Johnny O'Brien - Day of Deliverance

“We don’t want much…” he said. “Just everything you’ve got.”

Trinculo was shaking and the bells on his hat started to tinkle.

“We have nothing,” Fanshawe announced bravely, puffing out his chest.

But no sooner had the words come from Fanshawe’s mouth than the ringleader wielded his great wooden club. It cut through the air and caught Fanshawe hard on the side of his thigh. Fanshawe wailed and collapsed to his knees, whimpering.

“We haven’t time for this… Stave, search the cart… Butcher and me will see what this lot have on them.” He immediately reached down to Fanshawe’s neck and yanked off a thin silver chain and cross that hung there. “That’ll do nicely for a start.”

Fanshawe sobbed louder.

Suddenly, Fanshawe’s small wooden chest was thrown from the back of the cart and Stave jumped out after it.

“I found this.”

He booted the chest which flew open and Fanshawe’s precious papers scattered across the muddy ground.

Fanshawe wailed hysterically.

The ringleader prodded him with his stick. “Shut your mouth — or you’ll get more of this.”

He strode over to the chest. “What is it?”

Trinculo and Monk were silent.

He turned back to them and snarled, “I asked what is it?”

Monk said quietly, “Plays, poems.”

Trinculo mumbled, “They’re not worth anything.”

But the ringleader had a glint in his eye. “Not what I hear. You can get ten shillings for a play… maybe more, if it’s any good.”

The bandits gathered round the papers, suddenly interested.

Jack whispered to Angus from the side of his mouth, “Any ideas?”

“Tony and Gordon carried the only weapons, but I did manage to sneak this with me… was at the bottom of my school bag for some reason.”

Angus opened his doublet fractionally for Jack to see what was inside. He had brought his catapult. And it wasn’t the one made from a bit of wood hewn from a tree with an elastic band attached. Angus had a slingshot of high-tensile industrial rubber tethered to a carbon fibre frame. Jack had seen Angus use this favourite ‘toy’ to shatter a beer bottle fifty metres away. He opened up the other side of his doublet.

“And I found a couple of these in the VIGIL prep area… pocketed them while the others weren’t looking,” he whispered.

A couple of tubes poked up from his inside pocket. Jack didn’t know what they were.

“Thunder flashes,” Angus said guiltily.

The bandits had become bored with the papers and they hurriedly stuffed them back into the wooden chest. The ringleader turned back to them.

“What else have you got?”

Angus reached into his pocket, pulled out one of the thin tubes and held it out.

“I have this… But I don’t know if you will want it.”

“What is it?”

Angus looked at Jack who interjected, “We use it in our plays… it is, er, a musical stick. It makes music.”

“Loud music,” Angus added.

The ringleader came closer. “I have never heard of such a thing… how does it work?”

“Easy,” Angus said. “See that rock over there. Well, you just bang the bottom of the music stick on it… and then hold it in your hand… and wait for the music.”

Stave barged forward. “I want to do it!”

“No me…” Butcher said.

“Stand aside — I will do it — I am the leader.”

The ringleader took the thunder flash, marched over to the rock and manfully banged one end onto the rock. “Like that?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Angus, “just like that.”

They waited.

The ringleader looked at them questioningly. “It’s not work-”

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light and an earsplitting bang as the thunder flash went off in the bandit’s hand. It was as if the entire forest had gone up. For a second he was invisible in the swirling blue smoke, but as it cleared, the man staggered blindly around, clutching his hand and wailing in pain.

His friends raced over to help him. Angus whipped out his catapult and selected a stone from the ground. In one movement he stretched back the rubber, extending it all the way from his outstretched arm to his ear lobe. He closed his left eye and narrowed his right along the length of the rubber and… released. Jack could have sworn he heard the stone hiss angrily through the air. It caught Stave in his kneecap and he sank to the ground, emitting a low guttural grunt. Butcher turned, his face red with anger, and pelted towards them wielding his club as he came. But Angus had coolly reloaded the catapult and unleashed a second shot. It was extraordinary that a small pebble could stop a grown man in his tracks. But it did. Angus had again skilfully targeted the leg, and now all three of their assailants were on the ground. Alive, but in a great deal of pain.

Angus reloaded for a third time, but Jack put his hand up.

“I think we’re done.”

Angus lowered the catapult.

Fanshawe was soon on his feet, wrapping Angus and Jack in a bear hug.

“Thank you, my friends.”

Trinculo immediately performed another jig — just as embarrassing as the first.

Jack and Angus approached the three bandits who groaned in the mud.

“Will they be okay?” Jack asked.

“Unfortunately, yes, they’ll be limping around for a day or two… and what’s-his-face will have a nasty burn on that hand… but they’ll be fine.”

Jack looked down at the three men. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but tried his best tough-man voice. “Right you lot. Come near us again… and well… we’ve got a load more tricks up our sleeves… and you’ll regret it — we’ll, er, be calling 999.”

Angus tried not to smile. The bandits looked up at them with a mixture of confusion and fear. They seemed to have got the message.

They made the long approach to Cambridge from the north-west in the afternoon of the following day. Despite being trouble free, the journey had been tough and progress painfully slow along the pitted roads. They had taken it in turns to ride up on the cart… but most of the time they had walked. Since their impromptu lunch they had eaten very little, although Jack and Angus had, on occasion, dipped surreptitiously into their emergency rations. It was only because of this that they had managed to keep going and Jack had no idea how the others had survived the journey.

Despite little food, Fanshawe had babbled incessantly. Subjects included their miraculous escape from the bandits, the details of which Fanshawe and Trinculo repeated again and again, their exploits becoming braver and more exaggerated each time. Angus, in particular, was being likened to a demigod for his role in beating off the attackers. Even Monk added grudging words of thanks. Then Fanshawe turned to his great plans for the future of the Fanshawe Players and how, working with the young genius whom he had ‘discovered’ — one Jack Christie — they would all become famous and make their fortunes. Finally, he talked enthusiastically about their forthcoming meeting with Christopher Marlowe and their final destination, the town of Cambridge. As he called it, “The most exquisite in all of Christendom.”

As they finally crossed Magdalene Bridge into Cambridge, Jack got a sense of why Fanshawe had been so animated at the prospect of visiting the town. To his left, the red brick buildings of Magdalene College stretched gracefully out along the River Cam. To his right, he set eyes upon a number of beautiful stone buildings and the spires of churches, which rose gracefully above the rooftops. The town was a stark contrast to the dirty hovels and huts that they had passed on their journey from Fotheringhay. They pressed on into the centre and the crowds became thicker. The streets were busy and they frequently had to navigate their way past oncoming carts or gaggles of students, hawkers or even monks. They turned right and passed St John’s College and then Trinity College with its Great Court. As they progressed it was as if each building became bigger and grander. Finally, they reached King’s College Chapel, a magnificent stone building, which towered fifty metres into a grey sky, eclipsing everything else around it. At each corner stood a high tower and there was a glorious stained-glass window built into the front elevation — itself nearly twenty metres high. Soon they were all gazing up in wonder at the great building, even the irascible Monk.