by Mark Benyon
"We want Shakespeare!" The outspoken reveller had pushed his way to the front, swaying drunkenly from side to side. His taunt drew one or two sniggers from his fellow dwellers.
"Well you can't have him," hissed Davenant, breaking temporarily out of character. He turned pleadingly to Thomas Betterton, a fellow actor stood at the side of the stage. Betterton was young, brash and carried himself with an air of complacency. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, much to Davenant's annoyance.
Davenant had discovered Betterton's precocious talent on the London stage. He was playing Claudio in his company's underground presentation of Much Ado About Nothing. The show was abysmal, but Davenant had seen sufficient potential in Betterton's performance to offer him a place within the players. When the majority of Betterton's company were conveniently arrested and imprisoned in the Tower after Cromwell's men had received a tip-off from a vagrant, he leapt at the chance of working with Davenant, a real name on the circuit. However, Davenant's insistence on performing his own plays and poems coupled with the ensuing heckling had begun to take its toll on Betterton. He wanted Shakespeare too! And he wasn't afraid to let Davenant know it.
Underhill blew warm air into his freezing hands. He could hear muffled bickering emanating from the cellar. He was used to such an occurrence. The previous week in Ipswich, Davenant had called the landlord of some boisterous watering hole a "toothless simpleton". It had sparked a small riot in which Davenant and his fellow players were forced to escape through a small priest hole hidden within the chimney. He ignored the quarrelling and proceeded to sit on his hands. He'd rather they were numb than icy cold.
A faint pounding resonated along the narrow street. Underhill got to his feet gingerly. He craned his neck to peer into the darkness. Five or six mounted shadows moved furtively, yet rapidly towards him. As the shadows drew closer, the noise became louder - a distinct pounding of hooves clattering along the stones, followed by a high-pitched hissing between razor-sharp teeth. Cromwell's men.
The Kryfangan!
Davenant had always told Underhill that the play was not to be disturbed unless it was "of the utmost importance". Well this was of the utmost importance. The Kryfangan had been trailing Davenant for months and Cromwell had even gone so far as to offer a reward for his capture. Underhill could imagine numerous members of tonight's audience willing to make themselves a fast shilling.
He wasted no time in bounding inside the tavern and descending the rickety wooden steps that led down into the cellar. He could see that the play was in disarray. Davenant was appealing for calm whilst Betterton was seemingly egging the revellers on.
"Cromwell's men! They're outside!" Underhill was surprised to find his shrill appeal generating such silence, as he was far more used to being ignored completely. In an instant, every man within the cellar had turned to face him, unsure of their next move. "Well don't just stand there! They're coming!"
En masse, the revellers pushed past Underhill. Davenant and Betterton hurriedly gathered together their belongings, although in the confusion, a solitary silver costume was clumsily left behind. Once in the tavern, Davenant slammed down the cellar hatch, dislodging dust and grime as it bounced off the timber floor.
Rushing outside, they darted along the cobblestones and into the pool of darkness that enveloped the end of the street. Davenant looked back only once. Once was enough. He could just make out the dull red eyes belonging to the Kryfangan as they mercilessly smashed open the tavern door.
Charles Fleetwood, Cromwell's Major General, strode inside. Fleetwood was in his thirties, tall, imposing. His cropped red hair complemented his notoriously fiery temperament. His fellow Generals, Lambert and Desborough, followed closely behind. Giving the distinct impression of being the hired help, they stood menacingly either side of Fleetwood. All three men were dressed head to toe in black Puritan robes, hats, jerkins and boots - a look that had become synonymous with evil.
Fleetwood scowled as he inspected the ageing tavern. The Kryfangan had already torn it to pieces. Broken glass and furniture littered the floor.
"Actors! The stench of vanity is overwhelming." Fleetwood's eyes wandered around the room until they fell on the hatch in the corner. "The cellar!"
He marched over to the hatch, shards of glass crunching beneath his heavy boots, and flung open the door. He clambered down the rickety staircase, a cascade of moonlight pursuing him. Desborough followed, handing Fleetwood a lantern which he duly held aloft, illuminating the makeshift stage.
Fleetwood turned sharply to Lambert, who was half way down the staircase. "Have your men scour the area. They can't have got far."
Lambert nodded in acknowledgement before hauling himself back up. Fleetwood and Desborough paced onto the stage. The silver costume glistened in the lantern light, catching Fleetwood's attention immediately. He knelt down to pick it up before thrusting it in Desborough's direction, a half-smile crossing his lips.
"Davenant!"
Davenant, Betterton and Underhill emerged from the end of a narrow alleyway, fighting their way through the thick withes and strands of ivy that covered the entrance like a giant spider's web.
Davenant, still dressed in his ridiculous costume, panted from the exertion. "I've had it with these tavern dwellers," he said, in between breaths.
"Well, if you gave them what they wanted," replied Betterton, typically antagonistic.
Davenant stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Betterton, wearing a face like thunder. "I've told you a thousand times! We will not perform Shakespeare in my company."
Betterton sneered at the remark. It was hard to take a man seriously when he's dressed up like a workhouse whore. "What about us? Don't we at least have a say in the matter?"
"You forget it is I who pays your wage and you'll do as I say. Now, if we're done arguing?" Davenant strode off, Underhill following close behind.
"We'd perform Shakespeare with Killigrew!"
Davenant stopped and faced Betterton once more. This time he'd really struck a chord. "That is because Killigrew is a fat, illiterate windbag. You're far better off performing my plays and learning your craft with me." Davenant was incandescent, even behind the thick layer of white stage make-up. "Besides, Killigrew couldn't write a lurid limerick if his life depended on it!"
Betterton shot Underhill a glance. They both grinned.
Davenant hated Thomas Killigrew more than he hated the lowly tavern dwellers. During the reign of Charles, Davenant and Killigrew had vied for the King's patronage. After much mudslinging and bad-tempered poetry, Davenant was rewarded with the office of poet-laureate and was subsequently knighted by the King. And then the Civil War broke out, ruining the aspirations of playwrights and actors across the country.
A despondent mule, attached to a rickety old cart, sat conspicuously at the side of a woodland path, whilst a stout, middle-aged man kept guard.
"Over here! Mister Davenant, Sir!" The man, George Turnbull, was Davenant's trusted manservant. Davenant put his finger to his lips, appealing for silence. Turnbull was a simpleton and his behaviour somewhat childlike; a stark contrast to his formidable bulk.
It was a marvel he hadn't caught the pox in his hedonistic days. Davenant had found him loitering outside a house of ill repute. On this occasion, he'd got himself into trouble with money, so Davenant generously settled his bill. In return, Turnbull pledged his allegiance and remained his dogsbody a decade later. Davenant knew only too well what happened when someone crossed Turnbull, with many an unruly theatregoer having paid the price for heckling. On more than one occasion he'd had to haul Turnbull off a drunkard before he beat him to death. Shame he hadn't been in The Mug House, Davenant thought. There would have been no heckling tonight.
Turnbull proceeded to wave his arms in the air in an effort to catch Davenant's attention.
"Yes, I can see you, you great lump," said Davenant under his breath. He turned to Betterton and Underhill who were ambling behind him. "Not a word of our narrow escape to the others."
"So? How did it go?" asked Elizabeth, Davenant's only daughter.
"As well as could be expected. The Mug House is hardly the Globe," replied Davenant, trying to loosen his costume.
"You should have given them Shakespeare," said Elizabeth innocently. Betterton let out a sly cackle.
"Elizabeth, my dear, could you pass me my clothes?"
"Either give them Shakespeare, or let us girls on the stage." Elizabeth handed Davenant his doublet. It was a shabby item of apparel; the elbows faded to a matt sheen where they had rested on the tables in so many inns.
"The last thing we need is the fairer sex treading the boards," replied Davenant, disappearing behind a nearby tree to get changed.
Betterton waited until Davenant was out of sight before sidling up to Elizabeth. "I missed you tonight," he said, running his hand gently down the silk of her skirt.
"Not here. Not now." She pushed him away, conscious of her father's gaze. Davenant had caught them together before in a deserted barn on the outskirts of Lowestoft. On that occasion Elizabeth had to plead with him not to fire Betterton, yet she could understand her father's controlling nature. Davenant's wife had died shortly after giving birth to Elizabeth and, although he had resented her at first, he soon became the devoted father, not least because of her startling resemblance to her mother.
Although he rated Betterton as a young actor, the thought of him courting Elizabeth made him feel sick to his stomach. She was far too pretty, far too perfect for a young upstart like him. In Davenant's eyes, she belonged to a Prince - or someone with vast sums of money to keep him in his dotage.
The Kryfangan approached stealthily on horseback. They'd got the scent from the silver costume and had picked up the trail not far from the riverbank. Keeping close to the shadows, they had the longing for blood again - as if the flesh from the four thousand Scots hadn't abated their appetite. Their faces were concealed, sunk deep into their hooded cloaks, although one of the Kryfangan was revealed by the stark moonlight as its horse strayed momentarily off course. Two little pip-like eyes lurked in the depths of the dark, vacant sockets. They glowed red. Puritan red. Jagged, thin teeth, like those of a rat, overlaid its withered lower lip.
It pulled on the reins harshly, almost snapping the horse's neck. The beast duly obeyed and cantered back onto the concealed path.
The Kryfangan hissed, foul breath misting in the pale moonlight.
It began to rain. Davenant wanted to get back on the road and as far away from Bewdley as possible. He could have sworn he heard a shrill hissing when he was getting changed behind the tree and was mindful that Cromwell's men were on the lookout for him.
"Let's move out," he commanded.
Turnbull sprang into action, gathering together the few belongings scattered across the path: a lantern, Davenant's gaudy costume, several wooden platters and a spare jerkin. Underhill urinated into a nearby bush. He had been needing that for hours.
Suddenly, a branch snapped close by.
Davenant snatched the lantern from Turnbull and waved it around, lighting up the immediate vicinity. There was nothing.
Elizabeth sought refuge in the unsteady wooden cart. Betterton followed. Underhill didn't move a muscle. They'd rehearsed a drill to prepare themselves for times like these. Underhill cursed his luck - the drill didn't involve him pissing into close at hand foliage.
Another branch snapped. This time Davenant was able to pinpoint its location - it came from above. He reluctantly shone the lantern upwards, half terrified of what he'd find prowling in the treetops.
To his surprise, he found two men staring back at him. One of them was a King.
CHAPTER THREE
The Sun Inn, Long Marston
July 1st, 1644
The crowded inn fell silent as Cromwell stepped through the warped doorway. He glared at a group of his soldiers who were daring enough to partake in a session of ale the night before the most significant battle of their lives. They would incur his wrath later, for right now he was in dire need of a drink himself. As he left them grimacing with embarrassment, he slipped into a private room where he could be assured of some peace and quiet. The timid server, little more than a boy, trembled as he poured rank ale from a decaying cask into a rusty tankard.
There was a time when Cromwell would have thrown the ale, which bore a remarkable similarity to cat's piss, back in the server's face. But not tonight, tonight he received it gratefully and took a hearty swig.
"No one's going to steal it, my dear man."
The guttural voice was unfamiliar to Cromwell, but the tone and choice of words lead him to the conclusion that he was either a brave, foolish man, or that he was unaware of who he was talking to. Either way, Cromwell turned to chastise him for rudely interrupting his respite. He got as far as pointing an angry finger at the crooked man sat in front of him before becoming lost in the dark eyes that prowled deep within the hooded cloak.
"Do I know you?" Cromwell whispered.
"No," the creature chuckled. "But I know you."
CHAPTER FOUR
Bewdley Woods
6th September, 1651
"Good evening, gentlemen." The voice carried a peculiar accent, a strange marriage of French, Scottish and Flemish. Davenant could just about make out a dishevelled mop of dark hair which fell around his ears and a thin moustache which lined his lip.
"Who are you?" Davenant held the lantern aloft and was conscious that a nervous tremble had crept into his arm, jerking the light ever so slightly.
"That is not how you address a King," replied the dark haired man.
Davenant stood, open-mouthed. "You will forgive my ignorance then," he said, finally. "But who exactly are you the King of?"
The dark haired man smiled warmly, seemingly unoffended by Davenant's blunt retort. "My name is Charles Stuart, son of a murdered King and rightful heir to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland. And I would very much appreciate it if you could help us down."
It was Davenant's turn to smile. "Charles Stuart, you say?" There was a hint of cynicism in his tone that didn't go unnoticed.
"Yes and this gentleman alongside me is John Middleton, a commander in my army."
Davenant caught his first glimpse of the other man - a tall, sturdy type with a huge florid moustache that ran the width of his face. "So, if you are who you say you are, how do you know that we are not officers in Cromwell's army? You are taking an almighty risk in drawing attention to yourselves, are you not?"
"Well," replied Charles, "you are wearing stage make-up. I am well aware that the quality of Cromwell's army has dropped as of late, but I am sure that even he would draw the line at drafting up men with a penchant for cross-dressing. Or is that your new uniform?"
Betterton and Elizabeth emerged cautiously from the cart, sensing that any potential danger had passed. Underhill, who had watched the entire episode from his nearby pissing position, was trying his damnedest not to laugh. Charles had rendered Davenant speechless, which was quite an accomplishment.
"Should we not help them down, Sir?" It was Turnbull who eventually broke the silence. Davenant grudgingly nodded, still unable to find his tongue.
"May I know the name of our saviour?" Charles began his descent.
"My name is William Davenant and this hulk is my manservant, George Turnbull." Charles, who was in the process of clambering down from the tree, checked himself. He peered down at Davenant with an incredulous look. "William Davenant? Sir William Davenant?"
"You know of me? I am an actor of some repute."
"Of course I know of you. After all, it was my father who knighted you." Charles jumped the rest of the way down, and stumbled as he hit the ground. "I can't thank yo
u enough," he said wearily, as Davenant helped him to his feet. "I had almost forgotten what it was like to stand on solid ground. We've been sheltering in that tree for far too long."
Turnbull turned his attention to Middleton who had started to vacate his position in the branches. Davenant shone his lantern in Charles' direction, wanting to take a closer look at the self-proclaimed King standing before him. To his astonishment he recognised the eyes almost immediately. They were piercingly dark and surrounded by the familiar hooded eyelids that made them appear to be half closed.
Davenant was immediately contrite, dropping to one knee. "Sir, you have my most humble apologies. Your likeness to your father is startling."
Charles grinned as he pulled him to his feet. "You have no reason to kneel before me, Sir William. I am led to believe that you were one of my father's closest allies. And he didn't have a great many of them towards the end." He extended his hand to Davenant, who received it warmly. "Perhaps, later on, you will indulge me with some stories of my father," he continued. "The tales I have heard hardly paint him in the greatest light."
"I would be delighted to share them with you, my Lord, but not here and not now. We must leave these woods immediately. I fear Cromwell's troops are not far behind us."
Charles nodded solemnly. "What do you suggest we do? I must return to France and we are far from Portsmouth."
There was a loud thud as Middleton and Turnbull came crashing to the ground. The two colossal men picked themselves up gingerly and brushed themselves down.
"So, what have you done to incur the wrath of Cromwell? It seems we share more than just a mutual respect for my father," said Charles.
"We are a troupe of actors, a company of players, my Lord. That does not fit in with Cromwell's miserable regime. Not to mention that I ran several missions for your father during the early years of the war that earned me some time in the Tower. But I digress, my Lord. We must make haste."
