A Poisoned Sword

Jack thrust the rapier forward. Angus jumped back, but this time he was not quick enough. The blade pierced his flesh, and an ominous red patch appeared on his white shirt. Angus glanced down at the wound and looked back at his opponent with an expression of rage on his face. A frisson of excitement rippled through the crowd. The contest was proving better than they could have possibly wished. Jack was exhilarated --- a final blow and it would all be over.

But his confidence was short-lived. The strike had found its mark but had also unbalanced him momentarily, and Angus came back with a violent counterthrust. His blade flashed through the air and caught Jack in the ribs. There was a gasp from the crowd. The foil was so sharp that Jack scarcely felt it. But in only a few seconds his own blade felt much heavier in his hand, and his breathing quickened. Sensing his chance, Angus darted forward once more, his sword aimed at Jack’s chest. This time Jack spotted the move and swayed to one side. Angus’s forward momentum presented Jack with an opportunity. He grabbed his opponent by the arm and heaved him onward while simultaneously thrusting out his leg. Angus tripped over Jack’s extended leg and spun through the air, landing with a crunching thud, his sword spinning from his hand. Jack pounced on him and they became locked in a deadly struggle. But he should have known better than to take on Angus in a wrestling match. Angus was much stronger and soon had Jack pinned on his back beneath him. Angus grasped Jack’s sword hand and banged it hard on the ground until Jack relinquished his grip. Angus lowered his face toward Jack’s and sneered.

“You will die.”

Jack was nailed to the ground. He was wounded, and he had no weapon. Angus’s massive bulk was pressing down on him. But it wasn’t over yet. He gritted his teeth and with a superhuman effort jerked his knee upward into Angus’s crotch. Angus wailed in pain, and Jack seized the moment to wriggle free. He snatched up a sword and wheeled around. The sword felt different --- heavier and unbalanced --- but it didn’t matter now. Angus jumped back to his feet and grabbed the other sword, and the two of them circled each other, panting like wounded animals. The crowd jeered. Jack’s remaining energy was melting away --- he knew he only had seconds left. There was blood all over the floor and Angus slipped. He was only distracted for a moment, but it was enough. Jack leaped forward to land a second, and this time fatal, blow. Angus screamed as blood from a second wound spurted from his chest. He dropped to one knee and looked up at Jack with an unexpected expression --- almost apologetic.

“The poison…I have been killed by my own treachery,” he stammered.

Jack glanced down at the sword that dangled loosely from his hand --- and suddenly he understood. He had snatched up Angus’s sword, which must have been dipped in poison before the contest. Jack had already been injured with the same sword, which meant that in less than a minute, both of them would be dead.

But there was still time to see to unfinished business. Jack knew what he had to do.

Clutching his chest to stem the bleeding, he staggered across to where his uncle sat cowering behind the long banqueting table. Thefood and drink was laid out --- still untouched. Jack mounted the table and fixed his eyes menacingly on his uncle, who sank back into his chair, shaking. There was to be no mercy, and Jack did not hesitate. He thrust the sword into his uncle’s heart.

Words, Words, Words

Miss Beattie scurried onto the stage. “Well done, everyone! Lights!”

There was a spontaneous round of applause from the cast and crew. Nothing was being left to chance. The week before, Miss Beattie had even arranged for a special fight choreographer to come in and help them with the sword fight between Hamlet and Laertes in the last scene. It was all perfectly safe, of course, and the flashing swords reassuringly blunt, but there was always tension in the air during the famous scene, and everyone stopped what they were doing to watch. And today, with Angus a reluctant and unrehearsed stand- in for Laertes (who was sick), who knows what might have happened.

“That’s all coming together quite well.” Miss Beattie was pleased with the progress. “Only two weeks to go now...”

Jack looked down at Tommy McGough from his position still perched upon the table. Tommy was playing Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle, and he nervously opened one eye.

“Did I survive?”

“Looks like it,” Jack said. “Don’t know how you get away with it. Every rehearsal I somehow manage to miss.”

“Dangerous business, this Shakespeare stuff . . .”

Angus bounded over from center stage, flushed with excitement from the sword fight with Jack.

“That was awesome.”

“Told you.”

Miss Beattie removed the pouch of stage blood from under Angus’s shirt, which was almost completely red.

“What a mess,” the English teacher fussed.

Angus grinned. “I thought I would go for Hamlet-meets-Terminator... Everyone likes a bit of blood, don’t they?”

Without looking up, she replied, “Actually, you’re right. When they did these plays in the old days they wouldn’t have skimped on the blood…used goat’s blood, probably. The audiences loved gore. There’s even a story of actors using a real musket in one production. It went off, and someone in the audience got his head blown off by mistake.”

Miss Beattie was always saying stuff like this. It was one reason why drama was popular at their school --- and successful. The whole town of Soonhope would likely turn up for the end- of- term performances of Hamlet.

“Is that true, Miss Beattie?”

“Apparently. They just dragged the body out. The next day, they were on again. They weren’t too concerned about gun control in the sixteenth century, but I doubt they used the musket.”

“I could get into that,” Angus said.

Jack elbowed him. “See --- I told you it was worth coming.”

“Well --- the fighting was good fun, but I couldn’t stand Shakespeare for too long --- you know, all those…words.”

Miss Beattie looked up at Angus with a steely eye. Her good humor evaporated and a shadow passed over her face. Although at nearly six feet Angus towered over her, it was as if he physically shrank by a good six inches when he saw her expression.

“You’ve done it now...” Jack murmured and glanced sidelong at Tommy, who returned the look, grimacing.

“Words!” Miss Beattie rolled the r in her strong Scottish brogue. “WORRRDS!” She yelled again louder --- and it came from her lips like a dart from a blowpipe. “Is that all you have to say on the matter --- WORRRDS?”

Everyone around the stage stopped what they were doing and turned toward them. Miss Beattie, for all her boundless enthusiasm, was also prone to dramatic changes in mood. As a result, Angus was about to receive what was popularly termed by the pupils of Soonhope High School as a Beattie Beating. It was never pleasant.

“But, Miss …” Angus bravely tried to stand his ground, but it was too late. It was if he had inadvertently triggered a small thermonuclear device.

“I’ll tell you this --- laddie --- not any old words…nearly one million words in forty plays and more than one hundred and fifty four sonnets and poems…and not just any old plays and sonnets, but the most sublime writing the world has ever read --- even after four hundred years. Words? Shakespeare invented them. Lots of them: critical, frugal, dwindle, extract, zany, leapfrog, vast, hereditary, excellent, eventful, lonely . . . and phrases, new phrases like: vanish into thin air, brave new world, fool’s paradise, sea change, sorry sight, in a pickle, budge an inch, cold comfort, flesh and blood, foul play, bated breath, cruel to be kind, fair play, green- eyed monster . . .” She paused only to take a deep breath. Then she was off again. “These are WORDS and phrases that have been used so much, they have become clichés. . . . They are words and phrases that I use --- God help us --- even you use --- Shakespeare was the world’s greatest writer and helped define the world’s richest language— the English language --- your language --- and so gave us the very tools to think and feel. He gave us the essence of humanity. Do you get it? Do you understand? So please don’t talk to me about WORRRDS!”

There was stunned silence around the stage as everyone wondered if there might be more --- whether this was to be a tactical nuclear strike --- or the full-blown strategic version that would take out the whole of  Soonhope. Thankfully, the color in Miss Beattie’s cheeks normalized from a deep purple to its more usual pink hue. Nevertheless, Angus continued to stare at a spot on the end of one of his shoes for a full ten seconds before he finally mumbled, “Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.”

Miss Beattie gave a final sigh of indignation and said, “That’s all right, Mr. Jud.” She looked around and clapped her hands. “Now everyone --- let’s get this cleaned up --- it’s almost four o’clock.”

But something that Miss Beattie had said stuck in Jack’s mind and as he and Tommy put away the props, his curiosity overcame his fear.

“Sorry, Miss --- did you say a million words? I mean, written by one man --- Shakespeare?”

 “Yes, Jack, I think that’s about right.”

“But it just sounds like an awful lot for one man to do…”

“It is. There are lots of theories --- generally rubbish --- that he did not actually write his material, but that others did. Shakespeare lived during the English Renaissance --- it was a boom time for plays and playwrights and art and artists generally. More than fifty candidates have been suggested as the ‘real’ Shakespeare --- people like Christopher Marlowe.”

“Who?”

Miss Beattie was overseeing the flow of props back into the cupboard, “No, Tommy, put the swords properly into the sword cart, or they’ll get damaged.” She looked back at Jack. “Sorry, Jack --- what was that?”

“Marlowe --- was he like Shakespeare, then?”

“He influenced Shakespeare, but he died before Shakespeare really got going, in 1593, I think, when he was only twenty-nine. He was murdered. He was a spy.”

“A writer and a spy?”

“Yes, maybe even a double agent. I know it sounds odd, but there were quite a few writers that were, at the time. They often studied at Oxford or Cambridge --- although actually Shakespeare didn’t --- and the universities were hotbeds of radicalism.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed. “You’re insatiable, Jack.” She turned to lock the cupboard and then looked at him sympathetically. “Look --- we don’t really have time to go into the whole of sixteenth-century politics right now... but for our next lesson --- maybe we’ll do it in more detail.” She thought for a minute. “Tell you what, come over here...” She scurried over to her things at the side of the stage and pulled out a large book.

“There you go, that should get you started.” She handed the tome over to Jack. It was entitled, simply, Elizabeth I. On the front there was the famous Armada portrait of the auburn- haired queen in an elaborately decorated dress covered in jewels, with one hand draped over a globe and pointing to Virginia, England’s first colony in the New World. Behind the queen, the Spanish Armada could be seen ---sailing to its doom.

“Knowing you, Jack, you should be able to finish that off in a couple of hours. It’s all there. And it’s not just about Shakespeare and Marlowe, you know. It was a period of deep religious conflict between Catholics and Protestants --- a struggle for the very soul of man. And this religious conflict was intertwined with the political struggles between countries. Spain was the global superpower but when England defeated the Spanish Armada, that all started to change. If it hadn’t been for that, we might be living in a Catholic country today and speaking Spanish --- and so might most of the world. We would probably be having tapas for school dinners.” Miss Beattie stopped. “There I go again...prattling away...” She tapped the book. “Anyway, I’ll leave it with you.”

Jack leafed through the book.

“Who’s that?” He pointed to a picture of a confident young man in flashy Elizabethan clothes.

“That’s the man --- Marlowe --- only portrait of him --- only twenty-one and dressed up to the nines.”

“What does that mean?” Jack pointed to some Latin words on top of the picture.

Miss Beattie laughed. “‘What feeds me destroys me’ --- apparently. Just about sums Marlowe up --- he was, how shall I put it, on the edge.”

Jack didn’t really understand what the words meant, but was already leafing through the rest of the book. There were pictures of ships: great Spanish galleons stuffed with treasure from the New World, terrifying fire ships let loose by the English on the anchored Spanish fleet off Calais, the de- masted Revenge in the Azores, where, in a fit of macho bravado, Sir Richard Grenville took on twelve great Spanish galleons alone --- only to die. There were extraordinarily beautiful buildings, soaring edifices of glass and stone --- a far cry from the brutal castles of the Middle Ages. Then there were the people: kings and queens, princes, players, and poets. As Jack leafed through the volume, he noticed a small illustration on the bottom of one of the pages. The caption read: Elizabethan Troupe. It was a color plate of a group of actors in various costumes. There was one dressed as a court jester and next to him, in stark contrast, another dressed as a priest, or more like a monk. There was a third who looked slightly more important --- a country gentleman with a fine cloak and a neat, pointed beard.

“Head in a book again?” Angus leaned over Jack’s shoulder. It looked like everyone else had left. “Do you want to get something at Gino’s?”

Jack snapped the book shut.

“Why not?” He stuffed the book in his bag.

“Well, stop reading and let’s go!”

Excerpted from DAY OF DELIVERANCE: A Jack Christie Adventure © Copyright 2010 by Johnny O'Brien. Reprinted with permission by Templar Books, an imprint of Candlewick Press. All rights reserved.