Day of Deliverance (15 page)

The sun was beginning to set as they made their final approach and immense bands of purple and pink clouds swooped across the darkening sky. To their right, the great royal deer park stretched endlessly into the distance, and Jack caught occasional glimpses of deer in the dark shadows between the ancient oaks. A low mist was forming on the river and, in the distance, Jack saw the great palace of Hampton Court emerge. Its pink brick had turned a deep crimson in the fading light and from one of its towers Jack noticed the same royal standard that had been flying at Fotheringhay – the quadrants of the fleurs-de-lis and the three lions. But Fotheringhay Castle had been quite different from this. It was a brutal bulwark of stone built for an earlier, more violent age. By contrast, Hampton Court had a gentler façade – its crenellations and towers were there for show and not for defence. It was a palace and not a castle. A palace fit for a queen.

They drew closer and the splendid building loomed above them, its presence quelling the drunken blathering. A small group of men scurried from the bank to the pier to help tether the boats. To mark their arrival, Henslowe, in the front boat, was to give a speech of welcome that had been specially penned by Kyd for the occasion. Although the pig had calmed down a little, it had still found the whole experience highly stressful and the first priority was to lead it ashore. As the boat glided into its mooring, Henslowe took up position at the bow, standing just behind the little flag, emblazoned with the interlinking P and H of his name, which had been nailed to the prow. The afternoon’s revelry had taken its toll on Henslowe, as it had with the rest of the troupe, and he swayed uneasily on his feet. He held up the paper with his address of thanks to the bemused welcoming party who looked on from the landing pier. Clearing his throat, he began to speak.

“On this day…”

But at that moment, from the stern of the boat, the pig squealed hysterically as it was finally released. Sensing freedom, it scrambled across the baggage and past the passengers at high speed. It then leaped like a large pink missile from the bow of the boat towards the landing stage. Henslowe had no chance. One moment he was there, the next he was flying through the air, dislodged from his precarious position by one hundred kilos of airborne bacon. The pig hit the landing stage gracefully and slalomed expertly through the surprised onlookers, never to be seen again. Henslowe was not so lucky. He landed in the river with a stylish bellyflop. Everyone in the boat raced to one side to check on the fate of their esteemed leader. The boat was already dangerously top heavy and the whole thing slewed to one side, unbalancing, before it completely capsized. The Henslowe Players, their baggage and the barrel of Mad Dog (now empty) were all deposited unceremoniously into the Thames.

They had made an entrance at Hampton Court, though perhaps not quite as Henslowe had intended.

Hampton Court

The recriminations lasted well into the night and Alleyn, when accused of deliberately releasing the pig at just the wrong moment, had nearly walked out in a rage. By the morning, however, tempers had improved. Luckily the main props had been fished successfully from the river and the costumes were finally starting to dry out. The performance was to start at two o’clock that afternoon, and Jack was surprised and impressed by how professionally the Henslowe Players focused on the job at hand.

Their spirits were lifted further when they were led from their quarters through the great courtyards to the magnificent Great Hall at the heart of the palace where they would be performing. The hall must have been over thirty metres long and twenty metres high and had a splendid hammer-beam roof. At one end there was a finely carved minstrel’s gallery and all around were stained-glass windows and magnificent tapestries. In the oriel window to the right of the dais were the arms of Cardinal Wolsey, the founder of the palace, and in the side windows were the badges and devices of Henry VIII and his wives. At the front and down two sides of the hall a number of cushioned chairs had been laid out in three rows. In the middle, at the front, a throne had been carefully positioned from which the queen herself would enjoy the first performance of
The Spanish Tragedy
. A low stage had been erected in the centre of the hall, and towards the rear, a
screen stretched from side to side, masking the actors when they were not performing. Angus, his duties as stage hand complete, would be allowed to watch the play up in the minstrel’s gallery.

Two o’clock was approaching fast and the cast members were limbering up in earnest. The Great Hall was soon a hive of activity. Henslowe manned one of the entrances, watching nervously for the arrival of the first members of the audience. Kyd fussed from one actor to the next, tweaking costumes and proffering needless advice. Alleyn paced up and down at the far end of the hall in deep concentration, reciting his words to himself over and over again. Even Jack, with his keen memory, had struggled to learn his words in the short time allowed. Much of the script was still in Kyd’s own extravagant italic handwriting, which was difficult to read. In addition, a number of the spellings and pronunciations were very odd. It had taken Jack a long time just to work out how Kyd had formed certain letters like ‘f’ and ‘s’; he frequently used two or three different sorts of squiggle to denote the same letter. To complicate matters further, there were whole words Jack just did not know or understand. He could recognise the script as English – but only just. Jack was glad he only had one small part to learn.

While Fanshawe and his entourage prepared for the performance, Angus spent the morning lumbering around with the costumes and props. At last everything seemed to be ready and he sat down next to Jack in one corner of the hall for a final breather before the big performance.

“You ready, then?” he asked.

“Think so.”

Jack nodded in the direction of Christo on the other side of the hall. “You been keeping an eye on him?”

Christo fiddled with the cross around his neck. If anything, he had become even more nervous as the time of the performance approached. Other than Jack and Angus no one would have noticed – they were all too busy – and anyway it was normal to look nervous before performing in front of the Queen of England.

Yes, I swear he’s getting more jittery,” Angus said.

“I think so too and I don’t like it. He’s got to be planning something.”

“Seems like it, I know – but what? We were all searched. And anyway, he would never get away with it – have you seen the number of guards around the place?”

“Well, we know he’s up to something and we know that Pendelshape can’t be far away… or Whitsun and Gift, for that matter. We need to be ready, just…”

At that moment, their conversation was cut short as the large double doors at the rear of the hall flew open. Henslowe had been manning the wrong entrance and missed his big chance to thrust himself in front of the queen. She swept into the Great Hall surrounded by a large entourage of extravagantly dressed men and women. Her stunning white gown was embroidered with gold and decorated with precious stones. Around her neck there was a large lace ruff and her hair was crowned with a ring of bulbous pearls. She had arrived unexpectedly early and walked straight through the backstage area. It took the cast completely by surprise. But she didn’t seem bothered. She marched on, nodding in acknowledgement as everyone turned and bowed.

Soon the Great Hall was packed with other members of her court and by the time the queen took her position on the throne, every chair was filled. There was a buzz of excitement. This was it. Backstage, Kyd gave a final pep talk as the actors prepared for the performance of their lives. The first public performance of
The Spanish Tragedy
began.

It went well. The audience applauded generously and, backstage, Henslowe and Kyd were quietly effusive in their praise. Much to his relief, Jack had also performed his part to everyone’s satisfaction. They needn’t have worried about Christo, either. He was flawless and word perfect. After a short intermission, the
second part of the play began and possibly for the first time on their mad adventure, Jack felt himself relax. He stared up at the extraordinary workmanship of the ceiling of the Great Hall above and the opulence of his surroundings. On the other side of the curtain, the Henslowe Players were starting the second act. Jack could hardly believe he had just performed in front of Queen Elizabeth I. The whole thing was utterly extraordinary.

He picked up the script and flicked forward to recheck his words for his final short appearance later on in the play. He had done well so far, and he didn’t want to let the side down. As he thumbed through the pages, Kyd’s italic script flicked passed his eyes. Suddenly, one of the pages caught his eye. With a jolt like an electric shock, finally, he understood how Christo planned to assassinate the Queen of England.

A Confusion of Queens

The sword fight, just like the one in Hamlet, had already started and Christo and Alleyn were battling it out onstage in front of an enthralled audience. Jack poked his head around the curtain. Nobody noticed – they were absorbed by the clanging of swords and acrobatics of the two combatants.

Christo jabbed his sword forward. Alleyn jumped back, but the blade pierced his flesh and instantly an ominous red patch appeared on his billowing shirt. Alleyn glanced down at the wound and looked back up at his opponent, an expression of rage on his face. A frisson of excitement rippled through the crowd.
The Spanish Tragedy
was proving more thrilling than they could have possibly wished.

Christo’s strike had found its mark but had unbalanced him momentarily and Alleyn came back with a violent counter-thrust. His blade flashed and caught Christo in the ribs. There was a gasp from the crowd. Sensing his chance, Alleyn darted forward a second time, his sword aimed at Christo’s chest. This time Christo spotted the move and swayed to one side, narrowly avoiding the thrust. Alleyn’s forward momentum now presented Christo with an opportunity. He grabbed his opponent by the arm and heaved him onwards while simultaneously thrusting out his leg. Alleyn tripped over Christo’s extended leg and spun through the air hitting the makeshift stage with a thud, his sword spinning from his hand as he landed. Christo pounced onto his opponent and they became locked in a deadly struggle. But Alleyn was strong and, like a child with a rag doll, he soon had Christo pinned on his back beneath him. Alleyn grasped Christo’s sword hand and
banged it hard on the ground until Christo relinquished his grip. Christo was nailed to the ground. He was badly wounded and he had no weapon. Alleyn’s bulk was pressing down on him and he could feel his life slowly draining away. But it wasn’t over yet. Christo gritted his teeth, and with a final super-human effort he jerked his knee upwards into Alleyn’s crotch. Alleyn wailed and Christo seized the moment to wriggle free. He snatched up a sword and wheeled round. Alleyn jumped back to his feet and grabbed the other sword and the two of them circled round and round, panting at each other like cornered animals. The crowd jeered. Christo’s remaining energy was melting away – he knew he only had seconds left. There was blood all over the floor and Alleyn slipped. He was only distracted for a split second but it was enough. Christo leaped forward to land a second, fatal blow. Alleyn screamed as blood from the wound spurted from his chest. He dropped to one knee, and looked up at Christo before he slumped to the stage floor. Spontaneously, the audience burst into applause.

But the script was about to change.

Jack saw his worst fear unfold in front of him. Christo stepped over the prostrate body of Alleyn in the middle of the stage and marched menacingly towards the queen, who sat on her throne, enthralled by the spectacle before her. By the time the guards, or the queen for that matter, realised that Christo’s advance was not part of the play, it would be too late. From his position on the other side of the stage, Jack could do nothing. Christo was only ten paces away from the queen and brandished his sword above his head. There was a ripple of unease in the crowd, then Christo dashed forward. Jack screamed out but it was too late. The point of Christo’s blade was only centimetres from the queen’s throat. She was about to die. But, suddenly, Christo simply collapsed. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes right at the queen’s feet. It was as if he had been shot through the head by a sniper.

It was the next best thing. Up in the minstrel’s gallery,
Angus stood staring down at the scene before him. His catapult hung loosely in one hand. From twenty metres away he had unleashed a missile that had cracked into the back of Christo’s head, instantly knocking him unconscious.

The queen was quickly surrounded by four burly guards brandishing halberds. A number of courtiers drew swords and dragged Christo away. But it wasn’t over.

Above them, there was a loud shattering of glass as first one, then a second, of the large windows were smashed open. Shards of glass rained into the Great Hall – and Jack narrowly avoided being impaled. At first it was not apparent what had caused the windows to shatter. Then ropes were flung through both windows and two figures abseiled down onto the floor of the Great Hall. They touched down and took up position in the centre of the hall where, moments before, Christo and Alleyn had staged their fight. The two men were in sixteenth-century dress, but Jack recognised them immediately: Whitsun and Gift – their Revisionist friends. Both men were holding something close at their sides, hidden by their cloaks. Jack guessed that they must be automatic weapons of some sort. He was so astonished by the arrival of the gatecrashers, that he did not really notice the strange reaction of the audience. While members of the cast scurried for cover, the audience were oddly quiet and watchful.

Then Jack witnessed something extraordinary. Before Whitsun or Gift could act or speak, the audience all around the hall dropped to their knees – almost as one. It was a perfectly synchronised movement. A few courtiers, possibly ten or fifteen of them, dotted within the audience, remained standing. They were armed with stubby crossbows which, until that point, had been carefully hidden.

Whitsun and Gift had no chance. Without warning, the armed courtiers fired. In a moment, the air was thick with deadly crossbow bolts zipping across the hall. Jack watched as the lethal missiles struck home. Whitsun and Gift were peppered. As he dropped to the floor on his knees, Whitsun searched for the
trigger of his gun, but a final bolt skewered his neck and he slumped to the ground. Gift was already prostrate – lying in a growing pool of his own blood, a series of bolts buried up to their feathers in his torso.

The armed courtiers reloaded and stepped forward to take up strategic positions around the hall. Some scanned the windows above, perhaps waiting for more armed raiders; others covered the entrances to the Great Hall. Two of them moved towards Whitsun and Gift who lay centre stage – their lifeless eyes pointed towards the ceiling of the hall. They leaned down to search and check the bodies. Jack recognised the two courtiers immediately: Tony and Gordon. They had somehow inveigled their way into the team of armed courtiers who had sprung the trap for Whitsun and Gift.

A door flew open at the front of the hall and in marched a tall, thin, pale-faced man with a moustache and beard. He was slightly balding and his dark hair was flecked with grey. He had dark, almost black eyes, and was dressed entirely in black, except for a stiff, white ruff around his neck. Next to him walked a woman who was dressed almost identically to the queen. The woman sitting on the throne now stood up to curtsy. It was very hard to tell the two women apart. Jack’s head was spinning – Whitsun and Gift dead, Tony and Gordon here… and now,
two queens
?

As the second queen entered the Great Hall everyone turned towards her and bowed. She approached her strange twin and paused briefly. It was uncanny seeing the two women together.

“Lady Sarah, I thank you for your services today,” she offered her twin a hand, “your bravery will be rewarded.”

The real queen strode forward to inspect the figures of Whitsun and Gift in the middle of the hall. She gave one of them a contemptuous poke with her foot. Tony and Gordon stood nearby, their heads bowed. The hall fell quiet as the queen prepared to speak, her dark eyes glinting with fiery confidence – a confidence wrought from twenty-nine years of hard-earned power.
She spoke clearly and defiantly.

“My friends. We have defeated a plot to murder your queen – the Queen of England. Let tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects; and I thank you for your help in crushing this foul plot. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realms…”

The speech continued in a similar vein for some minutes and when it ended there was a great roar of approval and, spontaneously, a chant of “God save the queen!” rang out. She stood, chin high, imperious and triumphant. It took several minutes for the adulation to die down. The queen turned to the dark-clothed man and said quietly, “Walsingham – I trust you will deal with matters now.” With that she marched from the hall, surrounded by an escort and followed by her twin – Lady Sarah.

Walsingham took charge. He pointed down at Christo. “The Spaniard – put him in chains. He will be tortured until we know the identities of all the other plotters.” He pointed at the bodies of Whitsun and Gift, addressing Tony and Gordon. “Make sure they are stripped and find any other evidence. I have a good mind to send their heads to the Spanish court. And, now, where are they?”

Walsingham looked around the hall. Angus had come down from his position in the minstrel’s gallery and was standing with Jack and the other members of the cast, who huddled together in one corner of the stage, agog at the events unfolding in front of them. Walsingham strode over to them. He was a commanding, sinister figure. Tony and Gordon followed close behind. Walsingham eyed the cast of the Henslowe Players and turned his attention to Angus and Jack at the front.

“And you claim that, apart from the Spaniard, Christo, the Henslowe Players had no knowledge of the plot?”

Tony looked at Jack. “Absolutely not. This is confirmed in
Marlowe’s letter. By waiting and laying the trap here at Hampton Court we knew we would catch any other plotters red-handed.”

Walsingham nodded. “Your point is fair.” Then he turned angrily towards Angus. “But you… smuggling a weapon into the palace…”

Jack intervened before Angus could answer. “Sir, a theatrical prop – just like the swords.” As he spoke, Jack spotted a knowing smile of approval cross Tony’s lips.

“Indeed, sir,” Tony continued, “the fact that this young man saw the danger of Christo and acted to save the woman he thought to be the queen proves that he had no knowledge of the plot… or indeed the trap we had laid for the plotters.”

Walsingham stared at Jack and then back at Angus with beady, black eyes. Jack could almost hear the mind of the queen’s spymaster whirring away, carefully analysing their statement for flaws. But in Jack Christie, Sir Francis Walsingham had met a worthy match and at last, Walsingham gave a firm nod.

“Fine. Indeed, more than fine. You and your friends shall be rewarded.” His face relaxed – but there was still no hint of a smile. “After all, today is a day of triumph – a victory for England – and tomorrow we shall celebrate. The Henslowe Players shall be rewarded and I shall personally commission an extended run of
The Spanish Tragedy
.”

It took a while for the news to sink in, but then the Henslowe Players started to cheer and whoop in excitement and Trinculo needed no further encouragement to launch into a wincingly awful celebratory jig.

Satisfied, if somewhat perplexed by the reaction of the Henslowe Players, Walsingham moved off to deal with more pressing matters. Tony and Gordon sidled up to Jack and Angus.

“Well, gentlemen, it is good to finally meet you again…”

“Likewise – but I think you might have some explaining to do,” Jack replied.

“Of course. But first we need to deal with our next problem.”

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

But Tony did not have time to respond. The doors at the front of the hall flew open and a royal guard hurried over to Walsingham. He looked terrified.

“The queen! She has been taken! Lady Sarah too…”

Walsingham’s face creased up in confusion and shock. “What do you mean?”

The guard stammered, “A man… with pistols, he surprised us, killed the other escorts and took them…” he waved a hand around his head, “into the gardens.”

Walsingham unleashed a sort of primeval scream and then lashed out violently with the back of his hand, connecting with the face of the wretched guard. The blow was so ferocious that his nose exploded in a mess of blood.

“Idiots!” Walsingham started to bark orders. “Secure the gates, secure the water gallery, search the gardens and deer park…” He swivelled round to Tony and Gordon. “You – help them!”

Tony turned to Jack and Angus. “As I was about to say, we need to deal with our next problem…”

But Jack had already understood. “Pendelshape’s here too.”