Cue for Treason

by Trease Geoffrey

Poetry in a Yorkshire wood? Was I dreaming? A new voice broke in, yet a voice which to me was old and familiar.

  ‘No, no man! You're supposed to be a baron bringing him an army, but you say it as though you were a fishmonger handing him a skate!’

  That was enough. I burst cover and ran shouting between the wagons:

  ‘Mr Desmond! Mr Desmond!’

  They were all rehearsing on the grass-verge as I'd so often rehearsed with them. Some of the faces were new to me, but there was no mistaking that jovial visage with its comical look of amazement.

  ‘Peter! By all that's incredible!’

  I turned my head and bawled for Kit. Then, while she was still crackling her way through the undergrowth towards us, I poured out our story to the gasping company.

  Desmond rose to the occasion magnificently. ‘We can lend you a couple of horses, and welcome. Money too. But those nags of ours won't carry you much faster than you can walk. And why should you run for it?’ He waved his hand at the circle of eager faces. ‘Our company's more than a match for these men who're after you.’

  ‘But they'll be armed,’ I pointed out, ‘and I don't suppose you've more than a sword or two and a pistol between you –’

  ‘My dear boy, we've a positive armoury of pikes and things in the wagon! We're doing Marlowe's Edward the Second on this tour, and you know how many –’

  ‘Yes,’ I interrupted, ‘but they're only stage weapons: they're no real good.’

  ‘We are actors, not soldiers,’ he retorted. ‘Leave this to me, Peter.’ He turned to the company, and clapped his hand. ‘Get out the costumes. Just a helmet and a cuirass each. A pike or a halberd. Sword, too, if there's enough to go round. Not you, Nicholas or Charlie. I'll want you in your usual parts – drum and trumpet behind the scenes. Look lively everyone, or they'll be here before we are ready.’

  It didn't take them long. Desmond turned to us with an excited, boyish grin, and bowed gravely:

  ‘Lo, with a band of bow-men and of pikes,

  Brown bills and targeteers, four hundred strong,

  Sworn to defend our Queen Elizabeth,’

  he adapted Marlowe's lines.

  ‘I wish there were four hundred of you,’ I said, with a laugh. He pretended to be hurt.

  ‘You forget I am an actor and a leader of actors! With two men and a boy I can conjure up the hordes of Tamburlaine, the Greek host before Troy, or the armies which fought at Bosworth Field. I can –’

  ‘You'd better stop talking,’ said his wife, who was looking decidedly anxious.

  ‘Yes, my dear. And you'd better hide among the trees, out of harm's way.’

  ‘No, I'll go with Nick and Charlie, and bang a drum to help them. Peter and Kit had better come with us.’

  ‘No,’ said Kit, ‘we must be in this, mustn't we, Pete? Have you any helmets to spare?’

  ‘Yes. But, look here, lads, if you're really willing to show yourselves it had better be as yourselves. We'll use you as a sort of bait. Come along; I'll explain the idea as we go.’ He turned to the dozen or so actors. ‘Double your files!’ he roared, and they formed sheepishly into a tiny column. ‘Smarter! Act! Act as if your lives depended on it – maybe they do. Forget you're rogues and vagabonds! You're not now you're “an army terrible with banners”. Look like one!’

  We marched round the bend in the road, out of sight of the ramshackle wagons and the bony horses, which would certainly have spoilt the general effect. I must say that, as they warmed to the work, the actors made a good show. It was a pity there was no sun to glint on their helmets and breastplates, but I'm not sure that the dull light, together with the sombre appearance of the wood, didn't produce a more sinister result.

  ‘The main thing is to get them dismounted,’ said Desmond. ‘This Sir Philip, anyhow. Then he's not so likely to make a bolt for it.’ We accordingly posted ourselves on a rough piece of bank sloping up from the road. At least, Kit, Desmond, and I did, with just two of the pike-men. The others disposed themselves under cover as he directed them.

  ‘You'd better sit on the ground at first, looking as if you were tied hand and foot,’ he told us.

  ‘Have you any cord?’ I asked.

  ‘You don't need cord. You're actors. You mime it. You show that you're tied by your faces and the way you wriggle your shoulders, not by a length of hemp. You shouldn't need telling that!’

  The fear crossed my mind that Desmond's artistic pride might be the downfall of us all. Perhaps he didn't realize then what a grim affair this was, and thought that we, being so young, exaggerated.

  We had still nearly an hour to wait before we heard the clatter of distant hooves. There could be no doubt who it was. No ordinary traveller would have come pelting down the road at that speed.

  In fact, they came so fast that it looked for a moment as though they were going to sweep by without seeing our little group in the green shadows. An hour ago I would have wished for no better luck. Now I was all warmed up to gamble on Desmond's plan, and strive by a bold stroke to finish this fight for good.

  Sir Philip saw us as he drew level. He slackened speed first and began in an ordinary voice: ‘Have you seen –?’ Then he glanced down from Desmond's stern face to the two small huddled figures on the bank beside him. His voice went up in delighted surprise, and he pulled up his horse with a jerk which almost brought him off. ‘You've got the scoundrels! This is splendid!’ As Desmond made no move, he slid from the saddle and came running up the bank to us.

  ‘My name is Morton,’ he said swiftly. ‘Sir Philip Morton.’ Desmond bowed gravely. ‘These lads are wanted for horse-stealing from Mr Armthwaite, one of our Cumber-land Justices.’ He turned and beckoned to a couple of his companions who had reined in below us. ‘I presume, sir, you would have no objection to our taking charge of them? I don't know how they come to be in your custody, but to begin with they will have to face their trial in our county, and –’ He smiled pleasantly. Sir Philip could make himself immensely pleasant when he chose, otherwise he would never have brought so many men under his influence.

  Desmond kept him waiting long enough for him to feel uncomfortable. Desmond, in helmet and cuirass, made a fine figure. He spoke at last, very deliberately.

  ‘As you see, sir, I hold the Queen's commission –’

  ‘Of course! But surely –’

  ‘And I happen myself to be on my way to Cumberland.’

  ‘Indeed? But an officer of the Queen won't wish to be burdened with the company of young criminals.’

  ‘I should explain,’ continued Desmond, ‘that I command merely an advance-guard detachment of the army.’

  Sir Philip stared. That remark had jolted him. ‘May I ask what army, sir?’

  ‘Certainly. The army which Her Majesty is dispatching to occupy the northern counties and stifle the rebellion which, we understand, has been plotted –’

  ‘Good heavens! You appal me, sir!’ Sir Philip's loyal horror was beautifully acted: it was not for nothing that he had been so keen a playgoer. ‘A rebellion? Can you tell us anything more?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Philip Morton. You, and your friends, are under arrest for participation in the conspiracy.’ It was grand to hear the long words rolled off Desmond's tongue. It would scarcely have surprised me if he had broken suddenly into perfect blank verse.

  ‘Arrest? You're mad –’

  ‘We know everything!’ thundered Desmond, who hadn't even listened to half of the little we'd time to tell him.

  But those words were the cue we had arranged. Desmond whipped out one of the few real pistols we possessed. Sir Philip leapt down into the road to remount. ‘Come on! he shrieked. ‘There aren't enough of them to stop us! We can –’

  Then he saw the six pike-men who had suddenly jumped from the wood and thrown themselves in a bristling line across the road, and the words died on his lips. He turned his head. Another rank of soldiers barred the road below. From round the bend, out of sight, came the tattoo of drums, the martial wail of
a trumpet, the slow tramp of hooves.

  I sympathized with Sir Philip at that moment. He saw the end as clearly in front of him as we thought we had seen it when the miners dragged us towards the chasm a few hours before. He looked down that empty road, and I don't think he saw the shadowy oak-woods or the green moors above the tree-tops. He saw the other long, dreary road which leads to Tower Hill.

  We'll cut our way out!’ he shrieked again, and swung

  himself into the saddle. His hand went to his sword, and the thin blade was half out of its scabbard when I flung myself at his leg, heaved it sharply upwards, and toppled him over the other side of his horse.

  There wasn't much fight in the others. In five minutes they were all disarmed and pinioned, without any serious injuries to either side.

  ‘March them to the wagons, my hearties!’ said Desmond, unable any longer to act as gravely as befitted an officer and a gentleman.

  As we marched triumphantly round the bend in the road the drum rolled again, the trumpet sounded, and you could have sworn that a troop of cavalry was about to ride into view. The disgust on the faces of our captives when they saw the ‘army terrible with banners’! There was Nick blowing away expertly at his trumpet, so that a loud call seemed to be answered by a faint one half a mile away. There was Charlie brandishing the drumsticks and shouting orders at the top of his voice. And there was Mrs Desmond, to cap all, making the poor old cart-horses shamble round and round in a never-ending circle.

  But I think the greatest shock Sir Philip had was when he came face to face with Kit. His face flamed.

  Katherine!’

  ‘Yes, Philip.’

  ‘You you little vixen!’

  ‘Think yourself lucky, she retorted coldly. ‘You might have married me.’

  All of which, naturally, involved more explanations to the Desmonds and their company. And exclamations from them.

  ‘We can't stop here gossiping for ever,’ Kit pointed out laughingly. ‘Remember – there's the Queen.’

  That thought sobered us.

  ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘if you people will look after the prisoners, and see them safely jailed, Kit and I will borrow the best of their horses and ride on. We've plenty of time; the show isn't till Saturday.’

  ‘Saturday?’ Desmond stared at me, and I saw the horror dawn in his eyes. ‘Didn't you know? The date was altered – brought forward two days! You can't possibly do it in the time!’

  In the terrible silence which followed I heard someone laughing inside one of the wagons. It was Sir Philip.

  24. A Cue Was Missed

  UNTIL now I have told this story plainly, as it happened to me, but now the time has come for me to drop out of the picture for a while and tell you what happened as it was later described to us by Shakespeare and our other friends in London.

  It was Thursday evening in the royal palace at Whitehall, standing out in the country beyond the Strand, nearly at Westminster…

  All day long the carpenters had been hammering away, building the stage and the fittings which were to stand for the ramparts of Harfleur. Before they were out of the way, other men started hanging the rich tapestries which formed a background for the robes and armour of the players, and which would sweep back, when necessary, to reveal the private apartment of the French Princess. Musicians were already carrying their instruments up into the minstrel gallery, and trying to the them in the midst of the general hubbub. Palace servants were ranging chairs for the Queen and the more important personages, stools and benches for the lesser lights who were to sit behind.

  Crash! Boom!

  The carpenters dropped their hammers and looked round. The palace servants turned white about the gills.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘It sounded like an explosion of gunpowder!’

  ‘Do you think Her Majesty –?’

  Burbage poked his head round a curtain. ‘It's all right,’ he called reassuringly. ‘Just trying out the cannon effects. I think we got it a little too loud for this hall.’ He turned to the head-carpenter. ‘How much longer are you going to be making this racket?’

  ‘Just finishing, sir.’

  Stage carpenters always are just finishing. The hour of the performance draws nearer and nearer, but they can always find fresh nails to hammer or a plank to saw with an ear-splitting row. They can't hurry even for a queen. I don't think they could hurry if they were making an ark for a second Flood.

  They stopped at last. The dust was swept up, the mislaid tools were discovered and carried away. Servants came and scattered sweet herbs over the floor and put fresh candles in the sconces. Burbage had a final look round before going to change. He noticed John Somers peering through the curtains. He seemed to be muttering to himself.

  ‘Well, Somers, not sure of your part yet?’

  Somers turned with a start, and a sour look spread across his sharp features. There was nothing unusual in that.

  ‘No, Mr Burbage. I learnt my ten lines a month ago,’ he said bitterly. ‘Ten lines don't take much learning.’

  ‘And you know your cue?’

  ‘Yes, I know my cue all right. I know just what to do, Mr Burbage.’

  ‘Well, don't despise the part because it's small. Every part is important.’ Burbage walked on, and began to dress in the robes of Henry the Fifth. Shakespeare was already attired as the Archbishop of Canterbury: he went in rather for the small, older parts, like Adam in As You Like It and the Ghost in Hamlet.

  ‘Happy about things?’ he inquired.

  ‘Oh yes; I think it will go very well. The Princess is weak, but there…’

  ‘You can't expect every boy to act like Kit Kirkstone.’

  ‘No.’ Burbage donned a magnificent ermine robe. ‘I wonder why they went off like that, he and the other boy. Seemed a bit of a mystery to me. Did they say much to you?’

  ‘Not much. I fancy they had a good reason. I'd like to know how they're getting on, wherever they are.’

  (Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub…. Drumming hoofs on the Great North Road would have answered him, if we'd been near enough for him to hear.)

  ‘Hark!’ said Burbage. There was a confused murmur from the hall. ‘They're beginning to come in. Not much longer now.’ He called across the tiring-room. ‘Everyone ready? Chorus, Bishop of Ely, Exeter, Westmorland…?’

  ‘Ready!’

  An official put his head round the door and looked at Burbage questioningly. The manager nodded. A distant fanfare of trumpets, faint and sweet, heralded the approach of Queen Elizabeth. There was a last frenzied bustling behind the stage. In the hall there was a hush. Then the fanfare again, high and piercing, as the doors were flung back at the far end. The courtiers stood bowing on either side of the broad gangway. She came.

  Elizabeth, by the grace of God…

  Of England, France, and Ireland, Queen…

  Defender of the Faith…

  Who stopped to think to themselves at that moment that of France she did not really rule a square yard, that in Ireland the flood of revolt was beating at the walls of Dublin itself, and that the Faith she defended was no longer that for which the original title had been conferred? No; there was something about Elizabeth which silenced such thoughts when you saw her in her peacock glory.

  She came sweeping down to her chair in the front row, her immense hooped skirt rising and falling on her hips, her stiff ruff framing her face, her whole body bright with jewels and powdered pearl. She looked left and right, smiling but hawk-eyed, now graciously acknowledging a bow, now making a mental note that some poor girl was overdressed or some man needed a rap over the knuckles for a fault she had remembered.

  Sir Walter Raleigh walked behind her. He was Captain of the Guard then. There was Sir Joseph Mompesson, a foreign ambassador or two, lords, ladies… but not Sir Robert Cecil. As usual, he was at home, working late.

  Elizabeth settled herself, smoothed her skirts, and signified with a nod and a movement of her fan that others might sit. Ther
e was a general rustle and scrape of feet as the Court sat down. The Chorus walked through the curtains, bowed profoundly to the Queen, and began:

  ‘O, for a muse of fire, that would ascend

  The brightest heaven of invention!

  A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,

  And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!’

  The play rolled on. The actors strode and declaimed. The trumpeter in the gallery sounded his flourishes. The Queen smiled her approval and laughed at the comedians.

  In the narrow passage behind the tapestries, Burbage bumped into Somers, and cursed him in a whisper.

  ‘What are you doing here? You don't come in for several scenes yet!’

  Somers moved aside, his hand in the breast of his doublet, and Burbage hurried by to put on his armour for the next scene.

  Somers must have slipped back immediately. I can see him in my mind's eye, skulking in the folds of the lofty curtains, licking his lower lip with nervousness…. Exeter was telling the French King:

  ‘… Take mercy

  On the poor souls, for whom this hungry war

  Opens his vast jaws; and on your head

  Turning the widows' tears, the orphans' cries,

  The dead men's blood, the pining maidens' groans,

  For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers,

  That shall be swallowed in this controversy.’

  The time was near.

  The scene ended. The French courtiers made their exit, squeezing their way past Somers where he flattened himself against the curtain. The Chorus stepped on to the stage, the stage manager crouched over his cannon effects, alert and listening. Somers's hand slipped into his breast again. He, too, was listening for that cue….

  It came. Pat followed a glorious salvo of stage artillery, which made even the Queen start in her seat and the candles flicker throughout the hall. Then every eye was on Burbage as he stepped forward, a brave figure in his armour….

  ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!’

  No one had noticed anything unusual. No one had seen that sudden, convulsive agitation as John Somers was gripped in the stalwart arms of two guards and carried bodily, his cries stifled by a huge hand, into the tiring-room, where Kit and I were just beginning to breathe normally again.