by Mark Benyon
"Then we must leave with you."
"Is that wise, my Lord? Surely it would do neither of us any good should we be discovered together." The thought of being found harbouring England's most wanted man filled Davenant with dread. There would be no prison sentence this time around, he thought. He'd surely lose his head.
"We can help each other. Middleton and I can perform with you, undercover of course. In return, you can provide us with safe passage to Portsmouth."
"You can act?" Davenant was genuinely taken aback.
"I can." It was Middleton who replied, much to everyone's surprise. He carried a broad Scottish accent. "Don't seem so surprised," he continued. "I have performed in The Tempest, Hamlet and Othello back home."
"You see," said Charles, "we have plenty of experience between us!"
"We don't do Shakespeare," replied Betterton, piping up.
"That is irrelevant because we cannot take you with us." Davenant was becoming increasingly frustrated. "It's just too great a risk."
"If you won't do this for me, then do it for my father," pleaded Charles. "We need your help, Sir William. You know these roads far better than we. Your assistance at this difficult time will not be forgotten when I return to claim the throne, I promise."
Davenant considered his words for a moment. "Very well," he finally said. "Now let's go!"
The sun was beginning to rise and the sound of birdsong had started to emanate from the woodland they had just left behind. Davenant was relieved to have escaped it unscathed - it had filled him with dread and a dark sense of foreboding from the moment he had set foot in it. And those dark red eyes were still weighing heavily on his raddled mind. Keen to put as much distance between themselves and Bewdley as possible, Davenant's group trudged wearily onwards. No one had spoken for hours, as if in some way speech would sap whatever energy they had left in their somnolent bodies.
It was Underhill's legs that buckled first.
"We need to rest now," said Charles.
"Where are we?" Davenant turned to Turnbull, who handed him a rough map scrawled upon a tattered piece of parchment, before tending to Underhill. "We're here, on the outskirts of Ombersley." He said, answering his own question.
"My sister lives in Ombersley." Underhill piped up. "She can put us up for a while."
"I wouldn't wish to impose," replied Davenant. "And I doubt that she will have room for all of us."
"I'm sure we can squeeze in. If not, there's a perfectly good tavern in town that will put us up."
Davenant noted the blatant desperation in his tone that longed for rest. "Very well," he said. "Ombersley it is."
As the group joined the narrow thoroughfare which ran through the heart of Ombersley, they witnessed the working day creak into action. The noise and bustle began to grow into an incessant din with every passing cart, wagon, coach and opening shutter. Merchants and tradesmen spilled from dilapidated hovels to take their places on the street. All kinds of trades were on offer - butchers, bakers, barbers and blacksmiths. Within an hour, Ombersley was thrumming. A gaggle of nearby whores had cleverly set up shop adjacent to the Kings Arms, an imposing building that dominated the narrow street, its steep-pitched roof almost touching its opposite neighbours'. The whores, who were flaunting their wares in full view of mothers and children, waited patiently for the drunkards, the husbands, brothers and fathers of Ombersley, to fall out of the pub and take advantage of the services on offer. Their entrepreneurial skills seemed to know no end - a tariff was even etched onto a nearby wall to avoid any confusion or drunken bartering.
Underhill could barely take his eyes off them.
"Maybe some day, wee man," Middleton smirked, as he brought Underhill out of his trance. "Although let me give you a piece of advice. Avoid the red heads like the plague. Unless you want a dose of the pox."
Davenant wandered idly down the street, grateful for the respite Ombersley offered his companions. As he weaved through the commotion a poster, crudely attached to a weathered old beam, caught his eye.
EXOD. 22.18.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
BY ORDER OF PARLIAMENT
The trials of Mary Cavendish, Faith Howard and Anne Underhill on the charge of Witchcraft.
And how they bewitched Men, Women, Children, and Cattle to death: with many other strange things, the like was never heard of before.
7th September, St Andrew's Church, Ombersley
As Davenant processed the information before him, his heart seemed to drop in his chest. The name Underhill had registered immediately...
CHAPTER FIVE
The Sun Inn, Long Marston
July 1st, 1644
"Of course you know who I am," spat Cromwell. "I am the Lieutenant General, not some grubby cannon fodder. And if you would be as kind as to answer my question, do I know you?"
The strange man didn't answer immediately. For the briefest of seconds, as he stared into the stranger's eyes, Cromwell could have sworn he noticed a glint of red in his black, hollow pupils.
"I am a friend, my Lord, a friend who comes with a proposition. Charles Stuart is a man of blood. I see you as Gideon, the Jewish farmer, summoned to lead the army of the Israelites to kill their Kings." Under any other circumstance, Cromwell would have had his men arrest the stranger. But the malevolence in his eyes and the tone of his voice held him in their thrall. "You're about to partake in the most important battle of the war. But your men are drunkards and your tactics unsound. Should you win, however, you will gain the North."
Cromwell looked through the smeared window into the adjacent room. Many of his men were staggering drunkenly, others had passed out, and some had fallen asleep in puddles of their own piss. The stranger was right - his army were a shambles.
"And what is your proposition?" replied Cromwell.
"I propose an exchange, my Lord," the stranger whispered. "For a small token, a meagre payment, I can give you an unbeatable army, a formidable force with which your victory is assured."
"What is the payment?"
The pause seemed to last forever.
"Your soul, my Lord."
CHAPTER SIX
Ombersley, Worcestershire
7th September, 1651
Davenant turned hurriedly and forced his way back up the street. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest and his pulse almost bursting through his skin. His eyes darted around, desperately trying to locate a familiar face amongst the sea of strangers. As he tried to squeeze between a peasant and a stout fruit vendor, he caught his heel on a loose stone and tripped, knocking the vendor's cart over and sending his rank produce rolling across the path. Davenant heard the man crying out behind him and then felt a heavy hand grab the back of his jerkin. Just as the vendor's grip tightened, Davenant managed to wriggle free, losing his garment in the struggle.
In the near distance he spied Betterton loitering outside the Kings Arms.
He'd never been so pleased to see him.
"Betterton!"
Half of Ombersley turned to face Davenant. Betterton was markedly embarrassed and turned quickly to face the other way.
"Betterton! Where's Underhill?"
This time Betterton picked up on the urgency in Davenant's voice, sensing that something was dreadfully wrong. "He's in the Kings Arms with the other three," he stuttered in reply.
"Find Elizabeth and wait here," said Davenant as he burst into the tavern, the nauseating stench hitting him immediately. The Kings Arms was a shit hole, a boisterous gathering place where many of the conversations were in monosyllabic grunts, where men came to become riotously pissed in the shortest possible time and where shady deals were struck in dark corners. Occasionally a flicker of light from one of those dark corners would reveal a gem or a bracelet being secretly shown, before being packed back into the malodorous cloth in which it was wrapped - most likely by the landlord, more often than not involved in all manner of nefarious activities.
Davenant spied Middleton an
d Turnbull's vast frames amidst the pungent, opaque haze that enveloped the room. As he scurried over to them, almost tripping over a stray stool as he did so, Turnbull stood aside to reveal Underhill, tankard in hand, enjoying his first alcoholic beverage and blissfully unaware of the news that awaited him.
"Underhill! We need to leave, now!" Davenant struggled to catch his breath.
"Why? The Kings Arms seems a most fitting tavern, and no one will recognise me through this smog," whispered Charles in reply, as he leant back gracefully in a magnificent oak armchair which seemed to occupy much of the intimate tavern.
"It's your sister, Underhill. She's being tried for witchcraft!"
The roaring tavern fell silent at the mere mention of the word and the intoxicated locals at the bar turned sluggishly to face Davenant. Turnbull sensed trouble, as did Middleton, who was clearly of the same breed. They edged forward, both men feeling instinctively for their cudgels.
"Witchcraft?" Underhill bolted to his feet and shot out of the door.
Davenant resigned himself to the fact that their well-earned rest would have to wait.
A large crowd had convened outside St Andrew's Church, waiting patiently in hushed anticipation for death and dismemberment. Although the days of the Witchfinder General were at an end, Parliament still granted warrants to several Puritan clergymen to perform witchcraft trials - even though they had become something of an embarrassment amongst the more civilised communities. Nevertheless, the Ombersley mob had come flocking in their droves, aided somewhat by the balmy morning weather.
A makeshift stage had been erected in front of the vast church doors, complete with stocks, a gibbet, a crude rack and a colossal axe and chopping block. It was enough to reduce even the most stoic of men to whimpering wrecks.
Suddenly, the church doors were flung open and a group of people appeared from within. Davenant, who had joined the back of the crowd, could just about make out three frightened women, a tall, sturdy clergyman, suitably dressed in his Puritan robes, and five guards.
The crowd erupted as the collective made their way onto the rickety stage. Underhill reached out and clutched Davenant's arm, drawing him closer. Davenant frequently had to remind himself that he was just a boy and had to deal with all of life's traumas as such. He placed a caring arm around his bony shoulders, much like a father would a son.
"I am Reverend Henry Kane and I shall perform the trial this morning," said the clergyman in a grating voice.
The crowd let out a rapturous ovation. They knew full well that Kane was the harbinger of pain, who frequently ignored the traditional modus operandi set out by Parliament to ensure he delivered the maximum amount of suffering. To have him perform at Ombersley was an honour indeed for the community.
Kane tugged open a scroll and began to read aloud. "Mary Cavendish, Faith Howard and Anne Underhill stand before you charged with witchcraft," he bellowed, revealing a mouthful of broken and blackened teeth. Davenant had a clearer view of him now. He had a vile, emaciated face, despite his stout physique, and strange, repellent eyes that were so pale in colour they seemed almost white.
Several cries of "Satan's whores", and "Burn in Hell," rang out across the crowd.
"To begin with we shall perform the pricking," yelled Kane with abhorrent glee.
'Pricking' was first implemented by Matthew Hopkins as a way of extracting a confession from the victim. It was an excruciatingly painful ordeal to endure and involved the use of evil looking pins, needles and bodkins to pierce the skin, looking for insensitive spots that didn't bleed. If any were found, they would be interpreted as a mark of the Devil. If none were found, the victim would have to suffer the infamous ordeal of 'Swimming' until a confession was obtained.
Kane opened an ornate wooden box and proudly held aloft the first needle, which twinkled in the morning sun. "Step forward Mary Cavendish and let God decide your fate," he commanded.
Mary Cavendish cut a forlorn, diminutive figure as she was forced forward by a guard. She was middle-aged yet due to the torment she had already suffered, she appeared to be a good deal older.
"Kneel before me, witch!" Mary reluctantly knelt down in front of Kane, mumbling an incoherent prayer as she did so. "Pray to your God, the good it will do you!"
Kane tore Mary's rag-like shawl from her neck, revealing her naked shoulders which were already bruised and scarred. Without flinching, he plunged the needle in between the top of her shoulder blade and her spine. As she let out an agonising scream, the crowd gasped collectively.
Kane drew no blood.
"Your fate is sealed," he cried, with a telling look of surprise on his face which suggested that he'd never seen that happen before. The two hulking brutes stood either side of him wrestled with Mary until they had the noose fastened around her slender neck. They would wait until the others had been tried before sending her to Hell.
Tears glistened in Cave Underhill's eyes. Not tears of self-pity or sorrow, but tears of hatred. "We must save them," he whispered.
Davenant could just about make out his muted plea in spite of the raucous bellowing echoing in his ears. "I'm thinking," he replied, tugging on Underhill's arm to stay put.
"Step forward Faith Howard and let God decide your fate." A tall, proud and confident woman took a defiant stride forward. "Kneel before me, witch!"
She made a concerted effort to maintain eye contact with Kane as she was forced to her knees. One of his assistants handed him the wooden box from which he produced a second needle, a more vicious looking version of the first. Kane paraded around the stage, his long dark robes billowing in the wind, as he held aloft the needle to a chorus of cheering and clapping. Dignified to the last, Faith Howard held her head high, resilient in the face of adversity. Davenant was overwhelmed by her fortitude. She let out the faintest whimper as Kane pierced her skin with dagger-like precision - she would be damned to give him any satisfaction from his cowardly antics. The crowd roared with approval as he pushed the needle in as far as it would go, only stopping when it came in contact with bone. As he withdrew it purposefully slowly, blood seeped from the small hole that had opened up between her shoulder and ribs.
"Your fate is yet to be sealed," howled Kane.
The crowd erupted once again, knowing full well that 'Swimming' awaited her.
Davenant turned to Charles who was lingering nearby; similarly disgusted by the actions on stage. The two men exchanged a nod which, although brief, constituted an entire conversation.
Faith Howard was bundled to the side of the stage, a trail of blood following in her wake.
"Step forward Anne Underhill and let God decide your fate." Kane withdrew a third needle from the box, which was longer, thinner and more striking than the first two. Underhill turned his back as his sister was dragged forward by the brutish thugs. She was far younger than Mary Cavendish and Faith Howard, and seemed entirely out of place. Davenant turned to Charles again, desperately seeking a plan or a hint of an instruction before it was too late. Charles gave a slight hand gesture which motioned him to calm down and stay put. Davenant, like a veteran soldier, didn't question his orders.
"Don't worry, we'll save her. But we have to wait for the right moment." He whispered to Underhill.
Davenant could see the gratitude in Underhill's eyes. Another ovation from the crowd made Davenant jump. As he turned back to face the stage, Kane thrust his third needle through Anne Underhill's skin.
She screamed as a wave of the most agonising, searing pain shot through her slight body. "You bastard," she cried as Kane withdrew his bloodied needle.
He slapped her hard across the face, sending her crashing to the floor of the stage. "Your fate is yet to be sealed," he cried, sending the crowd into jubilant rapture once more. They would get to see not one, but two women suffer the most appalling agony. Entertainment didn't come much better than this. Davenant could just make out Mary Cavendish being watched over by a solitary guard, primed and ready to send her to her death as some sort o
f grim finale, as Faith Howard and Anne Underhill were dragged by their hair from the stage and towards the waiting River Severn. The crowd barged and pushed their way in pursuit, wanting to get the best possible view of the impending torment.
Charles used the commotion as an opportunity to liaise with Davenant. "Wait for my signal," he whispered. "You and Turnbull take out the guards, Middleton and I shall deal with the priest."
Davenant could see from the maniacal look in Charles' eyes that he relished a scrap. Kane had settled on an elevated spot by the riverbank "If you will not be tried by pricking, then swimming shall seal your fate!" The crowd exploded once more, lapping up his every word and lurid gesture. "The accused shall be bound and thrown into the water. If they sink they shall be deemed innocent and assured a chair at Christ's table. Yet if they float, they shall be deemed guilty and their souls shall rot in eternal damnation."
"Nothing like a fair trial," said Davenant under his breath.
The public spectacle of 'Swimming' was based on the belief that as a witch rejected the water of baptism, so the element of water would reject them in turn, and they would float in an unnatural manner.
Davenant sensed that simply throwing the women into the river wasn't in Kane's style and wouldn't satisfy his sense of spectacle and brutality. He spied Kane's thuggish assistants finishing the intricate binding of the victims. Faith Howard and Anne Underhill were bent double with their arms crossed between their legs and their thumbs tied to their big toes. They had lost the colour from their faces.
