The Devil's Plague (10 page)

Evesham Abbey

12th September, 1651

It was becoming increasingly likely that Betterton had sold them out to Cromwell's mob and so Davenant began the task of organising his troupe. They had to leave before the wrath of Parliament caught up with them.

As Davenant snuck into Middleton's tent to wake him, Middleton mistook him for an intruder and grabbed him in a vice-like headlock, much to Charles' amusement. In spite of his embarrassment and evident discomfort, Davenant recognised the need for Middleton's prowess. The man was a thuggish brute, he thought, but was equally glad that he was on his side. And he was immediately apologetic - although that was the least he could do, Davenant pondered. The man had almost broken his neck.

After gathering their possessions, the men crossed the dewy grass to join their companions.

Davenant was still cagey around Elizabeth and her discontent towards his secretive past. He resigned himself to the fact that he would have to remedy this problem before they could function again as father and daughter. Davenant understood her feelings for Betterton and had attempted to convey his disappointment in the boy to her as reasonably as possible. In the end he had managed to stop short of threatening to kill the bastard, which was about as reasonable as she could have possibly expected. And then there was Mary - he hadn't quite made up his mind whether to leave her in Evesham, or to utilise her bizarre ability. He was in no doubt that the answer to his quandary would present itself at the right time. He was presently more troubled by his feelings for Faith and had tried to put his attraction to her to the back of his mind. This was no time for lust, he kept on telling himself. Yet the more he spoke to her, the more he felt beset by her beauty. He cast his eyes over her companions and was shocked, although not totally surprised, to find Mary staring at him intently.

"Good morning, Mary," said Davenant, as politely as he possibly could. He noted that the others were beginning to stir.

"Good morning, Master Shakespeare."

Davenant could feel his blood rising, and just as he was about to launch into a foul-mouthed tirade, he saw Faith smiling at him as she let out a restrained yawn. It calmed him immediately.

"I'm so sorry to have disturbed you," he said. "But we have to leave as soon as possible."

"Why?"

"We have a traitor in our midst."

"A traitor? But who would do such a thing?" replied Faith, as she gathered her belongings.

Davenant steadied himself - he was fully aware that what he was about to say would hurt young Underhill, as Betterton's closest friend, the most. "I have reason to believe that our so called friend, Thomas Betterton, has informed Cromwell's troops of our whereabouts."

Underhill was now fully awake. "How can you be sure? Have you any proof, other than the fact that he's gone?"

"After he left without telling anyone where he was going, it was brought to my attention that he had kept hold of the wanted poster he had found in Pershore."

"That's not proof! Has it occurred to you that perhaps Thomas wanted to leave because of your choice of plays?"

"Enough, Cave!" interrupted Anne, barking at her brother to keep quiet. "Have some respect."

A stony silence descended

"Please, Cave. You must believe me." Davenant said.

"Very well," replied Underhill, cagily. He grabbed his belongings together rather petulantly and stuffed them into his sack.

Elizabeth sat alone on a rock by the Bell Tower and Davenant sauntered nervously up to her, half expecting her to stand and stride off at any moment.

"I'm so very sorry, Elizabeth," stuttered Davenant, as he knelt down beside her. He was surprised that she'd given him the chance to apologise, although she still looked glumly down at the damp undergrowth.

He decided to seize the opportunity to patch things up as best he could. "I'm sorry that I was never honest with you, and I'm sorry for what has happened these past two days. I wish to God I could go back and make it all up to you."

"I'm sorry too, father," she replied. She allowed her beautiful emerald eyes to meet his. "I know you have all of our best interests at heart. But from now on, I want you to be honest with me."

Davenant nodded firmly. "Of course I will, I promise."

"And I want you to tell me all your stories about Will Shakespeare."

"Some other time," replied Davenant, smiling tenderly.

Suddenly, he was struck by a figure running madly across the adjoining field and straight towards them.

"Unless I'm very much mistaken," he said, "that is young Master Betterton heading this way."

Elizabeth bolted to her feet and waved her arms to catch his attention. Davenant glanced over to Turnbull, Middleton and Charles who were all alive to the situation. He could see that the three men were caressing their weapons, tucked conspicuously in their belts. He almost felt sorry for the young scamp, for the brutal interrogation he was about to receive.

As Betterton moved rapidly closer, his shouted words became audible upon the wind. "The dead are coming!"

"What did he say?" said Davenant, looking in Charles' direction.

Underhill's face lit up when he spied Betterton galloping towards them. "It's Thomas! He's come back!"

Davenant sidled up to Middleton. "What do you think we should do with him?"

"Let's see what the wee shite has to say first, shall we?"

Betterton was only a couple of hundred yards away now and Davenant could clearly make out the lines of fear etched upon his face. "This doesn't look good," he whispered under his breath.

And then it came again. "The dead are coming!"

This time everyone heard his declaration. As the group all turned to one another in bewilderment, Betterton followed his latest yell with a series of deranged hand signals which made no sense to anyone whatsoever - apart from to Mary.

She turned mockingly to Davenant. "I told you they were coming, didn't I?"

Davenant decided to ignore her and focused his attention on Betterton, who had pulled up, fatigued and exhausted. He leant against a tree as he gasped for air.

"Have you alerted Cromwell's men to our whereabouts?" Davenant snapped.

Betterton looked up fearfully. He gave a sad little nod of his head as his eyes filled.

As Davenant stepped forward to pass Betterton his water skin, Middleton thumped him hard across the face, sending him tumbling to the floor. Elizabeth screamed out in anguish as Underhill struggled to restrain her.

"Consider yourself lucky you didn't receive a worse punishment." Middleton spat at him.

Betterton ran his hand over his swollen cheek and bloodied nose. All from one punch, Davenant noted.

"I am truly sorry for my actions, but there is no time for that now," Betterton said. "You must listen to me, all of you. I have been in grip of the Devil. Look at my hands! They're covered in blood."

"No sob story will get you out of this! Do you have any idea what you've done?" barked Charles, his eyes wild with rage.

"No, no, I - I don't. But I'm telling the truth. I've seen the..."

"I say we hang the bastard!" Charles interrupted.

Davenant felt as though he was in some kind of deranged, surreal daydream. He could hear Elizabeth sobbing uncontrollably behind him. "Perhaps we should hear him out? He looks like he's telling us the truth."

"He's an actor. You're as good as lying when you're on the stage!" spat Charles.

As Davenant listened to the flood of accusations, Mary took a hesitant step forward and knelt down beside Betterton. "He is telling the truth. The dead walk, I've seen them too."

Just as Davenant was about to open his mouth to deride her, several mounted soldiers surged forward into their camp. They quickly encircled the group with a ferocious clatter of hooves - their vast horses with their immaculate coats just as intimidating as the length of their swords.

"William Davenant and Charles Stuart?" asked the General, a tubby, red-faced man with a speech impediment.

"I am Sir William Davenant," he said, as he took a defiant stride forward.

"And I am Charles Stuart," said Charles, matching Davenant's fortitude. "Take us, by all means, but you need not harm our companions. They have done you no wrong."

"I am bidden by Parliament to arrest you all and to take you to the Tower. You may leave your belongings where they are."

Davenant could bear the Tower - he knew what it took to stomach it and survive - but the thought of Elizabeth suffering at the hands of the Guards made him feel sick with worry.

The soldiers leapt from their horses and seized the group forcefully, hurling them into a waiting carriage. Middleton and Turnbull didn't go without a struggle, but were overwhelmed by the sheer number of armed men.

As their carriage slowly pulled away, Davenant noticed a group of men lurkng aimlessly in the nearby field. Strange, he thought, they weren't there a moment ago.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Siege of Gloucester

5th September, 1643

William Davenant was dog-tired. Having seen his hard earned military supplies from France go to waste on a siege that could have and should have succeeded, he believed that he had as much right as any to feel more than a little aggrieved. The King had ordered their retreat from the ancient Roman walls of Gloucester little more than five hours ago and Davenant now found himself encamped in a forest on the outskirts of Cirencester. The mood amongst his compatriots was understandably glum, not surprising considering what they were up against. A twenty-three year old governor by the name of Colonel Massey who had only one-thousand five-hundred regular troops under his command - surely not enough to fend off the Royalist insurgence that had just reclaimed Bristol so convincingly?

If only Charles had ordered an all-out attack, Davenant lamented. Although he later acknowledged Charles' compassion - his choice to order a formal siege so as to avoid a repetition of the heavy casualties sustained at the storming of Bristol probably saved the lives of many civilians, even if it did result in their retreat. He also cursed their run of bad luck. Had it not been for the terrible weather, they would have been able to fire the mine before it became flooded. Not that any of this mattered now, Davenant thought. He was glad to be alive, even if he felt a little disgruntled that his endeavours in France hadn't even earned him so much as a 'thank you' from His Majesty. He concluded that Charles must have been in another fit of depression, as he hadn't emerged from his tent all evening. Davenant could see a lonely shadow pacing awkwardly up and down the canvas, occasionally stopping by the entrance, no doubt wondering whether or not to come out and face the barrage of questioning. He was surprised when a smaller, almost dwarf-like figure emerged grudgingly from the tent and headed in his direction. It was Hugo Stanger, Charles' aide, a vile little cretin and sycophant. Just the type Davenant despised. Like a venomous snake, he slipped his way past the group of soldiers stretched out by the campfire and crept up to Davenant.

"Yes, Hugo, what is it?"

"It's His Majesty, he is greatly troubled. He wishes to have a moment alone with you to seek your counsel."

"Now?" asked Davenant, surprised by this summons, but equally aware of Stanger's Machiavellian qualities.

"Yes, William, now. He even suggested that he speaks with you alone."

Davenant allowed himself a smug little grin, knowing full well how much that would have hurt Stanger as he strode briskly to the King's tent. As he gently pulled the entrance flap to one side, his mind was racing with possible reasons for his summons.

The King was sat on a fabulously ornate armchair which took up much of the tent. A pungent pall of smoke, wafting from a strange china device, filled the room with the scent of dried herbs and spices. Davenant gasped in the close confines of the tent.

"It's balsamic resin from the sacred plant of the priests, William. It is supposed to be relaxing."

Relaxing? Not when you can barely breathe!

"You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?"

"Yes, William. It dawned on me earlier that I have yet to thank you for your good grace and valour..."
You're damned right!
"... so I thought it was about time I addressed that."

"What did you have in mind, Your Majesty?" Through the haze, Davenant could just about make out Charles removing his mighty sword from its scabbard.

"On your knees, William," said Charles, his voice calm and measured.

"Please, spare me Your Majesty! I am your most humble servant and I do you no wrong! I have only ever sought to serve your best intentions and I do not deserve to lose my head."

Charles laughed. "You fool, William! Why, I should dress you up as my court jester."

Davenant was totally dumfounded. Was he to be executed in such bizarre circumstances? As he dropped to his knees for forgiveness, he appreciated that for the first time in his life he was at the mercy of a complete and utter madman who had lost control of his senses. He wondered what heaven would be like and Davenant muttered a small prayer as he felt the cold steel of Charles' sword as it touched either shoulder. And then the words came that he would remember forever.