by Mark Benyon
"Middleton, are they still looking at me?" asked Charles under his breath.
Middleton turned to face the soldiers, placing his ale on the bar. He could see that their gazes were still ardently fixed upon them.
He turned back to Charles. "Aye."
"Finish your drink, we're going," said Charles, allowing himself a sidelong glance at the soldiers. He could see that they were monitoring his every move. Charles finished the last sip of his ale and eased his way back through the crowd with Middleton close behind. They barged past the arguing ostlers obstructing the door and into the night. Middleton's hand was tightly gripped around his knife handle.
And then the patter of footsteps came in chase. Charles distinguished three separate footfalls, less than twenty yards behind them. He realised they could utilise the alleyway to their advantage, engaging the soldiers in a skirmish before they made it onto the busier High Street. Charles turned to face his pursuers. He withdrew a cudgel from his belt, prompting Middleton to unsheathe his blade. The three soldiers were caught off guard, clumsily reaching for their own weapons as Charles and Middleton came rushing back up the alley.
The largest of the three soldiers was able to remove his sword from its scabbard just before Middleton bore down upon him, parrying Middleton's wild swing with his blade. Charles smashed his cudgel down upon the head of the first solider, his head cracking and blood gushing from his nose. He was immediately dead.
The second solider, evidently distraught at the death of his friend, thrust his sword at Charles, its tip piercing the silk of his doublet.
No harm done, just a scratch, Charles told himself, as he swung his cudgel back round until it came into contact with the soldier's knee. There was a crack and the soldier fell in a crumpled heap onto the filthy cobblestone, writhing in agony. Charles could see that the broken bone had pierced through his skin and the cotton of his trousers. He then mercilessly smashed the cudgel down upon the soldier's head, putting him out of his misery.
Seeing his two companions sprawled out across the alleyway, Middleton's adversary turned to run. He got as far as the mouth of the alley before Middleton's knife pierced his throat, a throw of pinpoint precision. The soldier swivelled sluggishly on his legs, a look of disbelief crossing his ruddy face, before sinking to the floor with a gurgle.
"I wondered when you were going to help me!" Charles said to Middleton as he hauled two of the bodies into an adjacent alley. Middleton dragged the last soldier from the cobblestone before anyone could find him lying there.
Charles was already in the process of stripping the clothes off the larger of his two victims. "Come on Middleton, we haven't got all day!" he said, cajoling his lumbering comrade into action. Middleton reluctantly removed the soldier's uniform and boots before taking off his own sweat stained jerkin and tunic. He squeezed, somewhat uncomfortably, into the red overcoat, which was about three sizes too small for him, and discarded his own clothes over a wall. Charles hurriedly swapped his own apparel, having little trouble fitting into his new garb. Once he had hurled his own clothes out of view, he ushered Middleton back up the alleyway and onto the High Street.
They headed for the gaol.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Oxford Castle Gaol
Davenant hadn't heard a sound for over an hour; not a footstep, a mumble or a foul-mouthed tirade from one of his fellow prisoners. The silence frightened him, not least because he was alone with his thoughts, and it was his thoughts that scared him the most. His eyes had worked their way around the cell time and time again, searching for something he could use to break his shackles. But there was nothing.
Davenant thought that it wouldn't be long until he heard the wrought iron gates creaking open and heavy footsteps thundering along the corridor outside his cell. Cromwell's men would soon discover that he had lied to them.
He started to pray, appealing for Elizabeth's safety and his own salvation, and that was when he heard the footsteps approaching. Davenant knew he was for it this time: no escapes, no trickery, no bribes, just the rack, manacles and the grip of the torturer. He buried his head into his chest as the pounding rhythm of the footsteps drew closer. He suddenly found himself sobbing. Despite the horrors in London, the terrifying escape through the Thames and incarceration in the Tower, this was the first time he had been truly afraid. It was not the fear of death, but the fear that he would never see Elizabeth again.
The footsteps came to a halt outside his cell. There was the scrabble of a key being clumsily fitted into the lock and the door opened.
Davenant didn't look up immediately. It wasn't until he heard a familiar voice that he lifted his head from his chest.
"Sir William, we're here to rescue you!"
His eyes were blurry from tears, but he could just about make out two figures stood in the doorway.
"Well, you could look a little more grateful than that!"
"Middleton, is that you?" Davenant's tears dried almost immediately. "What in the name of the Lord do you two look like?"
"Do you not like our new attire?" asked Charles, kneeling down to unlock Davenant's shackles.
"They're very fetching! But how did you get them? And how did you get in here?"
"We took the keys off the old guard at the entrance. The stupid fool thinks we're real soldiers. The rest I'll explain later, but we need to smuggle you past the guard and--"
"--and before the other guards return. I sent them on a wild goose chase around Oxford looking for you," replied Davenant, removing the clasps around his ankles. He rose sluggishly to his feet with the aid of Middleton's arm, a spasm of pain shooting through his legs as he stood. There was a riot of dark bruises on his wrists and ankles. Charles and Middleton supported Davenant from the cell and along the narrow corridor outside. They worked their way slowly past the other cells, the inhabitants a rough-looking group of drunkards and thieves. They soon came across the elderly guard perched somewhat uncomfortably on a stool at the end of the corridor. He looked up as they approached.
"We're to take this prisoner to London immediately," said Charles.
The old man nodded. "Very well, perhaps whilst you're there you could enquire as to what has happened to the other guards? They should have returned by now, and I shouldn't have to work such long hours at my age."
Charles nodded and proceeded to drag Davenant past the guard and into the torch-lit courtyard.
They were greeted by an all too familiar darkened sky and a driving rain as they made their escape.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Hampshire
Much to Davenant's relief, the rain stopped shortly after they left Oxford. In its place came a dry, bitterly cold wind and a sudden frost, which froze the muddy ruts in the lanes down which they rode. The wheels of their stolen carriage and the horses' hooves struggled to acclimatise to the conditions, occasionally slipping and sending the carriage careening dangerously to the side.
The further south they travelled, the narrower the roads became, set deep beneath lofty banks with little paths leading off to remote villages and hamlets. The group kept a lookout for thieves, wary that the isolated highways of southern England had a reputation for such nefarious activity.
Leaving Oxford had been surprisingly easy. Davenant, Charles and Middleton had made their way back to the Carfax Tower, having managed to avoid Fleetwood's troops. Runcible had been true to his word, and had kept the others hidden until their return. Davenant was touched by the relief on the faces of his troupe as he stepped jadedly into the church. Even Betterton was overjoyed to see him. Davenant embraced Elizabeth with more than the usual tenderness. The priest had offered a tearful farewell as the group left the tower, and Charles made several promises to him that he would be rewarded for his loyalty on Charles' return to the throne.
The carriage trundled its way onto the South Downs, the rolling hills dotted with ancient ruins. Davenant ordered Middleton to stop the carriage in the small hamlet of Selborne to purchase some more suita
ble clothing for the suddenly inclement weather. Charles and Middleton were markedly happier once they had got rid of their soldier's uniforms.
As night began to fall, the weary travellers found themselves in the small market town of Petersfield, half a day's journey from the south coast and Portsmouth. It was a pleasant enough town, dominated by a vast market square and the surrounding taverns, with more than adequate amenities on offer. Being short of money for accommodation for the entire party, the group decided to set up camp in a nearby field.
Middleton, Charles and Betterton decided to explore more of the town as Davenant and the rest of the group prepared for the night. As Davenant spread the woollen rugs out on the grass, he became aware that they were sharing the pasture with a variety of wildlife and cattle. A herd of sheep grazed contentedly nearby and there were cows in the adjacent field.
Davenant rummaged through his pockets for a flint with which he could start a fire. To his annoyance, he realised that it must have fallen out somewhere along the trail. Elizabeth, Anne and Underhill were sitting nearby, huddled together for warmth.
"Will you sit with me?" called Faith, as he looked over
Davenant nodded and managed a smile. "I'd be delighted to," he said, settling beside her and wrapping a blanket tightly around his shoulders. "Are you warm enough?"
"Not particularly. It may be an idea to build a fire."
"I'm afraid that I have misplaced my flint and we have scarce any wood."
"In which case we'll have to make do," she said, resting her head on his shoulder.
Davenant felt a thrill at her touch.
"If you don't mind me asking, Sir William, how did your wife die?"
It took Davenant a few moments to compose himself before he could answer. "My wife died during childbirth. As you can probably tell, it is not something I am terribly comfortable talking about."
"Sir William, a thousand apologies. I should not have pried," she said.
Davenant looked into her crestfallen eyes, their striking blue seeming to shine bright despite the darkness. "No, no. Perhaps it is something I should try to talk about. Not even Elizabeth knows the circumstances of her mother's death."
"Does she look like her?"
"They could be twins," replied Davenant, gradually feeling more at ease with the conversation and Faith's presence next to him. "It is quite remarkable."
"I have no doubt your wife would have been very proud of the way you have brought her up. She is a credit to you."
Davenant stared out over the pastures. "Yes, I hope so. It is strange, is it not?"
"What is strange?"
"That these last two weeks have brought us ever closer, even under the most trying of circumstances. Do you not feel it?"
"I would like to think that we share a bond, not only forged by what has happened but by--"
Davenant leant in to kiss her soft lips. The time for waiting was over - he had been dying to do this ever since their first conversation at Evesham Abbey. He felt certain that his darling Anna would not have disapproved of his finding love elsewhere. No matter, for the time being he wanted to enjoy this intimacy.
He heard the approach of footsteps from behind, accompanied by drunken muttering. He broke away from Faith and turned to see the silhouettes of three staggering men closing in upon them.
"Who goes there?" demanded Davenant, mindful that he'd already had enough trouble with undead soldiers, cloaked horsemen and Cromwell's troops, let alone having to contend with drunkards.
There was no reply.
Davenant got to his feet. "Who goes there?"
"Is that Sir William Davenant?" asked a voice.
"Yes, yes, it is. Who is speaking?"
"King Phillip IV of Spain. I have come to claim your horses and your women..." The sentence trailed away into a spasm of drunken laughter. Only then did Davenant realise that the prowler was none other than Charles Stuart.
"God's son, you had me in fits!" he said. "We have barely enough money for accommodation but you manage to find enough to get utterly ruined!"
Middleton, grinning drunkenly, aided Davenant in hauling Charles towards the camp. He had fallen asleep, and the sound of his snoring reverberated against Davenant's shoulder. The two men dropped him on a rug, landing in a crumpled heap by Faith's feet.
"I told His Majesty that my father worked as his father's cook! Can you believe it, Sir William? We're practically brothers." Betterton said, swaying drunkenly.
"You have the future King of England in your care and you let him get as drunk as a choirboy on rum!" Davenant was incandescent. "What if you got into a tavern brawl? I don't know whether you have noticed but this future King is supposed to be travelling incognito."
Middleton and Betterton shuffled awkwardly as if they were being chastised by a parent.
Davenant threw a blanket at each of the men "You drunkards get some sleep; hopefully the cold frost will sober you."
Davenant could almost smell the salt-tang of the ocean as he woke and stirred Faith, who slept beside him. They had managed to get the carriage to themselves, the rest of the group managing to start a fire and provide much needed warmth for those sleeping under the stars. Faith rolled onto her side revealing the scars on her back from the witchcraft trial that had so viciously ruined her otherwise perfect complexion. They would heal in time, Davenant thought, although he appreciated just how painful it must have been for her.
"Good morning," he said, bending over to kiss her. "We should leave soon. The sooner we reach Portsmouth, the sooner we can complete our mission and make our own plans."
Faith smiled and Davenant left the carriage to chivvy the rest of the group awake.
"Will you desist!" she heard Charles shout. "I have quite possibly the worst hangover I have ever had."
"I want to reach Portsmouth by nightfall, and if you're not up in five minutes, you can make your own way to the south coast," Davenant replied.
"You're an utter bastard, Sir William." The future monarch groaned.
With every judder of the carriage wheels, Charles seemed to turn a deeper shade of green. Davenant had decided to drive, as Middleton and Betterton were in no better a state than their royal comrade. As they ploughed straight through another rut, Charles rose shakily to his feet, knocked viciously on the roof of the carriage signalling Davenant to stop. He barely made it out of the door before he let go of his breakfast and last night's libations. Wiping his mouth he looked up and saw a large bird hovering above them. It called out and Charles realised that it was a seagull. He hurriedly wiped the spittle from his mouth and climbed back inside the carriage.
"It's a seagull!" he exclaimed, collapsing back into his seat next to Anne. "We must be close!"
For the next two hours, all thoughts of bad heads and hangovers were forgotten. As the carriage wound its way along the coastal road to Portsmouth, animated conversations issued from the carriage as those inside realised that they had almost achieved their hard-fought for objective. Davenant heard the laughter radiating from inside and wished he could be a part of it. Not least to protect himself from the biting gales and the dark skies that had begun to set in. No matter, he thought, he would soon be able to revel in his freedom with the others.
As they clattered onto another road, a smoother version of the previous one, Davenant could spy a collection of dwellings up ahead, a series of lantern lights guiding him towards them.
They had finally made it to Portsmouth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Portsmouth
Now that they had reached the coast they were going to have to find a ship willing to take Charles and Middleton on the final leg of their journey. They would more than likely be forced to spend another evening camped out, as no vessel would risk setting sail for France in darkness. But at least this gave Davenant, Charles and Middleton a chance to run their eyes over the various ships that were moored in the harbour. They hadn't much money left, but Charles felt that his and Middleton's experience as
sailors would more than compensate in securing them a bark. Charles also felt confident that no one would recognise him, secure in the knowledge that the copies of his portrait had only been handed out to Parliamentarian soldiers in and around London.
"How can we be sure that any of these boats are travelling to France?" asked Middleton, holding aloft an oil lantern.
"Take a closer look at their names, you dumb oaf!" said Charles, pointing at the painted hulls.
Juliet, Dives-sur-Mer.
Augusta, Insigny-le-Buat.
Blanche, Cayeux-sur-Mer.
Middleton shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, suggesting that the names meant nothing to him.
"Where do you think those ships came from?" Charles asked in exasperation.
"Spain?"
Charles ignored Middleton's obtuseness and proceeded along the dock. At the far end he could see several sailors and shipwrights heaving huge wooden crates onboard a large vessel. As he looked closely, he could make out the name Sa MajestÈ painted in bold white letters upon its stern.
"That looks like a far more suitable craft."
Charles approached the crew, little reflecting on why they were making ready for departure under the cover of night. Davenant watched as Charles spoke to a thuggish looking sailor who was rolling a barrel crammed with bales of cloth along the dock. As Davenant drew closer Charles laughed, said something to the sailor in French and shook his hand before turning to face Davenant and Middleton. "Louis, please meet my good friends, John Middleton and William Davenant." The hulking Frenchman, who was only marginally shorter than Middleton, offered his hand.
"A pleasure to meet you," said Davenant, as he took the sailor's hand in his own.
