Day of Deliverance jc-2

by Johnny O'Brien

  Angus smiled, slyly, revealing the object he had just recovered from Whitsun.

  “Or even two Revisionist time phones.”

  The Gross Keys

  Jack smelled it first: the stench of two hundred thousand people bundled together into a few hundred acres of narrow, fetid streets, slippery with the slime of rubbish. As they walked on, timber and plaster houses rose above them — their upper floors built out over the lower floors so that they almost met at the top. Periodically, refuse was thrown from the windows straight into the gloomy, sunless streets below. You had to take care to avoid a direct hit. Some parts of the streets were little better than open sewers. Despite the overcrowding, there was still room for over a hundred and twenty churches as well as an entire cathedral. Fanshawe mentioned that God had little pity on the residents who were targeted by swindlers, pickpockets, cutpurses, cozeners and countless other forms of low-life. If the undesirables didn’t get you, disease probably would. The place was racked with it — bubonic plague, tuberculosis, measles, rickets, scurvy, smallpox and dysentery. Yet despite all this, there wasn’t a city to match it in England or even Europe. This was a city destined to become the centre of the largest empire the world had ever seen. A city that was vibrant, bustling and dangerous: London.

  For Jack and Angus, it was the smell they found hardest to get used to. Then there was the lack of drinking water. Water was dangerous as it might carry disease. Ale was the next best thing. It was mostly weak but there were stronger brews. That morning at breakfast, Fanshawe had thought nothing of downing two pints of a cloudy liquid with no froth, called ‘Mad Dog’. If you didn’t like Mad Dog you could try Huffcap, Merry-go-down or Dragon’s Milk. Or if you were feeling brave you might prefer Go-by-the-wall or Stride Wide. Not wanting to die of thirst, Jack and Angus had little choice but to try some. Mad Dog was certainly an acquired taste and it was all Jack could do not to retch as the liquid hit the back of his throat. Angus, with his larger frame, coped well with the effects, but after half a pint, Jack’s head was spinning.

  With the money Marlowe had given him for safe passage of the secret letter, Fanshawe rented a room at the Cross Keys Inn, in Grace Church Street between Bishopsgate and London Bridge. The inn was built around a cobbled courtyard, accessed through an archway from the street. Above the courtyard, open balconies ran round the perimeter of each floor and from here guests could watch plays put on from time to time by itinerant acting troupes. It did seem possible, therefore, that this was a good place to find Marlowe’s contact, Wilbur Shake-Shaft, but so far he had proved elusive. Fanshawe’s desperation to find a buyer for his plays had caused him to delay the delivery of the precious secret letter from Marlowe to Walsingham. Although he was torn, Fanshawe decided to wait and give a potential rendezvous with Shake-Shaft one more day.

  Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk approached the bar to order lunch, leaving Jack and Angus at one of the wooden tables in a corner of the Cross Keys. Nearby, a log fire was spluttering to life, adding smoke but so far little warmth to the dank air. With the table to themselves Jack and Angus took the chance to review their position.

  “Well?” Jack nodded at Angus’s doublet under which he hid his time phone.

  “Dead as a dodo,” Angus replied.

  The time phones remained lifeless. There was still no communication from VIGIL or, for that matter, from Tony and Gordon, for whom they were beginning to fear the worst.

  “What about the Revisionist time phones?”

  “They’ve got the same problem as VIGIL — intermittent time signals. We have no choice but to wait. We’ve no other information to go on… we have to wait for a time signal so we can contact VIGIL.”

  Angus groaned. “Frustrating… we can’t communicate with VIGIL, no sign of Tony and Gordon, but if we could get these Revisionist time phones to VIGIL — they would be able to infiltrate the Revisionists and blow their whole operation apart.”

  “And in the meantime, we’re none the wiser about what the Revisionists are really up to. All we know is that it must have something to do with this Spanish plot and that letter to Walsingham.”

  “Shall we open it?”

  “Yeah — I’m thinking it’s about time we did. But bear in mind that if we do that, you know, break the seal, then the contents become invalidated. Walsingham might just dismiss it — that’s what Fanshawe says.”

  “Well, at least we’ve bought some time — you know, with Whitsun and Gift out of the picture.” Angus stared down at the table. “Do you think we should have…?”

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “You know — done the business.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Angus. They might be murderers, but we’re not. We’ve got their time phones — so that stuffs them.”

  “And we’ve got their guns.”

  “Yes, but Pendelshape is still at large, and maybe there are other Revisionists with him.”

  Angus glanced over at the bar where Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk were involved in an animated conversation with the landlord about their lunch.

  “What must they think?”

  “They just seem happy to be alive.”

  “Excuse me.” Their conversation was interrupted by a young man who stood at the end of their table. He had an accent that Jack could not place — certainly unlike Fanshawe’s. He wore a leather jerkin over a coarse shirt, with long breeches that were tucked into stiff leather boots. He had a mane of long, black curly hair and carried a bag full of papers over his shoulder. In one arm he cradled two large books.

  “The landlord left a message for me. He said a Mr Fanshawe was keen to meet and would wait at this table between the hours of eleven and three.” He peered at them with dark, glinting eyes. “Is either one of you Mr Fanshawe?”

  “No,” Jack replied, “but here he comes now.” Jack pointed over to where Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk were navigating their way back through the growing lunchtime crowd, trying not to spill four large pewter tankards of ale. As they arrived, the man held out his hand.

  “Mr Harold Fanshawe?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe you wished to meet me… to do business. My name is Shakespeare. William Shakespeare.”

  A Bargain with the Bard

  Fanshawe was soon well into his sales pitch and papers were strewn over the table in front of them. Unlike Marlowe, and much to Jack’s surprise, Shakespeare appeared to be quite interested in Fanshawe’s work. He must have been desperate. Maybe it made sense: the great man was as yet unknown, and he would not find fame for years to come. He was looking for anything that might give him a start, an edge. Shakespeare had a nervous energy about him and flicked quickly from page to page. Occasionally he would look up and scratch his beard and make a comment like, “It will need work,” or, “This must change,” or, “This is wrong.”

  Fanshawe looked increasingly worried. Finally, he could take no more.

  “What say you I read you something… bring the words to life?” He leafed through the sheaf of papers in front of him trying to locate a suitable passage.

  “Here!” Fanshawe suddenly jumped to his feet, posed pretentiously and started to speak.

  As Fanshawe read out the words, Shakespeare fidgeted with his beard, and stifled a yawn. Jack cringed. Fanshawe’s prose was truly dreadful and Jack could sense that, like Marlowe before him, Shakespeare was about to reject the work out of hand. Fanshawe’s world was about to implode and, with it, his fantasies of future wealth and fame. But then, much to Jack’s surprise, Shakespeare gestured impatiently for Fanshawe to pass him the sheet from which he read. Fanshawe stopped abruptly and sat down, deflated. Shakespeare took the paper and pulled a quill and a miniature pot of ink from his bag, which he placed in front of him on the table. He opened the pot, dabbed the quill and scribbled, murmuring to himself.

  “This is wrong… and this… and this would be better here, I think.”

  After a couple of minutes he had finished and beamed up at them
.

  “Now Harry, let me see if I understand what you were trying to say.”

  Shakespeare read out his revised version of Fanshawe’s script:

  “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day…”

  He continued to read, and after a while he paused and looked up from the reworked script. “What do you think?”

  Fanshawe stared at Shakespeare in awe. In just two minutes Shakespeare had transformed Fanshawe’s efforts. Shakespeare turned to the play’s title page: MacGregor.

  With one final flourish of the quill he struck a line through MacGregor, replaced it with Macbeth and declared, “Better I think. Also a real Scottish king.”

  “Yes, sir, much better — more, er, Scottish. You have a gift, sir,” Fanshawe said in wonder.

  “Yes. I know,” Shakespeare replied. “But I usually need something to get me going. A starting point, if you like.”

  He took a long draught from one of the untouched tankards of ale, thumped it back onto the table and declared, “I’ll give you three pounds for the lot.”

  Fanshawe grimaced. He was hoping for more, but considering the reworking that Shakespeare would need to do, this was a good offer; Fanshawe was unlikely to get a better one.

  “Well, sir, I’m not sure…”

  Jack cut in. “I don’t want to be rude, Harry, but I think Mr Shakespeare is making a good offer… as, er, a friend, I think you will do no better.” Then Jack added with a twinkle in his eye, “I assure you — your work could not be in finer hands.”

  With Jack’s endorsement, the deal was done and they looked on as Fanshawe thrust out his hand.

  “Three pounds it is, sir!”

  “Good. Let’s drink to that.”

  Jack and Angus watched as Fanshawe’s papers passed from one side of the table to the other and were stuffed unceremoniously into Shakespeare’s bag. Observing the transaction, Jack realised that they had unravelled one of the biggest mysteries of literary history: had Shakespeare written his own material and if not who had? Jack knew Fanshawe’s work would give Shakespeare little advantage. But as the great man had said himself — it was a start.

  Lunch arrived. Compensating for their meagre rations over the last weeks, Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk had ordered a vast array of food — different meats, cheeses, cakes and sweet pastries — all of which were delivered together. Lubricated by the arrival of wine and more ale, the conversation turned to the theatre scene in London.

  “… and Henslowe has built a new theatre, south of the river. The Rose,” said Shakespeare.

  “You know this — Henslowe?” Trinculo asked, giving Fanshawe a nudge.

  “Of course. I was planning to pay a visit this afternoon.”

  Fanshawe seized his opportunity. “But William, as you know, we are looking for work. We have many years as players, and young Jack here has a fine talent too. Maybe you could put a good word in for us with this Mr Henslowe.”

  Shakespeare smiled. “I don’t see why not… we can all pay him a visit,” he looked at them mischievously, “and after that I have an excellent idea for how we may celebrate the completion of our business.”

  They turned south down Gracechurch Street. Fanshawe, Trinculo, Monk and Shakespeare were somewhat the worse for wear thanks to the ale and wine they had drunk with their enormous lunch. Progress was further hindered by the appalling traffic. Carts, pulled by two, four or even six horses, moved up and down the paved street. People wove in and out as best they could. As far as Jack could see there were no rules at all — it didn’t matter which side you drove down and junctions were a free-for-all — you just moved along as best you could. From the top of Fish Street they caught their first glimpse of the river, a broad expanse of grey-brown water, much wider than it is in modern times. If anything, the river was even busier than the streets. All manner of craft plied along it: small sailing ships, rowing boats, wherries and decorated barges. The traffic moved both up and down the river and to and fro across it, because there was only one bridge: London Bridge.

  Initially, Jack had the impression that they were going to cross over the famous structure, but as they drew closer he saw that it was blocked at its north end by an entire flock of sheep. So, instead, they walked down steps to the water’s edge where watermen touted for business. Fanshawe pushed forward and soon all six of them were packed precariously into a two-man wherry and were being rowed out into the icy current.

  From their vantage point on the river they had an excellent view of the bridge, with its twenty stone arches. A waterwheel had been built into the northern-most arch. On top of the arches, houses were stretched up to six storeys high. Some projected far out across the river, balancing perilously on a system of struts and supports. Teetering towards the southern end there was even a palace — Nonsuch House — complete with turrets, gilded columns and carved galleries. On the far side of the bridge you could make out the high masts of merchant ships waiting to unload at the Custom House.

  As they approached the south side of the river, Jack spotted a number of long poles that projected high above a building on the bridge at the southern end. They had strange-looking blobs on the end like giant matchsticks. Jack could not make out what they were at first, but then he realised and felt sick to his stomach. They were heads; the heads of traitors and criminals. A gruesome warning to all who passed beneath and a brutal reminder to Jack and Angus of the reality of the age in which they were stranded.

  From the outside, the Rose was a high polygonal structure of timber and plaster — it looked similar to the pictures of the Globe Theatre Jack had seen in books. The place seemed dead, but Fanshawe banged on the door anyway. There was silence. Fanshawe hammered on the door again and shouted, “Anyone at home?”

  A voice from inside the building called, “We’re closed.”

  “We want to speak to Philip Henslowe.”

  “He’s busy.”

  They looked at each other.

  Shakespeare spoke. “But we have urgent business with him.”

  “I told you he’s very busy.”

  “Where?”

  “In the pub.”

  Fanshawe rolled his eyes. “This is hopeless — maybe we should come back later.”

  Shakespeare’s eyes twinkled. “Good idea.” He nodded towards a group of people who were gathering nearby. “I know exactly how we can while away a few hours.”

  Quite close by there was a second building, larger than The Rose. Outside, a large and excited crowd jostled for position. Shakespeare, Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk pushed in and Jack and Angus followed.

  “What’s all this?” Angus asked — his face pink with the cold.

  “No idea,” Jack replied.

  Fanshawe paid two pennies for each of them to enter the building and they found themselves standing in a large-roofed gallery overlooking a shallow pit. The place was packed. It was as if there were a giant party going on. People were drinking and eating and there were occasional catcalls and loud whoops of excitement. The arena below looked a bit like a circus ring, but there was no evidence as to what form the entertainment would take. They didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  First of all a horse was released into the arena. A waistcoated monkey clung on to its back and screeched loudly. Then, four small dogs were released from pens in the perimeter of the pit and they started to chase the horse round and round the arena snapping wildly at its hooves and jumping up at the monkey. The audience wailed with laughter. But Jack could see that the horse was terrified. Occasionally, a dog would manage to clamp its jaws around one of the horse’s legs and the poor beast would buck wildly. The monkey would give an ear-piercing screech and hold on even more tightly to avoid toppling off. The horse bucked and kicked again and again until the dog was finally thrown free, whereupon the whole brutal procedure repeated itself. It was a sickening sight, but this was just the beginning.

  After several circuits of the arena, the s
napping dogs were pulled off and the bloodied horse led away. The mood in the crowd changed to a low chatter of anticipation. Suddenly, there was a crescendo of excitement and people pointed over to one side of the arena. A large bear was being lead forward by two keepers. The great beast moved slowly and seemed to take little interest in the proceedings. The keepers kept prodding it with large sticks to drive it on. The bear had a manacle around one leg, tethering it by a chain to a short post in the middle of the arena. The keepers moved off and for a moment the bear was left to sit quietly, minding its own business. Next a bull was released into the arena. Unlike the bear, it was highly agitated and circled the bear, hoofing the ground and tossing its head. Finally, four large mastiffs were released and, to the crowd’s delight, complete mayhem ensued.

  The hungry dogs attacked the bull first. One of them was speared by its horns and tossed high up into the air. It landed and did not move. The other mastiffs were not deterred. They circled the bull, occasionally charging and snapping at its legs. Astonishingly, the keepers remained in the ring as the appalling spectacle continued. When the action seemed to subside they would prod one of the dogs with a stick and it would re-enter the fray. After a while, the dogs became less interested in the bull, which was proving a highly resilient adversary, and turned their attention to the bear. They moved towards it — growling and getting closer and closer as they became braver. The mood of the bear transformed. It jumped up onto its hind legs pawing at the dogs and roaring. Suddenly one of the mastiffs came in too close, snapping away with its razor-sharp teeth. The bear got lucky. It grabbed the dog around its trunk, hugged it to its chest and crushed it, before discarding it like a rag doll.

  Jack had seen enough.

  He turned to Angus. “This is sick, I’m getting out… you coming?”

  “I’m right behind you.”