The Devil's Plague (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Phoenix Theatre, Drury Lane

Given the circumstances, it had been a splendid afternoon. Davenant was able to forget his troubles as the group set about their rehearsal, and as the crowd began to convene in the pit of the old theatre for the evening's entertainment, Davenant felt a sense of palpable excitement - the kind that only performing in front of hundreds of people can give. They had done a good job in tidying up the place, bringing in new seats from Whitehall Palace and repairing the old timber of the stage. Several seamstresses had patched up the velvet of the crimson curtain and Cromwell had even allowed for several props and costumes to be taken over from the Red Bull Theatre in Clerkenwell.

It had been almost a decade since Davenant had last set foot in the Phoenix, and despite its neglect, it had managed to retain its unique atmosphere. He looked up at the ornate Inigo Jones designed ceiling that hung high above the first gallery. This wasn't some shabby little tavern full of drunken low-life. This was the real thing, and Davenant took a moment to breathe it in.

He was surprised by how adept his new-found members were at acting. Middleton's Macbeth was one of the finest he'd ever seen and Charles' Duncan was almost as polished, although their performances were no doubt aided by their real life similarity to the characters. The same could be said of Faith, Anne and Mary, who were unnervingly convincing as the three witches whilst Elizabeth was radiant as Lady Macbeth. Davenant still couldn't quite comprehend that he was allowing women on the stage for the first time, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to work, and to see Elizabeth so cheerful made it worthwhile. And it would give Cromwell a nasty shock too.

To complete the casting, Davenant decided to take the part of Banquo and Betterton the part of Malcolm. He had even drafted in Underhill and Turnbull to portray Donalbain and Macduff respectively, although from what he'd seen in rehearsal his optimism for those two was not quite as well founded.

Oliver, Elizabeth and Richard Cromwell greeted their guests with arrogant delight as they swept into the auditorium. They weren't the usual vermin that used to frequent the playhouses of London. These people were the dignitaries of the Parliamentarian campaign. As Davenant witnessed their entrance, he wished he were able to load the cellars with dynamite and blow them all to Hell, for as far as he could tell, his entire enemy were all encamped under one roof. And the most absurd part about it was that he was about to perform a play for them.

Everyone was in costume and the excitement amongst the troupe was tangible. Davenant's apprehension about performing the most legendary of his father's plays soon disappeared when he saw Middleton and Charles run through their lines in costume.

"The rest is labour, which is not used for you. I'll be myself the harbinger and make joyful the hearing of my wife with your approach; so humbly take my leave."

"My worthy Cawdor!"

Davenant stood and watched in admiration. He could scarcely believe just how accomplished the two of them were. "I am loath to interrupt gentlemen, but we are to start shortly," he said, before turning to the three witches. "Ladies, if you would kindly take your places on stage. We're ready to begin."

There was a glimmer of satisfaction in Davenant's eyes that had long been missing, and both Turnbull and Elizabeth noted it. They exchanged a brief smile. Elizabeth had fond memories of growing up in Turnbull's care when her father was imprisoned. They would for ever be getting into trouble in one way or another. As a child, Elizabeth always enjoyed the thrill of the chase, but as she faced the daunting prospect of the gallows, she longed for the days of riding on the back of Turnbull's steed, feeling the country air blow through her hair, fleeing the clutches of some scoundrel to whom Turnbull owed money. He had quickly become something of a second father to her.

She looked back at Davenant, who was surveying her costume. "Do I look suitable?" she asked.

"You look every bit the Lady Macbeth," replied Davenant proudly. "I look forward to seeing the look on Cromwell's face when he sees you ladies on stage. He won't know what hit him."

Betterton ambled sheepishly up to Davenant. "Sir William, I'd just like to thank you for giving me one last chance to perform a play by William Shakespeare. I know this must be difficult for you."

"Thank you, Thomas. It's quite all right. Now let's give them a show they'll never forget!"

Faith, Anne and Mary took centre stage as the loud muttering from the audience quickly descended into several gasps of whispered conversations. They couldn't quite believe what they were seeing, women on the London stage?

Faith stepped forward defiantly, carrying a suitably witchlike hunch. "When will we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain?"

The whispering amongst the audience very quickly died down and they began to watch in enraptured silence.

"When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won." It was Anne who took the role of the second witch and delivered her line just as confidently as Faith.

It was now Mary's turn to deliver and she didn't disappoint, her voice rasping and echoing around the vast auditorium. "That will be ere the set of sun."

"Where the place?"

"Upon the heath."

"There to meet with Macbeth."

"I come, Graymalkin."

"Paddock calls."

"Anon."

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air."

Davenant was just as entranced as the audience. The three women owned the stage. As he peeked around the side of the curtain to survey the reaction of the crowd, he could see a soldier walking briskly down the aisle towards Cromwell. He whispered something in his ear and Cromwell got to his feet, made his excuses and followed the soldier out of the theatre. Something was wrong.

Duncan, Malcolm and Donalbain had taken to stage beside him, unaware of what had just taken place in the auditorium.

"What bloody man is that? He can report, as seemeth by his plight, of the revolt the newest state."

"This is the sergeant who like a good and hardy soldier fought 'gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil as thou didst leave it."

Davenant's attention was once again drawn away from the stage. The soldier and Cromwell came storming back up the aisle, the sound of their heavy boots resonating around the auditorium. Davenant let out a faint gasp as Cromwell climbed the steps up to the stage itself.

Sensing something was dreadfully amiss, Betterton's eyes flickered towards Davenant and Charles began to muff his lines.

Cromwell quickly put him out of his misery. "I am sorry to interrupt the proceedings, but we have a problem. I have just been informed that there is an army attacking the city and we must seek refuge in the Tower immediately." He turned and looked accusingly at Charles, who responded with a confused shrug of the shoulders.

Elizabeth ran up to Davenant. "What's going on?"

"Something about an attack, apparently," replied Davenant, clearly heartbroken that his swansong had been so tragically cut short. Whoever was attacking the city had better be worth their attention, he thought.

"Come on, all of you! We must get back to the Tower immediately," bellowed the soldier who had come on stage with Cromwell.

"What's going on?" Davenant asked.

"Something about an army attacking the city. And I don't suppose you have anything to do with that?"

"Absolutely not."

After the initial shock of their theatrical sabotage had passed, his mind began to process the bizarre sequence of events. He remembered what Betterton and Mary had proclaimed, coupled with what had followed on their way down to London and the disappearance of the mounted soldiers. And who were those mysterious men lurching their way through the field in Evesham? In a moment of beautiful lucidity, what had been but a dim suspicion, a vague conjecture suddenly became as clear as countryside air. Despite its absurdity, its grim and brutal irrationality, Betterton must have been telling the truth.

The theatre was in chaos. The guests who had arrived so regally were now barging and clawing their way to get to the doors. Within a minute, Davenant had been herded outside. A nearby carriage had been prepared for the prisoners and the actors were shoved unceremoniously inside. Turnbull was the last in. The carriage doors were slammed shut, the driver's whip cracked into life and the wheels creaked into motion.

Davenant peered out of the window and could see that up ahead, Cromwell was bellowing orders. Just before he clambered into his own carriage, Davenant could hear him cry out:

"Unleash the Kryfangan!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Fleet Street

The carriage rattled through the cobbled streets of the Strand and Aldwych. Usually two of the busier areas of London, now they were all but deserted. It couldn't have been any later than eight o'clock, the time when the taverns should have been at their busiest. Yet as they passed the Boar's Head, one of Fleet Street's more notorious hostelries, not a soul was inside, no music or drunken singing radiating from within.

"This is what it was like in Kempsey!" cried Betterton. "A ghost town!"

"Except we're in London," replied Davenant. "And London should be a damned sight busier than Kempsey."

There was something terribly wrong in the capital and it frightened Davenant to his core. He was surprised to find the Thames similarly deserted, with only a smattering of watermen gracing the river in their boats. Cries of "Westward Ho!", "Eastward Ho!" would usually resound from the water but there were no calls tonight, just the sound of the wind beating against the side of their carriage.

Davenant could hear the sound of the wheels grinding to a halt. He caught a quick glimpse of his surroundings and saw that they'd stopped right in the heart of Cheapside.

"Why have we stopped?" asked Charles.

"I don't know," replied Davenant. "But no one stops in Cheapside unless they're spoiling for a fight."

"I'm scared, father," said Elizabeth, as she huddled up next to him.

Davenant was scared too, but he was damned if he'd let her know it. As he looked out of the window, he suddenly became aware of two or three muffled shrieks from up ahead. Davenant pressed his face to the glass and spied several of Cromwell's Generals and soldiers engaged in a skirmish with the locals of Cheapside.

"They're here," whispered Mary.

Suddenly, the carriage driver appeared at the window, his face ashen with fear and his eyes wide with terror. Davenant jolted backwards in fright, falling off his seat and onto the carriage floor.

"Ye Gods!" he cried, shuffling as far away from the window as possible.

"Everyone get out! We need to leave immediately!" The driver bellowed, throwing open the carriage doors.

"What the devil is going on?" asked Davenant.

"We're under attack!"

"Surely they're just a group of local ruffians," said Charles. "Aren't Cromwell's men more than sufficient to take care of them?"

"Them things ain't ruffians!"

Davenant shot a glance at Mary, who was shaking her head despairingly. Another cry echoed from further up the street and Davenant peered around the side of the carriage to get a better view of the commotion. What he saw would forever be etched onto his memory.

A group of soldiers were tearing Cromwell's men apart.

Davenant watched a General cry out in agony as a ragged man plunged his thumbs into his eye sockets and tore out his throat with rotting teeth. Cromwell's man dropped, blood jetting against the tavern wall behind him and Davenant saw the feral soldier in all its horror. As it knelt down to tear strips of flesh from the General, Davenant could see that there was a hole where the soldier's chest should have been. Its ribs glistened in the lamplight.

How was it possible to suffer such a wound and live?

The soldier looked up, flesh and offal dripping from its mouth, and its terrible dead eyes turned on Davenant. Behind him more of the ragged soldiers were surging up the street. Already the second carriage was besieged by the reeking ghouls.

Where is Cromwell? Davenant thought. Has he already fallen in battle?

"We need to leave, now!" cried Davenant, aware that their driver was already hurrying away from the carnage. As they followed him, a thunder of horses' hooves filled the narrow street and their way was suddenly blocked by dark riders straddling horses as black as night, their eyes glowing diabolically. The carriage driver tried to turn and run as the dreadful cavalry pounded towards them, but his efforts were futile and he was obliterated beneath their hooves, his skull shattering as they rode over him.

There was nowhere to hide. From one side came the hideous groans of the dead feasting on human flesh; from the other came the riders bearing down on them like a ferocious black tide.

As the riders drew closer, Davenant could see the strange crab-like armour they wore, the black chitinous shells completely covering whatever lay beneath. In great clawed hands they wielded enormous swords, far bigger than any weapons Davenant had ever seen. He held tightly to Elizabeth's hand and closed his eyes, praying that their deaths would be swift and painless.