by Mark Benyon
And there he was, huddled in the mass, a crooked figure in a hooded cloak with a pale, wasted face staring right back at him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Tower of London
3rd June, 1642
Damnation. This was terrible, truly terrible.
The chill of the Tower pierced into his bones as Davenant peered out of the narrow window and over the Thames. His hand trembled, not with fear or trepidation, but with exhaustion, as he carved another mark into the grimy wall, its wetness glistening and sparkling in the willowy lantern light. As his eyes glanced over his many carvings, Davenant estimated that it had been almost two months since his arrest in Faversham and the subsequent journey to London. He chastised himself, not the first time, for being such a fool. Trying to persuade an army loyal to Parliament to overthrow the Commons was suicidal, and as he stood accused before the Long Parliament, Davenant spared a thought for his darling Elizabeth. How would she cope, a helpless infant without her father? The thought of leaving a six year old girl in Turnbull's care filled him with dread, but he had been left with no alternative. As he leant sluggishly against his cell wall, he muttered a prayer for her wellbeing.
Looking out of the barred window again, he could just make out a riverboat being rowed under the rattling portcullis, past the lichen-covered drawbridge and into Traitors' Gate. He didn't envy the poor bastards onboard - for that short journey through the cold, dark, stinking water was a journey through a gallery of true horror. The decapitated heads of the prisoners, crudely stuck on the sharp spikes, acted as a sign of the impending torment for those entering into the belly of the Tower. By the time the prisoners had come this far, many of them would be wishing they were already dead.
Davenant's cell within the White Tower stank, although much of that was due to his cellmate, a ruddy faced man by the name of Bray. He hadn't uttered a word in the two months that Davenant had been incarcerated with him, although the guards took great pleasure in telling Davenant that he was arrested for being a sodomite.
There was a loud thud as the lock sprang open and the cell door was opened. Two imposing Yeomen Warders, carrying wooden platters and goblets, lurched across the slippery stone floor, unceremoniously dropping the meagre meals before each prisoner, before lumbering back out, locking the door behind them.
Davenant picked up his platter and examined its contents - a stodgy muck of oats and water. Several weevils provided the seasoning for this foul porridge. The contents of the goblet were just as poor and had a slight tang of the sewer. However, none of this seemed to put off Bray who was happily devouring his supper.
Davenant offered his plate to his cell-mate. "Would you care for mine as well? I couldn't possibly."
"No, thank you." Davenant was shocked. He wasn't expecting a reply, let alone one in the tones of what sounded like a reasonably educated man. "I daresay the food they give you isn't of the same quality as mine."
"You have a different meal?" Davenant was understandably dumbfounded.
"But of course. I couldn't abide the filth they serve you. You see, I have a 'special arrangement' with our friends, the guards. In return for some 'services rendered', they provide me with sufficient sustenance."
Davenant could barely believe what he was hearing. Two months of eating the foulest, most putrid tasting, stomach churning shit on offer, and all it would have taken was a small bribe to ensure some edible food?
"How do you pay them?" he said, as he got to his feet eagerly.
Bray shook his head and a condescending grin stretched the width of his grubby face. "Oh, I don't pay them in money, my good man. Life gets lonely as a prison warder and I provide them with... well, a spot of much needed company shall we say? When they drag me roughly from the cell they aren't taking me to the rack. Do you get my drift?"
Davenant sat back down despondently, acknowledging that he had been priced out of the market.
"Of course, my position has various other advantages beyond a decent meal," said Bray.
"Such as?"
"Such as allowing me to purloin a bunch of keys from the discarded breeches of one particularly 'distracted' guard." Bray produced the set from within the folds of his grubby rags and grinned widely.
"My God! If they catch you with those you'll be for the chop!"
"That is why, as soon as I have finished my meal, we will be leaving. I know more about this place than most of the prisoners here due to my liaisons."
"What if they catch us?"
"They won't. Now come on, old man, buck up, you can't think like that. We'll be out of here in no time!"
Davenant couldn't quite believe his luck and he spared a whimsical thought for Cromwell and what his reaction would be when he discovered what was responsible for the escape of one of his most despised enemies. The thought of his wart-ravaged face boiling with fury warmed his heart as they fled the damp chill of the cell.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Palace of Whitehall Lodgings, London
11th September, 1651
Richard Cromwell was delighted to have his father home from the battle unscathed. However, as he ambled into the beautiful vine-covered courtyard directly adjacent to the old Palace of Whitehall, he reflected on the strange, repellent warts that had started to infest his father's face. Cromwell had never been particularly struck by vanity, but the cause of these unsightly blemishes must have weighed heavily on his mind, Richard thought. And his behaviour was becoming increasingly unpredictable.
Richard plucked a sprig of thyme from the well-kept garden as the rain began to trickle down. The weather had taken a dramatic turn for the worse since his father's return and the temperature had dropped markedly. As Richard looked up at the imposing Palace which loomed above their modest lodgings, he took a moment to appreciate the irony of his family living in the quarters that had once belonged to his father's adversary. He caught a glimpse of his father through the tall, mullioned windows, pacing restlessly in the kitchen. He noted his eyes, not just the bags that surrounded them, but their colour. They were much darker than he remembered them. As Richard pushed open the door that led into the orderly kitchen, he placed the sprig of thyme on the nearby table.
"Is it raining, Richard?" His father said, looking up.
Richard turned to see his mother, Elizabeth, emerge from the larder. She had short hair and a dour face that was accentuated by her thin, pointed nose and drooping eyelids. "It's getting worse now," he replied, and was suddenly startled by his father's reflection in the darkening window. For the briefest of moments, it didn't look like his father at all. Instead, he could have sworn he saw a terrible wizened visage. The hairs on the back of his neck shot up, but he looked again and it was his father's warty face once more.
"Your father and I were just discussing my birthday celebrations," said Elizabeth, breaking Richard out of his nightmarish daydream.
"Good. That's good," he said. "And what it is that you have decided to do?"
"Your mother has insisted on having a play performed for her! I was hoping you would be able to persuade her to enjoy some other frightful frivolity. She knows how I feel about the damned theatre," replied Cromwell, disparagingly.
Richard had always hated being stuck in the middle of his parents' disputes and could never fathom how they found the time to quarrel so often. However, his uneasiness was short-lived, and he breathed a sigh of relief as Bates, their manservant, appeared in the doorway. Bates was a short, rotund man with rosy cheeks and a mild manner.
"Excuse me, Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but there is a gentleman here to see you."
"His name?"
"It is a Mr Fleetwood sir," replied Bates. "He's waiting for you in the study."
Cromwell's study gleamed, rich with the shine and smell of polish on mahogany, his colossal desk littered with papers and leather bound volumes, none of which had been disturbed in the months that he had been away.
"Good evening, Sir. I come with important news," said Fleetwood, ris
ing to his feet in greeting.
Cromwell closed the door gently behind him as he stepped into the room. "It had better be. I wouldn't appreciate the first night I've spent with my family in months being interrupted by irrelevance."
"A member of Davenant's group has supplied us with information concerning their movements. He will want paying of course."
Cromwell's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes, in good time. Now, where can we find these theatrical brigands?"
"They're in Pershore and heading south. And it gets better, Sir, because Charles Stuart himself is still with them!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Evesham Abbey
Another war-scarred abbey and another night in the woods. Davenant was beginning to get the feeling that he was reliving the same day over and over again. His group had set up their camp under the remains of the old abbey - its Bell Tower cut a forlorn figure as it overlooked the camp and the rest of the sparse woodland. After much effort the group had finally managed to get a fire going. They cheered as the flames illuminated the old limestone of the tower. Davenant had decided not to help them, not because he didn't want to, but because of the recriminating looks and the whispered conversations that he had been the recipient of since their swift departure from Pershore. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach, much like he had been ostracised by his own family, the same family he cared and provided for. It had been a strange two days, he thought. He was glad that Faith and Anne were on the mend, but was equally distraught that Mary, the devilish bitch that she was, had bared his secret for all to hear. Elizabeth had refused to listen to his explanation, or even to speak to him, and yet despite Betterton revelling in the irony of his misfortune, Davenant was far more distraught by his daughter's reaction than any others.
It was none of their damned business, he stubbornly concluded. Besides, they didn't know the half of it, and if they did, perhaps they wouldn't have been so quick to judge. As he sat alone on a threadbare rug watching Elizabeth, Underhill, Middleton and Turnbull playfully skimming stones on the nearby river, he decided that he would wait for them to come to him. At least that way he could maintain some form of pride.
"Are you still sulking?"
Davenant jumped at the sound of the voice and he turned to see Charles, his face half masked by the night.
"Yes."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"How long have you got?" Davenant said, shuffling across the rug to make room for Charles to sit. "If I'm honest, I thought I'd carry my secret to the grave. To have it shouted out in front of a group of strangers was nothing less than galling."
"We're hardly strangers, Sir William. Talk to me." Charles said, settling himself beside the actor.
Davenant struggled to understand why Charles was suddenly being so compassionate, but he didn't care. He was just happy for the company. "Where do I begin?" he said.
"With wine," replied Charles, thrusting a goblet into Davenant's hand.
Davenant drained half the cup and then sighed. "My parents were the proprietors of a humble inn by the name of the Crown Tavern in Oxford. My father was frequently away from home on business. As Oxford was en route to Shakespeare's home in Stratford, the playwright would often spend the night when away from London and the Globe. It was obviously on one of these nights that Shakespeare and my mother decided to embark on a physical relationship of which I was the product. There were all sorts of rumours flying around, but my father, being the proud, foolish man that he was, decided to bury his head in the sand. After all, William Shakespeare was quite the icon. Christ, they even named me after him and asked him to be my godfather! I myself didn't discover the truth until after my father had passed away. It was purely by chance, but when someone remarked to me that I had a 'wit with the very same spirit of Shakespeare', I decided to confront him about it. We even shared a striking resemblance. At the time I was serving as his apprentice. We were in the middle of rehearsing Romeo and Juliet when I walked up and asked him face to face whether there was any truth to the rumours. I was ready for him to say no, but when he confirmed my fears, I felt sick, sick that I had been deceived and sick for the lie my false father had been living. What made it worse was that the man I had known as my father for all these years knew all along and that it didn't trouble him in the slightest. So I left Shakespeare's apprenticeship under a cloud of mistrust and he set me up on my own. After all, it was the very least he could do. But to this day, I refuse to put on any of his plays."
"Did you grieve for him, Will?"
Davenant thought long and hard about his reply. "Yes," he said, eventually. "I didn't find out that he had died until a good three weeks after, and yes I still felt anger towards him. But I did grieve."
"It is a terrible thing to lose a father, but to lose two must have been doubly hard to bear," replied Charles.
"I can count myself fortunate at least that my 'father', John Davenant, died peacefully. What they did to your father, the King, was beyond the pale. I was heartbroken, really I was."
"I know you were," said Charles softly. "And to have seen it with my own eyes as a young boy..."
"You were at your father's execution?" Davenant exclaimed.
Charles took a moment to collect his thoughts, no doubt the retelling of such a distressing anecdote was still hard to bear even years later. "I was hiding underneath the scaffold and watched... watched it through a crack in the wood. I saw the drunken executioner parading around the stage, lapping up every jeer and taunt, before cutting my father's head off with one blow of his axe. I can vividly remember it dropping into the basket not ten feet away from me."
"With Cromwell looking on with jubilant glee, I daresay." There was vitriol in Davenant's voice now.
"Still, we have found solace in our mutual ire, have we not?" replied Charles.
Their heart-to-heart was cut short by a sudden, blood-curdling scream that tore through the night. The two men stumbled to their feet and darted across the slippery grass towards the tent from which the chilling scream had issued.
"It's Faith and Anne," gasped Charles, as the two men ran through the cool darkness. Davenant pulled the flap of the tent to one side and poked his head reluctantly inside, terrified of what he'd find. To his relief, he found both women alive and well, attempting to kill a spider that had crept its way inside.
"Can we help you?" said Faith, holding a slipper in her hand.
Davenant noticed that the colour had returned to her cheeks and her blue eyes seemed to glisten as a cascade of moonlight flooded the tent. He paused, as he contemplated her natural beauty. Dr Tyrell's medicine had patently done the trick.
"No, no. We heard a scream and came over to see if you were all right," he replied.
"You came rushing over on our account? You've done enough for us already, Sir William."
"You know my name?"
"But of course. We've heard all about you." Faith glanced over at Anne who was grinning wickedly.
"From Mary, no doubt," spat Davenant, almost losing his cool.
"No, Sir William, from your daughter. She was telling us what a kind, considerate father you are."
"Where is Mary?" he asked.
"She's gone for a walk."
"Fine, I shall catch up with her later. How are you ladies bearing up?"
"A little better, thank you."
"Perhaps when you are quite yourselves, you might explain why you were being tried for witchcraft?"
"And perhaps you might explain why you chose to risk your lives to save us?" Faith replied.
Davenant suddenly became aware of hurried footsteps approaching the tent.
"Father, it's Betterton, he's gone!" shrieked Elizabeth, her voice penetrating through the canvas.
Davenant staggered back outside, almost colliding with Elizabeth and Underhill as he did so. "What do you mean, gone?" he spluttered.
Elizabeth grimaced; her face was raddled with worry. "I hadn't seen him for about an hour, so I went to his tent to see if he was all righ
t. There's no sign of him and all his belongings are gone."
Davenant let out a weary sigh. "Do you have any idea where he could have gone?"
But he didn't need to satisfy himself with an answer. He knew full well where Betterton was going.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kempsey, Worcestershire
Thomas Betterton trekked through the tiresomely persistent undergrowth that seemed to greet his every step with a vice-like grip of sodden earth on leather boot. As he spied the cluster of lights belonging to the dwellings of Kempsey, he spared a thought for Elizabeth and what her reaction would be when she discovered his betrayal. He had managed to convince himself that in spite of his affection for her, no relationship was worth one double crown, no matter how beautiful she was. It must have been his parents mutual hatred for one another that had left him a shallow, loveless son-of-a-bitch, he mused. Either that or he was just, in fact, a covetous bastard. Davenant weighed heavily on his mind also, and as he waded through the mire, he almost felt a tinge of sorrow for him.
Still, no time for regret when there's a reward to collect.
He hauled himself from the shallow ditch that was clinging to his ankles and onto the cobbled pathway that led into the scenic hamlet, its smattering of lodgings full of character with their whitewashed walls bedecked with flowers. He searched for an inn from where he might get directions back to Bewdley. He couldn't have been that far away, he thought to himself, as he spied the local hostelry, comprised of a row of cottages. As he ambled along the walled tavern garden, fragrantly planted with roses and honeysuckle, he cast his mind back to what the soldier had told him in Pershore. As Davenant was being interrogated following Mary's declaration on his parentage, Betterton had skulked into the nearby inn, armed with the wanted poster, and had spied the Parliamentarian soldier in the corner. He was a peculiar man by the name of Danes, a robust, full-bodied type, which made his effeminate nature seem all the more bizarre. He had told Betterton to return to Bewdley and that he would make arrangements for someone to meet him there. Betterton began to lament that it would have been far more prudent to wait for the money to arrive before divulging his information. But there was little point in worrying about that now, he concluded. What was done was done.
