The Devil's Plague (9 page)

Charles took a moment to collect his thoughts, no doubt the retelling of such a distressing anecdote was still hard to bear even years later. "I was hiding underneath the scaffold and watched... watched it through a crack in the wood. I saw the drunken executioner parading around the stage, lapping up every jeer and taunt, before cutting my father's head off with one blow of his axe. I can vividly remember it dropping into the basket not ten feet away from me."

"With Cromwell looking on with jubilant glee, I daresay." There was vitriol in Davenant's voice now.

"Still, we have found solace in our mutual ire, have we not?" replied Charles.

Their heart-to-heart was cut short by a sudden, blood-curdling scream that tore through the night. The two men stumbled to their feet and darted across the slippery grass towards the tent from which the chilling scream had issued.

"It's Faith and Anne," gasped Charles, as the two men ran through the cool darkness. Davenant pulled the flap of the tent to one side and poked his head reluctantly inside, terrified of what he'd find. To his relief, he found both women alive and well, attempting to kill a spider that had crept its way inside.

"Can we help you?" said Faith, holding a slipper in her hand.

Davenant noticed that the colour had returned to her cheeks and her blue eyes seemed to glisten as a cascade of moonlight flooded the tent. He paused, as he contemplated her natural beauty. Dr Tyrell's medicine had patently done the trick.

"No, no. We heard a scream and came over to see if you were all right," he replied.

"You came rushing over on our account? You've done enough for us already, Sir William."

"You know my name?"

"But of course. We've heard all about you." Faith glanced over at Anne who was grinning wickedly.

"From Mary, no doubt," spat Davenant, almost losing his cool.

"No, Sir William, from your daughter. She was telling us what a kind, considerate father you are."

"Where is Mary?" he asked.

"She's gone for a walk."

"Fine, I shall catch up with her later. How are you ladies bearing up?"

"A little better, thank you."

"Perhaps when you are quite yourselves, you might explain why you were being tried for witchcraft?"

"And perhaps you might explain why you chose to risk your lives to save us?" Faith replied.

Davenant suddenly became aware of hurried footsteps approaching the tent.

"Father, it's Betterton, he's gone!" shrieked Elizabeth, her voice penetrating through the canvas.

Davenant staggered back outside, almost colliding with Elizabeth and Underhill as he did so. "What do you mean, gone?" he spluttered.

Elizabeth grimaced; her face was raddled with worry. "I hadn't seen him for about an hour, so I went to his tent to see if he was all right. There's no sign of him and all his belongings are gone."

Davenant let out a weary sigh. "Do you have any idea where he could have gone?"

But he didn't need to satisfy himself with an answer. He knew full well where Betterton was going.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kempsey, Worcestershire

Thomas Betterton trekked through the tiresomely persistent undergrowth that seemed to greet his every step with a vice-like grip of sodden earth on leather boot. As he spied the cluster of lights belonging to the dwellings of Kempsey, he spared a thought for Elizabeth and what her reaction would be when she discovered his betrayal. He had managed to convince himself that in spite of his affection for her, no relationship was worth one double crown, no matter how beautiful she was. It must have been his parents mutual hatred for one another that had left him a shallow, loveless son-of-a-bitch, he mused. Either that or he was just, in fact, a covetous bastard. Davenant weighed heavily on his mind also, and as he waded through the mire, he almost felt a tinge of sorrow for him.

Still, no time for regret when there's a reward to collect.

He hauled himself from the shallow ditch that was clinging to his ankles and onto the cobbled pathway that led into the scenic hamlet, its smattering of lodgings full of character with their whitewashed walls bedecked with flowers. He searched for an inn from where he might get directions back to Bewdley. He couldn't have been that far away, he thought to himself, as he spied the local hostelry, comprised of a row of cottages. As he ambled along the walled tavern garden, fragrantly planted with roses and honeysuckle, he cast his mind back to what the soldier had told him in Pershore. As Davenant was being interrogated following Mary's declaration on his parentage, Betterton had skulked into the nearby inn, armed with the wanted poster, and had spied the Parliamentarian soldier in the corner. He was a peculiar man by the name of Danes, a robust, full-bodied type, which made his effeminate nature seem all the more bizarre. He had told Betterton to return to Bewdley and that he would make arrangements for someone to meet him there. Betterton began to lament that it would have been far more prudent to wait for the money to arrive before divulging his information. But there was little point in worrying about that now, he concluded. What was done was done.

There was something strangely amiss in Kempsey and it bothered Betterton that he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Was it the rich smell of the nearby clematis, or perhaps the sprawling, disjointed layout of the buildings? As he mulled it over it suddenly dawned on him - there was no one in sight, no sound of conversation or drunken singing. Betterton warily approached the tavern. He was surprised to find the door ajar, gently swinging on its hinges in the cool breeze.

"Hello," he called out as he peered inside.

Inside the tavern was empty; lanterns blazing and tankards untouched. Betterton decided that his next best option would be to try one of the nearby dwellings, see if he could find out where everybody had disappeared to.

He held aloft a lantern that he'd liberated from the tavern as he made his way back down the dusty street. He felt a rush of relief as he saw a young girl shuffling towards him.

Thank God, he thought to himself.

As he approached the girl he was suddenly struck by a chilling realisation. He fearfully held the lantern up to reveal the cavernous wound - a wound so deep that her head was barely attached to her neck. As the girl staggered onwards, blood poured from the gash saturating her yellow petticoat. Betterton dropped his lantern and ran to her assistance.

As he reached out to the girl, she collapsed limply into his waiting arms. "God in heaven!" he exclaimed, easing her to the ground and wiping the blood from her neck. He soon realised that his effort was futile, as another wave of blood poured from her. Betterton began to sob as the girl's eyes rolled back into her head, but before he could make any sense of the horrendous situation he had found himself in, a noise of dragging feet caught his attention. As he looked up, he could see the silhouettes of a group of seven or eight men against the moonlight, lurching their way up the lane, not with the step of normal healthy men, but with some kind of ungodly stagger. Long, dry moans emanated from coarse throats that didn't have the capacity for speech.

Betterton didn't wait to try and piece together what deranged situation he'd stumbled upon and got hastily to his feet to make his escape. As he turned to run, he found to his surprise that the young girl was back on her feet and reaching out towards him.

"Come with me!" he said, grabbing her hand. "We must go, now!"

It didn't occur to Betterton that he was trying to help a girl who had died in his arms seconds earlier. Instead, his only thought was of getting her to a doctor and away from the strange group staggering their way. She resisted his tug and when Betterton tried a second time to move her, she reciprocated by crushing his hand in a vice-like grip. Betterton let out an agonised yell as his knuckles cracked and popped. The girl's face was hideous, a feral snarl marring her features. What had once been a pretty little girl was now a monster. Crying out, Betterton swung his fist and struck her hard across the face. The force of the blow severed her head completely and she dropped.

Betterton allowed himself a glance over his shoulder as he fled. He was horrified to find that the group of men had gained on him and he could smell their stale breath on the icy wind. As they shuffled into the light he saw their wounds and knew that they were dead. Yet they walked!

Right at that moment, there was only one place in the world Betterton wanted to be and one group of people he wanted to be with. He sprinted back onto the country lane that led to Evesham Abbey.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Onboard the Algernon, the Solent

20th June, 1642

They hadn't long left Portsmouth and Davenant was already feeling seasick. He leant over the side and took several deep breaths in a hopeless attempt to stop himself from vomiting, but the rolling of the vessel and the sight of the monotonous waves caused him to lose his lunch. This resulted in much hilarity amongst the crew, a mixture of jovial sailors, smugglers and pirates of all ages, races and religions. A regular melting pot.

He ignored their jibes, many of which he couldn't even comprehend, and took in the view of the ocean as he wiped the mixture of spittle and bile from his lip. Theirs was the only craft in view on the vast expanse of water. The sun was shining in the cloudless sky and a fair wind licked over the surface of the sea. After taking deep breaths, Davenant rolled onto his back, squinting as the sun disappeared and reappeared behind the sail. The rigging garlanded the sky, scoring it with the dark lines. He noted the hordes of sweating men heaving the barrels of brandy, beer and gunpowder along the deck and fastening them in place with thick rope. What a journey those barrels must have had, Davenant thought. Through secret tunnels and onto covert carriages before being hauled onboard the Algernon.

"What do you think of my boat?" Bray said, as he took a hearty swig of whatever putrid liquor filled his carafe.

"Your boat?"

"Yes, William, my boat. These men are working for me. What do you think got me imprisoned in the Tower in the first place?" Davenant cast his mind back to what the guards had told him and smirked. "You haven't answered my question, William. What do you think of my boat?"

"It's very grand," replied Davenant.

"Have you always been a terrible liar?"

He was right, Davenant thought. He was lying. The boat was a pockmarked ageing bark, barely held together by pitch and rope; the weathered timber could have sprung a leak and drowned them all at any moment. And the stink was almost unbearable. At least he could console himself that he would be in France within days, free from the threat of Cromwell's men and the judgemental eyes of Bray's comrades. That aside, Davenant was grateful for Bray's assistance in helping him escape the grim confines of the Tower and they had even managed to strike up a peculiar friendship in the two months that they had been on the run. Their journey down from London to Portsmouth had been a perilous affair. They had almost been caught on two separate occasions by Parliamentarian soldiers, and Davenant had felt a heady blend of relief and gratitude when he had seen the glittering coast for the first time. However, his contentment was not without a tinge of sadness, and the thought of Elizabeth's welfare continued to occupy his thoughts and even his dreams. He had managed to send word to Turnbull of his plans to stay in France until he could secure military stores for the Royalists' battle with Parliament.

"I wonder what our friend Cromwell makes of all this?" said Bray, as he removed his jerkin and stretched out on the deck.

"I hope he chokes on his own venom and vitriol," replied Davenant, allowing a rare glimpse of his rancorous side.

"What do you plan to do when we reach France? You know, I could use a good man like you, a man lacking in moral fibre, a man willing to fuck the hierarchy. And who knows, maybe you might end up making some money from it? Enough to buy your own boat, perhaps?"

Davenant smiled. "Is that a veiled complement?" Bray shrugged. "In truth, although I appreciate your kind offer, I have my own agenda. There are several people I need to see in France."

"To help you pursue your incessant tryst with Cromwell, no doubt."

Maybe he was right, Davenant thought. Maybe he should settle down and find something else to do rather than gallivanting around the country catering to the whims of Royalists. It would certainly mean that he would see more of Elizabeth and less of the dank cell walls belonging to the Tower. But then, in a moment of lucidity, he regained his perspective. He'd be damned if he was going to let Parliament and Cromwell ruin his country.

"Cromwell is the man who threatens our freedoms, our daily lives and the man who threatens to take away my first love."

"Bellyaching?"

Davenant let out a wicked cackle. "No, my dear old chap. The theatre."

"In which case, I shall wish you the very best in your endeavours."

There was genuine warmth in Bray's voice and Davenant truly felt as though he had made a friend for life.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN