Day of Deliverance (6 page)

The Fanshawe Players

The track became more gnarled and muddy the further on Jack and Angus travelled. It had been badly mauled by the wheels of carts and the hooves of horses, although they had seen nobody for at least two hours. A weak winter sun filtered through the oak branches above, but it brought no warmth and Jack’s legs remained horribly cold from the dousing in the river. He was also aching from sitting awkwardly behind Angus on the horse which had kept going despite all the abuse thrown at it.

“We should let it go. It’s not ours.”

“What? And walk?”

“Maybe… though we may risk being caught – who knows what would happen then?”

“Probably a quick beheading.”

“What do you think they wanted anyway?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. But they worked out we were strangers…”

“The guy said ‘spy’. Why did he think that?”

“This is England, 1587, Angus. The queen has just ordered the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, her own cousin. Mary was accused of a plot to overthrow Elizabeth; but I think there are plots going on all the time. Probably everyone is paranoid and
jumpy… and with good reason. I read that the execution is the last excuse the King of Spain needs to launch the Armada – you know, to try and get rid of Elizabeth and Protestant England for good.”

“Got to tell you – I’m not really bothered about all that. I want to get warm, get some food and wait for a time signal so we can make contact with VIGIL.” Angus dismounted and patted the horse’s grey flank. “Good boy.”

“You can get off now, Jack. I think this lad’s gone as far as he can.” Angus patted the horse again. “What shall we do with him?”

“Let him go – he’ll probably find his way back. Or someone will pick him up… he’s valuable.”

Angus slapped the rear of the horse and it trotted off back down the track. Jack looked around. The woodland was particularly thick here. There were a number of old oaks with impressively broad trunks. Even though it was winter and there was little foliage, they could not see through the woods more than about fifty metres in any one direction. It was eerily quiet.

“Hey, do your ears feel funny, Jack?”

“Sort of – but I think I know what it is.”

Angus put a finger in one ear and rubbed vigorously.

“That won’t help. It’s nothing. I mean literally nothing. There’s no noise. No ambient noise. Usually in towns and cities and even in the countryside where we live back home there is some sound or other – like from cars, planes, machinery and stuff. Usually you just don’t notice it, but it’s always there, in the background. Here, I guess there’s none of that. It’s perfectly silent. So it seems weird to us – almost sounds like there is noise.”

“Well ambient whatsit or not, we need to push on for a couple of miles and then maybe turn off the road and go deeper into these woods. Find a spot to hide and wait – maybe try and get a fire going as we wait for a signal, or until the emergency rations run dry. I’m hungry, but we’ll need to eke them out.”

They continued up the track, trying to avoid the worst of
the puddles and the mud, but progress was slow and soon their boots squelched with muddy water. After an hour, Jack was ready to give up when they rounded a bend which curved down to a small clearing in the woods. There was a muddy crossroads and to one side there stood a wooden cart, a bit like a gypsy caravan. It was the first sign of life they had seen since Fotheringhay. They approached cautiously. As they drew near to the back of the cart they could hear a sound. Snoring.

Suddenly, a man’s face appeared from behind the canvas cover at the rear of the cart. It was a round face with red cheeks and it was cocked to one side. Rather oddly, the man was wearing a large, floppy jester’s hat decorated with bright red and yellow stripes. It even had bells on it.

“Fanshawe! Monk! Get up!” he shouted in a squeaky voice. “We have visitors.”

There was a commotion inside the cart and it creaked on its wheels. The donkey at the front chomped disinterestedly on the remains of the thin grass at its feet. Then, the faces of two other men popped out from behind the canvas cover. One was bald on top, with a fringe of straight black hair all the way round his head. The other was more distinguished-looking, and had a finely trimmed moustache and a pointed beard. He spoke in a rich voice and carefully enunciated each syllable.

“What have we here?”

Soon the strange trio of gentlemen were outside the cart and inspecting Jack and Angus with interest. The one with the jester’s hat was actually wearing a full jester’s outfit complete with diamond-patterned overcoat and pixie boots with bells on the toes. The bald one wore a simple brown cassock tied with a rope round his waist. The one with the beard – who seemed to be in charge – was dressed like a country gentleman with a doublet and hose, but he did sport a rather dashing green cloak.

“An audience perchance?” he queried.

Jack replied nervously, “Er, sorry, sir, we don’t have any money…”

“We’re on our way to…” But Angus didn’t know where they could be on their way to and looked at Jack for inspiration.

Jack had a brainwave – he knew that Fotheringhay was quite near to Cambridge. “To Cambridge… we are… scholars. Returning scholars.”

“Well there is a bit of luck – we are going to Cambridge as well,” the man announced. He slapped his bald friend on the back, but the man just stood there, grumpily. “Monk – what do you think of that? These fine young men also journey to the city of Cambridge. Is that indeed not providential?”

At this exciting news the jester whipped out one yellow and one red handkerchief and proceeded to perform an astonishingly stupid jig for joy in front of them.

“We must be introduced. I am Harry Fanshawe.” The country gentleman did an elaborate bow. “Leader of the Fanshawe Players…” he added grandiosely. “And this is Monk.” Fanshawe elbowed the dour-looking man in the cassock. “Monk, try and be friendly.” Monk grunted. “He’s not a proper monk you know… it is just his
persona
… And this is Trinculo.”

“At your service, sirs – will it be comedy, tragedy or poetry?” The jester grinned at them and made a low bow.

“Actually, we could do with something to eat,” Angus said hopefully.

For some reason this made the dour Monk burst into sarcastic laughter.

“That’s the best idea I have heard for two days.” He suddenly stopped laughing, looked up at Fanshawe and asked, accusingly, “
Is there
any chance of some food… or even, dare I say it, some money?”

Fanshawe shrugged his shoulders huffily and spoke. “Fine then… I suppose I need to go and check the traps,” he said, and marched off to the woods.

Despite the damp weather, Monk and Trinculo somehow managed to get a fire burning with kindling from the back of the wagon. Angus and Jack tried to help by gathering wood from the edge of the clearing. Although it was wet, the old stuff had been lying around for long enough that after the damp had smoked off, it caught light, and soon Jack and Angus were trying to dry their feet.

“He won’t find anything,” Monk moaned. “It’s been two days now.”

But then a triumphant Fanshawe appeared from a clearing, a brace of rabbits dangling from one hand.

“Providential!” he shouted.

Trinculo beamed. “Hallelujah!”

The rabbits were skinned at high speed – a spectacle that turned Jack’s stomach, but seemed quite natural for Fanshawe, Monk and Trlincuo. Soon Monk was eagerly turning a makeshift spit suspended over the spluttering fire. Jack moved closer to the warmth. It felt good.

“So, gentlemen, you have not told us where you are from…” Fanshawe said, eyeing them curiously.

Angus looked over at Jack. “Er… the north.”

“That must explain your strange accent. Which college in Cambridge will you be returning to?”

Again, Jack blagged an answer, remembering a name from Miss Beattie’s book. “Queens’ College…”

“A glorious establishment. Providential,” Fanshawe said.

“And yourselves… where will you be performing?”

Fanshawe beamed with pride at the question. “We shall be performing with my friend the young genius, Christopher Marlowe.”

Monk rolled his eyes cynically, “But he’s not really your friend is he?”

Fanshawe’s eyes flashed in anger. “A curse on you, Monk – he is my friend and he will welcome us with an open heart.”

“Well let’s hope he does – because if he doesn’t, that’s the
last straw. I’m off, like all the others before me.” Monk turned his attention back to the spit.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Fanshawe retorted pompously. “Anyway, gentlemen, Marlowe,” Fanshawe drilled his eyes into the back of Monk’s head, “
my good friend
, will be performing his new play,
Tamburlaine the Great
, at Corpus Christi – his old college in Cambridge. And, what is more, he has invited the famous Fanshawe players to join him. It is the opportunity of a lifetime…”

“Opportunity of a lunchtime more like,” Monk said sulkily under his breath.

Fanshawe ignored the remark, then added conspiratorially, “I hope that I might even sell him some of my work…”

“Your work?”

“Plays, sonnets and songs – a lifetime of toil and achievement. Even if I say so myself.”

Monk rolled his eyes a second time, and Trinculo interjected before Monk said anything to further antagonise Fanshawe, “I think those must be cooked…”

The rabbit was removed from the spit and handed round. Jack and Angus exchanged glances, weighing up whether or not the meat would be safe, but the others were already munching away happily. Even Fanshawe had been momentarily silenced. Jack was so hungry he was past caring and he popped the meat into his mouth. It tasted rich, gamey and delicious.

In under a minute, the meat was gone but it had scarcely made an impact on their hunger. Angus proceeded to rummage inside his tunic and withdrew a small plastic bag. Jack shot him a look, but it was too late; the brightly coloured bag had already been spotted by the others.

“And what is this?” Trinculo asked. “An interesting bag of tricks?”

Angus looked down at the bag and suddenly realised his mistake. “Oh, sorry, a delicacy from our home, er, you know in the
north
. You eat them.”

“Do they have a name?”

Angus glanced nervously at Jack, “They’re called Jelly Babies.”

“Babies of jelly?” Trinculo asked.

“Which you eat?” Monk said in awe.

“It’s just a name – try one.” Angus passed the bag round and, in trepidation, Trinculo, Fanshawe and finally Monk each removed one of the coloured sweets. Holding them in their dirty fingers, the three men waited for Angus to show them what to do. Angus shrugged and popped one into this mouth.

“There – nothing to it.”

They each copied Angus, and, as they chewed expressions of wonder and appreciation spread across their faces.

“Sweet.”

“Chewy.”

“A most providential delicacy.”

“Glad you like them. Here – have the rest.”

The Jelly Babies were soon gone and Angus had made friends for life.

Fanshawe, probably buoyed by the unexpected sugar high, leaped to his feet to carry on where he had left off.

“My friends, I feel it is time for a song to celebrate our new friendship and a fine luncheon.”

Fanshawe struck a pretentious pose and started to wail. Monk covered his ears.

Fanshawe’s singing stopped abruptly and he looked around self-consciously. Jack realised what he was supposed to do and clapped heartily. “Well done!”

Angus joined in. “Er, very nice.”

“A good effort, Harry,” Trinculo said approvingly.

“Don’t encourage him,” Monk said. “It’s taken him months to write that.”

“You wrote it?” Jack said.

“But…” Jack was confused. He had heard the song before, in fact he was sure it was from Shakespeare. It was from another play they had done – they had even watched a film of it in class –
Much Ado About Nothing
. So how could Fanshawe have written it?

“You say you wrote it? This is part of your ‘work’… and you say you have more?” Jack asked.

“You’ve done it now,” Monk groaned.

But Fanshawe seemed to be delighted by the question.

“Of course, come, I must show you.”

Fanshawe led Jack towards the wagon.

“This will interest you, my boy.”

Jack jumped to his feet to follow Fanshawe. He briefly looked back at Angus, who shrugged his shoulders. Fanshawe climbed into the back of the wagon and Jack climbed in after him. It was stuffed full of clothes, bedding and other paraphernalia. It looked like it had been the Fanshawe Players’ home, costume wardrobe and kitchen for months. It smelt bad.

“Over here.”