabbed just above his right eye in a brawl. As Miss Beattie had said, many thought it was murder – or even an assassination – brought about by Marlowe’s love of risk-taking, or perhaps the rumour that he was a spy or double agent caught up in the dark world of Elizabethan espionage. Jack wondered whether he should inform the great man exactly how and when he would die and whether, in fact, this would accelerate or slow his creative output.

  Promptly, Marlowe emptied his glass for a second time, leaned back into his chair and stared at the ceiling with an expression of deep concern, then his face suddenly changed and he let out a strange, manic giggle. Clearly, the great Christopher Marlowe was slightly unhinged.

  “… and this is another of my favourites – a play about Scotland – it’s called MacGregor.” Fanshawe tried to puncture Marlowe’s pensive mood by presenting some of his own work. He had brought his chest of papers up to the room to show Marlowe, hoping that he might generate sufficient enthusiasm to close a sale. Marlowe leafed through the papers, but he was too distracted.

  “I am sure it is good work, Harry, but as you know, more work is the last thing I need, at the moment…” Again he giggled, and the noise sounded strangely out of place.

  Fanshawe looked crestfallen.

  But Marlowe remained untouched. “I am so busy with my own material… and we are just starting Tamburlaine…” He thought for a moment. “Although, I do hear that there is a young writer in London, eagerly looking for new material, I may even proffer some of my own… He is ambitious and quite well connected, I understand.”

  Fanshawe’s eyes lit up. “London? What is the young man’s name?”

  “I am not sure I remember.” Marlowe c
losed his eyes for a moment. “Shake-Shaft, I think, yes that was it, Wilbur Shake-Shaft…”

  “I understand he frequents the Cross Keys Inn in Grace Church Street… I have had some correspondence with him.”

  Suddenly Marlowe stopped talking and leaped to his feet. Jack had heard nothing, but Marlowe, in his heightened state of paranoia, seemed to be attuned to the smallest noise. He rushed over to the window and again peered out from behind the curtain.

  He wheeled round. His face was pale.

  “They’re here. They must have seen you. I feared this might happen.”

  He rushed over to a small desk on the opposite side of the room and frantically fiddled a key into the lock on a draw. He opened it and rummaged inside. He pulled out a folded document sealed with red wax on one side. His hand shook as he held out the document.

  “Fanshawe – we have been friends for a long time. You must help me, I beg you.”

  Jack and Angus looked at each other anxiously.

  “What is…” Fanshawe started to speak, but Marlowe interjected, his words hurried.

  “Guard this document with your life… you must take it to Walsingham – only he can see it. Do not open it – it is sealed, so he will know if it has been tampered with.”

  Fanshawe’s eyes were on sticks, “You want me to deliver this to Sir Francis Walsingham? But…”

  “Yes, yes… Sir Francis Walsingham, the queen’s secretary – at court,” Marlowe confirmed in frustration. “It is of national importance. If they find it here with me they will suspect me and surely kill me…”

  “But?”

  “Do not question me… no one will know that you have it. Go now and you will be safe, and if the document is put securely into Walsingham’s hand, he will reward you handsomely.” Marlowe reached into a pocket and took out a small velvet bag. “Here’s gold for your trouble, take it.”

  They heard the sound of heavy boots tramping up the stairs and, despite the temperature of the room, Jack saw small beads of sweat materialising on Marlowe’s forehead. He looked around, desperately.