by Mark Benyon
"And who are you, my pretty one?" he asked, as he made his way towards her.
"My name is Elizabeth Davenant," she said hesitantly.
Cromwell let out a wicked cackle. "Well how fortunate for you that you look nothing like him. Your mother must have been a very beautiful woman."
Elizabeth could smell his foul breath and noted his yellow, decaying teeth and bleeding gums. "I believe she was," she replied, already regretting her interruption.
Cromwell took her hand and planted a kiss upon it. "Do not worry, my dear. You shan't suffer at the hands of the executioner the way your father shall. I'll make sure he is swift with you." Elizabeth began to weep, as if the enormity of the situation hadn't hit her until Cromwell's sadistic statement.
Davenant put a comforting arm around her and glared at Cromwell with a blazing look of utter hatred. "The Phoenix Theatre," he said, in between gritted teeth. "I used to manage it and I made sure it was left... untouched."
"Excellent. The Phoenix Theatre it is!" cried Cromwell, as he turned his attention back to Davenant. "I shall leave it in your capable hands to arrange the entertainment. Oh, and William, I've doubled the sentry at your cell so there's no chance of you escaping this time."
"That's very kind of you."
"In which case, I shall bid you all a good evening." Cromwell sauntered from the chamber, his long gown trailing behind him.
Davenant turned to look out of the window. The sky was black, not even the moon was visible through the murkiness. With the fog came the cold and Davenant dreaded the night ahead, knowing full well how bitter the cells became when the Thames mist rolled in. They'd be lucky if they all saw the morning in, he thought.
As the group were frogmarched from the chamber and towards the cells, Davenant could see the General and Cromwell in the middle of an animated conversation at the furthest end of the corridor. He wondered whether they were discussing the strange circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the three mounted soldiers.
At least they were still together. This way they were able to stay as warm as possible, making use of one another's body heat as they huddled together. Cromwell had confined them to the Salt Tower and a smaller, more uncomfortable chamber than they would have received elsewhere. The cells were exactly as Davenant remembered them. The same stink of damp and mould, the same carvings adorning the walls, some drawn in beautiful calligraphy, others coarse profanities. Indeed, many of the inscriptions were left by Catholic and Jesuit priests during the reign of Elizabeth. And there was the same prevailing sense of sorrow that couldn't possibly be explained unless you'd spent a night within the same unforgiving walls of this torture palace.
Davenant could hear the rain lashing down outside. The cell would occasionally be illuminated by a flash of lightning accompanied by a grumble of thunder so severe, it sounded as if it had originated within the bowels of Hell itself. Davenant noticed that the majority of his group had somehow fallen asleep. He was grateful for that although he couldn't fathom how they could sleep in such conditions.
Davenant knew only too well that he would spend the entire night wide awake with worry, only his thoughts and Turnbull's ceaseless snoring to accompany him. He jumped when he felt a hand brush against his shoulder. He turned to face Faith, who had crept up next to him.
"Sorry if I startled you," she said.
"I thought I was the only one awake," replied Davenant, shifting along the wall to make more room for her.
"No, there's not much chance of me getting any sleep in here." She turned her face to his.
"I'm sorry for getting you involved in all this," whispered Davenant.
"You have nothing to be sorry for. You saved our lives, Sir William. You mustn't forget that."
"I daresay you won't feel that way when we're up on Tower Hill staring the executioner in the eye."
Faith smiled tenderly. "Of course I will. I've enjoyed meeting you and your family, and spending these few days with you has been an experience to say the least."
"Yes, it has been an experience," he said, glancing over at Mary who was asleep in the furthest corner of the cell.
"You mustn't blame Mary," replied Faith. "She can't help the way she is."
"How did you get put on trial alongside her?" asked Davenant.
"It was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anne and I went for a walk in the woods when we came across Mary performing some strange ritual. We hid behind a tree to watch her. When then the soldiers came to take her away they found us loitering nearby. They assumed that we were part of her witchcraft. Still, you have to admit that she is good."
"Yes, a little too good. She lifted the lid on me." said Davenant.
"Why are you so ashamed of your past?" Davenant didn't answer immediately. "I'm sorry, I should not have asked, it's none of my business."
"Because of the stigma and the dishonour surrounding my birth. I'm a bastard child and people don't like bastard children."
"Yet you follow in his footsteps."
"Yes. I already loved the theatre before I discovered that Shakespeare was my father. I cannot deny that having him as my father did help in my becoming recognised on the circuit, though."
"So why resent him?"
"Because I wanted to be known for my own plays and soon realised that mine weren't a patch on his."
"Let us perform one of your plays for Cromwell's wife tomorrow then!" said Faith encouragingly, trying to lift his spirits.
"No."
"Then what shall we do?"
Davenant cast his eye over his troupe and took a deep breath. "What about a play by my father? Now is as good a time as any."
"Are you sure?" asked Faith, taken aback.
"As sure as I'll ever be, it's just a question of which one."
"What about Richard III? That would send Cromwell into spasms of anger! After all, it might as well be about him."
Davenant's mind was racing at the possibilities. And then he spoke, a whispered murmur at first that went unheard.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Macbeth... the Scottish Play."
Faith looked puzzled. "Isn't that a little... depressing for a birthday celebration?" Davenant got to his feet unsteadily. "No, no, think about it. It's perfect. We've got three witches, a Scottish soldier and a King already amongst us. It is meant to be," he gasped.
"And you're sure you can do this?"
"My good lady, I was born to do this!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Greenwich
Something was leading them towards the capital. The horde of men, women, children, soldiers, drunkards, housewives and whores staggered and lurched their way along the banks of the Thames. The stench of the London River was overwhelmed by the reek of rotting flesh, the smell penetrating the hovels nearby and rousing people from their sleep. If they listened carefully they could just make out the soft groans of the dead, many dismissing it as the sound of the wind and returning to their slumber, unaware of the horrors that lurched mere feet from their doors.
The banks of the river were crowded with the dead, some falling into the water as their brethren shuffled relentlessly on. Those lost to the river merely floated on the surface, occasionally twitching, staring dispassionately from empty eye sockets.
Eventually the dead came to a square, across which light spilled from the doors of a slaughterhouse, the scent of animal and human flesh drawing them quickly onwards. Soft groans now turned to feral growls of hunger as they spilled into the building. A man looked up as he slaughtered a pig, the knife dropping from his hand as a thing with half a face clawed into his stomach and pulled out his guts. Just before the darkness closed in, he saw the thing feasting on his steaming intestines.
The dead tore open animal pens, feasting on the squealing livestock within, pulling apart cows, sheep and chickens in their frenzy. Soon the sluices were overwhelmed with gore and the blood began to spill from the slaughterhouse into the square. The cobbles shone pitch black in th
e moonlight.
Within a matter of minutes all living flesh in the building had been consumed and the horde wandered back to the banks of the river and continued in their shuffling march into the capital.
In the distance the curtained walls of the Tower of London crouched over the Thames like a castle nestled over its moat. It was illuminated briefly by a flash of lightning, revealing the White Tower in all its ostentatious glory. In spite of their seemingly directionless ambling, there was no confusion amongst the dead - they knew exactly where they were heading and who they wanted to slay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Tower of London
It was morning. At least Davenant could have sworn it was - his body seemed to confirm it, but were his eyes deceiving him? As he stirred, the murky clouds that were so prevalent the night before were still hanging low in the dense sky, turning dawn to night. Davenant had never seen such a gloomy morning and he yearned for the bright countryside daybreaks that he had often enjoyed in Oxfordshire. He truly felt miserable. He even began to welcome the thought of his execution, for at least then he would be put out of his misery.
As he turned his head from the window, he became aware that Elizabeth and Betterton were also awake and in the middle of a muted quarrel. He closed his eyes and pretended to fall back asleep, eager to establish the cause of their disagreement.
"How many more times do I have to tell you?" asked Betterton.
Elizabeth sighed. "Don't take that tone with me. You forget your actions."
"Perhaps, but I have had enough of telling you the same thing, over and over again!"
"But it's so far fetched, Thomas. Put yourself in my position, would you believe what you're saying?"
"I daresay I wouldn't," replied Betterton sullenly. "But I want you to believe me more than anyone else."
Elizabeth allowed herself a reluctant smile. "I want to, really I do."
An uneasy silence fell upon the cell.
"All I thought about when I left was you."
"Yet I wager you wouldn't have returned to us unless you were forced to."
"Listen, Elizabeth, I am destitute. Your father hasn't paid our wages in weeks and I've had to steal to make ends meet. If there had been any other way..."
"My father keeps you in food, drink and shelter, isn't that enough?"
"Look, we shouldn't argue, we've only got one last day together. Let us make the most of it."
"Very well," Elizabeth replied.
A fleet of heavy footsteps broke her train of thought. Elizabeth got to her feet and peeked through the bars of the cell door. She could see several of Cromwell's soldiers and Cromwell himself marching down the corridor towards them. She quickly sat back down, seeking refuge in between her father and Turnbull, trembling at the thought of any further contact with the repulsive Cromwell.
The heavy lock on the door clunked open.
"Good morning, one and all. I trust you had a pleasant night's sleep?" asked Cromwell mockingly as he entered the cell.
"As well as could be expected," replied Davenant.
"My soldiers shall accompany you to the Queen's House. You can have the afternoon to rehearse. We meet at the Phoenix Theatre this evening."
"Come on! Get up!" bellowed the tubby General, as he banged his cudgel against the bars on the cell door.
The group got to their feet gingerly and walked in single file out of the chamber. Cromwell leered as he admired Elizabeth. He couldn't help but cup his hand around her pert buttock as she eased past him. She let out a faint yelp of disgust as her pace quickened. As Cromwell followed the actors, he allowed himself a fleeting glance into a cell to his left, a small chamber, little more than a privy. To his surprise, its single occupant seemed startlingly familiar. He saw his ashen, ghostlike face first, his sunken and sallow features drawn over his skeletal cheekbones. And then he saw the brown hooded cloak that shrouded the prisoner's pallid face. Cromwell turned and strode briskly up the corridor, feeling an icy breeze on the back of his neck, and his heart pounding in his chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Phoenix Theatre, Drury Lane
Given the circumstances, it had been a splendid afternoon. Davenant was able to forget his troubles as the group set about their rehearsal, and as the crowd began to convene in the pit of the old theatre for the evening's entertainment, Davenant felt a sense of palpable excitement - the kind that only performing in front of hundreds of people can give. They had done a good job in tidying up the place, bringing in new seats from Whitehall Palace and repairing the old timber of the stage. Several seamstresses had patched up the velvet of the crimson curtain and Cromwell had even allowed for several props and costumes to be taken over from the Red Bull Theatre in Clerkenwell.
It had been almost a decade since Davenant had last set foot in the Phoenix, and despite its neglect, it had managed to retain its unique atmosphere. He looked up at the ornate Inigo Jones designed ceiling that hung high above the first gallery. This wasn't some shabby little tavern full of drunken low-life. This was the real thing, and Davenant took a moment to breathe it in.
He was surprised by how adept his new-found members were at acting. Middleton's Macbeth was one of the finest he'd ever seen and Charles' Duncan was almost as polished, although their performances were no doubt aided by their real life similarity to the characters. The same could be said of Faith, Anne and Mary, who were unnervingly convincing as the three witches whilst Elizabeth was radiant as Lady Macbeth. Davenant still couldn't quite comprehend that he was allowing women on the stage for the first time, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to work, and to see Elizabeth so cheerful made it worthwhile. And it would give Cromwell a nasty shock too.
To complete the casting, Davenant decided to take the part of Banquo and Betterton the part of Malcolm. He had even drafted in Underhill and Turnbull to portray Donalbain and Macduff respectively, although from what he'd seen in rehearsal his optimism for those two was not quite as well founded.
Oliver, Elizabeth and Richard Cromwell greeted their guests with arrogant delight as they swept into the auditorium. They weren't the usual vermin that used to frequent the playhouses of London. These people were the dignitaries of the Parliamentarian campaign. As Davenant witnessed their entrance, he wished he were able to load the cellars with dynamite and blow them all to Hell, for as far as he could tell, his entire enemy were all encamped under one roof. And the most absurd part about it was that he was about to perform a play for them.
Everyone was in costume and the excitement amongst the troupe was tangible. Davenant's apprehension about performing the most legendary of his father's plays soon disappeared when he saw Middleton and Charles run through their lines in costume.
"The rest is labour, which is not used for you. I'll be myself the harbinger and make joyful the hearing of my wife with your approach; so humbly take my leave."
"My worthy Cawdor!"
Davenant stood and watched in admiration. He could scarcely believe just how accomplished the two of them were. "I am loath to interrupt gentlemen, but we are to start shortly," he said, before turning to the three witches. "Ladies, if you would kindly take your places on stage. We're ready to begin."
There was a glimmer of satisfaction in Davenant's eyes that had long been missing, and both Turnbull and Elizabeth noted it. They exchanged a brief smile. Elizabeth had fond memories of growing up in Turnbull's care when her father was imprisoned. They would for ever be getting into trouble in one way or another. As a child, Elizabeth always enjoyed the thrill of the chase, but as she faced the daunting prospect of the gallows, she longed for the days of riding on the back of Turnbull's steed, feeling the country air blow through her hair, fleeing the clutches of some scoundrel to whom Turnbull owed money. He had quickly become something of a second father to her.
She looked back at Davenant, who was surveying her costume. "Do I look suitable?" she asked.
"You look every bit the Lady Macbeth," replied Dav
enant proudly. "I look forward to seeing the look on Cromwell's face when he sees you ladies on stage. He won't know what hit him."
Betterton ambled sheepishly up to Davenant. "Sir William, I'd just like to thank you for giving me one last chance to perform a play by William Shakespeare. I know this must be difficult for you."
"Thank you, Thomas. It's quite all right. Now let's give them a show they'll never forget!"
Faith, Anne and Mary took centre stage as the loud muttering from the audience quickly descended into several gasps of whispered conversations. They couldn't quite believe what they were seeing, women on the London stage?
Faith stepped forward defiantly, carrying a suitably witchlike hunch. "When will we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain?"
The whispering amongst the audience very quickly died down and they began to watch in enraptured silence.
"When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won." It was Anne who took the role of the second witch and delivered her line just as confidently as Faith.
It was now Mary's turn to deliver and she didn't disappoint, her voice rasping and echoing around the vast auditorium. "That will be ere the set of sun."
"Where the place?"
"Upon the heath."
"There to meet with Macbeth."
"I come, Graymalkin."
"Paddock calls."
"Anon."
"Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air."
Davenant was just as entranced as the audience. The three women owned the stage. As he peeked around the side of the curtain to survey the reaction of the crowd, he could see a soldier walking briskly down the aisle towards Cromwell. He whispered something in his ear and Cromwell got to his feet, made his excuses and followed the soldier out of the theatre. Something was wrong.