by Mark Benyon
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," re
plied 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.
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. T
urnbull 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.