Day of Deliverance Read online

  “The founder of England’s first secret service,” Gift added.

  “The Spaniards have been keeping a close eye on Marlowe and saw you accompany him to his rooms. They were suspicious that you might be after him. They may even have thought you were also working for Walsingham. In order to save himself, we understand that Marlowe told the Spaniards that you had threatened him and searched his apartment. He said you had panicked when the Spaniards arrived, and that you then escaped with knowledge of the plot to take to Walsingham in London.”

  “And they believed that?”

  “Marlowe got away with it – he is no fool – and the Spanish will have him safe and secure by now. He betrayed you, but you’ve been very lucky. Once we became aware of your situation, we were able to distract the Spaniards sufficiently to pick you up.”

  Fanshawe muttered bitterly, “If I ever see that Marlowe again, I’ll…”

  Jack interrupted. “So, how do you know these Spaniards? What do you mean they trust you? And how did you find us… rescue us?”

  Whitsun glanced nervously at Fanshawe and Trinculo. “A little too much information, for just now, Jack. However, we are going to take you somewhere safe – to someone who can answer all your questions.”

  “Who?” Angus said.

  “Dr Pendelshape, of course.”

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the name.

  “But first, we need to know, did Marlowe give you anything before he left?”

  Fanshawe looked nervously at Jack. Jack nodded. “Tell them, Harry.”

  “A letter. I swore on my life not to open it. He also gave us money for our services to take it to Walsingham,” Fanshawe replied.

  “Perfect. If you can hand us the letter, please.”

  Fanshawe hesitated.

  Whitsun insisted, an undercurrent of menace in his voice. “Please.”

  Fanshawe reached into an inside pocket and handed the letter to Whitsun who whisked it from him. “Very good. We certainly don’t want this getting into the wrong hands. We’ll take a proper look in a minute.”

  Gift got to his feet. “And now I’m afraid we have some rather unpleasant business to see to.” He removed his pistol from inside his cloak and eyed Fanshawe and Trinculo.

  “Jack, Angus, you may want to look away. What we have to do is unfortunate, but necessary.”

  Jack was incredulous. “Hold on, you’re not going to…”

  “Don’t intervene, Jack, these people already know far too much – their knowledge could wreck our plans.”

  As Gift spoke, he was unaware of the odd figure approaching a little way down the track. He was perched up on a donkey and wore a grey hooded cloak – a bit like a friar from a monastery. As he reached the group, he dismounted and led the donkey towards them.

  Whitsun and Gift were distracted, and Gift surreptitiously reholstered his weapon.

  “What now?” he muttered impatiently.

  The figure walked slowly towards them, the hood of his cloak covering his head. He did not reveal his face.

  “What do you want old man?” Gift said.

  “Alms for the poor.”

  “We have nothing, go away,” Whitsun replied in frustration. “We’re busy.”

  “In that case, peace be with you.”

  Without raising his head, the friar made a sign of the cross in the air. Then, as Whitsun and Gift started to turn away disinterestedly, he placed his hand inside his cloak and withdrew a heavy wooden club. The first blow caught Gift square on the head and he crumpled to the ground. Whitsun reached for his weapon, but he was not quick enough. With his second blow, the friar buried the club into Whitsun’s face. He fell to his knees clutching his nose. The friar landed a second blow to Whitsun’s head and he too fell unconscious to the ground.

  “As I said – peace be with you – brothers.”

  The friar threw back his hood and his face was revealed.

  “Monk!” Fanshawe cried. Immediately Fanshawe and Trinculo embraced their old friend.

  “Steady, steady.”

  “But how…?”

  “You didn’t think I would let the great Fanshawe Players leave town without me, did you?”

  “You followed us?”

  “We were thrown out of the buttery late last night. I checked Marlowe’s rooms – but he had gone… and so had you. I searched college, but found not a trace. I had to sleep in one of the staircases. This morning, I went out into the street. I saw you come out of King’s College and I was about to shout, and then I saw those two men take you. I decided to follow…”

  They laughed. “Thank you for that Monk. I didn’t know you cared.”

  Monk shrugged, sheepishly. “You’re the only family I have.”

  Jack knelt down to inspect Whitsun and Gift.

  “Are they dead?” Angus asked.

  Jack felt for their pulses. “No, but they’re out for the count.”

  “What do we do?”

  Jack thought to himself. “They can take us to Pendelshape, but on the other hand, they are completely ruthless. Look what they just tried to do.”

  Monk wielded his club. “I say we finish them off right now.”

  Jack put up his hand. “No. You don’t want blood on your hands. We’ll tie them up nice and tight – that’ll give us time to get away. Angus, you help me search them for anything useful.”

  A moment later, Jack and Angus were rummaging through the clothes and belongings of the two men while Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk prepared to leave.

  Angus removed the two pistols. “We’ll take those for a start.”

  “And I think we’ll have Marlowe’s letter back,” Jack said.

  Jack felt a smooth object in one of the inside pockets. He looked round to be sure that the others were busy. “Hey, Angus,” he whispered. “How much do you think VIGIL would like to get hold of a Revisionist time phone?”

  Angus smiled, slyly, revealing the object he had just recovered from Whitsun.

  “Or even two Revisionist time phones.”

  Jack smelled it first: the stench of two hundred thousand people bundled together into a few hundred acres of narrow, fetid streets, slippery with the slime of rubbish. As they walked on, timber and plaster houses rose above them – their upper floors built out over the lower floors so that they almost met at the top. Periodically, refuse was thrown from the windows straight into the gloomy, sunless streets below. You had to take care to avoid a direct hit. Some parts of the streets were little better than open sewers. Despite the overcrowding, there was still room for over a hundred and twenty churches as well as an entire cathedral. Fanshawe mentioned that God had little pity on the residents who were targeted by swindlers, pickpockets, cutpurses, cozeners and countless other forms of low-life. If the undesirables didn’t get you, disease probably would. The place was racked with it – bubonic plague, tuberculosis, measles, rickets, scurvy, smallpox and dysentery. Yet despite all this, there wasn’t a city to match it in England or even Europe. This was a city destined to become the centre of the largest empire the world had ever seen. A city that was vibrant, bustling and dangerous: London.

  *

  For Jack and Angus, it was the smell they found hardest to get used to. Then there was the lack of drinking water. Water was dangerous as it might carry disease. Ale was the next best thing. It was mostly weak but there were stronger brews. That morning at breakfast, Fanshawe had thought nothing of downing two pints of a cloudy liquid with no froth, called ‘Mad Dog’. If you didn’t like Mad Dog you could try Huffcap, Merry-go-down or Dragon’s Milk. Or if you were feeling brave you might prefer Go-by-the-wall or Stride Wide. Not wanting to die of thirst, Jack and Angus had little choice but to try some. Mad Dog was certainly an acquired taste and it was all Jack could do not to retch as the liquid hit the back of his throat. Angus, with his larger frame, coped well with the effects, but after half a pint, Jack’s head was spinning.

  With the money Marlowe had given him for safe passage of t
he secret letter, Fanshawe rented a room at the Cross Keys Inn, in Grace Church Street between Bishopsgate and London Bridge. The inn was built around a cobbled courtyard, accessed through an archway from the street. Above the courtyard, open balconies ran round the perimeter of each floor and from here guests could watch plays put on from time to time by itinerant acting troupes. It did seem possible, therefore, that this was a good place to find Marlowe’s contact, Wilbur Shake-Shaft, but so far he had proved elusive. Fanshawe’s desperation to find a buyer for his plays had caused him to delay the delivery of the precious secret letter from Marlowe to Walsingham. Although he was torn, Fanshawe decided to wait and give a potential rendezvous with Shake-Shaft one more day.

  Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk approached the bar to order lunch, leaving Jack and Angus at one of the wooden tables in a corner of the Cross Keys. Nearby, a log fire was spluttering to life, adding smoke but so far little warmth to the dank air. With the table to themselves Jack and Angus took the chance to review their position.

  “Well?” Jack nodded at Angus’s doublet under which he hid his time phone.

  “Dead as a dodo,” Angus replied.

  The time phones remained lifeless. There was still no communication from VIGIL or, for that matter, from Tony and Gordon, for whom they were beginning to fear the worst.

  “What about the Revisionist time phones?”

  “They’ve got the same problem as VIGIL – intermittent time signals. We have no choice but to wait. We’ve no other information to go on… we have to wait for a time signal so we can contact VIGIL.”

  Angus groaned. “Frustrating… we can’t communicate with VIGIL, no sign of Tony and Gordon, but if we could get these Revisionist time phones to VIGIL – they would be able to infiltrate the Revisionists and blow their whole operation apart.”

  “And in the meantime, we’re none the wiser about what the Revisionists are really up to. All we know is that it must have something to do with this Spanish plot and that letter to Walsingham.”

  “Shall we open it?”

  “Yeah – I’m thinking it’s about time we did. But bear in mind that if we do that, you know, break the seal, then the contents become invalidated. Walsingham might just dismiss it – that’s what Fanshawe says.”

  “Well, at least we’ve bought some time – you know, with Whitsun and Gift out of the picture.” Angus stared down at the table. “Do you think we should have…?”

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “You know – done the business.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Angus. They might be murderers, but we’re not. We’ve got their time phones – so that stuffs them.”

  “And we’ve got their guns.”

  “Yes, but Pendelshape is still at large, and maybe there are other Revisionists with him.”

  Angus glanced over at the bar where Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk were involved in an animated conversation with the landlord about their lunch.

  “What must they think?”

  “They just seem happy to be alive.”

  “Excuse me.” Their conversation was interrupted by a young man who stood at the end of their table. He had an accent that Jack could not place – certainly unlike Fanshawe’s. He wore a leather jerkin over a coarse shirt, with long breeches that were tucked into stiff leather boots. He had a mane of long, black curly hair and carried a bag full of papers over his shoulder. In one arm he cradled two large books.

  “The landlord left a message for me. He said a Mr Fanshawe was keen to meet and would wait at this table between the hours of eleven and three.” He peered at them with dark, glinting eyes. “Is either one of you Mr Fanshawe?”

  “No,” Jack replied, “but here he comes now.” Jack pointed over to where Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk were navigating their way back through the growing lunchtime crowd, trying not to spill four large pewter tankards of ale. As they arrived, the man held out his hand.

  “Mr Harold Fanshawe?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe you wished to meet me… to do business. My name is Shakespeare. William Shakespeare.”

  Fanshawe was soon well into his sales pitch and papers were strewn over the table in front of them. Unlike Marlowe, and much to Jack’s surprise, Shakespeare appeared to be quite interested in Fanshawe’s work. He must have been desperate. Maybe it made sense: the great man was as yet unknown, and he would not find fame for years to come. He was looking for anything that might give him a start, an edge. Shakespeare had a nervous energy about him and flicked quickly from page to page. Occasionally he would look up and scratch his beard and make a comment like, “It will need work,” or, “This must change,” or, “This is wrong.”

  Fanshawe looked increasingly worried. Finally, he could take no more.

  “What say you I read you something… bring the words to life?” He leafed through the sheaf of papers in front of him trying to locate a suitable passage.

  “Here!” Fanshawe suddenly jumped to his feet, posed pretentiously and started to speak.

  As Fanshawe read out the words, Shakespeare fidgeted with his beard, and stifled a yawn. Jack cringed. Fanshawe’s prose was truly dreadful and Jack could sense that, like Marlowe before him, Shakespeare was about to reject the work out of hand. Fanshawe’s world was about to implode and, with it, his fantasies of future wealth and fame. But then, much to Jack’s surprise, Shakespeare gestured impatiently for Fanshawe to pass him the sheet from which he read. Fanshawe stopped abruptly and sat down, deflated. Shakespeare took the paper and pulled a quill and a miniature pot of ink from his bag, which he placed in front of him on the table. He opened the pot, dabbed the quill and scribbled, murmuring to himself.

  “This is wrong… and this… and this would be better here, I think.”

  After a couple of minutes he had finished and beamed up at them.

  “Now Harry, let me see if I understand what you were trying to say.”

  Shakespeare read out his revised version of Fanshawe’s script:

  “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day…”

  He continued to read, and after a while he paused and looked up from the reworked script. “What do you think?”

  Fanshawe stared at Shakespeare in awe. In just two minutes Shakespeare had transformed Fanshawe’s efforts. Shakespeare turned to the play’s title page: MacGregor.

  With one final flourish of the quill he struck a line through MacGregor, replaced it with Macbeth and declared, “Better I think. Also a real Scottish king.”

  “Yes, sir, much better – more, er, Scottish. You have a gift, sir,” Fanshawe said in wonder.

  “Yes. I know,” Shakespeare replied. “But I usually need something to get me going. A starting point, if you like.”

  He took a long draught from one of the untouched tankards of ale, thumped it back onto the table and declared, “I’ll give you three pounds for the lot.”

  Fanshawe grimaced. He was hoping for more, but considering the reworking that Shakespeare would need to do, this was a good offer; Fanshawe was unlikely to get a better one.

  “Well, sir, I’m not sure…”

  Jack cut in. “I don’t want to be rude, Harry, but I think Mr Shakespeare is making a good offer… as, er, a friend, I think you will do no better.” Then Jack added with a twinkle in his eye, “I assure you – your work could not be in finer hands.”

  With Jack’s endorsement, the deal was done and they looked on as Fanshawe thrust out his hand.

  “Three pounds it is, sir!”

  “Good. Let’s drink to that.”

  Jack and Angus watched as Fanshawe’s papers passed from one side of the table to the other and were stuffed unceremoniously into Shakespeare’s bag. Observing the transaction, Jack realised that they had unravelled one of the biggest mysteries of literary history: had Shakespeare written his own material and if not who had? Jack knew Fanshawe’s work would give Shakespeare little advantage. But as the
great man had said himself – it was a start.

  Lunch arrived. Compensating for their meagre rations over the last weeks, Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk had ordered a vast array of food – different meats, cheeses, cakes and sweet pastries – all of which were delivered together. Lubricated by the arrival of wine and more ale, the conversation turned to the theatre scene in London.

  “… and Henslowe has built a new theatre, south of the river. The Rose,” said Shakespeare.

  “You know this – Henslowe?” Trinculo asked, giving Fanshawe a nudge.

  “Of course. I was planning to pay a visit this afternoon.”

  Fanshawe seized his opportunity. “But William, as you know, we are looking for work. We have many years as players, and young Jack here has a fine talent too. Maybe you could put a good word in for us with this Mr Henslowe.”

  Shakespeare smiled. “I don’t see why not… we can all pay him a visit,” he looked at them mischievously, “and after that I have an excellent idea for how we may celebrate the completion of our business.”

  *

  They turned south down Gracechurch Street. Fanshawe, Trinculo, Monk and Shakespeare were somewhat the worse for wear thanks to the ale and wine they had drunk with their enormous lunch. Progress was further hindered by the appalling traffic. Carts, pulled by two, four or even six horses, moved up and down the paved street. People wove in and out as best they could. As far as Jack could see there were no rules at all – it didn’t matter which side you drove down and junctions were a free-for-all – you just moved along as best you could. From the top of Fish Street they caught their first glimpse of the river, a broad expanse of grey-brown water, much wider than it is in modern times. If anything, the river was even busier than the streets. All manner of craft plied along it: small sailing ships, rowing boats, wherries and decorated barges. The traffic moved both up and down the river and to and fro across it, because there was only one bridge: London Bridge.