Johnny O'Brien - Day of Deliverance

It went well. The audience applauded generously and, backstage, Henslowe and Kyd were quietly effusive in their praise. Much to his relief, Jack had also performed his part to everyone’s satisfaction. They needn’t have worried about Christo, either. He was flawless and word perfect. After a short intermission, the second part of the play began and possibly for the first time on their mad adventure, Jack felt himself relax. He stared up at the extraordinary workmanship of the ceiling of the Great Hall above and the opulence of his surroundings. On the other side of the curtain, the Henslowe Players were starting the second act. Jack could hardly believe he had just performed in front of Queen Elizabeth I. The whole thing was utterly extraordinary.

He picked up the script and flicked forward to recheck his words for his final short appearance later on in the play. He had done well so far, and he didn’t want to let the side down. As he thumbed through the pages, Kyd’s italic script flicked passed his eyes. Suddenly, one of the pages caught his eye. With a jolt like an electric shock, finally, he understood how Christo planned to assassinate the Queen of England.

The sword fight, just like the one in Hamlet, had already started and Christo and Alleyn were battling it out onstage in front of an enthralled audience. Jack poked his head around the curtain. Nobody noticed — they were absorbed by the clanging of swords and acrobatics of the two combatants.

Christo jabbed his sword forward. Alleyn jumped back, but the blade pierced his flesh and instantly an ominous red patch appeared on his billowing shirt. Alleyn glanced down at the wound and looked back up at his opponent, an expression of rage on his face. A frisson of excitement rippled through the crowd. The Spanish Tragedy was proving more thrilling than they could have possibly wished.

Christo’s strike had found its mark but had unbalanced him momentarily and Alleyn came back with a violent counter-thrust. His blade flashed and caught Christo in the ribs. There was a gasp from the crowd. Sensing his chance, Alleyn darted forward a second time, his sword aimed at Christo’s chest. This time Christo spotted the move and swayed to one side, narrowly avoiding the thrust. Alleyn’s forward momentum now presented Christo with an opportunity. He grabbed his opponent by the arm and heaved him onwards while simultaneously thrusting out his leg. Alleyn tripped over Christo’s extended leg and spun through the air hitting the makeshift stage with a thud, his sword spinning from his hand as he landed. Christo pounced onto his opponent and they became locked in a deadly struggle. But Alleyn was strong and, like a child with a rag doll, he soon had Christo pinned on his back beneath him. Alleyn grasped Christo’s sword hand and banged it hard on the ground until Christo relinquished his grip. Christo was nailed to the ground. He was badly wounded and he had no weapon. Alleyn’s bulk was pressing down on him and he could feel his life slowly draining away. But it wasn’t over yet. Christo gritted his teeth, and with a final super-human effort he jerked his knee upwards into Alleyn’s crotch. Alleyn wailed and Christo seized the moment to wriggle free. He snatched up a sword and wheeled round. Alleyn jumped back to his feet and grabbed the other sword and the two of them circled round and round, panting at each other like cornered animals. The crowd jeered. Christo’s remaining energy was melting away — he knew he only had seconds left. There was blood all over the floor and Alleyn slipped. He was only distracted for a split second but it was enough. Christo leaped forward to land a second, fatal blow. Alleyn screamed as blood from the wound spurted from his chest. He dropped to one knee, and looked up at Christo before he slumped to the stage floor. Spontaneously, the audience burst into applause.

But the script was about to change.

Jack saw his worst fear unfold in front of him. Christo stepped over the prostrate body of Alleyn in the middle of the stage and marched menacingly towards the queen, who sat on her throne, enthralled by the spectacle before her. By the time the guards, or the queen for that matter, realised that Christo’s advance was not part of the play, it would be too late. From his position on the other side of the stage, Jack could do nothing. Christo was only ten paces away from the queen and brandished his sword above his head. There was a ripple of unease in the crowd, then Christo dashed forward. Jack screamed out but it was too late. The point of Christo’s blade was only centimetres from the queen’s throat. She was about to die. But, suddenly, Christo simply collapsed. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes right at the queen’s feet. It was as if he had been shot through the head by a sniper.

It was the next best thing. Up in the minstrel’s gallery, Angus stood staring down at the scene before him. His catapult hung loosely in one hand. From twenty metres away he had unleashed a missile that had cracked into the back of Christo’s head, instantly knocking him unconscious.

The queen was quickly surrounded by four burly guards brandishing halberds. A number of courtiers drew swords and dragged Christo away. But it wasn’t over.

Above them, there was a loud shattering of glass as first one, then a second, of the large windows were smashed open. Shards of glass rained into the Great Hall — and Jack narrowly avoided being impaled. At first it was not apparent what had caused the windows to shatter. Then ropes were flung through both windows and two figures abseiled down onto the floor of the Great Hall. They touched down and took up position in the centre of the hall where, moments before, Christo and Alleyn had staged their fight. The two men were in sixteenth-century dress, but Jack recognised them immediately: Whitsun and Gift — their Revisionist friends. Both men were holding something close at their sides, hidden by their cloaks. Jack guessed that they must be automatic weapons of some sort. He was so astonished by the arrival of the gatecrashers, that he did not really notice the strange reaction of the audience. While members of the cast scurried for cover, the audience were oddly quiet and watchful.

Then Jack witnessed something extraordinary. Before Whitsun or Gift could act or speak, the audience all around the hall dropped to their knees — almost as one. It was a perfectly synchronised movement. A few courtiers, possibly ten or fifteen of them, dotted within the audience, remained standing. They were armed with stubby crossbows which, until that point, had been carefully hidden.

Whitsun and Gift had no chance. Without warning, the armed courtiers fired. In a moment, the air was thick with deadly crossbow bolts zipping across the hall. Jack watched as the lethal missiles struck home. Whitsun and Gift were peppered. As he dropped to the floor on his knees, Whitsun searched for the trigger of his gun, but a final bolt skewered his neck and he slumped to the ground. Gift was already prostrate — lying in a growing pool of his own blood, a series of bolts buried up to their feathers in his torso.

The armed courtiers reloaded and stepped forward to take up strategic positions around the hall. Some scanned the windows above, perhaps waiting for more armed raiders; others covered the entrances to the Great Hall. Two of them moved towards Whitsun and Gift who lay centre stage — their lifeless eyes pointed towards the ceiling of the hall. They leaned down to search and check the bodies. Jack recognised the two courtiers immediately: Tony and Gordon. They had somehow inveigled their way into the team of armed courtiers who had sprung the trap for Whitsun and Gift.

A door flew open at the front of the hall and in marched a tall, thin, pale-faced man with a moustache and beard. He was slightly balding and his dark hair was flecked with grey. He had dark, almost black eyes, and was dressed entirely in black, except for a stiff, white ruff around his neck. Next to him walked a woman who was dressed almost identically to the queen. The woman sitting on the throne now stood up to curtsy. It was very hard to tell the two women apart. Jack’s head was spinning — Whitsun and Gift dead, Tony and Gordon here… and now, two queens ?