The Devil's Plague (18 page)

"That'll teach the bastards a lesson!" he cried out, laughing, little realising that they had left Davenant on the roof in their rush to get away.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Oxford Castle Gaol

It wasn't quite as bad as the Tower, but it ran a close second. Although much of the Castle had been destroyed by Parliamentary troops, keen to remove this symbol of Royalist loyalties, Cromwell had recognised its advantages as a gaol and much of it had been repaired and extended. Thus Davenant had woken to find his hands bound by rusting iron cuffs and his ankles fastened together by metal clasps, which were secured to a sturdy shackle in the cold, clammy cell wall. He realised that he must have been knocked unconscious as his cheek was swollen and there was a pronounced bump on the back of his head.

By now, Davenant was utterly sick of incarceration. As he slumped in despair, he could hear footsteps making their way along the passageway outside. Davenant had no doubt that he was soon to be tortured until he gave up his secrets.

It occurred to him that if he were to tell them the whole truth, in all its gruesome, devilish detail, then he would most likely be sent to the Bedlam, and his imprisonment in the Oxford gaol would come to seem as paradise in comparison. He had heard some horrific tales about the Bedlam - such as the guards being as demented as the inmates and the physicians carrying out hideous and unnatural experiments on the poor souls incarcerated there. Davenant decided that he would tell Cromwell's men what they wanted to hear, with one or two little white lies thrown in for good measure. After all, he could hardly give up the whereabouts of Charles, as he had no idea where his troupe had gone, although a small part of him prayed that they would launch some foolhardy rescue mission, not least because of his urge to see through his pledge that Charles and Middleton reach Portsmouth. His thoughts then turned to Elizabeth. He was accustomed to leaving her in Turnbull's care, but without him around, he was naturally concerned for her well being, especially with Betterton so unashamedly lusting after her. In the end he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

A key was turned and the heavy door was pushed viciously open. Charles Fleetwood stepped into the cell, followed by two soldiers, little more than boys.

"I see that Cromwell has spared his most senior officers," mocked Davenant.

Fleetwood planted his fist into Davenant's midriff. "You will regret your choice of words when you're on the rack!"

Davenant let out a faint wheeze. "Perhaps you would indulge me with a goblet of your finest wine first?"

Fleetwood launched a wad of spit at Davenant. "There you go," he replied, venomously. He knelt down and looked him square in the eye, holding up his chin between thumb and forefinger. "Where are Charles Stuart and the rest of your ragbag collective?"

Davenant shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll ask you one more time and take heed that if you fail to answer my question this time, I will flay the skin from your body," said Fleetwood icily.

"I told them that if we were to be split up, the Crown Tavern was where we were to reconvene."

It was the first building that came to mind - his birthplace.

"Very well," said Fleetwood. "But if I find that there is no sign of them there, then I will personally see to your torture and execution. And no doubt my Lord Cromwell will take great pleasure in your demise."

As Fleetwood and his two boy soldiers strode from the cell, Davenant appreciated that he'd only delayed his death sentence, but he felt optimistic that his temporary reprieve might somehow give him enough time to find a way out of his predicament. Either way, he knew that Fleetwood's men were racing their way across Oxford to the Crown Tavern and it wouldn't be long until they discovered his deception.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

St. Martin's Church, Oxford

As soon as they had realised that Davenant had been left behind, Charles had taken over the role of leader. In doing so he had made his first decision - instead of seeking refuge outside of Oxford, he suggested that they hide in the Carfax Tower of St. Martin's Church in the middle of the city. In his opinion it was the last place Cromwell's troops would have expected to find them, thus being the last place they would look. Underhill wasn't as convinced, and had personally taken the role of sentry.

The church tower itself was a tall, proud and elegant building that offered picturesque views of the city. It rose over Oxford like a blessing. The troupe had climbed the ninety-nine steps and enjoyed the panoramic view of Oxford's dreaming spires as the sun was setting, its skyline shaped by the golden stone buildings of the University with their towers, spires and domes.

Now they were encamped behind the pulpit on the ground floor, the moonlight shafting in from the thin windows, forming a kaleidoscope of colours that settled upon the nave.

Charles looked up at the magnificent ceiling. Of the few buildings he had seen in his short time in England, this was by far the most impressive, and it gave him a feeling of pride that one day he would lead a country with such magnificent heritage.

"There's someone coming," Underhill gasped. "I told you we should have left Oxford!"

Middleton shot to his feet. "Wait here, I'll go and see who it is."

As the thick door of the chapel creaked open, Middleton allowed the intruder to take five or six paces inside before pouncing on him. The intruder let out a groan as Middleton landed on him, before turning him over onto his back to reveal his identity. Much to Middleton's horror, the man he was gripping viciously by the throat was an elderly priest.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my church?" asked the priest. "Is it money you're after?"

"No, no, it's not like that," replied Middleton, somewhat ashamed that he had assaulted a member of the clergy. "We are in need of shelter you see."

"Would you please get off me? I might be of some help if you allowed me to breathe!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That's quite all right. If you wouldn't mind helping an old man to his feet, we can discuss this situation as gentlemen."

"My apologies once again," Middleton said, helping the priest up.

"It would appear that you have some questions to answer. I have no wish to involve those dreadful soldiers in our business and, should you offer me a sincere and honest reply, I won't have to. Please, take a seat. My legs are weary and I've no desire to stand unless I very much have to."

Middleton sat. "It's been a long time since I offered a confession."

"Is that what this is? A confession?"

"Of sorts, although I am at peace with what I have done recently," replied Middleton.

"Then I ask again, what is your business in my church tonight, and why the need to assault me upon me entering my place of work?"

Charles stood up, revealing himself. "I am sorry for our breaking into your place of worship. Please forgive my solider, he means you no harm. He's got a fiery temperament, no doubt a symptom of his Scottish ancestry. And we're all a little tired to say the least." Charles beckoned his companions to reveal themselves. "Father, it really is not how it appears."

"Well then, how do you think it appears?"

"That is a good question. It might be wise if I started from the very beginning," replied Charles, taking a seat beside Middleton.

"You look very familiar. Are you a wanted man?" asked the priest.

"In truth, yes, yes I am. I have had to go under the cover of a disguise much of the time. My name is Charles Stuart, the rightful heir to the throne of England. I am hunted by Oliver Cromwell's soldiers..."

"What are you doing in Oxford then? You should be hiding in the countryside!" exclaimed the priest.

"I am beginning to wonder the same thing."

"I knew your father very well," the priest said, getting to his feet. "You do look startlingly similar. And your accent, no doubt you picked it up from your time abroad?"

Charles nodded and the priest dropped to his knees.

"You've stumbled upon an old man who has a Royalist heart, my Lord! We heard that you had been killed in battle! I can't tell you what a relief, and what an honour it is to make your acquaintance." Charles helped the priest to his feet. There were tears glistening in the old man's eyes. "My name is Runcible and I am your humble servant."

"You're not my servant, Father. All I need of you is your secrecy and your sanctuary. We are missing a member of our faction. He was taken by Cromwell's soldiers earlier today, but we are not leaving Oxford without him."

"How can you be sure that he is still alive?"

Elizabeth winced at Runcible's words.

"I do not know for certain. But I won't be satisfied until we've at least explored the possibility that he is."

"Well, there's only one place around here where they would keep him and that's in the old castle gaol. But you can't just expect to walk in unannounced and spring your friend to safety."

"Yes, yes, quite right, so we must go dressed as Cromwell's soldiers."

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?" asked Middleton incredulously.

Charles grinned. "It's quite straightforward, really. Father, you look like a drinking man. Where is the nearest tavern around these parts?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Bear Inn, Oxford

Charles and Middleton loitered outside the Bear Inn until they had settled on their plan. They had left the rest of the group with Runcible who had proven himself something of an invaluable ally, not least because of his extensive knowledge of the Oxford streets.

"So, let's run through this one more time," whispered Middleton. "You want us to go in there, attract the attention of two soldiers, hope they follow us, attack them, steal their clothes and then go and rescue Sir William, disguised as Cromwell's men?"

"Yes." Charles could see the trepidation in Middleton's eyes. "Come on, Middleton! Where's your sense of adventure?" Middleton double-checked that his weaponry was secured as they stepped warily into the saloon, Charles removing his disguise as they did so. They were immediately struck by how small the inn was - several of the more intoxicated locals were perched precariously on the tables to make room for more of their comrades. The wattle and daub structure was exposed in the plaster on the walls, occasionally taking a beating from one of the stumbling drunkards, the wattles creaking inwards with a groan. Carvings of heraldic beasts had been etched deeply into the tobacco-stained plaster above the fireplace, perhaps the legacy of a previous era. Garish replicas of Flemish tapestries were hung nearby, similarly coated in grime, which almost made them appear genuine.

Charles spied a gathering of lantern-jawed soldiers in the furthest corner of the inn, far more sober than the other groups of reprobates. He nudged Middleton and they made their way through the throng towards the bar. They were now only feet away from the soldiers and Charles swaggered up to the bar and rested his arm upon it.

A plump old crone approached him. "What can I get you two gentlemen?"

"Two mugs of your finest ale, please," replied Charles, his voice loud and concise, as if he wanted the nearby soldiers to take note of his tangled accent. He could see in the corner of his eye that it had piqued their interest and they began to draw themselves upright. The serving wench soon reappeared with two pewter tankards of frothy brown ale. Charles and Middleton received them gratefully and each took a hearty swig. Middleton took the opportunity to observe some of the other tavern dwellers - two ostlers engaged in a heated exchange by the entrance over the whereabouts of one of their master's horses, a one-eyed cutpurse guzzling a flagon of wine whilst sifting through his booty and a foreign sailor ignoring the offensive comments being hurled his way by a group of cartwrights.

"Middleton, are they still looking at me?" asked Charles under his breath.

Middleton turned to face the soldiers, placing his ale on the bar. He could see that their gazes were still ardently fixed upon them.

He turned back to Charles. "Aye."

"Finish your drink, we're going," said Charles, allowing himself a sidelong glance at the soldiers. He could see that they were monitoring his every move. Charles finished the last sip of his ale and eased his way back through the crowd with Middleton close behind. They barged past the arguing ostlers obstructing the door and into the night. Middleton's hand was tightly gripped around his knife handle.

And then the patter of footsteps came in chase. Charles distinguished three separate footfalls, less than twenty yards behind them. He realised they could utilise the alleyway to their advantage, engaging the soldiers in a skirmish before they made it onto the busier High Street. Charles turned to face his pursuers. He withdrew a cudgel from his belt, prompting Middleton to unsheathe his blade. The three soldiers were caught off guard, clumsily reaching for their own weapons as Charles and Middleton came rushing back up the alley.

The largest of the three soldiers was able to remove his sword from its scabbard just before Middleton bore down upon him, parrying Middleton's wild swing with his blade. Charles smashed his cudgel down upon the head of the first solider, his head cracking and blood gushing from his nose. He was immediately dead.