by Mark Beynon
"My Lord, are you awake?" he asked, his voice a hushed whisper.
"Yes, Will, I am now," replied Charles.
"Ah, I am sorry if I woke you."
"No, no, it was the damned creaking of your bed! Now, what is the plan for today?"
"Well, firstly I plan to get out of this bed before it kills me. Then I propose we leave the city immediately. If my experiences with Cromwell's troops have taught me anything, it's that we must keep on the move. We ought to head south. After all, I insist on keeping my part of the deal we struck in Bewdley Woods."
"The deal?" asked Charles, running a tired hand through his unkempt beard.
"My Lord, you've forgotten!"
"It seems as though years have passed and empire's have crumbled since we first met in Bewdley Woods," said Charles ponderously, allowing the slightest smile to pass over his lips - no doubt replaying the scarcely believable events of the past two weeks over in his mind.
"Then you've forgotten that I promised to ensure that you and Middleton reached Portsmouth unscathed." Davenant said.
"I didn't forget. I just didn't expect you to see it through. What you promised was foolhardy Sir William, and I will not hold you to it. Middleton and I have already cost you the life of dear old Turnbull and I'll be damned if we will cost you another. And neither of us could have possibly imagined what was going to happen, could we?"
"Turnbull's death was no one's fault, and I am a man of my word, my Lord. I will see that you reach Portsmouth, whether you like it or not. Besides, I can hardly return to London now, can I?"
There was a ferocious clatter and shouting outside.
Middleton rushed into the room, almost smashing the door from its hinges in his haste. "We must leave at once! Cromwell's men are outside!"
Charles leapt to his feet as Davenant shook Elizabeth awake.
"Elizabeth, we need to go right away!"
Her eyes flitted wildly around the room, over its ramshackle walls and archaic decor. She was finally able to compose herself and clambered clumsily out of bed. As Anne, Faith, Underhill and Betterton all poured into the small bedroom, a flurry of heavy footsteps began to ascend the staircase. Davenant threw a quick glance at the window and could see that the soldiers had left their horse-drawn carriage unattended by the tavern entrance. In a moment of reckless abandonment, he threw a chair through the window, smashing the glass and sending its shards scattering over the steep tiled roof.
"Out of the window!" he cried, picking Anne up and forcing her through the gap.
"Are you out of your mind?" gasped Underhill, as he reached out to stop his sister from falling.
"For God's sake, Cave! It's the only way!" He lifted Underhill and shoved him out of the window after his sister, receiving a blow in the face from Underhill's boot for his troubles.
Just as the soldiers' footsteps had reached the top of the stairs, Davenant hoisted Elizabeth through, her hand catching on a shard of glass still lodged in the frame. She cried out in agony as blood dripped from her wound. Davenant had no time to tend to it now - besides it was just a scratch - and urged Elizabeth onto the roof to join the others, who were now perched perilously close to the edge. Several tiles gave way underneath her, skipping over the others, smashing onto the cobbled street below.
As she clutched hold of her wounded hand, Elizabeth could see that Betterton had emerged onto the roof close behind her. Another tide of tiles gave way beneath him, dragging him down towards the ledge as if he were riding on the crest of a wave. Just before he fell, Elizabeth reached and grabbed hold of his arm. She screamed out in agony, alerting a cluster of nearby locals to the troubles above. Betterton was hanging on to Elizabeth, his grip lessening with every passing second. He shot a glance over his shoulder to see that one or two of the more sturdy onlookers had positioned themselves beneath him, their arms outstretched, waiting to break his fall.
"Jump you silly beggar, or you'll take her with you!" shouted one of the onlookers.
Betterton let go and landed in the arms of a man. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he noted Underhill, Faith and Anne being helped down by various other strangers. Elizabeth remained on the roof, looking down nervously. "Elizabeth, for God's sake jump! I'll catch you."
Behind Elizabeth, Charles and Middleton had made it onto the roof, the shouts of Cromwell's men issuing from the room behind them. Another line of tiles broke away underneath Charles, this time dragging him all the way over the ledge, dislodging Elizabeth as he came plummeting downwards. Betterton caught her as she fell, and as he looked up, he could see Charles hanging by his tunic from an outcropping of guttering.
"Don't move, my Lord!" yelled Betterton as he clambered to his feet, placing Elizabeth gently on hers. He could see that the burly man who had caught him was positioning himself for a second rescue attempt. Charles winced as his tunic tore fibre by fibre, until he fell into the arms of the man; the two sprawling across the street as he landed.
"Thank you, my good chap," said Charles through gritted teeth, clutching his shoulder in pain. He pointed up at Middleton who was perched awkwardly on the roof. "Now, if you wouldn't mind helping me catch that big brute, we'll be on our way."
The man nodded apprehensively just as Middleton threw himself off the roof. Somehow Charles and the burly man together were able to take Middleton's weight, although Charles grimaced in pain once more as his weakened shoulder was wrenched around. He dropped Middleton to his feet and let out a loud gasp of agonised pain.
"There's no time for that, my Lord," cried Middleton, seeing the soldiers hurriedly making their way back through the tavern. "Quickly everyone, get in that bloody carriage!"
The Parliamentarians' carriage had stood abandoned while the men did a sweep of the inn. As the one means of transport available it was their only option. Middleton clambered onto the driver's seat, clasped hold of the whip and cracked it down as hard as he possibly could. The horses whinnied and reared into action. Middleton allowed himself a fleeting glimpse over his shoulder as the soldiers came rushing from the tavern, a grin painted on his face.
"That'll teach the bastards a lesson!" he cried out, laughing, little realising that they had left Davenant on the roof in their rush to get away.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Oxford Castle Gaol
It wasn't quite as bad as the Tower, but it ran a close second. Although much of the Castle had been destroyed by Parliamentary troops, keen to remove this symbol of Royalist loyalties, Cromwell had recognised its advantages as a gaol and much of it had been repaired and extended. Thus Davenant had woken to find his hands bound by rusting iron cuffs and his ankles fastened together by metal clasps, which were secured to a sturdy shackle in the cold, clammy cell wall. He realised that he must have been knocked unconscious as his cheek was swollen and there was a pronounced bump on the back of his head.
By now, Davenant was utterly sick of incarceration. As he slumped in despair, he could hear footsteps making their way along the passageway outside. Davenant had no doubt that he was soon to be tortured until he gave up his secrets.
It occurred to him that if he were to tell them the whole truth, in all its gruesome, devilish detail, then he would most likely be sent to the Bedlam, and his imprisonment in the Oxford gaol would come to seem as paradise in comparison. He had heard some horrific tales about the Bedlam - such as the guards being as demented as the inmates and the physicians carrying out hideous and unnatural experiments on the poor souls incarcerated there. Davenant decided that he would tell Cromwell's men what they wanted to hear, with one or two little white lies thrown in for good measure. After all, he could hardly give up the whereabouts of Charles, as he had no idea where his troupe had gone, although a small part of him prayed that they would launch some foolhardy rescue mission, not least because of his urge to see through his pledge that Charles and Middleton reach Portsmouth. His thoughts then turned to Elizabeth. He was accustomed to leaving her in Turnbull's care, but without him around, he was naturally co
ncerned for her well being, especially with Betterton so unashamedly lusting after her. In the end he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
A key was turned and the heavy door was pushed viciously open. Charles Fleetwood stepped into the cell, followed by two soldiers, little more than boys.
"I see that Cromwell has spared his most senior officers," mocked Davenant.
Fleetwood planted his fist into Davenant's midriff. "You will regret your choice of words when you're on the rack!"
Davenant let out a faint wheeze. "Perhaps you would indulge me with a goblet of your finest wine first?"
Fleetwood launched a wad of spit at Davenant. "There you go," he replied, venomously. He knelt down and looked him square in the eye, holding up his chin between thumb and forefinger. "Where are Charles Stuart and the rest of your ragbag collective?"
Davenant shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll ask you one more time and take heed that if you fail to answer my question this time, I will flay the skin from your body," said Fleetwood icily.
"I told them that if we were to be split up, the Crown Tavern was where we were to reconvene."
It was the first building that came to mind - his birthplace.
"Very well," said Fleetwood. "But if I find that there is no sign of them there, then I will personally see to your torture and execution. And no doubt my Lord Cromwell will take great pleasure in your demise."
As Fleetwood and his two boy soldiers strode from the cell, Davenant appreciated that he'd only delayed his death sentence, but he felt optimistic that his temporary reprieve might somehow give him enough time to find a way out of his predicament. Either way, he knew that Fleetwood's men were racing their way across Oxford to the Crown Tavern and it wouldn't be long until they discovered his deception.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
St. Martin's Church, Oxford
As soon as they had realised that Davenant had been left behind, Charles had taken over the role of leader. In doing so he had made his first decision - instead of seeking refuge outside of Oxford, he suggested that they hide in the Carfax Tower of St. Martin's Church in the middle of the city. In his opinion it was the last place Cromwell's troops would have expected to find them, thus being the last place they would look. Underhill wasn't as convinced, and had personally taken the role of sentry.
The church tower itself was a tall, proud and elegant building that offered picturesque views of the city. It rose over Oxford like a blessing. The troupe had climbed the ninety-nine steps and enjoyed the panoramic view of Oxford's dreaming spires as the sun was setting, its skyline shaped by the golden stone buildings of the University with their towers, spires and domes.
Now they were encamped behind the pulpit on the ground floor, the moonlight shafting in from the thin windows, forming a kaleidoscope of colours that settled upon the nave.
Charles looked up at the magnificent ceiling. Of the few buildings he had seen in his short time in England, this was by far the most impressive, and it gave him a feeling of pride that one day he would lead a country with such magnificent heritage.
"There's someone coming," Underhill gasped. "I told you we should have left Oxford!"
Middleton shot to his feet. "Wait here, I'll go and see who it is."
As the thick door of the chapel creaked open, Middleton allowed the intruder to take five or six paces inside before pouncing on him. The intruder let out a groan as Middleton landed on him, before turning him over onto his back to reveal his identity. Much to Middleton's horror, the man he was gripping viciously by the throat was an elderly priest.
"Who are you and what are you doing in my church?" asked the priest. "Is it money you're after?"
"No, no, it's not like that," replied Middleton, somewhat ashamed that he had assaulted a member of the clergy. "We are in need of shelter you see."
"Would you please get off me? I might be of some help if you allowed me to breathe!"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"That's quite all right. If you wouldn't mind helping an old man to his feet, we can discuss this situation as gentlemen."
"My apologies once again," Middleton said, helping the priest up.
"It would appear that you have some questions to answer. I have no wish to involve those dreadful soldiers in our business and, should you offer me a sincere and honest reply, I won't have to. Please, take a seat. My legs are weary and I've no desire to stand unless I very much have to."
Middleton sat. "It's been a long time since I offered a confession."
"Is that what this is? A confession?"
"Of sorts, although I am at peace with what I have done recently," replied Middleton.
"Then I ask again, what is your business in my church tonight, and why the need to assault me upon me entering my place of work?"
Charles stood up, revealing himself. "I am sorry for our breaking into your place of worship. Please forgive my solider, he means you no harm. He's got a fiery temperament, no doubt a symptom of his Scottish ancestry. And we're all a little tired to say the least." Charles beckoned his companions to reveal themselves. "Father, it really is not how it appears."
"Well then, how do you think it appears?"
"That is a good question. It might be wise if I started from the very beginning," replied Charles, taking a seat beside Middleton.
"You look very familiar. Are you a wanted man?" asked the priest.
"In truth, yes, yes I am. I have had to go under the cover of a disguise much of the time. My name is Charles Stuart, the rightful heir to the throne of England. I am hunted by Oliver Cromwell's soldiers..."
"What are you doing in Oxford then? You should be hiding in the countryside!" exclaimed the priest.
"I am beginning to wonder the same thing."
"I knew your father very well," the priest said, getting to his feet. "You do look startlingly similar. And your accent, no doubt you picked it up from your time abroad?"
Charles nodded and the priest dropped to his knees.
"You've stumbled upon an old man who has a Royalist heart, my Lord! We heard that you had been killed in battle! I can't tell you what a relief, and what an honour it is to make your acquaintance." Charles helped the priest to his feet. There were tears glistening in the old man's eyes. "My name is Runcible and I am your humble servant."
"You're not my servant, Father. All I need of you is your secrecy and your sanctuary. We are missing a member of our faction. He was taken by Cromwell's soldiers earlier today, but we are not leaving Oxford without him."
"How can you be sure that he is still alive?"
Elizabeth winced at Runcible's words.
"I do not know for certain. But I won't be satisfied until we've at least explored the possibility that he is."
"Well, there's only one place around here where they would keep him and that's in the old castle gaol. But you can't just expect to walk in unannounced and spring your friend to safety."
"Yes, yes, quite right, so we must go dressed as Cromwell's soldiers."
"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?" asked Middleton incredulously.
Charles grinned. "It's quite straightforward, really. Father, you look like a drinking man. Where is the nearest tavern around these parts?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Bear Inn, Oxford
Charles and Middleton loitered outside the Bear Inn until they had settled on their plan. They had left the rest of the group with Runcible who had proven himself something of an invaluable ally, not least because of his extensive knowledge of the Oxford streets.
"So, let's run through this one more time," whispered Middleton. "You want us to go in there, attract the attention of two soldiers, hope they follow us, attack them, steal their clothes and then go and rescue Sir William, disguised as Cromwell's men?"
"Yes." Charles could see the trepidation in Middleton's eyes. "Come on, Middleton! Where's your sense of adventure?" Middleton double-checked that his weaponry was secured as
they stepped warily into the saloon, Charles removing his disguise as they did so. They were immediately struck by how small the inn was - several of the more intoxicated locals were perched precariously on the tables to make room for more of their comrades. The wattle and daub structure was exposed in the plaster on the walls, occasionally taking a beating from one of the stumbling drunkards, the wattles creaking inwards with a groan. Carvings of heraldic beasts had been etched deeply into the tobacco-stained plaster above the fireplace, perhaps the legacy of a previous era. Garish replicas of Flemish tapestries were hung nearby, similarly coated in grime, which almost made them appear genuine.
Charles spied a gathering of lantern-jawed soldiers in the furthest corner of the inn, far more sober than the other groups of reprobates. He nudged Middleton and they made their way through the throng towards the bar. They were now only feet away from the soldiers and Charles swaggered up to the bar and rested his arm upon it.
A plump old crone approached him. "What can I get you two gentlemen?"
"Two mugs of your finest ale, please," replied Charles, his voice loud and concise, as if he wanted the nearby soldiers to take note of his tangled accent. He could see in the corner of his eye that it had piqued their interest and they began to draw themselves upright. The serving wench soon reappeared with two pewter tankards of frothy brown ale. Charles and Middleton received them gratefully and each took a hearty swig. Middleton took the opportunity to observe some of the other tavern dwellers - two ostlers engaged in a heated exchange by the entrance over the whereabouts of one of their master's horses, a one-eyed cutpurse guzzling a flagon of wine whilst sifting through his booty and a foreign sailor ignoring the offensive comments being hurled his way by a group of cartwrights.
