inspiration.
Jack had a brainwave — he knew that Fotheringhay was quite near to Cambridge. “To Cambridge… we are… scholars. Returning scholars.”
“Well there is a bit of luck — we are going to Cambridge as well,” the man announced. He slapped his bald friend on the back, but the man just stood there, grumpily. “Monk — what do you think of that? These fine young men also journey to the city of Cambridge. Is that indeed not providential?”
At this exciting news the jester whipped out one yellow and one red handkerchief and proceeded to perform an astonishingly stupid jig for joy in front of them.
“We must be introduced. I am Harry Fanshawe.” The country gentleman did an elaborate bow. “Leader of the Fanshawe Players…” he added grandiosely. “And this is Monk.” Fanshawe elbowed the dour-looking man in the cassock. “Monk, try and be friendly.” Monk grunted. “He’s not a proper monk you know… it is just his
“At your service, sirs — will it be comedy, tragedy or poetry?” The jester grinned at them and made a low bow.
“Actually, we could do with something to eat,” Angus said hopefully.
For some reason this made the dour Monk burst into sarcastic laughter.
“That’s the best idea I have heard for two days.” He suddenly stopped laughing, looked up at Fanshawe and asked, accusingly, “
Fanshawe shrugged his shoulders huffily and spoke. “Fine then… I suppose I need to go and check the traps,” he said, and marched off to the woods.
Despite the damp weather, Monk and Trinculo somehow managed to get a fire burning with kindling from the back of the wagon. Angus and Jack tried to help by gathering wood from the edge of the clearing. Although it was wet, the old stuff had been lying around for long enough that after the damp had smoked off, it caught light, and soon Jack and Angus were trying to dry their feet.
“He won’t find anything,” Monk moaned. “It’s been two days now.”
But then a triumphant Fanshawe appeared from a clearing, a brace of rabbits dangling from one hand.
“Providential!” he shouted.
Trinculo beamed. “Hallelujah!”
The rabbits were skinned at high speed — a spectacle that turned Jack’s stomach, but seemed quite natural for Fanshawe, Monk and Trlincuo. Soon Monk was eagerly turning a makeshift spit suspended over the spluttering fire. Jack moved closer to the warmth. It felt good.
“So, gentlemen, you have not told us where you are from…” Fanshawe said, eyeing them curiously.
Angus looked over at Jack. “Er… the north.”
“That must explain your strange accent. Which college in Cambridge will you be returning to?”
Again, Jack blagged an answer, remembering a name from Miss Beattie’s book. “Queens’ College…”
“A glorious establishment. Providential,” Fanshawe said.
“And yourselves… where will you be performing?”
Fanshawe beamed with pride at the question. “We shall be performing with my friend the young genius, Christopher Marlowe.”
Monk rolled his eyes cynically, “But he’s not really your friend is he?”
Fanshawe’s eyes flashed in anger. “A curse on you, Monk — he is my friend and he will welcome us with an open heart.”
“Well let’s hope he does — because if he doesn’t, that’s the last straw. I’m off, like all the others before me.” Monk turned his attention back to the spit.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Fanshawe retorted pompously. “Anyway, gentlemen, Marlowe,” Fanshawe drilled his eyes into the back of Monk’s head, “
“Opportunity of a lunchtime more like,” Monk said sulkily under his breath.
Fanshawe ignored the remark, then added conspiratorially, “I hope that I might even sell him some of my work…”
“Your work?”
“Plays, sonnets and songs — a lifetime of toil and achievement. Even if I say so myself.”
Monk rolled his eyes a second time, and Trinculo interjected before Monk said anything to further antagonise Fanshawe, “I think those must be cooked…”
The rabbit was removed from the spit and handed round. Jack and Angus exchanged glances, weighing up whether or not the meat would be safe, but the others were already munching away happily. Even Fanshawe had been momentarily silenced. Jack was so hungry he was past caring and he popped the meat into his mouth. It tasted rich, gamey and delicious.
In under a minute, the meat was gone but it had scarcely made an impact on their hunger. Angus proceeded to rummage inside his tunic and withdrew a small plastic bag. Jack shot him a look, but it was too late; the brightly coloured bag had already been spotted by the others.
“And what is this?” Trinculo asked. “An interesting bag of tricks?”
Angus looked down at the bag and suddenly realised his mistake. “Oh, sorry, a delicacy from our home, er, you know in the
“Do they have a name?”
Angus glanced nervously at Jack, “They’re called Jelly Babies.”
“Babies of jelly?” Trinculo asked.
“Which you eat?” Monk said in awe.
“It’s just a name — try one.” Angus passed the bag round and, in trepidation, Trinculo, Fanshawe and finally Monk each removed one of the coloured sweets. Holding them in their dirty fingers, the three men waited for Angus to show them what to do. Angus shrugged and popped one into this mouth.
“There — nothing to it.”
They each copied Angus, and, as they chewed expressions of wonder and appreciation spread across their faces.
“Sweet.”
“Chewy.”
“A most providential delicacy.”
“Glad you like them. Here — have the rest.”
The Jelly Babies were soon gone and Angus had made friends for life.
Fanshawe, probably buoyed by the unexpected sugar high, leaped to his feet to carry on where he had left off.
“My friends, I feel it is time for a song to celebrate our new friendship and a fine luncheon.”
Fanshawe struck a pretentious pose and started to wail. Monk covered his ears.
Fanshawe’s singing stopped abruptly and he looked around self-consciously. Jack realised what he was supposed to do and clapped heartily. “Well done!”
Angus joined in. “Er, very nice.”
“A good effort, Harry,” Trinculo said approvingly.
