The Devil's Plague (2 page)

"No sign of him yet, sir." Harrison hadn't the heart to tell him that those lying dead were so badly mutilated they were virtually indistinguishable from one another.

"Have your men help you."

"My men are sleeping, sir. I fear the scent and sight of blood would set them off again." Harrison spoke with a faint sign of trepidation in his voice.

"Quite right, Harrison," replied Cromwell, reassuringly.

Even though his pact with the Devil had cost him his friendship with his dear friend, Thomas Fairfax, Cromwell's leadership and authority were no longer in question. He was a far cry from the once obscure and inexperienced Cambridgeshire MP - he was now one of the main power brokers in Parliament. Cromwell had played a decisive role in the revolution during the winter of 1649, which saw the trial and execution of King Charles I and the abolition of the Monarchy and the House of Lords.

The rumours circulating in the taverns would hold Cromwell's decision to execute the King as proof of his diabolism. As a result, so they said, the Devil has covered Cromwell's face in hideous warts.

Those drunken sots would never know how right they were.

"I've found him!" Harrison could barely contain his excitement. He stood triumphantly over a bloodied heap, seemingly identical to thousands of other bloodied heaps. Cromwell flicked the reins of his horse, prompting it to a smart gallop. He marvelled at the thought of being the man responsible for the deaths of two Kings, father and son.

That will send those Royalist bastards back to Edinburgh without a Monarch!

As he dismounted, he examined the evidence - the Royal coat of arms engraved on the man's chest plate. This had to be Charles. The arms of England and France were placed in the first and fourth quarters, the arms of Scotland were placed in the second quarter and the arms of Ireland in the third. The same coat of arms that had belonged to his father, Cromwell noted.

"Well done, Harrison. Well done indeed. We have our man. Send word to the committee that Charles Stuart is dead and the war is over."

However, Cromwell had underestimated his adversary. Little did he know that prior to the battle Charles had switched his armour with a decoy. He had fought side by side with the common man, not leading from the front as a King would. And little did Cromwell know that hiding up in the branches of a nearby oak tree, with the Scottish soldier John Middleton, was none other than Charles Stuart, King of Scotland and rightful heir to the throne of England.

By the time the last of Cromwell's Generals had left the battlefield, a deep hole had been dug and the dead bodies hurled into the dark pit. A vulgar burial not befitting a pauper. The sun was setting in the red sky, mirroring the earth below. It would take months, maybe years for the stains of battle to be washed away.

In the deepest part of the grave, something moved. A twitch at first, the merest of spasms. The dead soldier with his four thousand comrades piled high around him. In him seemed to linger a vivid spark of vitality, some faint sign of consciousness. And then he blinked.

And so did his dead comrade next to him.

CHAPTER TWO

The Mug House, Bewdley

Cave Underhill shivered as the biting Autumnal wind gripped his young bones. He rubbed his hands together furiously in a vain attempt to generate some warmth as the brisk wind blew his thick tousled hair into his eyes. Although only twelve years of age, Underhill's demeanour suggested he was a good deal older.

He could hear the performance from within; several inaudible lines of dialogue followed by a groan of audience disapproval. They were performing Salmacida Spolia tonight, one of William Davenant's own poems, notoriously despised by audiences of rich and poor alike.

Underhill took comfort in the fact that one day he'd be an actor and some other poor bastard could freeze to death as sentry. Yet he knew his place and he owed his life to Davenant for sparing him the ignominy of returning to the Fleet Street poorhouse. As an orphan, Davenant was the closest thing to a father he'd ever had. He never knew his parents, although he later discovered that he had a sister. Underhill had come to the poorhouse a weak and helpless two year old and was forced to work as soon as he could walk.

He smiled contently; it might have been bitterly cold, but keeping watch outside the tavern was paradise in comparison to his previous job. As a Saltpetre Boy he had had to break into premises or dig up latrines to collect as much urine as possible for the manufacture of saltpetre, which in turn was used to make gunpowder. The Saltpetre Company's slogan - 'We're taking the piss' - caused much hilarity amongst the actors, but it was breaking into Davenant's house that had changed Underhill's life. Davenant had found him trying to escape through his loft, took pity on the poor wretch and offered him a job within his troupe of players. He had to endure frequent jibes and keeping guard wasn't much of a job, but he had found a family, and while Cromwell and his Puritan hordes insisted on banning theatre, someone had to keep a look out.

It was ironic, he thought. Why would a man like Cromwell, a man rumoured to have a close affiliation with the Devil himself, want to close down the theatre, which had long been known as Satan's Chapel? He admired the fine architecture of the building overlooking him: a smart tavern which dominated the narrow street. The theatre might have been abolished, but these buildings left a proud legacy. Intricate carvings depicting bear baiting and cock fighting were embossed in the wooden spandrels. Cromwell had dispensed with those frivolities too, along with 'lewd and heathen' maypole dancing. And Christmas! From the perspective of a child, there was no greater sin. A real killjoy, he thought.

"The rich make full of avarice as pride."

William Davenant stood upon a crudely built stage within the tavern's dingy cellar. The willowy flames of a rough torch hung in an iron bracket revealed the grime and residue clinging to the two-hundred year old stone. The stench of rank ale and sweat was almost too much for Davenant to bear, yet he continued to perform with admirable vigour. His ruggedly handsome quality was well hidden underneath his vulgar, ill-fitted costume and ludicrously garish make-up.

"Like graves, or swallowing seas, unsatisfied." He gestured flamboyantly much to the ridicule of his audience, comprised solely of drunken revellers huddled together in a darkened corner.

"Call yourself an actor? You're bloody 'opeless," bellowed one of the revellers.

Davenant ignored the goading and carried on. "From poor men's fortunes, never from their own."

"We want Shakespeare!" The outspoken reveller had pushed his way to the front, swaying drunkenly from side to side. His taunt drew one or two sniggers from his fellow dwellers.

"Well you can't have him," hissed Davenant, breaking temporarily out of character. He turned pleadingly to Thomas Betterton, a fellow actor stood at the side of the stage. Betterton was young, brash and carried himself with an air of complacency. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, much to Davenant's annoyance.

Davenant had discovered Betterton's precocious talent on the London stage. He was playing Claudio in his company's underground presentation of
Much Ado About Nothing
. The show was abysmal, but Davenant had seen sufficient potential in Betterton's performance to offer him a place within the players. When the majority of Betterton's company were conveniently arrested and imprisoned in the Tower after Cromwell's men had received a tip-off from a vagrant, he leapt at the chance of working with Davenant, a real name on the circuit. However, Davenant's insistence on performing his own plays and poems coupled with the ensuing heckling had begun to take its toll on Betterton. He wanted Shakespeare too! And he wasn't afraid to let Davenant know it.

Underhill blew warm air into his freezing hands. He could hear muffled bickering emanating from the cellar. He was used to such an occurrence. The previous week in Ipswich, Davenant had called the landlord of some boisterous watering hole a "toothless simpleton". It had sparked a small riot in which Davenant and his fellow players were forced to escape through a small priest hole hidden within the chimney. He ignored the quarrelling and proceeded to sit on his hands. He'd rather they were numb than icy cold.

A faint pounding resonated along the narrow street. Underhill got to his feet gingerly. He craned his neck to peer into the darkness. Five or six mounted shadows moved furtively, yet rapidly towards him. As the shadows drew closer, the noise became louder - a distinct pounding of hooves clattering along the stones, followed by a high-pitched hissing between razor-sharp teeth. Cromwell's men.

The Kryfangan!

Davenant had always told Underhill that the play was not to be disturbed unless it was "of the utmost importance". Well this was of the utmost importance. The Kryfangan had been trailing Davenant for months and Cromwell had even gone so far as to offer a reward for his capture. Underhill could imagine numerous members of tonight's audience willing to make themselves a fast shilling.

He wasted no time in bounding inside the tavern and descending the rickety wooden steps that led down into the cellar. He could see that the play was in disarray. Davenant was appealing for calm whilst Betterton was seemingly egging the revellers on.

"Cromwell's men! They're outside!" Underhill was surprised to find his shrill appeal generating such silence, as he was far more used to being ignored completely. In an instant, every man within the cellar had turned to face him, unsure of their next move. "Well don't just stand there! They're coming!"

En masse, the revellers pushed past Underhill. Davenant and Betterton hurriedly gathered together their belongings, although in the confusion, a solitary silver costume was clumsily left behind. Once in the tavern, Davenant slammed down the cellar hatch, dislodging dust and grime as it bounced off the timber floor.

Rushing outside, they darted along the cobblestones and into the pool of darkness that enveloped the end of the street. Davenant looked back only once. Once was enough. He could just make out the dull red eyes belonging to the Kryfangan as they mercilessly smashed open the tavern door.

Charles Fleetwood, Cromwell's Major General, strode inside. Fleetwood was in his thirties, tall, imposing. His cropped red hair complemented his notoriously fiery temperament. His fellow Generals, Lambert and Desborough, followed closely behind. Giving the distinct impression of being the hired help, they stood menacingly either side of Fleetwood. All three men were dressed head to toe in black Puritan robes, hats, jerkins and boots - a look that had become synonymous with evil.

Fleetwood scowled as he inspected the ageing tavern. The Kryfangan had already torn it to pieces. Broken glass and furniture littered the floor.

"Actors! The stench of vanity is overwhelming." Fleetwood's eyes wandered around the room until they fell on the hatch in the corner. "The cellar!"

He marched over to the hatch, shards of glass crunching beneath his heavy boots, and flung open the door. He clambered down the rickety staircase, a cascade of moonlight pursuing him. Desborough followed, handing Fleetwood a lantern which he duly held aloft, illuminating the makeshift stage.

Fleetwood turned sharply to Lambert, who was half way down the staircase. "Have your men scour the area. They can't have got far."

Lambert nodded in acknowledgement before hauling himself back up. Fleetwood and Desborough paced onto the stage. The silver costume glistened in the lantern light, catching Fleetwood's attention immediately. He knelt down to pick it up before thrusting it in Desborough's direction, a half-smile crossing his lips.

"Davenant!"

Davenant, Betterton and Underhill emerged from the end of a narrow alleyway, fighting their way through the thick withes and strands of ivy that covered the entrance like a giant spider's web.

Davenant, still dressed in his ridiculous costume, panted from the exertion. "I've had it with these tavern dwellers," he said, in between breaths.

"Well, if you gave them what they wanted," replied Betterton, typically antagonistic.

Davenant stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Betterton, wearing a face like thunder. "I've told you a thousand times! We will not perform Shakespeare in my company."

Betterton sneered at the remark. It was hard to take a man seriously when he's dressed up like a workhouse whore. "What about us? Don't we at least have a say in the matter?"

"You forget it is I who pays your wage and you'll do as I say. Now, if we're done arguing?" Davenant strode off, Underhill following close behind.

"We'd perform Shakespeare with Killigrew!"

Davenant stopped and faced Betterton once more. This time he'd really struck a chord. "That is because Killigrew is a fat, illiterate windbag. You're far better off performing my plays and learning your craft with me." Davenant was incandescent, even behind the thick layer of white stage make-up. "Besides, Killigrew couldn't write a lurid limerick if his life depended on it!"

Betterton shot Underhill a glance. They both grinned.

Davenant hated Thomas Killigrew more than he hated the lowly tavern dwellers. During the reign of Charles, Davenant and Killigrew had vied for the King's patronage. After much mudslinging and bad-tempered poetry, Davenant was rewarded with the office of poet-laureate and was subsequently knighted by the King. And then the Civil War broke out, ruining the aspirations of playwrights and actors across the country.