Johnny O'Brien - Day of Deliverance

“Hey, what’s this?” He tried the handle. “It’s open. Come on!”

There was no light, but they pressed on regardless, closing the door behind them. They didn’t know it, but they were now in the giant attic of King’s Chapel, between the roof and the great stone ceiling vaults. The thin layer of stone under their feet was the only thing between them and the vast emptiness of the chapel below.

“Musty in here.”

“But it’s indoors and safe. I vote we hunker down here till morning and then make our move.”

Jack awoke shivering. His whole body ached. The nervous exhaustion from their efforts the night before had somehow carried them through a night of fitful sleep on the cold stone floor. There was now some light in the attic area and he reached over and gently shook the huddled shapes of the others who awoke, groaning.

They retraced their footsteps down the spiral staircase and then crept out of the door at the bottom of the turret and into the chapel. All quiet. Soon they were across the college quad, through the gate and into the street. Jack was tired, cold and aching, but he was also exhilarated by their incredible escape. He banged Angus on the back.

“We made it!”

Wrong. Suddenly, he felt a cold lump of metal pressing against the back of his neck.

A voice whispered, “Do exactly what I say.”

They were bundled into a covered cart. One of their assailants travelled in the back with them while the other took the reins at the front. Jack had little time to study the men but he could tell immediately they were not the Spaniards who had pursued them up onto the chapel roof the night before.

The man with the pistol was firm but surprisingly polite. “I apologise for the rough tactics, but you are in great danger. I would like each of you to lie down on the bottom of the cart until we get out of town. We will then have more time to explain.”

“But…” Trinculo started to complain. The man, suddenly flushed with anger, thrust the pistol into his face.

“Do what I say,” he ordered.

They lay flat on the rough wooden surface of the cart. Although Jack was scared, he noticed that the pistols the man wielded didn’t look very sixteenth century — in fact they were bang up to date.

Jack’s body was still aching from the night spent up on the tower and being bashed around on the bottom of the cart as they headed out of town didn’t help matters. After a while, the driver turned back towards his colleague.

“Here — this’ll do.”

The cart rumbled to a halt.

“Right, gentlemen, I want you to get up, one by one, and step down from the cart. Please don’t try anything stupid.”

They had pulled up by a small copse next to the road. The landscape was flat and boggy for miles in every direction and in the distance they could still see the spires of Cambridge. The sun had risen into a clear blue winter’s sky and Jack waited for its weak rays to warm his bones.

“Sit down by the wall there.”

The men seemed more relaxed now that they were out of Cambridge. They both looked to be in their mid thirties, fit and clean-shaven.

“Here we go.”

The taller of the two men handed round a steaming thermos. Fanshawe and Trinculo looked confused.

“What is it?”

The man chuckled. “Not something you will have tasted. We call it tea.”

Jack took a sip. As the hot liquid slipped down his throat he began to warm up.

“And this might help…”

The man handed out some dried salt beef. Again, Fanshawe and Trinculo were suspicious, but seeing Angus and Jack help themselves, they tucked in.

“Better?” the man asked. Jack nodded. “First, an apology for the gun toting. We needed to get you out of there quickly. Now… introductions.”

“My name is James Whitsun,” he gestured to the shorter man, “and my colleague here is Tim Gift.”

But Jack had already worked out who they were. “You’re Revisionists.”

Gift smiled. “And of course you are Jack Christie and Angus Jud.” He sighed. “You don’t know how much trouble you’ve caused us.”

“So you can explain why those people were trying to kill us and what is going on?”

Whitsun took a slug of tea and a deep breath. “Yes. Your friend Marlowe doesn’t just write plays. He has some unusual, and dangerous, friends. He also has an addiction to risk-taking… and money. He seems to have got himself into a position where he is what we would call a double agent. He works for the English state, and also for the Spanish state. Not a particularly comfortable position to be in as the two countries are virtually at war. But he thinks he’s cleverer than both.”

“Those people who chased us last night, they were Spanish?”

“Correct, Jack. Marlowe is involved in a Spanish plot against the English state. Those men are Spanish agents who are working with Marlowe. Marlowe has all sorts of connections among the aristocracy and the court — he is a useful asset. The Spanish are known to us and we have inveigled our way into their trust. Recently, however, Marlowe has also come to the attention of Sir Francis Walsingham — Secretary of State.”

“The founder of England’s first secret service,” Gift added.

“The Spaniards have been keeping a close eye on Marlowe and saw you accompany him to his rooms. They were suspicious that you might be after him. They may even have thought you were also working for Walsingham. In order to save himself, we understand that Marlowe told the Spaniards that you had threatened him and searched his apartment. He said you had panicked when the Spaniards arrived, and that you then escaped with knowledge of the plot to take to Walsingham in London.”

“And they believed that?”

“Marlowe got away with it — he is no fool — and the Spanish will have him safe and secure by now. He betrayed you, but you’ve been very lucky. Once we became aware of your situation, we were able to distract the Spaniards sufficiently to pick you up.”

Fanshawe muttered bitterly, “If I ever see that Marlowe again, I’ll…”

Jack interrupted. “So, how do you know these Spaniards? What do you mean they trust you? And how did you find us… rescue us?”

Whitsun glanced nervously at Fanshawe and Trinculo. “A little too much information, for just now, Jack. However, we are going to take you somewhere safe — to someone who can answer all your questions.”

“Who?” Angus said.

“Dr Pendelshape, of course.”

Jack’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the name.

“But first, we need to know, did Marlowe give you anything before he left?”

Fanshawe looked nervously at Jack. Jack nodded. “Tell them, Harry.”

“A letter. I swore on my life not to open it. He also gave us money for our services to take it to Walsingham,” Fanshawe replied.

“Perfect. If you can hand us the letter, please.”

Fanshawe hesitated.

Whitsun insisted, an undercurrent of menace in his voice. “Please.”

Fanshawe reached into an inside pocket and handed the letter to Whitsun who whisked it from him. “Very good. We certainly don’t want this getting into the wrong hands. We’ll take a proper look in a minute.”

Gift got to his feet. “And now I’m afraid we have some rather unpleasant business to see to.” He removed his pistol from inside his cloak and eyed Fanshawe and Trinculo.

“Jack, Angus, you may want to look away. What we have to do is unfortunate, but necessary.”

Jack was incredulous. “Hold on, you’re not going to…”

“Don’t intervene, Jack, these people already know far too much — their knowledge could wreck our plans.”

As Gift spoke, he was unaware of the odd figure approaching a little way down the track. He was perched up on a donkey and wore a grey hooded cloak — a bit like a friar from a monastery. As he reached the group, he dismounted and led the donkey towards them.