Day of Deliverance

had carefully locked the door behind them and peered furtively from the window down to the quad below. Next, he had reached for a large bottle of brandy, which sat in front of them on a small wooden table. Having only just recovered from one drinking bout, he nevertheless poured some brandy into a glass tumbler and drank the whole lot in one go before refilling his glass. He then reached for four more tumblers and filled them all to the brim. Jack remembered Beattie’s translation of the words beneath Marlowe’s portrait in her book: What feeds me destroys me.

In fact, the playwright looked a bit like his portrait. He had intelligent eyes, wavy brown hair, a round, somewhat pallid face and a thin moustache and beard. Jack felt he should be in awe of the man who had so influenced the theatre. But instead Jack found himself surprised by his youth. Marlowe was only twenty-three — scarcely eight years older than Jack. It was hard to think of him as a great literary figure. Jack remembered that in only four years Marlowe would be dead — killed by a dagger stabbed just above his right eye in a brawl. As Miss Beattie had said, many thought it was murder — or even an assassination — brought about by Marlowe’s love of risk-taking, or perhaps the rumour that he was a spy or double agent caught up in the dark world of Elizabethan espionage. Jack wondered whether he should inform the great man exactly how and when he would die and whether, in fact, this would accelerate or slow his creative output.

Promptly, Marlowe emptied his glass for a second time, leaned back into his chair and stared at the ceiling with an expression of deep concern, then his face suddenly changed and he let out a strange, manic giggle. Clearly, the great Christopher Marlowe was slightly unhinged.

“… and this is another of my favourites — a play about Scotland — it’s called MacGregor.” Fanshawe tried to puncture Marlowe’s pensive mood by presenting some of his own work. He had brought his chest of papers up to the room to show Marlowe, hoping that he might generate sufficient enthusiasm to close a sale. Marlowe leafed through the papers, but he was too distracted.

“I am sure it is good work, Harry, but as you know, more work is the last thing I need, at the moment…” Again he giggled, and the noise sounded strangely out of place.

Fanshawe looked crestfallen.

But Marlowe remained untouched. “I am so busy with my own material… and we are just starting Tamburlaine…” He thought for a moment. “Although, I do hear that there is a young writer in London, eagerly looking for new material, I may even proffer some of my own… He is ambitious and quite well connected, I understand.”

Fanshawe’s eyes lit up. “London? What is the young man’s name?”

“I am not sure I remember.” Marlowe closed his eyes for a moment. “Shake-Shaft, I think, yes that was it, Wilbur Shake-Shaft…”

“I understand he frequents the Cross Keys Inn in Grace Church Street… I have had some correspondence with him.”

Suddenly Marlowe stopped talking and leaped to his feet. Jack had heard nothing, but Marlowe, in his heightened state of paranoia, seemed to be attuned to the smallest noise. He rushed over to the window and again peered out from behind the curtain.

He wheeled round. His face was pale.

“They’re here. They must have seen you. I feared this might happen.”

He rushed over to a small desk on the opposite side of the room and frantically fiddled a key into the lock on a draw. He opened it and rummaged inside. He pulled out a folded document sealed with red wax on one side. His hand shook as he held out the document.

“Fanshawe — we have been friends for a long time. You must help me, I beg you.”

Jack and Angus looked at each other anxiously.

“What is…” Fanshawe started to speak, but Marlowe interjected, his words hurried.

“Guard this document with your life… you must take it to Walsingham — only he can see it. Do not open it — it is sealed, so he will know if it has been tampered with.”

Fanshawe’s eyes were on sticks, “You want me to deliver this to Sir Francis Walsingham? But…”

“Yes, yes… Sir Francis Walsingham, the queen’s secretary — at court,” Marlowe confirmed in frustration. “It is of national importance. If they find it here with me they will suspect me and surely kill me…”

“But?”

“Do not question me… no one will know that you have it. Go now and you will be safe, and if the document is put securely into Walsingham’s hand, he will reward you handsomely.” Marlowe reached into a pocket and took out a small velvet bag. “Here’s gold for your trouble, take it.”

They heard the sound of heavy boots tramping up the stairs and, despite the temperature of the room, Jack saw small beads of sweat materialising on Marlowe’s forehead. He looked around, desperately.

“I know!”

He led them into the small adjoining bedroom and opened a window. The cold winter air rushed in.

“Go out here, the college roof is just up there. You can make your way down on the other side. Don’t worry, it’s easy and it will be quiet. You have more than enough now to get you to London safely… and then to Walsingham.”

“But what about my work?” Fanshawe said, looking at the chest of papers which still lay beside the table.

Angus rolled his eyes and started to snatch the papers from Fanshawe’s chest. “Here — stuff them in our backpacks. We’ll take what we can… come on…”

Jack started to help Angus while Fanshawe moaned about the pages getting torn or damaged.

“Stop fussing, we don’t have time,” Angus hissed.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous bang on the door and a heavily accented voice called out, “Marlowe — who is there?

Marlowe was already bundling Fanshawe and Trinculo through the window. There was a loud bang as a firearm discharged right outside the door.

“That was a gun — I’m not hanging around any longer.” Angus jumped up and out through the window, hot on the heels of Fanshawe and Trinculo.

Marlowe passed back into the main room as Jack climbed up onto the windowsill, following the others. Ahead, Jack could just see Angus’s frame silhouetted against the light of the moon as he scrambled out from Marlowe’s window and onto the roof of the college. Jack glanced back over his shoulder into the main room and saw the door fly open. For the last time, Jack heard Marlowe’s nervous giggle. He turned and fled through the window and into the night, without waiting to see Marlowe’s fate.

Night Climb

They raced across the roof of Corpus Christi College. A full moon washed the chimneys and crenellations in a shadowy monochrome. Jack’s eyes adjusted quickly. He could soon see well enough to be sure of his footing and follow the others ahead of him.

“This way!”

Angus waved them forward and Jack saw him clamber up and over a wall that abutted the far end of the college roof. A secured ladder led to another roof below and Fanshawe and Trinculo followed Angus down it obediently. Jack paused to catch his breath. Behind, he could still see the yellow glow of candlelight from Marlowe’s rooms. Suddenly, he saw an unfamiliar figure clamber out from the window and up onto the roof — just as they had all done, minutes before. He was quickly followed by a second figure — more squat, but powerfully built. They were being followed — presumably by the people who had shot through Marlowe’s door. Jack couldn’t work it out. They had not seen Jack and the others escape onto the roof, so Marlowe must have shown the intruders where they had gone. Why on earth would he do that?

Jack crouched down low. Although the roof was long and the men were still some fifty metres away, there was little cover and the light of the moon picked out Jack’s outline against the low-rise wall that edged the roof. The first man was now straddling the apex of the roof. He stopped and appeared to reach for something strapped to his back. In the poor light, Jack could not see what it was, but the man brought the object forward and up to eye