The Devil's Plague (11 page)

"Arise, Sir William."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Bishop's Cleeve, Gloucestershire

13th September, 1651

The weather had changed overnight, bringing with it an incessant wind, ominous skies and a modicum of rain. The air was bitterly cold and had managed to penetrate right through into the carriage. A small crack in the roof let in tiny drips that had dampened the seats, smudging the leather and leaving it clammy to touch. The wind came in gusts, shaking the carriage as it trundled round the sharp bends of sunken country lanes, or over high ground in exposed places of barren wilderness. The wheels of the carriage squealed as they sank into the many furrows and potholes that littered the badly kept roads.

The group huddled together for warmth. Davenant, looking out of the filthy mud-streaked window, could just about make out a convoy of mounted soldiers galloping alongside. They had passed through countless villages and towns where the locals had braved the adverse conditions to greet the party as they travelled through. Word would reach the next village before they did, and more peasants would line the roads to see if the rumours of a carriage carrying Charles Stuart were true. Charles was evidently touched to see many of the crowds saluting, and as they passed through the village of Bishop's Cleeve, several of the well-wishers had draped their rag-like blankets over the numerous puddles in respect for their King. Others had dared to throw stones and rotten vegetables in the direction of the soldiers, which had filled Charles with a smug glee and the sense that the battles and hardships had been worthwhile.

The driver of the carriage, a hulk of a man with no neck, had lost the feeling in his hands hours ago and could barely clasp the whip which hung limply in his left hand. The horses had thus found themselves at a temporary reprieve and could travel as fast or as slow as they wished without fear of reprisal. It meant that the soldiers had expunged much of their energy in trying to keep up with the carriage and subsequently failed to deal with the few unruly villagers.

The group let out a collective groan as the carriage jolted over another deep rut, the shock of which sent them tumbling into one another. To his embarrassment, Davenant found himself nestled head first in Faith's bosom.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled as he felt himself turning red in the face.

"I don't suppose we're anywhere near London yet, are we? I'm not sure whether I can put up with much more of this," replied Faith, unperturbed by Davenant's embarrassment.

Underhill hadn't taken his eyes off Betterton, who sat opposite him, sporting several wild bruises, the largest of which had almost sealed his left eye. "Why did you do it, Thomas, I thought we were friends? But you're nothing more than piss in the wind!"

Betterton sank his head into his chest. "I will make it up to you all. I promise."

"Why lie to us?" spat Elizabeth.

Everyone was listening now as Betterton timidly took centre stage.

He appreciated that his answer to Elizabeth's question had to be a bloody good one, and he took a deep breath in an effort to compose himself. "I have not lied to you. Yes, I have made a terrible mistake that I shall always regret, but I have not lied. What I saw was beyond the pale. I swear as God is my witness that I saw a young girl of no more than twelve years of age, stagger towards me with her head barely attached to her body. As she died in my arms, a group of men attacked me. I could see in their eyes that they weren't alive..."

"Weren't alive?" Elizabeth interrupted, abrasively.

"If you had seen them, you wouldn't think to question my integrity. Their eyes were as vacant as the expression on their faces. And as I turned to run, the young girl, who not a moment earlier was dead in my arms, was standing next to me, completely reanimated with blood still seeping from her wound."

There was a deathly silence. Even the creaking wheels of the carriage seemed to respect the situation and offer no interruption.

"You've taken several blows to your head, Thomas. You're concussed and what you're saying is a result of that," said Davenant, appealing for rationality.

"No! I saw her as clear as I see you now!" Betterton cried, as he looked desperately in Mary's direction, frantically trying to find a believer. She closed her eyes, much to his dismay.

"This is nothing more than a futile attempt to gain sympathy," said Charles, still smarting from Betterton's betrayal. "Let us hope that Cromwell has the good grace to chop off your head first."

Betterton shook his head glumly and turned to face the window. He was left in no doubt that any chance of him collecting the reward had vaporised into thin air. It was raining harder now, fierce droplets pounding rhythmically against the smoky glass and gushing through the crack in the roof. Betterton could no longer make out the mounted soldiers though they had been perfectly visible not five minutes prior to his chastisement. He could have sworn he had heard several gasps or squeals, but soon came to the conclusion that it must have been the carriage wheels again. He closed his eyes and prayed for sleep, even if it was for just ten minutes.

As they left the sodden village of Bishop's Cleeve behind them, Davenant could feel the carriage begin to slow and the thud of hooves on the wet terrain begin to ease in their ferocity. Eventually they came to a halt by a dense copse. The soldiers duly pulled up alongside the carriage, dismounting hurriedly, and the sound of a muted conversation between the General and the driver began to filter into the carriage. As Davenant appealed for silence from his comrades, he was alarmed to find the conversation build into a heated and animated exchange. As he put his ear to the window, he could pick out several words. "Crowd" and "trouble" seemed to be the most common plus the occasional obscenity thrown in for good measure. And then, for the briefest, most fleeting of moments, he could have sworn he heard one of the men utter the word "bloodshed."

He rubbed the sleeve of his jerkin on the window to remove some of the filth. To his bewilderment, there were only three mounted soldiers in their party, where previously there had been six. The three soldiers that remained looked as though they had come face to face with the Devil himself.

Davenant could see the driver hastily retake his seat and heard a viciously urgent crack of the whip rain down upon the horses' backs. As the carriage wheels jolted into action, he couldn't help but wonder whether there might be an element of truth in Betterton's implausible account after all. Perhaps their arrival in London would shed some light on this bizarre chain of events, he thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Tower of London

It was exactly as he remembered it. The same repellent smell, the same sense of trepidation and apprehension - although Davenant was grateful that this time his entrance into the Tower was over its drawbridge and not through the murky waters of Traitors' Gate. As the weary carriage driver and the even wearier horses plodded through the portcullis of the Lion Tower, Davenant cast his eye at the ominous clouds gathering over the Thames. It had been another wretched day full of biting winds and rainstorms, but these black clouds brought with them an altogether more threatening atmosphere. The distant rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning had woken Elizabeth, who had been asleep since they passed through Abbots Langley more than three hours earlier.

"Where are we?" she muttered.

"The Tower of London," replied Davenant, keen not to make its name sound any more menacing than it already was. It was of no use, the look of fear that was already fixed upon the faces of his companions was clear for all to see. Even Charles and Middleton, men accustomed to the threat of death on a daily basis, looked pale.

The depleted convoy of soldiers followed the carriage and as they came to a halt outside the White Tower, they dismounted and unbolted the carriage doors. As Davenant was hoisted from the transport by one of the soldiers, he peered up at the gigantic building that loomed over them. He took a moment to remember the torpid months that he had been incarcerated here. But then he fondly remembered the friendship he had struck up with dear old Bray, and their ridiculous escape through the same gates that they had just passed through. Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought. Although the clouds hanging above him now were far darker than he ever remembered them being on that day. He pondered what might have become of Bray, the peculiar old seadog, and hoped that wherever he was and whatever he was doing he was enjoying every minute of it.

As he watched the others being hauled from the carriage, he tried to ascertain what was different about the Tower this time - was it the new armouries, or a change to the Queen's House? No, it was something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. And then it hit him, how could he have possibly forgotten? There was no sound of the squawking of ravens; the incessant din that they used to make would keep him awake for hours on end. And then he remembered the legend - that if the ravens ever left the Tower then- the entire Kingdom would fall. He wasn't a great believer in folklore, but perhaps there was an ounce of truth to this one.

Cromwell and the gaunt artist sat within his luxurious chamber in the White Tower. The artist, in his drab workaday gown, had a dark, sporadic beard and drawn out features which looked as though his skin had been pulled tightly over his face. Despite the dingy weather outside, the cold marble floor was still able to gleam beneath the many burning lanterns and the glow of the fire burning in the grate.

The artist was putting the finishing touches to Cromwell's portrait. He was fortunate that the enigmatic lighting favoured Cromwell's new-found vanity, although what he thought of his portrait remained to be seen. There was no denying that Cromwell did look strikingly regal in his long golden gown trimmed with ermine, a surcoat of silver cloth, and a shirt of exquisite linen. Attendants hovered by to offer him wine, hold his gloves, move his chair or, at nod or lift of a finger, take some muttered message from him.

Footsteps resonated along the corridor outside the chamber. Cromwell's tubby General soon appeared, sheepishly, in the doorway.

"Excuse me, Sir. I'm sorry to disturb but..."

"Can't you see I'm busy!" snapped Cromwell.

"Yes, Sir, but I thought you would like to know that they've arrived."

"You will leave us." Cromwell said, curtly, to the artist.

The artist doffed his hat, holding it to his chest as etiquette required. He knelt to Cromwell with a few soft words of parting and slithered from the room.

"Would you be so kind as to send them up to me?" asked Cromwell, his eyes flickering with devilish glee.

"Yes Sir, right away."

Cromwell motioned for his attendants to leave the room. Within a minute he was alone in the vast chamber. He composed himself. Cromwell could feel his heart beating in his chest like a pair of castanets. It angered him to think that Davenant and Charles were having such an adverse effect on his nerves. The sounds of footsteps were becoming more insistent as they approached and Cromwell could distinguish the sound of several heavy boots amongst them. As he looked up, his General re-appeared in the doorway.

"William Davenant and Charles Stuart, Sir, plus several other... parasites we picked up en route."

"Send them in."

The two defiant figures strode purposefully into the chamber, unperturbed by its luxuriant peril, followed by the rest of the group.

Davenant was immediately struck by how hideous Cromwell had become, the warts that infested his face were like nothing he'd ever seen, even on the most stricken of pox-sufferers. Cromwell, already irritated by his bold entrance, could see the appalled reaction in Davenant's eyes and this angered him further.

"Good evening, Sir William, it's been a while, hasn't it? I trust you had a pleasant journey down?" he said.

"It was delightful. May I convey my thanks for sending your finest carriage and your most reputable of soldiers," replied Davenant.

Cromwell fixed his glare upon Charles. "Charles Stuart as well! My, my, this is quite a gathering. I've no doubt your father would have been very proud of your little rebellion, in particular escaping the Battle of Worcester unscathed. The good it's done you..."

"Go fuck yourself, you pox-ridden twat!" spat Charles.

Davenant let out a loud guffaw.

Cromwell was dumbfounded. "I see you display the legendary Stuart temper," he eventually managed.

And then it happened again - to begin with only one or two droplets, but within a few seconds blood was pouring from Cromwell's nose. He motioned frantically for one of his attendants to re-enter the chamber. A tall, elegant woman rushed over to him and handed him a scented handkerchief which he duly snatched from her. He placed it carefully over his nose as Davenant and Charles looked on in unreserved astonishment.

"This happens from time to time," muttered Cromwell from behind the handkerchief, evidently embarrassed, and conscious that it had seemed an age since someone last spoke.

"I daresay it does," said Charles. "And I must say that it gives me great pleasure to watch you bleed."

Cromwell dabbed at the blood, thinking long and hard about his retort. "And it will give me great pleasure to finally end this war of ours. And to watch your head roll! I wonder if you will bleed as much as your father did. I was told they were mopping up his blood hours after his execution."