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.
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,
As the second queen entered the Great Hall everyone turned towards her and bowed. She approached her strange twin and paused briefly. It was uncanny seeing the two women together.
“Lady Sarah, I thank you for your services today,” she offered her twin a hand, “your bravery will be rewarded.”
The real queen strode forward to inspect the figures of Whitsun and Gift in the middle of the hall. She gave one of them a contemptuous poke with her foot. Tony and Gordon stood nearby, their heads bowed. The hall fell quiet as the queen prepared to speak, her dark eyes glinting with fiery confidence — a confidence wrought from twenty-nine years of hard-earned power. She spoke clearly and defiantly.
“My friends. We have defeated a plot to murder your queen — the Queen of England. Let tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects; and I thank you for your help in crushing this foul plot. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realms…”
The speech continued in a similar vein for some minutes and when it ended there was a great roar of approval and, spontaneously, a chant of “God save the queen!” rang out. She stood, chin high, imperious and triumphant. It took several minutes for the adulation to die down. The queen turned to the dark-clothed man and said quietly, “Walsingham — I trust you will deal with matters now.” With that she marched from the hall, surrounded by an escort and followed by her twin — Lady Sarah.
Walsingham took charge. He pointed down at Christo. “The Spaniard — put him in chains. He will be tortured until we know the identities of all the other plotters.” He pointed at the bodies of Whitsun and Gift, addressing Tony and Gordon. “Make sure they are stripped and find any other evidence. I have a good mind to send their heads to the Spanish court. And, now, where are they?”
Walsingham looked around the hall. Angus had come down from his position in the minstrel’s gallery and was standing with Jack and the other members of the cast, who huddled together in one corner of the stage, agog at the events unfolding in front of them. Walsingham strode over to them. He was a commanding, sinister figure. Tony and Gordon followed close behind. Walsingham eyed the cast of the Henslowe Players and turned his attention to Angus and Jack at the front.
“And you claim that, apart from the Spaniard, Christo, the Henslowe Players had no knowledge of the plot?”
Tony looked at Jack. “Absolutely not. This is confirmed in Marlowe’s letter. By waiting and laying the trap here at Hampton Court we knew we would catch any other plotters red-handed.”
Walsingham nodded. “Your point is fair.” Then he turned angrily towards Angus. “But you… smuggling a
