The Devil's Plague (20 page)

"It's a seagull!" he exclaimed, collapsing back into his seat next to Anne. "We must be close!"

For the next two hours, all thoughts of bad heads and hangovers were forgotten. As the carriage wound its way along the coastal road to Portsmouth, animated conversations issued from the carriage as those inside realised that they had almost achieved their hard-fought for objective. Davenant heard the laughter radiating from inside and wished he could be a part of it. Not least to protect himself from the biting gales and the dark skies that had begun to set in. No matter, he thought, he would soon be able to revel in his freedom with the others.

As they clattered onto another road, a smoother version of the previous one, Davenant could spy a collection of dwellings up ahead, a series of lantern lights guiding him towards them.

They had finally made it to Portsmouth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Portsmouth

Now that they had reached the coast they were going to have to find a ship willing to take Charles and Middleton on the final leg of their journey. They would more than likely be forced to spend another evening camped out, as no vessel would risk setting sail for France in darkness. But at least this gave Davenant, Charles and Middleton a chance to run their eyes over the various ships that were moored in the harbour. They hadn't much money left, but Charles felt that his and Middleton's experience as sailors would more than compensate in securing them a bark. Charles also felt confident that no one would recognise him, secure in the knowledge that the copies of his portrait had only been handed out to Parliamentarian soldiers in and around London.

"How can we be sure that any of these boats are travelling to France?" asked Middleton, holding aloft an oil lantern.

"Take a closer look at their names, you dumb oaf!" said Charles, pointing at the painted hulls.

Juliet, Dives-sur-Mer.

Augusta, Insigny-le-Buat.

Blanche, Cayeux-sur-Mer.

Middleton shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, suggesting that the names meant nothing to him.

"Where do you think those ships came from?" Charles asked in exasperation.

"Spain?"

Charles ignored Middleton's obtuseness and proceeded along the dock. At the far end he could see several sailors and shipwrights heaving huge wooden crates onboard a large vessel. As he looked closely, he could make out the name Sa MajestÈ painted in bold white letters upon its stern.

"That looks like a far more suitable craft."

Charles approached the crew, little reflecting on why they were making ready for departure under the cover of night. Davenant watched as Charles spoke to a thuggish looking sailor who was rolling a barrel crammed with bales of cloth along the dock. As Davenant drew closer Charles laughed, said something to the sailor in French and shook his hand before turning to face Davenant and Middleton. "Louis, please meet my good friends, John Middleton and William Davenant." The hulking Frenchman, who was only marginally shorter than Middleton, offered his hand.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Davenant, as he took the sailor's hand in his own.

"It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"As luck would have it, they're setting sail for Le Havre within the hour and have agreed to take us with them," Charles said.

Davenant immediately felt a tinge of sadness. "Oh, I see, as soon as that."

Charles picked up on his melancholy and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, as soon as that. Let us go back to the carriage and say our goodbyes."

Davenant nodded.

"That seemed surprisingly easy," said Middleton, as they made their way back up the dock. "Will they not suspect that we are spies?"

"Perhaps, but as luck would have it, they're short on crew. And neither of us have an English accent," replied Charles.

"Be that as it may, are you sure you shouldn't at least wait until the morning? Perhaps there might be an English crew amongst this lot." Davenant said.

"It is settled, Sir William. We leave tonight."

As they left the wooden gangway, Davenant realised that there was no way of talking Charles out of leaving on the Sa MajestÈ. "Very well," he said, seeing the carriage up ahead. "In which case, we will bid you farewell."

"Please, Sir William. Do not make this any harder than it has to be." There was marked sadness in Charles' tone now, his voice wavering with a hint of emotion. "I promise that I shall return with an army to reclaim my throne." As they stopped by the carriage, Charles could see the look of restlessness in the eyes of the troupe. "With much sadness, Middleton and I are to leave tonight on a boat traveling to Le Havre. I would very much like to extend my thanks and gratitude to all of you for helping us to reach Portsmouth unscathed."

Davenant could see tears in Charles' eyes as he stepped forward to embrace him. Middleton, who was similarly glum, shook the hands of each man and took the liberty of hugging and kissing each woman.

"I will come back and I will seek you out, Sir William." Charles said. "I promise." It was at that moment that Davenant realised with a shudder that some day they would have to return to London.

He tried to put it to the back of his mind as he shook Middleton firmly by the hand and patted him heartily on the back. Charles picked up his few belongings and, with his manservant in tow, headed for the docks.

Although utterly crestfallen, Davenant prayed that it wouldn't be too long before he saw his friends again. He turned and looked at Faith, her warm smile immediately lifting his spirits. It was there and then that he hoped she would be a part of his future.

Fifteen Years Later

1666

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Shanklin, Isle of Wight

28th August, 1666

Little Charles Davenant looked up at the imposing cliff that loomed over the small fishing village, separating it from the old village above. To a seven year old it looked like a mountain. A waterfall thundered down a gorge in the rock, its slippery walls garlanded by a vast array of flora and fauna. It really was a magical place, especially to the children of the village who would watch its majestic grandeur in awe. Unbeknown to Charles, the gorge also had its uses for those who weren't quite as innocent. It was well-known amongst the locals as a haunt for smugglers, with a tunnel having been dug between the old village and the Chine Inn.

And that was why his mother refused to let him go there at night.

Faith caught a glimpse of her son through the mullioned windows of their thatched cottage; he sat transfixed by the sight of one of nature's finest splendours. She would often find him there, and no matter how much she warned him of its perils, he would continue to risk her wrath by sneaking out for one last glimpse before bedtime. His obstinacy reminded her of his father's stubbornness. Certainly one character trait that she wished he hadn't inherited.

Faith hastily removed a pan from the range and dashed outside, the warped cottage door left swinging on its rusty hinges.

"Charles! How many more times must I tell you? Do not leave the cottage without telling me!"

Charles turned to face his mother, his rosy red cheeks and bright blue eyes melting her heart. How could she possibly stay angry with him?

Faith turned to the beach as she heard a patter of weary footsteps dragging through the sand. It was her husband, dressed head to toe in his fisherman's garb and clutching a handful of mackerel. His mass of grey hair poked out from beneath his hat and his beard was soaking wet.

"I've caught a veritable banquet tonight, my dear!" He called out. Thomas Betterton stood next to him, clasping hold of two fishing rods which bowed in the strong wind.

"It was a joint effort!" called Betterton.

"What's Charles doing out here so late?" Davenant asked.

"He sneaked out whilst I was tending to the stove."

Davenant knelt down beside his son, running his hand through his thick mass of blonde windswept hair. "Come on; let's get you inside before it starts to rain. Are you hungry?"

Charles' eyes lit up and he nodded happily. Davenant ushered him back towards the cottage before turning back to Faith. "Remember Elizabeth and Alexander will be eating with us tonight."

"Am I not invited too?" asked Betterton, bending down to avoid clouting his head on the frame of the door. "As the father of your grandson, the husband of your daughter and the provider of the feast, I feel I have every right to sit at your table."

"What utter rot! You caught one fish!"

"Of course you're invited Thomas. Ignore this gruff old seaman, he's getting far too big for his boots," interjected Faith, shutting the cottage door against the brewing storm.

Betterton smiled, removed his boots and collapsed into an armchair by the roaring fire. Davenant followed suit and looked out of the window as the waves began to churn. The mizzling rain began to turn into a hard downpour and thunder joined the crashing of the sea.

The smell of steamed mackerel and vegetables drifted in from the kitchen. "That smells delicious!" Davenant said, looking at Betterton and finding that he had fallen asleep. He gently placed a blanket around his shoulders.

Over the years Davenant had managed to grow accustomed to Betterton and Elizabeth being together, and by the time they became man and wife, the two men had forged a new relationship based on mutual respect. They still enjoyed making fun of one another, but the tension that had been present from their time on the run had eventually dispersed. Davenant wouldn't admit it, but he was a little hurt when they named their son Alexander and not William, after his grandfather. Still, he hadn't been as foolish as Davenant himself and named his son after Charles Stuart. The traitor who had broken his word.

Davenant had waited patiently for his friend to return to England, but after fifteen years he had all but given up hope that he would ever see him again. As they had said their farewells to Charles and Middleton in Portsmouth, Davenant thought it best the group stay on the coast and as far away from London as possible. By the time word had begun to sift down about the horrors in the capital, more and more families had fled south, and before long Portsmouth had become overrun. It was the same in all of the coastal towns and cities, and Davenant would hear rumours of all sorts of goings on in places such as Southampton and Bournemouth. After a while, new laws were introduced to stop the looting, raping and pillaging, and new committees were elected to oversee that the judicial system remained intact. A small army was raised to maintain order, a platoon composed of the very best soldiers the southern cities could spare. They had enough resources to mount an attack on London with a view to reclaiming the capital should the call come. Having seen the horrors for himself though, Davenant was in no doubt that their efforts would be futile. Already several small-scale operations had been mounted, but not one man had returned.

Eventually Davenant had felt it best that they relocate to the Isle of Wight, fearing that conscription would see Betterton, Underhill and himself drafted up. It was never a place he was overly fond of, but in comparison to the heaving mass of unruly louts that overran Portsmouth, it seemed like paradise. Very few people had cottoned on to this idea, so Davenant insisted their exile be kept secret. By this time, Faith was already pregnant with Charles and Elizabeth and Betterton were married, so it seemed fitting that they came with them. He had even persuaded Underhill and Anne to come too. Although they put up some resistance, they could see for themselves just how infested Portsmouth had become.

Davenant had left word with one or two trusted innkeepers of his plan and told them that should two men named Charles and Middleton come looking for them; they could find him in Shanklin on the Isle of Wight. It was more an act of blind optimism than expectation, but he felt it best he covered all his bases. As the years slipped by, the chances of Charles and Middleton returning seemed to lessen with every passing Christmas. Davenant knew he was an old man now, without the agility he once had, and Charles couldn't have been much younger. If they were to return to England, it would have to be soon, or not at all.

A tapping on the door broke Davenant out of his reverie and woke Betterton with a start. Davenant groaned as he got out of his chair, hobbled across the room and unlocked the door. As it creaked open Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, her hair soaking wet and baby Alexander cradled tightly in her arms.

Davenant ushered her in from the cold and removed the sodden shawl from her shoulders. "My darling, take a seat by the fire. You must be freezing!"

"This storm seems to have come from nowhere," replied Elizabeth, taking a seat, her face illuminated by the flames. Despite the passage of time she had still maintained the same unmistakable beauty.

"Something smells good," said Elizabeth. "Where's Charles?"

"He's in his room. I found him by the gorge again," replied Faith, coming through from the kitchen. "It's good to see you Elizabeth."