The Devil and His Boy

by Anthony Horowitz

  And it was while they were running around the deck, that Tom dropped his. The pitchfork fell down. The wooden forks snapped off and the metal tube began to roll along the deck.

  Everyone froze. The tube was heading towards the very edge of the ship. There were no railings there. There was nothing between it and the river. And then Florian reacted. Acting as if his life depended on it, he threw himself full-length on to the deck. His out-stretched hand caught the tube centimetres away from the edge. He stood up, holding it.

  Dr Mobius had watched all this with wide eyes. Tom could see the relief in his eyes as Florian lifted the tube, but in seconds relief had been replaced with fury. His whole face seemed to change. His skin grew darker, the veins standing out on his bald head. His mouth drew back in a snarl and the next thing Tom knew his hand had struck out, crashing into the side of Tom’s face and throwing him sprawling on to the deck. With his head spinning, he tried to stand up but Dr Mobius was already there, looming over him.

  “You idiot!” Dr Mobius shouted. “You fool! I told you to be careful and you almost lost it!”

  “It’s only a metal tube!” Tom protested.

  “What?” Dr Mobius drew back his foot and Tom was sure he was going to kick him where he lay. But then Florian sprang forward.

  “It was an accident,” he said. “You don’t have to hurt him!”

  Dr Mobius stared at his nephew with murder in his eyes. For his part, Florian held his ground, the rod still in his hand. Slowly, Dr Mobius recovered. He looked down. Tom was still on his knees. There was a trickle of blood coming from the side of his mouth. Dr Mobius drew a hand over his eyes as if trying to wipe away the memory of what had just occurred.

  “You must forgive me,” he said. “That was … unforgivable of me.” He whipped out his handkerchief and offered it to Tom. Tom didn’t take it. “You see,” he went on, “to play in front of the Queen! It is a considerable honour. And of course … I am nervous. We are all nervous. And this…” He gestured at the metal tube, then at Tom. “It was first night nerves. I apologize to you. It won’t happen again.” He took the metal rod from Florian and stepped back. “We shall all take a rest,” he exclaimed to the watching actors. “We will start again after lunch.”

  The actors dispersed. Tom looked for Florian but the other boy had already turned away and gone downstairs. Suddenly resolved, Tom got up and followed him.

  He found Florian in the costumes room, at work on the dress that he himself would wear. Tom paused in the doorway. He caught sight of himself in a piece of broken mirror leaning against the wall. There was still a little blood beside his mouth and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “That’s all right.” Florian didn’t look up from his work.

  “Florian…” Tom moved further into the room. “The other night … last week. You told me I should get off the ship. You said that I was in danger. What did you mean?”

  The other boy turned his head away. The dress he was working on was bunched up in his hands. Tom could almost feel him struggling with himself. But then another of the actors appeared at the door and looked in. “Lunch is ready,” he said and went on his way.

  Maybe Florian had been about to tell Tom something but the moment had been interrupted and now the spell was broken. “I didn’t mean anything,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said it. Just forget it.”

  He got up and, brushing past Tom, quickly left the room.

  The opening performance of the first night drew closer and closer. They ran through the play once, then again, this time, with costumes as well as props. Florian had been transformed into a girl with a flowing dress, make-up and a wig. Watching him, Tom remembered his meeting with Will Shakespeare and wondered if he could have acted as a girl at the Rose. In his heart, he knew he could. He also knew – although it made him sad – that he would much rather be acting in Shakespeare’s new play than in The Devil and his Boy.

  The last morning came and went. Everyone knew their lines. Francis and Frances, the musicians, knew their tunes. They performed the play one last time, and this time Dr Mobius loaded the muskets so that, as he and Tom were chased off the stage (this was the last scene of the play), there were loud explosions and puffs of smoke behind them.

  Dr Mobius was pleased with the effect. “It will give Her Majesty much pleasure. The explosions and the alarms.” He rolled his moustache between two fingers. “Everyone enjoys that in a play. The last act has to be the best!”

  That afternoon, they left the boat. A horse and cart had arrived and all the props, costumes, stage furniture and scripts were carried across in trunks and loaded up in the back. Tom was already feeling dry-mouthed and wondered what he would be like when they arrived at Whitehall Palace.

  When everything had been loaded, he and Florian climbed into the back. There was room for the two boys and for Dr Mobius at the front of the cart, but everyone else would have to walk. They stood waiting in the cold for a few minutes. Dr Mobius was the last to leave the ship. He looked briefly in the back of the cart.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes, Dr Mobius.”

  “Then onward … to glory!”

  Dr Mobius climbed into the front of the cart and a moment later they felt a jolt as it moved off. Tom glanced back. And it was then that he saw something moving on the deck. It was smoke. It was coming up from below, creeping over the deck and curling round the masts. At first he thought he must be mistaken but suddenly a tongue of flame shot out, licked at part of the old rigging and suddenly the whole boat was ablaze.

  Tom cried out but Florian leaned over and stopped him. “It’s all right, Tom,” he said. “We’re finished here. We won’t be going back.”

  The cart rumbled onward. The entire boat was ablaze now, huge flames reaching up to the very top of the masts. As damp as the ship was, the fire seemed to fall on it like a hungry animal, tearing into it, consuming it utterly. The wood cracked and splintered. One of the masts shivered and fell. The flames leapt up. The ice on the river, glowing red now, began to move, pulling away from the doomed vessel. Slowly the old ship folded in on itself.

  And then the cart turned a corner and Tom saw no more.

  Whitehall Palace was quite unlike anything Tom had dreamed of. He had imagined a single building but as the cart passed the great monument at Charing Cross and trundled underneath the arches of the Holbein Gate, he realized that it was an entire town in its own right. There were soaring chapels and tall, solid towers; elegant stables and neat, compact houses. The entire complex was set in gardens and orchards, spread out on the northern bank of the Thames. Tom found it hard to believe that only a few days before he had been close by, fighting for his life on the fragile ice.

  They were stopped by a soldier dressed in a red and black tunic with a sword at his waist and an odd weapon – part spear and part axe – on his shoulder. Sitting at the front of the cart, Dr Mobius produced a letter and handed it to him and the soldier directed them to a large building that was being guarded by two more similarly dressed men. The cart rolled across the last few metres and Tom got down. The two men seemed to take no notice of him. Passing between them, Tom went in – and found himself in the Banqueting Hall where the play was to be performed.

  It was a huge space, at least a hundred metres long, held up by slim wooden pillars garlanded with dried flowers and fruit. The walls seemed to be solid stone but looking more closely, Tom was thrilled to realize that the whole building was a trick. The walls were actually made of canvas. What he was standing in was nothing more than a gigantic tent. But what a tent! The ceiling had been painted as if it were the sky – at one end there were silver stars and a moon, at the other a golden sun, shooting out its beams. At least three hundred glass lamps hung inside and wreaths of holly and ivy had been placed everywhere.

  A stage had been constructed at one end of the Banqueting Hall. It stood against a screen which the actors could hide behind when they ne
eded to change or were waiting to come on. There were a number of chairs at the other end, one of them larger than the rest and richly padded with velvet and cushions. Tom didn’t need to ask who would be sitting here.

  Dr Mobius had already started carrying in the costumes and props. Tom wondered if he ought to help but before he could move there was the sound of stamping feet and a dozen soldiers suddenly marched in, forming a line on either side of the entrance. There was a brief pause and then three more men came in, these ones wearing brilliantly coloured slashed doublets and caps, tight stockings and highly polished shoes.

  Dr Mobius stopped what he was doing and bowed low. The actors did the same. Tom hesitated for a moment then remembered himself and bowed as well. The man standing in the middle – he also had some sort of chain of office round his neck and carried a white staff – gestured at Dr Mobius, who straightened up.

  “My name is Edmund Tilney,” he said. “I am Master in the Office of the Revels. You are…” He creased his brow and glanced at the younger man on his left.

  “The Garden Players,” the man said.

  “Quite. And the name of the play you are to perform?”

  “The Devil and his Boy,” Dr Mobius told him.

  “Oh yes.” The Master of the Revels frowned. “Not an entirely suitable title, I feel,” he snapped. “But Sir Richard says he found it most enjoyable.”

  At the mention of Sir Richard, Tom glanced up. He had barely noticed the third man when he came in but now he realized that it was indeed the same “Sir Richard” who had come – twice – to the boat. There were the narrow eyes and slightly hooked nose. And there – impossible to miss – was the scar, cut on the side of his cheek, shaped like a J.

  But even as he stood there uncomfortably with his back bent and his neck craning up, Tom’s mind began to race. As far as he knew, The Devil and his Boy had never been performed before. Certainly all the actors had had to learn it from scratch. So how could Sir Richard claim to have seen it?

  And why had Sir Richard come to the boat, not only at night but in disguise? He remembered seeing Dr Mobius give him a bag full of coins. What had the money been for?

  And, most strangely of all, why were Dr Mobius and Sir Richard pretending they didn’t know each other? It wasn’t just that they hadn’t greeted each other. They weren’t even looking each other in the eye.

  What exactly was going on?

  “All right,” Tilney was saying. “The play will begin at eight o’clock, after Her Majesty has finished dinner. There are certain rules which you would be wise to obey.” He cast his eyes over the entire company. “None of you are to look at Her Majesty. If she enjoys the play, she may come and speak to you afterwards. If she doesn’t, I can assure you that she’s the last person you’d want to speak to. Don’t try to speak to her. You may find it easier just to imagine she isn’t here.”

  He paused for breath. From the way he spoke, Tom imagined that he had done this many times before.

  “Now, we have to consider the content of this play. I understand it’s a comedy. I hope it’s got good jokes.”

  “The very finest, my lord,” Dr Mobius said, bowing again.

  “Good. Her Majesty enjoys a laugh. If you don’t hear her laughing, I suggest you finish it as quickly as you can. Leave out Acts Three and Four if you have to.” He turned to Sir Richard. “There’s nothing vulgar in it, is there?” he asked.

  “No, my lord,” Sir Richard replied.

  “Nothing offensive, sacrilegious, unpatriotic or treasonable? I have to remind you that the Bishop of Winchester is in tonight, and you know how touchy he gets. The devil in this play. We’re not talking about Satan, I hope?”

  “It’s not the real devil, my lord,” Dr Mobius said.

  “Good. Good. Good… Now, let me see.” He gestured at Sir Richard. “Sir Richard here is the Clerk Comptroller. If all goes well he’ll pay you ten pounds, once the play is finished. If Her Majesty walks out half-way, it’ll be five pounds. Do you understand?”

  Everyone who had stopped bowing bowed again.

  “Now, there’s one last thing,” Tilney said. “Sir Richard informs me that you fire muskets in the last act.”

  “They are fake muskets,” Dr Mobius exclaimed. “I can assure my lord that Her Majesty will be entertained and not alarmed…”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tilney interrupted. “All your props and luggage will be searched by the Gentlemen Pensioners before she arrives.” He gestured at the men in red. “They’ll also search every one of you, too. But I think I’d better take a look at these muskets of yours myself.”

  Dr Mobius nodded and two of the actors carried forward the trunk that contained the two muskets. They opened it and handed the weapons to Tilney who glanced at them briefly. “As you will see, my lord,” Mobius explained, “the barrels of the guns are fashioned from wood. They are also solid. No ball could pass through them. The only part of the weapon that is authentic is the firing mechanism. We require this to make the … small explosions, which, I can assure, my lord, will add a delightful frisson to Her Majesty’s evening.”

  Tilney nodded and set the weapons down. “Very good.” He nodded at the Gentlemen Pensioners. “Make sure they’re all thoroughly searched.”

  It took over an hour to search everyone and everything. The Gentlemen Pensioners were the Queen’s personal bodyguard and it was their job to ensure that nothing remotely dangerous came anywhere near her. Even a small knife that Mobius used to sharpen his quill was removed. The muskets were examined again and set down on a table along with the pitchforks, the devil horns and all the other bits and pieces from the play. Only when they were completely satisfied did the Gentlemen Pensioners leave and even then two of them remained behind to guard the door and make sure that nobody else tried to enter.

  For the next three hours, Tom helped get the stage ready, constructing the scenery, setting out the furniture and ensuring that everything was in its right place. All the props and costumes had to be carried behind the screen and arranged out-of-sight. The instruments had to be tuned. And finally there were hurried consultations with the actors whispering their lines to each other, making sure there was nothing they had forgotten. During all this, Tom noticed, Florian didn’t say a word. Once Tom tried to speak to him but the other boy hurriedly broke away as if he were afraid of catching – or giving Tom – the plague.

  At last everything was ready. Someone had brought the players some bread, some cold meat and wine, but everyone was too nervous to eat. Dr Mobius, however, poured himself a cup of wine and held it up in a toast.

  “Today,” he said, “is the day that we make history.” All the actors were gathered around listening. They seemed to share the same, strange gleam in their eyes. Only Florian looked sick and kept his head down. “The 28th December 1593,” Dr Mobius went on, “It is a day that no one in England will forget. It is a day that will belong to the Garduna.” He blinked and then turned to Tom with a smile. “I mean, of course, the Garden Players.” He lifted his cup. “I drink to you, my friends. To the sacrifice we make for our country. May God bless all of us in this great endeavour. Glory … and death!”

  It seemed a very strange speech to be making just before a play, and a comedy at that. But the actors (apart from Florian) had all whispered a fervent “amen” and Tom joined them, not wishing to be left out. It still puzzled him though and he was about to ask Dr Mobius what he had meant when there was a trumpet fanfare and a sudden murmur of voices on the other side of the screen.

  At once the room began to fill up. Tom was forbidden to look round the screen but he heard men and women talking, the clattering of shoes, the scrape of chairs being moved and an occasional burst of laughter. Next to him, Francis and Frances began to give their instruments a final tuning.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped. There was a second fanfare and everyone in the room stood up. Tom still couldn’t see anything but he knew what had happened.

  The Queen
had arrived.

  The lights dimmed as most of the candles were blown out.

  The audience took their places.

  And the play began.

  the devil and his boy

  The play began with a prologue, delivered by Dr Mobius himself. Tom had heard it twenty or more times but listening to it now from behind the screen, he barely understood a word of it. It was as if there were a wind rushing through his ears. He couldn’t hear anything. His mouth was dry. There was no feeling in his arms or legs.

  He was, he realized, terrified. He was about to go on the stage in front of Queen Elizabeth and her court. He wondered if his legs would be able to move when his cue came. Not for the first time, he wished he had never left Framlingham. Even life with the Slopes had been better than this.

  Act One, Scene One began. Lucio had arrived in Venice. He had no money and nowhere to stay for the night. He called for his servant.

  “Antonio! What ho? Antonio…!”

  Tom stepped through the screen and onto the stage.

  And the strange thing was, he left all his fear behind him. He had never felt such a transformation. It was as if he had stepped out of water onto dry land. Suddenly he was confident. He knew his lines. He knew what to do. It might have been Tom who had stood fearful and quivering behind the screen. But it was Antonio, servant of Lucio who now began to talk, poking fun at his master and finally racing round the stage as he tried to escape a beating.

  Tom didn’t dare look into the shadows beyond the stage but he could tell that the audience was enjoying the play. They had been silent throughout the prologue and the opening scene but Tom’s entrance had cheered them up. They laughed quite a few times and when the scene ended they clapped.

  Tom hurried off the stage. He wondered if the Queen herself had clapped with them. The Queen of England, applauding him! But he didn’t have time to think about it. The props were laid out on a table behind a fake wall – built for Act Five – and he hurried over and picked up the two pitchforks.