The Devil's Plague (12 page)

Charles lunged forward but was held back by Davenant before Cromwell's soldiers could apprehend him. Davenant winced under the pressure of Charles' anger. Eventually he backed down and stood pensively by Davenant.

"I suppose you have your people call that your throne? And your everyday robes your regal gown? Lord Protector is but another name for a King, and the country shan't tolerate your stealing the crown forever." Charles growled.

Cromwell brushed it off. "Before I have you all executed, I must ask a favour of you, Davenant. Consider this a temporary reprieve for you all. It is my wife's birthday tomorrow and to celebrate this she wants a cursed play put on for her. As luck would have it, I have your troupe to take care of this for me. I don't give a damn what play you decide to perform, and don't think for one moment that this is a chance for you to escape. Any funny business will see you executed on the spot. Think of this as your one final hurrah."

"Where are we to perform?" asked Davenant.

"The theatre, you damned fool!"

"With respect, you've destroyed all the theatres."

"There might be one or two left on Drury Lane," said Elizabeth, piping up.

Cromwell peered around Charles to get a better view of Davenant's daughter. He was instantly taken by the young, naive beauty that she displayed.

"And who are you, my pretty one?" he asked, as he made his way towards her.

"My name is Elizabeth Davenant," she said hesitantly.

Cromwell let out a wicked cackle. "Well how fortunate for you that you look nothing like him. Your mother must have been a very beautiful woman."

Elizabeth could smell his foul breath and noted his yellow, decaying teeth and bleeding gums. "I believe she was," she replied, already regretting her interruption.

Cromwell took her hand and planted a kiss upon it. "Do not worry, my dear. You shan't suffer at the hands of the executioner the way your father shall. I'll make sure he is swift with you." Elizabeth began to weep, as if the enormity of the situation hadn't hit her until Cromwell's sadistic statement.

Davenant put a comforting arm around her and glared at Cromwell with a blazing look of utter hatred. "The Phoenix Theatre," he said, in between gritted teeth. "I used to manage it and I made sure it was left... untouched."

"Excellent. The Phoenix Theatre it is!" cried Cromwell, as he turned his attention back to Davenant. "I shall leave it in your capable hands to arrange the entertainment. Oh, and William, I've doubled the sentry at your cell so there's no chance of you escaping this time."

"That's very kind of you."

"In which case, I shall bid you all a good evening." Cromwell sauntered from the chamber, his long gown trailing behind him.

Davenant turned to look out of the window. The sky was black, not even the moon was visible through the murkiness. With the fog came the cold and Davenant dreaded the night ahead, knowing full well how bitter the cells became when the Thames mist rolled in. They'd be lucky if they all saw the morning in, he thought.

As the group were frogmarched from the chamber and towards the cells, Davenant could see the General and Cromwell in the middle of an animated conversation at the furthest end of the corridor. He wondered whether they were discussing the strange circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the three mounted soldiers.

At least they were still together. This way they were able to stay as warm as possible, making use of one another's body heat as they huddled together. Cromwell had confined them to the Salt Tower and a smaller, more uncomfortable chamber than they would have received elsewhere. The cells were exactly as Davenant remembered them. The same stink of damp and mould, the same carvings adorning the walls, some drawn in beautiful calligraphy, others coarse profanities. Indeed, many of the inscriptions were left by Catholic and Jesuit priests during the reign of Elizabeth. And there was the same prevailing sense of sorrow that couldn't possibly be explained unless you'd spent a night within the same unforgiving walls of this torture palace.

Davenant could hear the rain lashing down outside. The cell would occasionally be illuminated by a flash of lightning accompanied by a grumble of thunder so severe, it sounded as if it had originated within the bowels of Hell itself. Davenant noticed that the majority of his group had somehow fallen asleep. He was grateful for that although he couldn't fathom how they could sleep in such conditions.

Davenant knew only too well that he would spend the entire night wide awake with worry, only his thoughts and Turnbull's ceaseless snoring to accompany him. He jumped when he felt a hand brush against his shoulder. He turned to face Faith, who had crept up next to him.

"Sorry if I startled you," she said.

"I thought I was the only one awake," replied Davenant, shifting along the wall to make more room for her.

"No, there's not much chance of me getting any sleep in here." She turned her face to his.

"I'm sorry for getting you involved in all this," whispered Davenant.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You saved our lives, Sir William. You mustn't forget that."

"I daresay you won't feel that way when we're up on Tower Hill staring the executioner in the eye."

Faith smiled tenderly. "Of course I will. I've enjoyed meeting you and your family, and spending these few days with you has been an experience to say the least."

"Yes, it has been an experience," he said, glancing over at Mary who was asleep in the furthest corner of the cell.

"You mustn't blame Mary," replied Faith. "She can't help the way she is."

"How did you get put on trial alongside her?" asked Davenant.

"It was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anne and I went for a walk in the woods when we came across Mary performing some strange ritual. We hid behind a tree to watch her. When then the soldiers came to take her away they found us loitering nearby. They assumed that we were part of her witchcraft. Still, you have to admit that she is good."

"Yes, a little too good. She lifted the lid on me." said Davenant.

"Why are you so ashamed of your past?" Davenant didn't answer immediately. "I'm sorry, I should not have asked, it's none of my business."

"Because of the stigma and the dishonour surrounding my birth. I'm a bastard child and people don't like bastard children."

"Yet you follow in his footsteps."

"Yes. I already loved the theatre before I discovered that Shakespeare was my father. I cannot deny that having him as my father did help in my becoming recognised on the circuit, though."

"So why resent him?"

"Because I wanted to be known for my own plays and soon realised that mine weren't a patch on his."

"Let us perform one of your plays for Cromwell's wife tomorrow then!" said Faith encouragingly, trying to lift his spirits.

"No."

"Then what shall we do?"

Davenant cast his eye over his troupe and took a deep breath. "What about a play by my father? Now is as good a time as any."

"Are you sure?" asked Faith, taken aback.

"As sure as I'll ever be, it's just a question of which one."

"What about
Richard III
? That would send Cromwell into spasms of anger! After all, it might as well be about him."

Davenant's mind was racing at the possibilities. And then he spoke, a whispered murmur at first that went unheard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"
Macbeth
... the Scottish Play."

Faith looked puzzled. "Isn't that a little... depressing for a birthday celebration?" Davenant got to his feet unsteadily. "No, no, think about it. It's perfect. We've got three witches, a Scottish soldier and a King already amongst us. It is meant to be," he gasped.

"And you're sure you can do this?"

"My good lady, I was born to do this!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Greenwich

Something was leading them towards the capital. The horde of men, women, children, soldiers, drunkards, housewives and whores staggered and lurched their way along the banks of the Thames. The stench of the London River was overwhelmed by the reek of rotting flesh, the smell penetrating the hovels nearby and rousing people from their sleep. If they listened carefully they could just make out the soft groans of the dead, many dismissing it as the sound of the wind and returning to their slumber, unaware of the horrors that lurched mere feet from their doors.

The banks of the river were crowded with the dead, some falling into the water as their brethren shuffled relentlessly on. Those lost to the river merely floated on the surface, occasionally twitching, staring dispassionately from empty eye sockets.

Eventually the dead came to a square, across which light spilled from the doors of a slaughterhouse, the scent of animal and human flesh drawing them quickly onwards. Soft groans now turned to feral growls of hunger as they spilled into the building. A man looked up as he slaughtered a pig, the knife dropping from his hand as a thing with half a face clawed into his stomach and pulled out his guts. Just before the darkness closed in, he saw the thing feasting on his steaming intestines.

The dead tore open animal pens, feasting on the squealing livestock within, pulling apart cows, sheep and chickens in their frenzy. Soon the sluices were overwhelmed with gore and the blood began to spill from the slaughterhouse into the square. The cobbles shone pitch black in the moonlight.

Within a matter of minutes all living flesh in the building had been consumed and the horde wandered back to the banks of the river and continued in their shuffling march into the capital.

In the distance the curtained walls of the Tower of London crouched over the Thames like a castle nestled over its moat. It was illuminated briefly by a flash of lightning, revealing the White Tower in all its ostentatious glory. In spite of their seemingly directionless ambling, there was no confusion amongst the dead - they knew exactly where they were heading and who they wanted to slay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Tower of London

It was morning. At least Davenant could have sworn it was - his body seemed to confirm it, but were his eyes deceiving him? As he stirred, the murky clouds that were so prevalent the night before were still hanging low in the dense sky, turning dawn to night. Davenant had never seen such a gloomy morning and he yearned for the bright countryside daybreaks that he had often enjoyed in Oxfordshire. He truly felt miserable. He even began to welcome the thought of his execution, for at least then he would be put out of his misery.

As he turned his head from the window, he became aware that Elizabeth and Betterton were also awake and in the middle of a muted quarrel. He closed his eyes and pretended to fall back asleep, eager to establish the cause of their disagreement.

"How many more times do I have to tell you?" asked Betterton.

Elizabeth sighed. "Don't take that tone with me. You forget your actions."

"Perhaps, but I have had enough of telling you the same thing, over and over again!"

"But it's so far fetched, Thomas. Put yourself in my position, would you believe what you're saying?"

"I daresay I wouldn't," replied Betterton sullenly. "But I want you to believe me more than anyone else."

Elizabeth allowed herself a reluctant smile. "I want to, really I do."

An uneasy silence fell upon the cell.

"All I thought about when I left was you."

"Yet I wager you wouldn't have returned to us unless you were forced to."

"Listen, Elizabeth, I am destitute. Your father hasn't paid our wages in weeks and I've had to steal to make ends meet. If there had been any other way..."

"My father keeps you in food, drink and shelter, isn't that enough?"

"Look, we shouldn't argue, we've only got one last day together. Let us make the most of it."

"Very well," Elizabeth replied.

A fleet of heavy footsteps broke her train of thought. Elizabeth got to her feet and peeked through the bars of the cell door. She could see several of Cromwell's soldiers and Cromwell himself marching down the corridor towards them. She quickly sat back down, seeking refuge in between her father and Turnbull, trembling at the thought of any further contact with the repulsive Cromwell.

The heavy lock on the door clunked open.

"Good morning, one and all. I trust you had a pleasant night's sleep?" asked Cromwell mockingly as he entered the cell.

"As well as could be expected," replied Davenant.

"My soldiers shall accompany you to the Queen's House. You can have the afternoon to rehearse. We meet at the Phoenix Theatre this evening."

"Come on! Get up!" bellowed the tubby General, as he banged his cudgel against the bars on the cell door.

The group got to their feet gingerly and walked in single file out of the chamber. Cromwell leered as he admired Elizabeth. He couldn't help but cup his hand around her pert buttock as she eased past him. She let out a faint yelp of disgust as her pace quickened. As Cromwell followed the actors, he allowed himself a fleeting glance into a cell to his left, a small chamber, little more than a privy. To his surprise, its single occupant seemed startlingly familiar. He saw his ashen, ghostlike face first, his sunken and sallow features drawn over his skeletal cheekbones. And then he saw the brown hooded cloak that shrouded the prisoner's pallid face. Cromwell turned and strode briskly up the corridor, feeling an icy breeze on the back of his neck, and his heart pounding in his chest.