The Devil's Plague (5 page)

"Step forward Anne Underhill and let God decide your fate." Kane withdrew a third needle from the box, which was longer, thinner and more striking than the first two. Underhill turned his back as his sister was dragged forward by the brutish thugs. She was far younger than Mary Cavendish and Faith Howard, and seemed entirely out of place. Davenant turned to Charles again, desperately seeking a plan or a hint of an instruction before it was too late. Charles gave a slight hand gesture which motioned him to calm down and stay put. Davenant, like a veteran soldier, didn't question his orders.

"Don't worry, we'll save her. But we have to wait for the right moment." He whispered to Underhill.

Davenant could see the gratitude in Underhill's eyes. Another ovation from the crowd made Davenant jump. As he turned back to face the stage, Kane thrust his third needle through Anne Underhill's skin.

She screamed as a wave of the most agonising, searing pain shot through her slight body. "You bastard," she cried as Kane withdrew his bloodied needle.

He slapped her hard across the face, sending her crashing to the floor of the stage. "Your fate is yet to be sealed," he cried, sending the crowd into jubilant rapture once more. They would get to see not one, but two women suffer the most appalling agony. Entertainment didn't come much better than this. Davenant could just make out Mary Cavendish being watched over by a solitary guard, primed and ready to send her to her death as some sort of grim finale, as Faith Howard and Anne Underhill were dragged by their hair from the stage and towards the waiting River Severn. The crowd barged and pushed their way in pursuit, wanting to get the best possible view of the impending torment.

Charles used the commotion as an opportunity to liaise with Davenant. "Wait for my signal," he whispered. "You and Turnbull take out the guards, Middleton and I shall deal with the priest."

Davenant could see from the maniacal look in Charles' eyes that he relished a scrap. Kane had settled on an elevated spot by the riverbank "If you will not be tried by pricking, then swimming shall seal your fate!" The crowd exploded once more, lapping up his every word and lurid gesture. "The accused shall be bound and thrown into the water. If they sink they shall be deemed innocent and assured a chair at Christ's table. Yet if they float, they shall be deemed guilty and their souls shall rot in eternal damnation."

"Nothing like a fair trial," said Davenant under his breath.

The public spectacle of 'Swimming' was based on the belief that as a witch rejected the water of baptism, so the element of water would reject them in turn, and they would float in an unnatural manner.

Davenant sensed that simply throwing the women into the river wasn't in Kane's style and wouldn't satisfy his sense of spectacle and brutality. He spied Kane's thuggish assistants finishing the intricate binding of the victims. Faith Howard and Anne Underhill were bent double with their arms crossed between their legs and their thumbs tied to their big toes. They had lost the colour from their faces.

At this rate, they won't make the water
, Davenant thought.

As the women were lowered into the water, Underhill let out an agonised cry. Davenant winced, praying that it had gone unnoticed. To his horror, he noticed a nearby family shake their heads in contempt as their patriarch eagerly pushed his way through the hordes to alert Kane to the witch sympathisers amidst the crowd.

They'd been exposed. They had to move now!

"Go!" Davenant grabbed Turnbull and pushed him through the mob, towards the river. Turnbull instinctively withdrew his cudgel and waved it above his head like a deranged lunatic, the crowd dispersing quickly before him.

As Davenant glanced back, he was relieved to see that Betterton and Elizabeth had ushered Underhill to safety.

As they forced their way through the last of the crowd and onto the riverbank, they could see that Kane and his thugs had already prepared their counter attack. Middleton looked on in terror as Kane wielded a chain flail made up of razor-sharp, flat oval links - presumably another device used in his illicit games. Middleton ducked as the flail brushed the top of his head, taking with it a hank of hair.

From the hill by the gallows, Underhill spied the guards on the riverbank drop their ropes and rush to join the skirmish. To his shock, he could see Faith and Anne, still gagged and bound, disappear under the water. Without a moment's hesitation, he bounded downhill and dived into the freezing river. He groped for a hand, a foot or even a length of hair to which he could cling. To his great relief, his hand alighted on his sister's back and then he found Faith's arm. Groaning with the effort, he hauled the two women upwards. As they broke the surface, Faith and Anne gasped for air, coughing up river water mixed with blood.

Having emerged at the riverbank a second behind Underhill, Betterton and Elizabeth waded into the shallows to assist him in heaving the two women ashore. As Elizabeth looked back, she could see her father, not known for his fighting prowess, flanked by two assailants, both wielding colossal swords. She cried out to warn him.

Davenant, who had somehow ended up with a sword of his own, engaged the guard on his right. He was the closest, the most present threat. Yet the man closing down on him from the left was only a heartbeat behind. As Davenant faced his two assailants, his sword began to feel as heavy as a blacksmith's anvil, and his arm jolted painfully every time their metal met his own.

Suddenly, a hole opened up in the forehead of the guard on his right. An axe was embedded there between the bushy eyebrows. Somehow Turnbull had decapitated his own foe and, in a continuing fluid motion, had swung around and flung the axe in the direction of Davenant's assailant. He was lucky it had paid off. How easily the axe could have ended up embedded in Davenant's own skull!

Davenant managed a sardonic smile. "In the nick of time, my dear old chap," he said, as he drove his blade into the stomach of the remaining guard.

Kane, who was still engaged in a frantic battle with Middleton, was unaware that Charles had crept up behind him. It wasn't really the etiquette of a military leader, or that of a King, to attack a man from the rear, but Charles felt that it was appropriate that he make an exception for this tyrant.

Charles waited for the right moment to attack. Then his chance came, and he swung his sword with all his might. Suddenly, Kane's hand was no longer attached to his arm - the severed member, with the chain flail still clenched in it, dropped to the floor while a jet of blood spurted from the stump. Kane dropped to his knees in agony.

Middleton, clearly not in the forgiving mood either, duly severed his head with one clean swipe of his blade. "You can go to hell, you God-fearing bastard," he growled, as Kane's head rolled down the riverbank and ungraciously plopped into the water.

The last of Kane's thugs looked down at the stump of their leader's neck, fountaining blood over the ferocious form of Middleton and, without uttering a word, they turned and ran.

Charles turned to survey the carnage. To his surprise, he found his compatriots had survived relatively unscathed. The crowd, who had been treated to the show of their lives, had all but dispersed. Many headed eagerly for the tavern to brag to their drunkard friends about the spectacle to end all spectacles.

As the group reconvened by the riverbank, Davenant and Charles hastily tore strips of cloth from their jerkins and bound Faith and Anne's wounds.

"They need to see a physician now," said Charles.

Davenant nodded. "But not here. I daresay Cromwell's men are already on their way."

"Where is Mary?" Faith Howard's voice was weak and barely audible.

"Mary?" Davenant came to the conclusion that she must be delirious. And then it hit him - the third woman from the trial. Mary Cavendish. As one, the group turned reluctantly to face the gallows, half expecting to see a middle-aged woman hanging from the noose.

To their surprise, it was the hulking guard who had been assigned to keep watch over her swaying in the gentle breeze. Mary Cavendish was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Kings Head Inn, Aylesbury

Oliver Cromwell reclined in his armchair within the Solar Room of the Kings Head Inn. He was weary after his journey from Worcester, the subsequent meeting with Parliament and the procession through the Market Square which celebrated his victory over the Royalists. He yawned as he brought his chair closer to the blazing hearth, the old stone of the building kept a chill which could bite into bones.

The light from the roaring fire flickered off the old portraits hung crudely from the cedar panelling, giving the room an air of dark conspiracy.

Cromwell could imagine the illicit meetings that had taken place here throughout the years. Both Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou, and Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn were rumoured to have spent nights within these same crooked walls. Cromwell hoped that he would enjoy a better run of fortune than poor old Anne.

Indeed ever since that fateful day at Marston Moor it seemed to Cromwell that fortune favoured him. He frequently found himself reminiscing about past battles - Naseby, York, Langport - but it was always Marston Moor that featured most heavily in his musings. His meeting at the inn beforehand with the strange, crooked man had seemed like a dream, until the following morning when he discovered that his army had all but deserted him. He had resigned himself to an embarrassing defeat and an even more humiliating arrest. But the strange man had been true to his word. As Prince Rupert of the Rhine and his army attacked under the cover of a rainstorm, the ragged horsemen appeared as if from nowhere. Shrouded by a darkness of their own making they had counter-attacked with devastating results.

Cromwell remembered the blood-curdling screams and witnessing the aftermath of this most awesome and ferocious display of aggression. The Royalists had been torn limb from limb, their remains strewn across the saturated battlefield. Within an hour, four thousand men had lost their lives and the dark riders had vanished into the night. With his men soundly defeated, Prince Rupert was forced to hide in a nearby bean field. His stiff corpse had been found the following morning. There was not a mark upon his body, but his face displayed an awful expression of absolute fear.

There was a knock at the door, an apologetic tapping.

"Come in, Fleetwood," said Cromwell.

"Thank you, my Lord," replied Fleetwood, shuffling anxiously as he closed the door behind him.

"And what can I do for you at this hour?"

Fleetwood took a sharp intake of breath. "We have a problem, my Lord."

The gentle light from the fire flickered across Cromwell's face, revealing it for the battleground it was. Two or three huge warts dominated his forehead. Fleetwood couldn't help but stare at them. They seem to get worse by the day, he thought. His eyes then met Cromwell's and all thoughts of the disfigurement disappeared from his mind.

"And what appears to be the problem?" Cromwell asked. His voice, although calm and assured, carried a threatening undertone.

"We have received reports of William Davenant's troupe of players in Ombersley, my Lord," replied Fleetwood.

"Surely that is good news, Fleetwood?"

"But it is who they are travelling with, my Lord, Charles Stuart and a Scottish soldier of his."

Cromwell rose menacingly from his chair. "Charles Stuart? But that is impossible, he died at Worcester. We saw his corpse with our very own eyes."

"It would appear not, my Lord," replied Fleetwood. "We have several accounts from reputable sources."

Cromwell took a moment to process the information. He ambled over to the window and eased it open, taking in a deep breath of the cool air.

"That is not all, my Lord."

Cromwell turned slowly to face Fleetwood, who was standing pathetically hunched on the hearthrug "We have also received reports that Davenant and Charles rescued a group of women standing trial for witchcraft, and then murdered the clergyman and his assistants presiding over the trial."

"Well now, that is a pretty little problem, isn't it?"

Fleetwood nodded. "Yes, my Lord."

"I suggest you do something about it, and quickly. I want it to remain strictly confidential of course. Kill your informants before they get a chance to spread the news to their drunken friends in the tavern. In fact, burn the whole fucking tavern down, just to be sure. The last thing we need is some god awful revolt."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Be gone, Fleetwood. And the next time I see you, I want some good news."

Fleetwood nodded and bowed his head in some sort of diffident salute. He scurried out of the room.

Cromwell sat back down by the fire and ran a tired hand across his face. As he leant back, he noticed it. A line of blood smeared across his wrist, across the palm of his hand and down his sleeve. And then the drops of blood fell upon the hearthrug.

He was having another nosebleed. Just like the one that had started on that fateful night at Marston Moor.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Bewdley Woods

The soldiers lurched through the undergrowth. Some were more disfigured than others. One man had what seemed to be a superficial stab wound whereas another dragged himself along with his entrails trailing wetly behind him.