The Devil and His Boy (12 page)

“No, my lord,” Sir Richard replied.

“Nothing offensive, sacrilegious, unpatriotic or treasonable? I have to remind you that the Bishop of Winchester is in tonight, and you know how touchy he gets. The devil in this play. We’re not talking about Satan, I hope?”

“It’s not the real devil, my lord,” Dr Mobius said.

“Good. Good. Good… Now, let me see.” He gestured at Sir Richard. “Sir Richard here is the Clerk Comptroller. If all goes well he’ll pay you ten pounds, once the play is finished. If Her Majesty walks out half-way, it’ll be five pounds. Do you understand?”

Everyone who had stopped bowing bowed again.

“Now, there’s one last thing,” Tilney said. “Sir Richard informs me that you fire muskets in the last act.”

“They are fake muskets,” Dr Mobius exclaimed. “I can assure my lord that Her Majesty will be entertained and not alarmed…”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tilney interrupted. “All your props and luggage will be searched by the Gentlemen Pensioners before she arrives.” He gestured at the men in red. “They’ll also search every one of you, too. But I think I’d better take a look at these muskets of yours myself.”

Dr Mobius nodded and two of the actors carried forward the trunk that contained the two muskets. They opened it and handed the weapons to Tilney who glanced at them briefly. “As you will see, my lord,” Mobius explained, “the barrels of the guns are fashioned from wood. They are also solid. No ball could pass through them. The only part of the weapon that is authentic is the firing mechanism. We require this to make the … small explosions, which, I can assure, my lord, will add a delightful frisson to Her Majesty’s evening.”

Tilney nodded and set the weapons down. “Very good.” He nodded at the Gentlemen Pensioners. “Make sure they’re all thoroughly searched.”

It took over an hour to search everyone and everything. The Gentlemen Pensioners were the Queen’s personal bodyguard and it was their job to ensure that nothing remotely dangerous came anywhere near her. Even a small knife that Mobius used to sharpen his quill was removed. The muskets were examined again and set down on a table along with the pitchforks, the devil horns and all the other bits and pieces from the play. Only when they were completely satisfied did the Gentlemen Pensioners leave and even then two of them remained behind to guard the door and make sure that nobody else tried to enter.

For the next three hours, Tom helped get the stage ready, constructing the scenery, setting out the furniture and ensuring that everything was in its right place. All the props and costumes had to be carried behind the screen and arranged out-of-sight. The instruments had to be tuned. And finally there were hurried consultations with the actors whispering their lines to each other, making sure there was nothing they had forgotten. During all this, Tom noticed, Florian didn’t say a word. Once Tom tried to speak to him but the other boy hurriedly broke away as if he were afraid of catching – or giving Tom – the plague.

At last everything was ready. Someone had brought the players some bread, some cold meat and wine, but everyone was too nervous to eat. Dr Mobius, however, poured himself a cup of wine and held it up in a toast.

“Today,” he said, “is the day that we make history.” All the actors were gathered around listening. They seemed to share the same, strange gleam in their eyes. Only Florian looked sick and kept his head down. “The 28th December 1593,” Dr Mobius went on, “It is a day that no one in England will forget. It is a day that will belong to the
Garduna
.” He blinked and then turned to Tom with a smile. “I mean, of course, the Garden Players.” He lifted his cup. “I drink to you, my friends. To the sacrifice we make for our country. May God bless all of us in this great endeavour. Glory … and death!”

It seemed a very strange speech to be making just before a play, and a comedy at that. But the actors (apart from Florian) had all whispered a fervent “amen” and Tom joined them, not wishing to be left out. It still puzzled him though and he was about to ask Dr Mobius what he had meant when there was a trumpet fanfare and a sudden murmur of voices on the other side of the screen.

At once the room began to fill up. Tom was forbidden to look round the screen but he heard men and women talking, the clattering of shoes, the scrape of chairs being moved and an occasional burst of laughter. Next to him, Francis and Frances began to give their instruments a final tuning.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped. There was a second fanfare and everyone in the room stood up. Tom still couldn’t see anything but he knew what had happened.

The Queen had arrived.

The lights dimmed as most of the candles were blown out.

The audience took their places.

And the play began.

The
play began with a prologue, delivered by Dr Mobius himself. Tom had heard it twenty or more times but listening to it now from behind the screen, he barely understood a word of it. It was as if there were a wind rushing through his ears. He couldn’t hear anything. His mouth was dry. There was no feeling in his arms or legs.

He was, he realized, terrified. He was about to go on the stage in front of Queen Elizabeth and her court. He wondered if his legs would be able to move when his cue came. Not for the first time, he wished he had never left Framlingham. Even life with the Slopes had been better than this.

Act One, Scene One began. Lucio had arrived in Venice. He had no money and nowhere to stay for the night. He called for his servant.

“Antonio! What ho? Antonio…!”

Tom stepped through the screen and onto the stage.

And the strange thing was, he left all his fear behind him. He had never felt such a transformation. It was as if he had stepped out of water onto dry land. Suddenly he was confident. He knew his lines. He knew what to do. It might have been Tom who had stood fearful and quivering behind the screen. But it was Antonio, servant of Lucio who now began to talk, poking fun at his master and finally racing round the stage as he tried to escape a beating.

Tom didn’t dare look into the shadows beyond the stage but he could tell that the audience was enjoying the play. They had been silent throughout the prologue and the opening scene but Tom’s entrance had cheered them up. They laughed quite a few times and when the scene ended they clapped.

Tom hurried off the stage. He wondered if the Queen herself had clapped with them. The Queen of England, applauding him! But he didn’t have time to think about it. The props were laid out on a table behind a fake wall – built for Act Five – and he hurried over and picked up the two pitchforks.

He was halfway back to the stage before he knew something was wrong and even then he wasn’t sure what it was. At first he thought he had forgotten something. He had the pitchforks, the rope, the horns. What else was there? On the stage, Dr Mobius was coming to the end of another soliloquoy and Tom knew he had only moments before he had to go back on. He was wearing horns. He had put on his tail.

And then he understood what it was. The pitchforks were much too light. Being careful not to drop them, Tom turned them over in his hands and examined them. He quickly saw what had happened. The forks at the top were the same but the long metal tubes had been replaced with lengths of wood. This made them much lighter to carry and easier to handle too. But Tom was surprised that Dr Mobius should have changed them at this late stage and that he should have done so without telling him.

“Here comes Antonio now!”

Caught up with the pitchforks, Tom had almost missed his cue. He hurried on to the stage, almost dropping them as he went and although Dr Mobius glared at him, this got another laugh from the audience. The rest of the scene was a nightmare. Tom twisted one of his lines so it came out all wrong and completely forgot another. But try as he might, he found it almost impossible to concentrate. Ever since he had joined the Garden Players all sorts of questions had been tapping at the window of his mind. He had tried to ignore them. But now, at the worst possible time, they had returned, louder and more insistent than ever.

Somehow he made it to the end of the scene but when he got backstage a furious Dr Mobius – looking more devilish than ever – marched up to him and grabbed him.

“What are you doing?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. His eyes were bulging with the effort of not shouting and his make-up had begun to run.

“I’m sorry…” On the other side of the screen, Francis and Frances, the two musicians, were playing a duet.

Dr Mobius closed his eyes, forcing himself to regain control. “Remember what you are doing,” he said. “Concentrate!” He glared at Tom, then withdrew into the shadows.

Tom took a deep breath, angry with himself. Dr Mobius was right. Whatever his doubts about the play, the Garden Players and everything to do with them, he couldn’t worry about them now. And what was so important about the pitchforks anyway? Once they had been metal. Now they were wood.

The pitchfork rolling across the deck. Florian diving and catching it. Dr Mobius hitting him. “You idiot! You fool! …You almost lost it!”

Tom shook his head, forcing himself to forget it. Behind the screen, the duet finished. The next scene began.

There were no further mishaps. Tom made no more mistakes, and an hour later he left the stage knowing that he would not be needed now until the very end of Act Five. It was the interval.

With the actors safely hidden behind the screen, the doors were opened and the audience retired for refreshments in another part of the palace. Tom was exhausted. Performing had sucked all the energy out of him. The other actors seemed as tired as he was. They also looked nervous and this was surprising. The play was more than half over. The most difficult scenes were behind them. Why should they seem so nervous now?

Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, had come backstage. The man with the scar came with him. Sir Richard seemed to have caught a cold. He was pale and sweating.

“Her Majesty will be returning for the second half,” Tilney said.

“We are honoured.” Dr Mobius bowed low.

“Yes. You are.” Tilney coughed drily. “The play’s too long and it’s rather dull. I’d be grateful if you could speed up Acts Four and Five. However, Her Majesty likes the boy – and the one playing the girl. She also likes the music. I take it there is more music?”

“A great deal more,” Dr Mobius assured him.

“Good.” Tilney glanced at his Clerk Comptroller. “I must say, Sir Richard,” he snapped, “this hasn’t been one of your best recommendations.”

He turned to leave but Dr Mobius stopped him. “Wait until the end of the performance before you pass judgement, my lord,” he said. “I think I can promise you that it is a play that Her Majesty will not forget. Nor you either!”

Tilney raised his eyebrows at this but said nothing. He left the room, Sir Richard hurrying after him.

Dr Mobius and the other actors were sitting on benches, some lying on their backs with their eyes closed. Florian was on his own, gnawing at his finger-nails and staring into space. It was very dark behind the stage. Tom was glad about that. The darkness helped him think.

Someone had changed the pitchforks. Why? Back on the ship, Dr Mobius had almost killed him when he had dropped one of them. But why had the pitchforks been made of metal in the first place – and why metal tubes?

Metal tubes. For some reason that made Tom think of something. But what? Tom buried his head in his hands and searched through his memory. A metal tube, pointing at him. Of course! He was back in the forest with Hawkins. He was looking at Ratsey’s gun.

There were guns in Act Five of
The Devil and his Boy
as well. Tom still hadn’t solved the puzzle but suddenly he was filled with dread. The Master of the Revels had checked the muskets himself. Tom remembered what Dr Mobius had said.

“The barrels of the guns are fashioned from wood.”

Moving slowly, trying to act as natural as possible, Tom went over to the artificial wall behind which the props were kept. He took one last look to make sure nobody was watching. Then he slipped behind the wall.

The muskets were lying in the right place, waiting for their appearance in Act Five. They looked exactly the same as they had earlier that afternoon when Tilney had examined them, but even as he reached for the nearest one, Tom knew it had changed. Sure enough, it was heavier. He turned it round. The barrel of the gun was no longer made of wood. Nor was it solid.

And in that moment, Tom knew everything.

It was very simple.

Dr Mobius was planning to kill the Queen! He was going to do it at the end of Act Five with muskets that, with the metal rods from the pitchforks screwed into place, were now
real
muskets. One shot for the Queen. One shot for the guard by the door. Maybe Dr Mobius and the Garden Players planned to fight their way out. But Tom had seen the fanatical light in Dr Mobius’s eyes. He had a job to do. He wouldn’t care what happened to him when it was over.

Gently, Tom lowered the musket back on to the table. What could he do?

He had to save the Queen – but that might be easier said than done. How could he even leave the backstage area without the others seeing? And if he did manage to slip away, where could he go? Who could he tell? Sir Richard was obviously a traitor. What about Edmund Tilney? But if he did speak out, would anyone believe him?

The problem was solved for him.

Tom hadn’t heard anyone creeping round behind the wall but the next moment something cold and hard crashed into the back of his neck. His legs buckled under him. The darkness came rushing in. He tried to fight it. But then Dr Mobius hit him again and he was gone.

Tom woke up slowly with a pain in his head and a neck that felt as if it had been tied in a knot. He was lying underneath the table, his face pressed against the floor. He could taste straw and sawdust in his mouth. Even before he opened his eyes, he heard the play being performed in what seemed like the far distance. It took him a minute to make out the words and another minute to recall where they came from. Act Five, Scene Two. Just a few pages until Lucio and Antonio were chased out of Venice by soldiers armed with…