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be on their way to and looked at Jack for 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 persona … And this is Trinculo.”
    “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, “ Is there any chance of some food… or even, dare I say it, some money?”
    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 thelast 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, “ my good friend , will be performing his new play, Tamburlaine the Great , at Corpus Christi – his old college in Cambridge. And, what is more, he has invited the famous Fanshawe players to join him. It is the opportunity of a lifetime…”
    “Opportunity of a lunchtime more