The Devil's Plague (7 page)

An unusual coarse voice bellowed out from within. "What is this furore? Mind you don't bend the house timber!"

There was a loud clunk as the bolt was pulled across followed by a creaking as the door swung slowly open. In the doorway stood a curious looking gentleman clad in a shabby nightgown and holding aloft an oil lamp. He was tall, thin and bespectacled with a sporadically patchy beard that only served to give the impression that he was diseased in some way.

He recognised Charles immediately and dropped down onto one knee. "My Lord, if I had known it was you, I would have arranged a hearty supper. And a thousand apologies for my appearance," he said, almost dropping the oil lamp in his embarrassment. His bumbling charm was infectious and Davenant felt the collective spirit of his downcast troupe lift noticeably.

"Please, Dr Tyrell, it is I who should apologise for my intrusion at this late hour, but I must ask a favour of you. I have two women in my care who are desperately ill and in urgent need of medical attention," replied Charles, helping Dr Tyrell to his feet.

"I should be delighted to help, as always, although I fear my abode isn't big enough to house you all."

"We shall remain outside," said Davenant, gesturing to Betterton, Elizabeth, Turnbull, Middleton and Mary. Dr Tyrell caught his first glimpse of Mary, purposefully skulking behind the nearby cart as if to avoid detection. His eyes widened with recognition and Davenant vigilantly picked up on his telling glance.

"Very well. Underhill and I shall assist you in any way we can," said Charles in agreement.

"In which case, I shall get my wife to prepare us all some food whilst you explain to me exactly what has happened. Do come in."

Charles and Underhill adroitly lifted Faith and Anne from the cart as Dr Tyrell ushered them further into the confines of his house. He carefully closed the battered old door behind him, fearing any further hardship would see it fall off its hinges.

Betterton and Elizabeth meandered down the narrow lane for some privacy.

"Don't go too far," called Davenant, as they disappeared into a pool of shadows swamping the end of the path.

"Don't worry, Mister Davenant, Sir," said Turnbull compassionately. "I'm sure they'll be all right."

"Thank you, Turnbull."

"If it's all right, sir, would it be totally inappropriate if we went for a drink?" he replied, gesturing towards Middleton who was loitering next to him - the hollering from the nearby tavern catching their attention.

"Of course not, I think you've earned one," said Davenant, mindful that he was duty-bound to keep his troops happy.

"Aye, thank you Mister Davenant, sir," slurred Middleton in his thick Glaswegian drawl. The two men nodded their appreciation before bounding round the corner to join the noisy revelry. Davenant grinned; the innkeeper had no idea what was in store for him.

He rested his back against a wall and let out a weary sigh. He had waited patiently for this respite, and he smiled thankfully. It had been a tiring three days to say the least and recent events played heavily on his mind.

The low-pitched murmuring from nearby made him jump out of his skin. As he staggered forward, he saw Mary, obscured by the cart, kneeling in prayer. She turned to face him and rose slowly to her feet.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted you," said Davenant, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

"You must pray with me." Mary's eyes seemed to shine bright in the darkness.

"I am not a religious man, Mary."

"Neither am I, but they're coming, and we must pray."

"Who are coming? And how do you know Dr Tyrell?"

"We are of the same... ilk."

"What do you mean?"

"You will find out soon enough."

Dr Tyrell had brushed everything from his vast dining table - which seemed to double as an operating slab when deemed necessary - onto the surrounding floor. He had sent his wife, a rather plump and jolly old woman, to prepare a meal for his guests. She obliged quite happily.

Tyrell turned to Charles. "I received word that you were killed in battle," he said. "And now this?" He gestured towards Faith and Anne who writhed in agony as they were lowered gently onto the table next to one another. Underhill ran his hand affectionately over Anne's hair and wiped the tear away from her porcelain white cheek.

"I shall tell you all when this is done, I promise," replied Charles. "But there are more pressing matters at hand."

Dr Tyrell nodded. "I understand," he said, as he tore open the bloodstained blouse belonging to Faith Howard, revealing her lean shoulders and the infected wound. "I think it might be best if you leave this to me. The methods I use are somewhat... delicate. You might wish to send the woman who travels with you inside. She may be of use. I would have invited her in earlier, but she is not sound in the head."

"You know her?" Underhill asked.

"Yes I do. After all, it was I who taught her all she knows," the doctor replied.

"I don't believe you," cried Davenant. "That is heresy, downright heresy. We should have left you to hang!"

"I can prove it," replied Mary, her monotonous voice not fluctuating in the slightest.

"How?"

"I know your secret."

As Davenant stood open mouthed, he could have sworn he felt his heart stop beating. He was only brought back to life when he heard the clattering of footsteps rapidly approaching.

"Father, look at this!"

Davenant turned to see Elizabeth and Betterton scampering up the lane. Elizabeth was clutching a parchment which she thrust into his hands. It was a poster of some description and he squinted as he tried to make out the words scribbled upon it. He fumbled for the lantern on the floor, picked it up and reduced its outpouring to a mere silver of light, just enough to read what was written before him.

WANTED

For crimes against the country, including the Murders of an Ordained Minister and Public Officials, Assault, Theft, Performance of Illegal Theatre and Harbouring Witches

WILLIAM DAVENANT, CHARLES STUART & their band of players.

Reward of one double crown for their whereabouts or proof of their demise

"Well, that's fairly damning," said Davenant. Betterton snatched the poster back and proceeded to devour its contents with eager fascination.

"Have we interrupted anything?" asked Elizabeth, looking at Mary, who was stood with her gaze fixed upon Davenant.

"No, no, Elizabeth. We were just talking about Dr Tyrell."

The door opened to Tyrell's house and Charles and Underhill emerged wearily from within. "Mary, Dr Tyrell requires your assistance," said Charles, picking up on the patent tension. "My, my, what have we missed?"

"There will be a battle, an almighty conflict," replied Mary, after a drawn-out pause. "Two armies of the dead shall wage war with one another. The apocalypse is nigh."

"On second thoughts, Mary, perhaps it is best if you stay out here."

"I can prove it," she replied, pointing triumphantly at Davenant. "I know his secret. I know everything."

"What secret, father?" Elizabeth was understandably anxious as she reached for Davenant's hand.

"It's nothing, Elizabeth. She's just trying to frighten you."

"What's going on?" asked Dr Tyrell, appearing in the doorway.

Mary took a step forward and stared unflinchingly at Davenant, glaring up at him through dark eyes that were made darker by the shadows that encircled them. "He is the bastard son of William Shakespeare!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Palace of Whitehall, London

30th January, 1649

The bustling throng had amassed around the execution scaffold which had been erected in front of the Banqueting House - the scene of the gaudy triumph of the Stuart court - with many jostling and elbowing to get a better view of the imminent beheading. Indeed, hundreds of the spectators had even taken to lining the rooftops of the buildings nearby. Several skirmishes had broken out but were quickly interrupted by the countless mounted officials.

Cromwell had taken up his vantage point to the left of the scaffold from where he could oversee the proceedings. He had an excellent view of the multitude and had noted their division - half were chanting Royalist mantras, the other half were Regicidal disciples. It was bitterly cold, and Cromwell was already worn out. He had spent much of the day trying to locate an executioner after Richard Brandon, the common Hangman of London, had refused to do the deed, fearing his actions would incite an assassination attempt by Royalist sympathisers. Eventually Cromwell agreed to pay the princely sum of one hundred pounds to a drunken Irishman by the name of Gunning, after he was found bragging of his prowess with an axe in a nearby inn. Cromwell hoped he was as useless as he appeared and that it took several agonising blows to sever the King's head from his shoulders. He had agreed to let the executioner wear a mask so that his identity would be hidden, although Cromwell concluded that it was necessary not least because of his unsightly features, which included pockmarks and several gigantic boils that encrusted his nose.

As the bells belonging to the nearby church tolled two, the emaciated figure of Charles was led out onto the scaffold, and a deathly hush descended upon the crowd. His grim countenance was not as they remembered. Indeed, his sallow features, which cast the heavy bones of his face into sharp relief, were in stark contrast to his once proud and regal handsomeness.

One of Cromwell's soldiers tugged opened a parchment scroll and stood to address the crowd. "Charles Stuart, you are charged with high treason in levying war against Parliament and the Kingdom of England in order to gain unlimited power. Do you have any final words?"

"I am the Martyr of the People!" Charles bellowed, much to the awe of his audience.

Cromwell, dismissing his passionate declaration, took a moment to remember the lengthy trial and the swift resolution that followed. It had taken what seemed an age to get the trial up and running following Charles' refusal to acknowledge the authority of the court. From signing his death warrant in the ironically named Old King's Head in Windsor, to transporting him as a prisoner from Carisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight to Hurst Castle in the New Forest, and then through Farnham before finally reaching London, Cromwell had begun to speculate whether the trial would ever take place at all. It had also been gruelling without his friend Fairfax to support him, but he eventually achieved what he had set out to achieve, and was duly proud of his accomplishment. It saddened him to see both sets of followers standing shoulder to shoulder; almost as if the enormity of the event dwarfed whatever futile belief they held.

Charles, dressed in white, was wearing two shirts to prevent the cold January weather causing any noticeable shivers that the crowd may have mistaken for fear or weakness. Cromwell cursed whoever had allowed that; he would have been far happier to see the King piss his pants.

Charles knelt defiantly by the chopping block, his long hank of black hair caressing either side of the cold, hard slab. "I have delivered to my conscience; I pray God you do take those courses that are best for the good of the kingdom and your own salvation," he whispered under his breath.

He looked up pleadingly to Gunning, who was savouring his time in the limelight as some sort of tawdry pantomime villain. His performance was not going down well with the baying mob, as he strutted over to the chopping block, holding aloft the enormous axe which almost dwarfed his hulking body.

"I shall say but very short prayers and then thrust out my hands. Strike a clean blow, I beg of you," said Charles desperately, as he nestled his chin onto the smooth grooves carved into the dense block. He whispered several indistinct words under his breath before flinging out his arms. There was a collective gasp as Gunning swung his axe back and landed it with pinpoint precision onto the back of Charles' neck, severing his head cleanly in one perfect stroke.

The gasp from the crowd turned into a groan as Charles' head dropped into the waiting basket, lined with velvet, a spurt of blood covering those standing in the first few rows.

"Behold the head of a traitor," shouted Gunning in a thick, slurred Irish accent.

Cromwell looked on in dismay as the nearby horde of ghoulish spectators barged their way towards the front in an effort to dip their handkerchiefs in Charles' blood, his heart sinking at the thought of him becoming a martyred King. And then he felt compelled to study the crowd again, his eyes running over the hundreds of men, women and children gathered together.

And there he was, huddled in the mass, a crooked figure in a hooded cloak with a pale, wasted face staring right back at him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Tower of London

3rd June, 1642

Damnation. This was terrible, truly terrible.