The Devil's Plague (6 page)

The lights of Bewdley acted like a homing beacon. As the first of the soldiers stumbled into a clearing, the cobblestone high-street was but a few hundred yards away. The sign from a nearby tavern swung gently in the faint breeze. It featured a crudely painted tankard on a jagged piece of timber. Underneath it the words 'The Mug House' were painted in red.

Within minutes, the long, narrow street was bustling with walking corpses, not only attracted by the light pouring from the fleapits, but by the sounds of singing and laughing radiating from the tavern.

The noise of the revellers was soon masked by the sound of a sepulchral groaning and the buzzing of flies.

CHAPTER NINE

Tiddesley Wood, Pershore

He'd had enough of sinister woodlands. But as they left Worcester under the cover of nightfall and entered Tiddesley Wood, with its tall, imposing oak trees, Davenant appreciated that this was the quickest route to Pershore and the legendary Dr Walter Tyrell - an amateur astrologer and a highly decorated and respected man of medicine with Royalist sympathies. Davenant could scarcely believe their luck when Charles said that he knew him well and would guide them to his abode, although what Tyrell thought of witches remained to be seen.

When the slapdash physician in Worcester, a Dr Christopher Sharp, eventually concluded that the women's puncture wounds were the consequence of 'Pricking', he demanded they leave his practice immediately, no doubt fearing that collusion with witches would see him swing. However, a little 'gentle persuasion' from Turnbull and Middleton lead to Sharp reluctantly agreeing to at least dress their wounds. He didn't do a particularly good job, but Davenant expected nothing less from a drunken charlatan.

Davenant was in no doubt that Faith Howard and Anne Underhill still needed proper medical attention. Their temporary dressings had probably given them a day's reprieve, but they were now in the grip of delirium, not aided by the frost that had suddenly appeared. Davenant prayed that the shaky cart would withstand another five miles of overloading, although the creaking that had started to reverberate from the wheels didn't exactly fill him with optimism. He cursed the blacksmith who had sold him the damn thing in the first place.

Cave Underhill had remained by Anne's side since they left Ombersley. As he ambled alongside the cart, he regaled another childhood anecdote to her in a vain attempt to lift her spirits.

Davenant shook his head ruefully, wishing he were able to alleviate their suffering in some way. "So tell me more of this Tyrell," he said, turning to Charles.

"Well, for as long as I've known of him he's been courted by the rich and poor alike for his medical knowledge. Cromwell always had him down as a quack and an evil magician. Admittedly his methods are somewhat... out of the ordinary."

"Out of the ordinary?" said Underhill, eavesdropping on their conversation and clearly puzzled by Charles' ambiguity.

"Anything that doesn't conform to Cromwell's way of thinking is beyond the pale with him. Tyrell is a self-proclaimed doctor, astrologer and dealer in secrets and his ideology is so very far detached from Cromwell's. But that does not make his methods any less effective, just different."

Underhill, satisfied with the answer, nodded apologetically and returned to his anecdote. As he peered down into the cart at his sister, he noticed that her eyes were open, projecting some kind of deranged stare.

"Anne?" Underhill shook her roughly by the shoulder, praying it would prompt her into waking. It didn't, and she remained rigid. "Anne!"

Turnbull tugged on the reins and then rushed round the side of the cart to tend to the crisis. Davenant and Charles hurried forwards. Underhill was pawing at Anne's throat, desperately trying to locate a pulse. Charles dragged him to one side as Davenant and Turnbull lifted Anne from the cart and placed her gently down on the grassy bank. Middleton held the lantern aloft to provide them with suitable lighting. He heard a faint scrabbling noise in the near distance - a hasty breath and a footfall - and felt compelled to draw the light away from the crisis and towards the eerie noise that seemed to summon him.

"Middleton! The light!" Charles' command seemed to fall on deaf ears. As Middleton squinted into the darkness, he could just about make out a faint, almost ghostly silhouette against a cluster of bushes. "Over there!"

Even as he cried out, the silhouette had lessened its distance by ten yards and was rapidly closing upon him.

And then it emerged from the shadows and into the light. He might have been a hardened soldier, but Middleton couldn't help but let out a faint whimper as Mary Cavendish moved past him and towards Anne Underhill's prone form.

Middleton reluctantly followed her, with the lantern swinging violently in his trembling hand. "What are you doing here?" he cried, as Mary knelt down beside Anne and began to tend to her wound with spindly fingers.

"For the love of God, man, what does it matter?" replied Charles, making way for Mary, who seemed intent on helping. She applied a strange flower to Anne's wound, which had started to seep a mixture of pus and blood.

"What is that?" asked Underhill, his voice wavering with emotion as he pointed at the peculiar, elongated leaf in Mary's hand. She ignored him and proceeded to mutter several indistinct words under her breath.

"Do you think we can get her to Pershore and Dr Tyrell?" Charles was loath to interrupt, but felt the question had to be asked.

Mary froze - the name Tyrell clearly striking a chord. After a fleeting pause, she proceeded to rub the leaf onto Anne's open wound, and within a minute, Anne jolted and vomited all over the grassy bank. A strange odour drifted from her wound.

Davenant shook his head in disbelief. "Well, I don't know what you've done, but it seems to have done the trick."

"She still needs to see a doctor," replied Mary, her voice faint and ethereal. "They both do."

Faith was delirious, but at least she was still breathing. Turnbull picked up Anne with deft tenderness for such a ham-fisted ruffian, and placed her gently back in the cart. Underhill managed a grateful smile and picked up his anecdote from where he had left it. Mary pondered her next move, and after careful consideration, decided to follow Davenant and Charles at the back of the cart. The two men shared an inquisitive glance and a shrug of the shoulders. After all, she did seem quite useful to have around.

CHAPTER TEN

Westminster Hall, London

19th January, 1649

Beams of light poured through the skylights at either end of the long, narrow Hall and bounced off the cold marble floor, giving the chamber an almost ethereal glow. The intricate hammerbeam roof hung low, diminishing the space within the Hall and contributing to the eager atmosphere.

The stage had been set for the following day; the trial of King Charles I. Judge Bradshaw's crimson velvet chair had been placed in the centre of the podium behind a desk on which a red cushion bore the parliamentary mace. His fellow judges would sit behind him on benches hung with scarlet. The chair in which Charles would sit was directly in front of them.

The Hall had played host to several significant trials throughout history, not least that of Thomas More and the Gunpowder Plot conspirators. But none were as important as the trial of a King, and the anticipation was understandably palpable.

A troubled Thomas Fairfax - a General, a Commander-in-Chief and close friend of Oliver Cromwell's - sat alone by the pulpit. He was tall, dark and dashingly handsome; his smoulderingly regal quality accentuated by his long parliamentary gown.

The doors burst open at the far end of the Hall and Fairfax turned. Cromwell marched towards him. "Oliver, you received my note?" he said, standing to greet him.

"Yes. I received it," spat Cromwell, his voice resounding around the Hall.

Fairfax could make out the disgusted expression on his face as he continued to stride up the aisle towards the stage. "And you couldn't meet in the Abbey? We have not prayed together for quite some time now."

It was a loaded question, and Cromwell knew it.

"I do not wish to pray," he replied.

"You do not approve of the contents of my note?"

"No, I do not, my Lord. And I would venture that your wife has put you up to it." Cromwell reached the pulpit and circled Fairfax furiously, adrenalin coursing through his veins.

"No, Oliver. Anne had nothing to do with this. It is my conscience that pricks at me. I cannot preside over the trial of our King that will sign his death warrant, the same King appointed by God," said Fairfax, his voice calm and rational.

"And yet you did not flinch when you killed the King's soldiers. Were they not appointed by God too?"

"But we were fighting a cause and our cause was won. You follow your own agenda now, my dear friend." Fairfax attempted to place a reasoning hand on Cromwell's shoulder. Cromwell shrugged it off and continued to pace up and down.

"No friend of mine would abandon me on the eve of the most important trial this country has ever seen. I tell you we will cut off his head with the crown upon it!" snarled Cromwell defiantly. "And you still insist on wearing your hair long when you know that we are protesting against the decadence of the court. One of your wife's little fancies, I presume?"

"You presume correctly. Yet I fail to see how the length of my hair is of any consequence."

"Or perhaps you wear your locks out of respect for the King? You have many qualities, Thomas, but perhaps political aptitude is not one of them."

"I daresay you're right. But it is not only politics that drives a wedge between us," replied Fairfax. "My men are growing increasingly concerned that they have not been paid in months. You refuse their services and turn to others to fight your battles for you. There are all sorts of rumours circulating, Oliver."

"Such as?"

"That you're dabbling in the occult and that you employ dark agents to execute your orders. And you do not look well."

"And what do you believe?"

"It has been a while since we last fought together. So I have little evidence of my own from which to form an opinion. But I can hardly ignore the opinions of those who I hold in high regard."

"You used to hold my opinion in high regard, Thomas. Have you not forgotten our accusation?" replied Cromwell, opening a small papyrus-bound manuscript which was tucked carefully under his arm. He began to read its contents. " 'That our so called King, out of a wicked design to erect an unlimited and tyrannical power, traitorously and maliciously levied war against the present Parliament and the people they represented.' "

"I have not forgotten."

"Then you will know that there is no sacrifice too great for my country. I once believed you felt the same way."

Fairfax looked him dead in the eye. "I would not sacrifice my soul."

As Cromwell brushed past Fairfax, both men acknowledged that their conversation within the vast auditorium of Westminster Hall would be the last time they would ever speak.

Fairfax also couldn't help but notice that amidst the beams of sunlight flooding the vast hall, Oliver Cromwell cast no shadow.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Pershore Abbey

9th September, 1651

As they entered the sleepy town of Pershore, Davenant took a moment to enjoy the sight of the Abbey. Although parts of it had been demolished during the dissolution of the monasteries, much of the beautifully gothic exterior remained intact, and it now resembled some strange place of Druid worship, especially when bathed in the stark, silver moonlight. A shiver went down Davenant's spine as he imagined the monks getting burned alive for resisting the reformation. As the chief minister to Henry VIII, it was Thomas Cromwell, the great grand-uncle of Oliver, who was responsible for much of the bloodshed.
A family of evil, vindictive bastards
, Davenant thought.

As they passed into the grounds of the Abbey, he turned to observe Mary's progress. To avoid the consecrated land filled with gravestones and monuments, she had split from the back of the group and had taken a well-concealed pathway through the surrounding woodland.

"Quick, look," whispered Davenant, pointing discreetly in her direction.

Charles could see Mary fighting through the thick withes, slipping and sliding her way through the dense undergrowth. "Well, she seems happy enough."

"Do you not find her... peculiar?"

"Sir William, I've been rescued from an oak tree by a group of actors, saved three witches from the hands of a demented priest, and am being hunted by the very man who wishes to hang you. Watching some deranged old woman fight her way through the bushes is spectacularly normal in comparison."

"Yes, a fair point," replied Davenant, grinning for the first time in days.

Charles landed several blows onto the ageing oak door belonging to the strange little hovel, far detached from the well-appointed buildings that formed the remainder of the narrow lane. The door seemed to crack and creak under each bang of his huge fist. The lantern light moved from an upstairs room and quickly reappeared, spilling out from beneath the warped wood of the doorway.