Plague

by Jo Macauley

  “Wouldn’t think of taking payment from Miss Beth Johnson,” he said. “I wasn’t sure it was you at first, but I worked it out...”

  “God bless you, sir!” Beth called as she climbed from the boat.

  “Partin’ is such sweet sorrow!” the boatman called back, and despite their frantic mission, Beth couldn’t help grinning back.

  They could clearly see the Beargarden above the rooftops of the city. It rose three times as high as most of the buildings, a great amphitheatre built in the shape of an O. The centre was the open space where plays were performed – or animals were baited. Most of the three upper floors were spectator galleries, with a separate royal box in the midst with a roof of its own.

  With no time to waste, they ran the rest of the way. Beth could see that a group of coaches had pulled up outside the main entrance, but she could not tell if there was anyone inside. By the look of it, the King and his guests were already within...

  She hammered on the closed double doors and they opened a crack, revealing a breastplate-wearing guard who glared out fiercely.

  “No performances today!” he barked. “Be off!”

  “Sir Alan Strange sent us!” Beth panted, still winded from her frantic run.

  The guard made a face as if he had tasted vinegar. “Of all the ridiculous tall tales...”

  “He gave us a password,” Beth gasped. She leaned in as close as she could and whispered “Tamburlaine.”

  The effect on the guard was astounding. His face shifted in an instant from scorn to deep respect. “In you come, miss. And you, gentlemen.”

  “Which way now?” Ralph asked, once they were inside.

  “Straight to the royal box,” Beth answered. “We need to find out if the King is safe.”

  They rushed up the central stairs, only to be met at the top by two more guards who crossed their halberds in front of them. Beth whispered the password again and they were inside and, she hoped, in the King’s presence...

  “Welcome, madam and sirs,” said the royal steward, waiting at the top of the stairs. His little beard was a wisp of silver, and despite his polite greeting, he eyed them suspiciously. Still, he knew if they’d been admitted, he wasn’t to question them.

  Beth ignored him anyway, looking around the royal box desperately trying to see if the King was safe. The box had clearly been decorated for the occasion of entertaining the German ambassador, and tapestries showing the royal coat of arms had been hung from the sides, while silk cushions lay on the wooden benches and bowls of sweets and fruit stood ready to be consumed.

  Most of the seats were occupied by men in huge wigs, wearing clothes so lavish that Beth could only marvel at how much they must have cost. The thread in the embroidery was spun from real gold, she was sure.

  “These are the King’s courtiers,” she whispered to John and Ralph.

  One of them overheard, looked around at her, raised an eyebrow, took a pinch of snuff and turned back to his companion.

  “Who are the men on the right?” John whispered.

  “Those are the generals,” Beth said. “We’re standing in the same place as the most important men in the whole country!”

  Ralph swallowed hard. “So, er, who’s that bloke down at the front, talking to the fellow with the big hat?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ralph, my dear, that ‘bloke’ is His Majesty King Charles II,” Beth hissed drily. “His companion must be the German ambassador. Von Karstein, Strange called him.”

  Ralph flushed. “Of course, should have recognized him from when we met at the Tower...”

  After foiling the last plot to kill the King, the three of them had been bailed out of the dungeons in the Tower of London by Strange and a mystery companion who they were shocked to realize was Charles II himself.

  Right on cue, the King rose from his silk-covered chair and turned round. Beth’s heart pounded with excitement as she saw the great man look straight at her.

  No, she realized – not at her at all. She turned and followed his gaze. The King was looking at the bald, sweating man in the military coat who had just come up the stairs behind them.

  “We are delighted to see you at last, General Courtney,” the King called in a sarcastic voice. “Perhaps, now that you are here, we can proceed?”

  General Courtney fell to one knee. “I humbly beg for your forgiveness, Your Majesty.”

  The King waved an uninterested hand. “Consider it granted. Now sit down, for the love of heaven, and remind us why we considered it worth our while to employ you.”

  The general pushed past them, his face red.

  “Well, surely nobody’s going to be able to get at the King here,” John whispered. “They’d never get past all those guards on the stairs.”

  Beth thought of Leighton and his musket. “He’s still in danger,” she explained. “Look where he’s sitting – right at the front of the royal box with the ambassador beside him. A good rifleman could shoot at him from anywhere in this theatre!”

  “Then we’ll have to make sure they never get the chance,” said John. He turned to the royal steward. “How long do we have before the entertainment is due to start?”

  “Ten minutes until His Majesty formally welcomes the German ambassador and makes his address to the generals,” the man replied. “The baiting will begin after that.”

  “Come with me, you two,” Beth whispered quickly to her friends.

  There was little time, but she explained the layout of the theatre to Ralph and John as best she could, rushing breathlessly from gallery to gallery. Wherever they went, she checked to see whether a marksman could get a clear shot at the King from there – and in a distressing number of places, he could.

  “There are three public galleries on three levels, and one royal box,” she told them as they raced through the almost empty theatre. “You can get from one gallery to the others via the stairs. I’d wager one of them will be where the assassins take their shot.”

  “But how will they get in? It seems impossible,” John protested. “Unless they’re already hiding in the building?”

  Beth didn’t have the answer. She stood at the railing of the lowest public gallery, and frowned as she looked down at the sandy open circle of the arena that lay before them.

  “Why don’t you explain more about the layout here,” Ralph said, looking around them. “We should know as much as we can...”

  “This is where the stage usually is,” Beth explained. “It’s often nothing more than a wooden platform, in fact. The galleries are for spectators who can afford to sit, and if they can’t, they stand around the stage. We call that area the Pit.”

  “So where’s the stage now?” Ralph asked.

  “They will have taken it down to give more room for animal-baiting.” She pointed out two barred gates at ground level, along with a large door and a smaller one. “Those gates lead into the animal enclosures. That’s where the lion must be right now, and the dogs in the other one. The big door is to let the audience into the Pit when there’s a play being performed.”

  John pointed. “What’s behind the smaller door?”

  “Usually, actors,” Beth told him. “Not today, of course. But that’s the door into the retiring room, where the actors change into their costumes. There’s an entrance from the street too, so we can get in and out without having to push through our loyal admirers...”

  “So there are only two ways in,” John said. “The main door we came through, and the actors’ entrance.”

  “That’s right. But they’re so close together, the guards should be able to cover them. Oh, one last thing!” Beth pointed up. “The stage area has its own sky.”

  Ralph and John looked up at the wooden canopy that overshadowed about a third of the theatre. It was painted dark blue with bright golden stars picked out on it and jutted out above even the uppermost gallery.

  “We call that part ‘the heavens’,” Beth said. “It’s for hoisting anything that needs to fly. Scenery, pr
ops, actors playing angels ... I’m sure you can guess.” The heavens was a permanent fixture, unlike the stage. Beth felt a little sad to think of animals dying under the jolly decorated canopy.

  Ralph glanced up to the royal box, where the King was leafing through some papers and looking nervous. “He’s about to give his speech. We need to take positions.”

  “Ralph, you take the upper gallery,” Beth decided. “You’ll be able to see everything from up there. John, you stay as close to the King as you can. I’ll check the actors’ rooms, then cross round to the main entrance.”

  “We need a signal, to let each other know everything is all right,” John suggested. “How about if every five minutes, we whistle. I will whistle once, then Ralph twice, then you do it three times. That way if any of us doesn’t whistle, we’ll know there’s trouble.”

  “Agreed,” said Beth.

  Just then, they heard the King impatiently barking, “Bring me my robe, man! Hurry!”

  “It’s starting,” Ralph said. “Let’s go!” He tossed his iron bell clapper to John. “Here. I can fight with my hands and feet. You might need a weapon.”

  “Good luck, boys,” said Beth. “Let’s make Strange proud of us.”

  Chapter Seventeen - A Desperate Search

  The only way through to the actors’ rooms was to enter the arena pit, then run across the open space to the small door. There was nobody else down there, thankfully – the only thing that caught Beth’s eye was a thick stake driven firmly into the earth in the arena’s centre – but Beth still felt a surge of panic as she ran across the sandy ground.

  The stake was to hold the lion, of course. It would be leashed there, unable to run away, while the hounds attacked it from all sides. Some people thought that made for good entertainment. Even Good Queen Bess, in her day, had loved blood sports such as bear-baiting. Beth shuddered. The barred gates to the animal enclosures looked like portcullises, and of course they had to be strong, to keep the animals from escaping. She couldn’t clearly see the animals behind the gates, but from one came an occasional low growl and from the other, the baying and yelping of a pack of hounds. It was easy enough to tell what was in there. As Beth watched, a vast dark shadow loped into view behind the nearest gate, then retreated back into the darkness.

  She had only seen a lion once before, when she was a little girl and she’d been taken to visit the menagerie at the Tower of London. In the cage it had seemed majestic and beautiful, its fur shining in the sun like a heraldic beast. Now, it was a thing of darkness and danger.

  As she crossed the middle of the arena, she imagined that the lion’s gate was beginning to rise, hoisted up by some unseen conspirator. Her mouth went dry and her heart thumped in her chest like a club. She picked up speed, terrified that the gate would begin to move. The beast would be on her in seconds, and would surely show no mercy...

  She grabbed the handle of the actors’ door, flung it open and threw herself inside, breathing heavily. There was nothing behind her after all.

  The room was dark, the only light came from a high, cobweb-strewn window in the curved back wall. Nobody had used this retiring room for a long time, by the look of it. The Hope Theatre had all but forgotten the days when plays would be put on. It was solely the Beargarden now, it seemed; blood sports were all the people wanted to watch here.

  Even so, there were still plenty of signs that actors had once used the place. Beth looked around, her eyes growing accustomed to the gloom. A row of dusty costumes hung from a rail against the far wall. Chairs leaking horsehair stuffing had been pulled into a circle, probably for a last-minute read-through. A huge chest of props stood open, with wooden crowns, tin swords and a battered wooden dragon’s head gathering mildew inside. The whole room smelled of dust and neglect.

  Remembering why she was there, Beth narrowed her eyes and looked more closely. Was there any sign that the conspirators were using this room to stage their attack?

  She saw that the dust in the floor was marked with scuffed footprints, proving that people had certainly been there recently. There were plenty of places here for an assassin to hide. There could be one lurking among the costumes on the rail. Someone could be hiding in the props chest – it was certainly big enough.

  Check the back door, whispered her inner voice. The actors’ entrance was close to the main door where the guards were stationed, but if they were distracted for any reason – or if someone caused a diversion – it would be the perfect way for assassins to slip into the theatre...

  She quickly crossed to the door that led out to the street and tried the handle. Locked – but she noticed the bolts weren’t drawn, and hastily drew them across.

  In the inner wall, a row of narrow curtained-off windows like arrow slits offered a view of the arena space, so that actors could watch for their cues. Beth peered through and saw the King was still addressing his generals. She exhaled with relief. The longer that took, the better – it gave her more time to ensure he was safe. She still had to check the costumes, just to be certain that nobody was hiding down among the faded silk and moth-eaten velvet...

  Gingerly she moved them aside, then let out a yell and leaped back. Something human-shaped fell forwards and landed in a cloud of dust on the floor.

  “Beth, for goodness’ sake,” she told herself out loud. “It’s just a dressmaker’s mannequin.”

  She didn’t really want to touch it, but as she shoved it back among the old costumes, a noise from outside made her start. A single shrill whistle.

  John’s signal! All was well with him, thank heavens. Now for Ralph.

  Right on cue, Ralph’s two whistles sounded from the uppermost gallery.

  Beth went to the arrowslit windows and gave three sharp whistles of her own. All clear, she thought. So far, so good.

  But wait – something was happening in the arena. A short, stocky man wearing a helmet, a steel breastplate and leather body armour came striding out. Beth recognized the crest that he wore from one of the images the Rouge Dragon Pursuivant had shown her once. He was the bearward, the officer in charge of the King’s bulls, bears and fighting dogs. That must mean the blood sport was ready to begin.

  As Beth waited, the palms of her hands sweating from anxiety, she saw a pigeon flutter down into the arena. It hopped about, pecking at the sand, hunting for scraps of food that had been dropped or thrown into the pit. It was coming close to the nearest barred gate. Many London pigeons were bold, but this one seemed completely oblivious. Beth couldn’t stop watching, though she dreaded what was about to happen.

  Suddenly, a tawny paw shot out of a gap between the gate bars and pinned the pigeon to the ground. The bird flailed and beat its wings, sending downy feathers scattering, but it was already as good as dead. The paw dragged the struggling bird into the lion’s enclosure. Beth shut her eyes then, but it made no difference. She heard the frightened, feeble squawk and then a sound of munching.

  Beth shivered. The bearward was heading for the gate now, whip in hand. Soon the beast would be in the arena. Just then a horrifying thought came to her – the back door was locked, and she didn’t have the key. The only way out of here was past the lion. If there was someone in here with her, still hiding despite her search, then they were trapped in there together.

  Chapter Eighteen - Gunshot!

  Beth peered out of the slits in the windows, looking around for her companions as best she could. She could just about make out Ralph, high up in the topmost gallery, pacing back and forth and glancing nervously down into the arena.

  Her heart lurched as she saw the bearward lead the majestic lion out and tether it securely to the post in the centre of the arena. It roared again, straining against the chain, fighting to get free. The bearward and his spearmen beat a hasty retreat, heading for the second barred gate, where the dogs were kept.

  She could see that the group in the royal box were standing up now, applauding. The German ambassador had a wide grin on his face. Is that because he wants to
watch the lion-baiting, Beth thought, or because he’s involved in the plot?

  Her hands felt even more damp and sweaty. It was like a thunderstorm was about to break. Any second now, something had to give...

  She glanced upwards, and could just about see the heavens, the wooden canopy painted with stars that served as a sky when the stage was in place. To Beth’s sudden shock, she realized someone was looking down from up there.

  A man, wearing black – with a musket in his hand.

  It all came together in her mind like a sudden blaze of lightning. Some of the conspirators were in the theatre already, hiding where nobody had thought to look – on top of the heavens, high above everything else! The perfect spot to aim a shot at the King! As she watched aghast, she heard a voice ring out across the theatre.

  “Your Majesty!” It was John! He must have spotted the man too, and was yelling at the top of his voice, “LOOK OUT! THERE IS A—”

  The roaring lion and the baying hounds down below drowned out the rest of his warning. A few of the gathered royal party looked around, confused, but the King surely had no idea he was about to die. He turned with an apologetic smile to say something to the German ambassador. Beth’s heart was in her mouth, but she felt powerless to do anything.

  The assassin’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  But then Beth saw John run out to the front of one of the lower public galleries, and fling something up towards the man – after a split second, she realized it must be the iron bell clapper Ralph had given him. It struck the man square on the head, and Beth had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stop her squeal of amazement as the man’s shot went wide.

  The bang of his musket echoed around the amphitheatre – even above the racket the lion and the dogs were making – and the King and his guards had definitely heard heard it. Panic struck the royal box. The occupants stood, looking around, trying to see where the shot had come from. She could hear John yelling at them to look up, but nobody seemed to hear him above the commotion.