The Devil's Plague

by Mark Benyon

  There was something strangely amiss in Kempsey and it bothered Betterton that he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Was it the rich smell of the nearby clematis, or perhaps the sprawling, disjointed layout of the buildings? As he mulled it over it suddenly dawned on him - there was no one in sight, no sound of conversation or drunken singing. Betterton warily approached the tavern. He was surprised to find the door ajar, gently swinging on its hinges in the cool breeze.

  "Hello," he called out as he peered inside.

  Inside the tavern was empty; lanterns blazing and tankards untouched. Betterton decided that his next best option would be to try one of the nearby dwellings, see if he could find out where everybody had disappeared to.

  He held aloft a lantern that he'd liberated from the tavern as he made his way back down the dusty street. He felt a rush of relief as he saw a young girl shuffling towards him.

  Thank God, he thought to himself.

  As he approached the girl he was suddenly struck by a chilling realisation. He fearfully held the lantern up to reveal the cavernous wound - a wound so deep that her head was barely attached to her neck. As the girl staggered onwards, blood poured from the gash saturating her yellow petticoat. Betterton dropped his lantern and ran to her assistance.

  As he reached out to the girl, she collapsed limply into his waiting arms. "God in heaven!" he exclaimed, easing her to the ground and wiping the blood from her neck. He soon realised that his effort was futile, as another wave of blood poured from her. Betterton began to sob as the girl's eyes rolled back into her head, but before he could make any sense of the horrendous situation he had found himself in, a noise of dragging feet caught his attention. As he looked up, he could see the silhouettes of a group of seven or eight men against the moonlight, lurching their way up the lane, not with the step of normal healthy men, but with some kind of ungodly stagger. Long, dry moans emanated from coarse throats that didn't have the capacity for speech.

  Betterton didn't wait to try and piece together what deranged situation he'd stumbled upon and got hastily to his feet to make his escape. As he turned to run, he found to his surprise that the young girl was back on her feet and reaching out towards him.

  "Come with me!" he said, grabbing her hand. "We must go, now!"

  It didn't occur to Betterton that he was trying to help a girl who had died in his arms seconds earlier. Instead, his only thought was of getting her to a doctor and away from the strange group staggering their way. She resisted his tug and when Betterton tried a second time to move her, she reciprocated by crushing his hand in a vice-like grip. Betterton let out an agonised yell as his knuckles cracked and popped. The girl's face was hideous, a feral snarl marring her features. What had once been a pretty little girl was now a monster. Crying out, Betterton swung his fist and struck her hard across the face. The force of the blow severed her head completely and she dropped.

  Betterton allowed himself a glance over his shoulder as he fled. He was horrified to find that the group of men had gained on him and he could smell their stale breath on the icy wind. As they shuffled into the light he saw their wounds and knew that they were dead. Yet they walked!

  Right at that moment, there was only one place in the world Betterton wanted to be and one group of people he wanted to be with. He sprinted back onto the country lane that led to Evesham Abbey.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Onboard the Algernon, the Solent

  20th June, 1642

  They hadn't long left Portsmouth and Davenant was already feeling seasick. He leant over the side and took several deep breaths in a hopeless attempt to stop himself from vomiting, but the rolling of the vessel and the sight of the monotonous waves caused him to lose his lunch. This resulted in much hilarity amongst the crew, a mixture of jovial sailors, smugglers and pirates of all ages, races and religions. A regular melting pot.

  He ignored their jibes, many of which he couldn't even comprehend, and took in the view of the ocean as he wiped the mixture of spittle and bile from his lip. Theirs was the only craft in view on the vast expanse of water. The sun was shining in the cloudless sky and a fair wind licked over the surface of the sea. After taking deep breaths, Davenant rolled onto his back, squinting as the sun disappeared and reappeared behind the sail. The rigging garlanded the sky, scoring it with the dark lines. He noted the hordes of sweating men heaving the barrels of brandy, beer and gunpowder along the deck and fastening them in place with thick rope. What a journey those barrels must have had, Davenant thought. Through secret tunnels and onto covert carriages before being hauled onboard the Algernon.

  "What do you think of my boat?" Bray said, as he took a hearty swig of whatever putrid liquor filled his carafe.

  "Your boat?"

  "Yes, William, my boat. These men are working for me. What do you think got me imprisoned in the Tower in the first place?" Davenant cast his mind back to what the guards had told him and smirked. "You haven't answered my question, William. What do you think of my boat?"

  "It's very grand," replied Davenant.

  "Have you always been a terrible liar?"

  He was right, Davenant thought. He was lying. The boat was a pockmarked ageing bark, barely held together by pitch and rope; the weathered timber could have sprung a leak and drowned them all at any moment. And the stink was almost unbearable. At least he could console himself that he would be in France within days, free from the threat of Cromwell's men and the judgemental eyes of Bray's comrades. That aside, Davenant was grateful for Bray's assistance in helping him escape the grim confines of the Tower and they had even managed to strike up a peculiar friendship in the two months that they had been on the run. Their journey down from London to Portsmouth had been a perilous affair. They had almost been caught on two separate occasions by Parliamentarian soldiers, and Davenant had felt a heady blend of relief and gratitude when he had seen the glittering coast for the first time. However, his contentment was not without a tinge of sadness, and the thought of Elizabeth's welfare continued to occupy his thoughts and even his dreams. He had managed to send word to Turnbull of his plans to stay in France until he could secure military stores for the Royalists' battle with Parliament.

  "I wonder what our friend Cromwell makes of all this?" said Bray, as he removed his jerkin and stretched out on the deck.

  "I hope he chokes on his own venom and vitriol," replied Davenant, allowing a rare glimpse of his rancorous side.

  "What do you plan to do when we reach France? You know, I could use a good man like you, a man lacking in moral fibre, a man willing to fuck the hierarchy. And who knows, maybe you might end up making some money from it? Enough to buy your own boat, perhaps?"

  Davenant smiled. "Is that a veiled complement?" Bray shrugged. "In truth, although I appreciate your kind offer, I have my own agenda. There are several people I need to see in France."

  "To help you pursue your incessant tryst with Cromwell, no doubt."

  Maybe he was right, Davenant thought. Maybe he should settle down and find something else to do rather than gallivanting around the country catering to the whims of Royalists. It would certainly mean that he would see more of Elizabeth and less of the dank cell walls belonging to the Tower. But then, in a moment of lucidity, he regained his perspective. He'd be damned if he was going to let Parliament and Cromwell ruin his country.

  "Cromwell is the man who threatens our freedoms, our daily lives and the man who threatens to take away my first love."

  "Bellyaching?"

  Davenant let out a wicked cackle. "No, my dear old chap. The theatre."

  "In which case, I shall wish you the very best in your endeavours."

  There was genuine warmth in Bray's voice and Davenant truly felt as though he had made a friend for life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Evesham Abbey

  12th September, 1651

  It was becoming increasingly likely that Betterton had sold them out to Cromwell's mob and so Davenant began the task of orga
nising his troupe. They had to leave before the wrath of Parliament caught up with them.

  As Davenant snuck into Middleton's tent to wake him, Middleton mistook him for an intruder and grabbed him in a vice-like headlock, much to Charles' amusement. In spite of his embarrassment and evident discomfort, Davenant recognised the need for Middleton's prowess. The man was a thuggish brute, he thought, but was equally glad that he was on his side. And he was immediately apologetic - although that was the least he could do, Davenant pondered. The man had almost broken his neck.

  After gathering their possessions, the men crossed the dewy grass to join their companions.

  Davenant was still cagey around Elizabeth and her discontent towards his secretive past. He resigned himself to the fact that he would have to remedy this problem before they could function again as father and daughter. Davenant understood her feelings for Betterton and had attempted to convey his disappointment in the boy to her as reasonably as possible. In the end he had managed to stop short of threatening to kill the bastard, which was about as reasonable as she could have possibly expected. And then there was Mary - he hadn't quite made up his mind whether to leave her in Evesham, or to utilise her bizarre ability. He was in no doubt that the answer to his quandary would present itself at the right time. He was presently more troubled by his feelings for Faith and had tried to put his attraction to her to the back of his mind. This was no time for lust, he kept on telling himself. Yet the more he spoke to her, the more he felt beset by her beauty. He cast his eyes over her companions and was shocked, although not totally surprised, to find Mary staring at him intently.

  "Good morning, Mary," said Davenant, as politely as he possibly could. He noted that the others were beginning to stir.

  "Good morning, Master Shakespeare."

  Davenant could feel his blood rising, and just as he was about to launch into a foul-mouthed tirade, he saw Faith smiling at him as she let out a restrained yawn. It calmed him immediately.

  "I'm so sorry to have disturbed you," he said. "But we have to leave as soon as possible."

  "Why?"

  "We have a traitor in our midst."

  "A traitor? But who would do such a thing?" replied Faith, as she gathered her belongings.

  Davenant steadied himself - he was fully aware that what he was about to say would hurt young Underhill, as Betterton's closest friend, the most. "I have reason to believe that our so called friend, Thomas Betterton, has informed Cromwell's troops of our whereabouts."

  Underhill was now fully awake. "How can you be sure? Have you any proof, other than the fact that he's gone?"

  "After he left without telling anyone where he was going, it was brought to my attention that he had kept hold of the wanted poster he had found in Pershore."

  "That's not proof! Has it occurred to you that perhaps Thomas wanted to leave because of your choice of plays?"

  "Enough, Cave!" interrupted Anne, barking at her brother to keep quiet. "Have some respect."

  A stony silence descended

  "Please, Cave. You must believe me." Davenant said.

  "Very well," replied Underhill, cagily. He grabbed his belongings together rather petulantly and stuffed them into his sack.

  Elizabeth sat alone on a rock by the Bell Tower and Davenant sauntered nervously up to her, half expecting her to stand and stride off at any moment.

  "I'm so very sorry, Elizabeth," stuttered Davenant, as he knelt down beside her. He was surprised that she'd given him the chance to apologise, although she still looked glumly down at the damp undergrowth.

  He decided to seize the opportunity to patch things up as best he could. "I'm sorry that I was never honest with you, and I'm sorry for what has happened these past two days. I wish to God I could go back and make it all up to you."

  "I'm sorry too, father," she replied. She allowed her beautiful emerald eyes to meet his. "I know you have all of our best interests at heart. But from now on, I want you to be honest with me."

  Davenant nodded firmly. "Of course I will, I promise."

  "And I want you to tell me all your stories about Will Shakespeare."

  "Some other time," replied Davenant, smiling tenderly.

  Suddenly, he was struck by a figure running madly across the adjoining field and straight towards them.

  "Unless I'm very much mistaken," he said, "that is young Master Betterton heading this way."

  Elizabeth bolted to her feet and waved her arms to catch his attention. Davenant glanced over to Turnbull, Middleton and Charles who were all alive to the situation. He could see that the three men were caressing their weapons, tucked conspicuously in their belts. He almost felt sorry for the young scamp, for the brutal interrogation he was about to receive.

  As Betterton moved rapidly closer, his shouted words became audible upon the wind. "The dead are coming!"

  "What did he say?" said Davenant, looking in Charles' direction.

  Underhill's face lit up when he spied Betterton galloping towards them. "It's Thomas! He's come back!"

  Davenant sidled up to Middleton. "What do you think we should do with him?"

  "Let's see what the wee shite has to say first, shall we?"

  Betterton was only a couple of hundred yards away now and Davenant could clearly make out the lines of fear etched upon his face. "This doesn't look good," he whispered under his breath.

  And then it came again. "The dead are coming!"

  This time everyone heard his declaration. As the group all turned to one another in bewilderment, Betterton followed his latest yell with a series of deranged hand signals which made no sense to anyone whatsoever - apart from to Mary.

  She turned mockingly to Davenant. "I told you they were coming, didn't I?"

  Davenant decided to ignore her and focused his attention on Betterton, who had pulled up, fatigued and exhausted. He leant against a tree as he gasped for air.

  "Have you alerted Cromwell's men to our whereabouts?" Davenant snapped.

  Betterton looked up fearfully. He gave a sad little nod of his head as his eyes filled.

  As Davenant stepped forward to pass Betterton his water skin, Middleton thumped him hard across the face, sending him tumbling to the floor. Elizabeth screamed out in anguish as Underhill struggled to restrain her.

  "Consider yourself lucky you didn't receive a worse punishment." Middleton spat at him.

  Betterton ran his hand over his swollen cheek and bloodied nose. All from one punch, Davenant noted.

  "I am truly sorry for my actions, but there is no time for that now," Betterton said. "You must listen to me, all of you. I have been in grip of the Devil. Look at my hands! They're covered in blood."

  "No sob story will get you out of this! Do you have any idea what you've done?" barked Charles, his eyes wild with rage.

  "No, no, I - I don't. But I'm telling the truth. I've seen the..."

  "I say we hang the bastard!" Charles interrupted.

  Davenant felt as though he was in some kind of deranged, surreal daydream. He could hear Elizabeth sobbing uncontrollably behind him. "Perhaps we should hear him out? He looks like he's telling us the truth."

  "He's an actor. You're as good as lying when you're on the stage!" spat Charles.

  As Davenant listened to the flood of accusations, Mary took a hesitant step forward and knelt down beside Betterton. "He is telling the truth. The dead walk, I've seen them too."

  Just as Davenant was about to open his mouth to deride her, several mounted soldiers surged forward into their camp. They quickly encircled the group with a ferocious clatter of hooves - their vast horses with their immaculate coats just as intimidating as the length of their swords.

  "William Davenant and Charles Stuart?" asked the General, a tubby, red-faced man with a speech impediment.

  "I am Sir William Davenant," he said, as he took a defiant stride forward.

  "And I am Charles Stuart," said Charles, matching Davenant's fortitude. "Take us, by all means, but you need not harm our com
panions. They have done you no wrong."

  "I am bidden by Parliament to arrest you all and to take you to the Tower. You may leave your belongings where they are."

  Davenant could bear the Tower - he knew what it took to stomach it and survive - but the thought of Elizabeth suffering at the hands of the Guards made him feel sick with worry.

  The soldiers leapt from their horses and seized the group forcefully, hurling them into a waiting carriage. Middleton and Turnbull didn't go without a struggle, but were overwhelmed by the sheer number of armed men.

  As their carriage slowly pulled away, Davenant noticed a group of men lurkng aimlessly in the nearby field. Strange, he thought, they weren't there a moment ago.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Siege of Gloucester

  5th September, 1643

  William Davenant was dog-tired. Having seen his hard earned military supplies from France go to waste on a siege that could have and should have succeeded, he believed that he had as much right as any to feel more than a little aggrieved. The King had ordered their retreat from the ancient Roman walls of Gloucester little more than five hours ago and Davenant now found himself encamped in a forest on the outskirts of Cirencester. The mood amongst his compatriots was understandably glum, not surprising considering what they were up against. A twenty-three year old governor by the name of Colonel Massey who had only one-thousand five-hundred regular troops under his command - surely not enough to fend off the Royalist insurgence that had just reclaimed Bristol so convincingly?