Day of Deliverance (9 page)

Peace, Love and Understanding

They were bundled into a covered cart. One of their assailants travelled in the back with them while the other took the reins at the front. Jack had little time to study the men but he could tell immediately they were not the Spaniards who had pursued them up onto the chapel roof the night before.

The man with the pistol was firm but surprisingly polite. “I apologise for the rough tactics, but you are in great danger. I would like each of you to lie down on the bottom of the cart until we get out of town. We will then have more time to explain.”

“But…” Trinculo started to complain. The man, suddenly flushed with anger, thrust the pistol into his face.

“Do what I say,” he ordered.

They lay flat on the rough wooden surface of the cart. Although Jack was scared, he noticed that the pistols the man wielded didn’t look very sixteenth century – in fact they were bang up to date.

Jack’s body was still aching from the night spent up on the tower and being bashed around on the bottom of the cart as they headed out of town didn’t help matters. After a while, the driver turned back towards his colleague.

“Here – this’ll do.”

The cart rumbled to a halt.

“Right, gentlemen, I want you to get up, one by one, and step down from the cart. Please don’t try anything stupid.”

They had pulled up by a small copse next to the road. The landscape was flat and boggy for miles in every direction and in the distance they could still see the spires of Cambridge. The sun had risen into a clear blue winter’s sky and Jack waited for its weak rays to warm his bones.

“Sit down by the wall there.”

The men seemed more relaxed now that they were out of Cambridge. They both looked to be in their mid thirties, fit and clean-shaven.

“Here we go.”

The taller of the two men handed round a steaming thermos. Fanshawe and Trinculo looked confused.

“What is it?”

The man chuckled. “Not something you will have tasted. We call it tea.”

Jack took a sip. As the hot liquid slipped down his throat he began to warm up.

“And this might help…”

The man handed out some dried salt beef. Again, Fanshawe and Trinculo were suspicious, but seeing Angus and Jack help themselves, they tucked in.

“Better?” the man asked. Jack nodded. “First, an apology for the gun toting. We needed to get you out of there quickly. Now… introductions.”

“My name is James Whitsun,” he gestured to the shorter man, “and my colleague here is Tim Gift.”

But Jack had already worked out who they were. “You’re Revisionists.”

Gift smiled. “And of course you are Jack Christie and Angus Jud.” He sighed. “You don’t know how much trouble you’ve caused us.”

“So you can explain why those people were trying to kill us
and what is going on?”

Whitsun took a slug of tea and a deep breath. “Yes. Your friend Marlowe doesn’t just write plays. He has some unusual, and dangerous, friends. He also has an addiction to risk-taking… and money. He seems to have got himself into a position where he is what we would call a double agent. He works for the English state, and also for the Spanish state. Not a particularly comfortable position to be in as the two countries are virtually at war. But he thinks he’s cleverer than both.”

“Those people who chased us last night, they were Spanish?”

“Correct, Jack. Marlowe is involved in a Spanish plot against the English state. Those men are Spanish agents who are working with Marlowe. Marlowe has all sorts of connections among the aristocracy and the court – he is a useful asset. The Spanish are known to us and we have inveigled our way into their trust. Recently, however, Marlowe has also come to the attention of Sir Francis Walsingham – Secretary of State.”

“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.”

The Cross Keys

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 the 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.”