not to retch as the liquid hit the back of his throat. Angus, with his larger frame, coped well with the effects, but after half a pint, Jack’s head was spinning.
With the money Marlowe had given him for safe passage of the secret letter, Fanshawe rented a room at the Cross Keys Inn, in Grace Church Street between Bishopsgate and London Bridge. The inn was built around a cobbled courtyard, accessed through an archway from the street. Above the courtyard, open balconies ran round the perimeter of each floor and from here guests could watch plays put on from time to time by itinerant acting troupes. It did seem possible, therefore, that this was a good place to find Marlowe’s contact, Wilbur Shake-Shaft, but so far he had proved elusive. Fanshawe’s desperation to find a buyer for his plays had caused him to delay the delivery of the precious secret letter from Marlowe to Walsingham. Although he was torn, Fanshawe decided to wait and give a potential rendezvous with Shake-Shaft one more day.
Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk approached the bar to order lunch, leaving Jack and Angus at one of the wooden tables in a corner of the Cross Keys. Nearby, a log fire was spluttering to life, adding smoke but so far little warmth to the dank air. With the table to themselves Jack and Angus took the chance to review their position.
“Well?” Jack nodded at Angus’s doublet under which he hid his time phone.
“Dead as a dodo,” Angus replied.
The time phones remained lifeless. There was still no communication from VIGIL or, for that matter, from Tony and Gordon, for whom they were beginning to fear the worst.
“What about the Revisionist time phones?”
“They’ve got the same problem as VIGIL — intermittent time signals. We have no choice but to wait. We’ve no other information to go on… we have to wait for a time signal so we can contact VIGIL.”
Angus groaned. “Frustrating… we can’t communicate with VIGIL, no sign of Tony and Gordon, but if we could get these Revisionist time phones to VIGIL — they would be able to infiltrate the Revisionists and blow their whole operation apart.”
“And in the meantime, we’re none the wiser about what the Revisionists are really up to. All we know is that it must have something to do with this Spanish plot and that letter to Walsingham.”
“Shall we open it?”
“Yeah — I’m thinking it’s about time we did. But bear in mind that if we do that, you know, break the seal, then the contents become invalidated. Walsingham might just dismiss it — that’s what Fanshawe says.”
“Well, at least we’ve bought some time — you know, with Whitsun and Gift out of the picture.” Angus stared down at the table. “Do you think we should have…?”
“What?” Jack asked.
“You know — done the business.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Angus. They might be murderers, but we’re not. We’ve got their time phones — so that stuffs them.”
“And we’ve got their guns.”
“Yes, but Pendelshape is still at large, and maybe there are other Revisionists with him.”
Angus glanced over at the bar where Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk were involved in an animated conversation with the landlord about their lunch.
“What must they think?”
“They just seem happy to be alive.”
“Excuse me.” Their conversation was interrupted by a young man who stood at the end of their table. He had an accent that Jack could not place — certainly unlike Fanshawe’s. He wore a leather jerkin over a coarse shirt, with long breeches that were tucked into stiff leather boots. He had a mane of long, black curly hair and carried a bag full of papers over his shoulder. In one arm he cradled two large books.
“The landlord left a message for me. He said a Mr Fanshawe was keen to meet and would wait at this table between the hours of eleven and three.” He peered at them with dark, glinting eyes. “Is either one of you Mr Fanshawe?”
“No,” Jack replied, “but here he comes now.” Jack pointed over to where Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk were navigating their way back through the growing lunchtime crowd, trying not to spill four large pewter tankards of ale. As they arrived, the man held out his hand.
“Mr Harold Fanshawe?”
“Yes.”
“I believe you wished to meet me… to do business. My name is Shakespeare. William Shakespeare.”
A Bargain with the Bard
Fanshawe was soon well into his sales pitch and papers were strewn over the table in front of them. Unlike Marlowe, and much to Jack’s surprise, Shakespeare appeared to be quite interested in Fanshawe’s work. He must have been desperate. Maybe it made sense: the great man was as yet unknown, and he would not find fame for years to come. He was looking for anything that might give him a start, an edge. Shakespeare had a nervous energy about him and flicked quickly from page to page. Occasionally he would look up and scratch his beard and make a comment like, “It will need work,” or, “This must change,” or, “This is wrong.”
Fanshawe looked increasingly worried. Finally, he could take no more.
“What say you I read you something… bring the words to life?” He leafed through the sheaf of papers in front of him trying to locate a suitable passage.
“Here!” Fanshawe suddenly jumped to his feet, posed pretentiously and started to speak.
As Fanshawe read out the words, Shakespeare fidgeted with his beard, and stifled a yawn. Jack cringed. Fanshawe’s prose was truly dreadful and Jack could sense that, like Marlowe before him, Shakespeare was about to reject the work out of hand. Fanshawe’s world was about to implode and, with it, his fantasies of future wealth and fame. But then, much to Jack’s surprise, Shakespeare gestured impatiently for Fanshawe to pass him the sheet from which he read. Fanshawe stopped abruptly and sat down, deflated. Shakespeare took the paper and pulled a quill and a miniature pot of ink from his bag, which he placed in front of him on the table. He opened the pot, dabbed the quill and scribbled, murmuring to himself.
“This is wrong… and this… and this would be better here, I think.”
After a couple of minutes he had finished and beamed up at them.
“Now Harry, let me see if I understand what you were trying to say.”
Shakespeare read out his revised version of Fanshawe’s script:
He continued to read, and after a while he paused and looked up from the reworked script. “What do you think?”
Fanshawe stared at Shakespeare in awe. In just two minutes Shakespeare had transformed Fanshawe’s efforts. Shakespeare turned to the play’s title page:
With one final flourish of the quill he struck a line through
“Yes, sir, much better — more, er, Scottish. You have a gift, sir,” Fanshawe said in wonder.
“Yes. I know,” Shakespeare replied. “But I usually need something to get me going. A starting point, if you like.”
He took a long draught from one of the untouched tankards of ale, thumped it back onto the table and declared, “I’ll give you three pounds for the lot.”
Fanshawe grimaced. He was hoping for more, but considering the reworking that Shakespeare would need to do, this was a good offer; Fanshawe was unlikely to get a better one.
“Well, sir, I’m not sure…”
Jack cut in. “I don’t want to be rude, Harry, but I think Mr Shakespeare is making a good offer… as, er, a friend, I think you will do no better.” Then Jack added with a twinkle in his eye, “I assure you — your work could not be in finer hands.”
With Jack’s endorsement, the deal was done and they looked on as Fanshawe thrust out his hand.
