Below a great vaulted roof, a wooden platform had been constructed, fringed with black material. It looked about six or seven metres across and maybe half a metre high. It reminded Jack of the school production of Hamlet back at Soonhope, but it didn’t seem likely that these people were there to watch a play.
Quite unexpectedly, from one side of the hall three men appeared, walking slowly. They were dressed in fine clothes and they looked important — they could possibly have been lords. The man in front carried a slender white stick. A tall woman walked slowly behind them with her head down. Wisps of her brown-auburn hair showed from underneath her headscarf. She was clad from head to foot in black velvet and a golden cross hung round her neck. As she appeared, the entire hall went silent.
The woman mounted the steps of the dais and walked to a high-backed chair, which was also draped in black. In front of the chair was a cushion and in front of that a simple wooden block with a half-moon shape cut into its upper section. The woman sat on the chair and for the first time raised her eyes towards the crowd. Two large powerfully built men stood either side of her. They reminded Jack of Tony and Gordon, but they were dressed entirely in black, and they wore masks. Angus peered at Jack with a quizzical look on his face; he had no idea what was going on. But Jack saw the implement one of the masked men held and he knew straight away. Both of the man’s hands gripped the wooden handle of a large double-headed axe.
To their right, a clerk unrolled a parchment and started to read. The language was complicated but Jack caught snippets as the charge was read out, “Stubborn disobedience… incitement to insurrection… person of Her Sacred Majesty.” The pieces of the jigsaw came together in Jack’s head. The place: Fotheringhay Castle; the date: 8th February 1587; the crime: high treason; the punishment: death by beheading. Now Jack understood the significance of the placards outside the castle. The crowd outside were making their feelings clear about the prisoner before them in the Great Hall. Jack and Angus were about to witness the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots — cousin of Queen Elizabeth I and enemy of the English state.
The executioner and his assistant knelt before the queen to ask forgiveness. From where he stood, Jack could hear her reply word for word: “I forgive you with all my heart, for now, I hope, you shall make an end of all my troubles.” Her ladies-in-waiting stepped forward to help her remove her gown. Beneath it she wore a satin petticoat — crimson — the martyr’s colour. Next, she took the gold cross from her neck and handed it to the executioner, who slipped it into his shoe, claiming the executioner’s right to the personal property of the condemned.
She knelt on the cushion and put her head on the block. Jack wanted to scream and turn and run. But the scene before them had a peculiar, hypnotic momentum and he was rooted to the spot, compelled to see the horror through to its conclusion. The white nape of the queen’s neck stretched over the coarse wooden block for all to see. It looked strangely fragile and slender. She stretched out her hands to either side in the pose of Jesus crucified on the cross. The executioner wielded the massive wooden axe. It glinted momentarily in the firelight and then wheeled downwards with terrifying speed. The noise that the axe made on impact was one that Jack would never forget.
But the blow had failed to sever the head from the body completely and the executioner repeated the procedure. His job completed, he lifted the head from the floor and held it high crying, “God save the queen!” There was a ripple of noise through the crowd. The executioner was only holding Mary’s auburn wig and the head, shaved to a grey stubble, had dropped to the platform and rolled forward before coming to rest not two metres from where Jack and Angus stood. Its pale eyes, still open, stared straight at them.
Escape
The bonfire in the courtyard was blazing and the crowd watched as Mary’s garments were dispatched onto it. All clothes stained with her blood were to be burned to prevent them from being used as the holy relics of a martyr. Angus turned to Jack and spoke for the first time since witnessing the horror of the execution. His voice trembled.
“You’re going to have to explain to me what we have just seen…”
“But not now; we need to work out how to get out of here.”
“What about one of those?”
Angus nodded at the line of horses along one side of the courtyard. A number of them were saddled, ready for the gentry and noblemen. Many of those attending had been called at short notice to witness the execution, and some of them had ridden all through a rain-soaked night to arrive in time.
“I forgot you could ride.”
“Of course I can ride — I live on a farm.”
Jack wasn’t sure this was something he wanted to hear. “But I can’t.”
“Easy — you just sit on the back. The horse does the rest.”
“That’s what I thought you might say. Anyway, those horses don’t belong to us…”
Angus shrugged and turned back to the fire. Its warmth was little comfort.
“We need to do something. This crowd’s starting to thin out — soon we’ll be noticed. I’ve already had some funny looks.”
They glanced around furtively. Across the other side of the courtyard, next to a large, arched doorway, they spied a group of men together with some servants. Jack jumped out of his skin when one of the servants seemed to point him and Angus out to an older, official-looking man. A moment later, three guards appeared from the doorway brandishing halberds. They advanced towards them.
“I don’t like the look of this.”
“Neither do I… we shouldn’t hang around.”
Without hesitation, Angus sprinted towards one of the tethered horses. He untied it, and, with impressive athleticism, jumped up onto its back.
There was a cry from the approaching soldiers.
“Spies! Stop them!”
Angus wheeled the horse round, “Come on — get up or we’re done for.”
“But…” Jack had no idea what to do; he’d never been on a horse in his life.
“Give me your hand.”
Angus reached down with a swarthy arm and hauled Jack up towards him. Jack jumped and a moment later, to his great surprise, found himself sitting high up on the rear of the horse, behind Angus.
Angus wheeled the horse round and kicked in his heels. The poor beast reared up… for a moment Jack thought he was going to slide off — but then they rebalanced and the horse shot off at a gallop towards the castle gate. The remaining people in the courtyard leaped aside as Jack and Angus careered forward. Jack shut his eyes and clung on. There was more shouting from behind them. He braced himself. Was he about to get an arrow between his shoulder blades? Angus was going fast and they raced through the open gate and charged on along the lane that led up towards the village. Jack twisted round to see whether they were being followed. For a moment he saw nothing, but then a posse of four riders raced through the gate in hot pursuit.
“They’re after us!” he yelled.
“Hang on!” Angus spurred the horse again and it pounded onwards. Jack felt he was going to be thrown off at any moment.
The village of Fotheringhay was small, but the dramatic events of the morning and its main street was swarming with people, animals and carts of all sorts. Angus slowed down a little and miraculously they managed to slalom their way through the throng. As they reached the far side of the village, Jack snatched a second look behind. The pursuing horsemen were still there — and they were getting closer.
He thumped Angus on the back. “They’re gaining!”
The river came back into view on the left of the track. It was slow-moving but brown and swollen from the winter rain. Ahead, a wide bend in the river carved into the bank, forming a raised embankment of loose mud and gravel, high above the water. Angus veered towards it.
“Hold on!” he shouted. In a second, they were airborne as the horse soared from the earth embankment and plunged into the icy water. The cold took Jack’s breath away. But the water only came up to their thighs
and soon the horse found its footing on the bottom of the river. Angus made noises of encouragement — spurring the beast on. As they approached the opposite bank the current eased and the water became shallower. The horse sensed safety and pressed on energetically. They had made it.
Angus halted and wheeled them round. Opposite, their pursuers had arrived at the same spot on the high earth embankment. Immediately two of the pursuing horsemen attempted the same stunt. But the first horse slipped. Its rider became unseated and fell into the mud, sliding headlong into the torrent. The second horse somehow became entangled in the first and its rider was also thrown free. Soon both riders and horses were in the river, being swept along with the current. The two remaining horsemen waited at the top of the embankment. They were not about to risk the same fate and they peered across the water in frustration as Jack and Angus turned and galloped away to the woodland beyond.
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.
&nbs
p; “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…”
Day of Deliverance jc-2 Page 5
