The Devil's Plague

by Mark Beynon

  "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

  "As luck would have it, they're setting sail for Le Havre within the hour and have agreed to take us with them," Charles said.

  Davenant immediately felt a tinge of sadness. "Oh, I see, as soon as that."

  Charles picked up on his melancholy and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, as soon as that. Let us go back to the carriage and say our goodbyes."

  Davenant nodded.

  "That seemed surprisingly easy," said Middleton, as they made their way back up the dock. "Will they not suspect that we are spies?"

  "Perhaps, but as luck would have it, they're short on crew. And neither of us have an English accent," replied Charles.

  "Be that as it may, are you sure you shouldn't at least wait until the morning? Perhaps there might be an English crew amongst this lot." Davenant said.

  "It is settled, Sir William. We leave tonight."

  As they left the wooden gangway, Davenant realised that there was no way of talking Charles out of leaving on the Sa MajestÈ. "Very well," he said, seeing the carriage up ahead. "In which case, we will bid you farewell."

  "Please, Sir William. Do not make this any harder than it has to be." There was marked sadness in Charles' tone now, his voice wavering with a hint of emotion. "I promise that I shall return with an army to reclaim my throne." As they stopped by the carriage, Charles could see the look of restlessness in the eyes of the troupe. "With much sadness, Middleton and I are to leave tonight on a boat traveling to Le Havre. I would very much like to extend my thanks and gratitude to all of you for helping us to reach Portsmouth unscathed."

  Davenant could see tears in Charles' eyes as he stepped forward to embrace him. Middleton, who was similarly glum, shook the hands of each man and took the liberty of hugging and kissing each woman.

  "I will come back and I will seek you out, Sir William." Charles said. "I promise." It was at that moment that Davenant realised with a shudder that some day they would have to return to London.

  He tried to put it to the back of his mind as he shook Middleton firmly by the hand and patted him heartily on the back. Charles picked up his few belongings and, with his manservant in tow, headed for the docks.

  Although utterly crestfallen, Davenant prayed that it wouldn't be too long before he saw his friends again. He turned and looked at Faith, her warm smile immediately lifting his spirits. It was there and then that he hoped she would be a part of his future.

  Fifteen Years Later

  1666

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Shanklin, Isle of Wight

  28th August, 1666

  Little Charles Davenant looked up at the imposing cliff that loomed over the small fishing village, separating it from the old village above. To a seven year old it looked like a mountain. A waterfall thundered down a gorge in the rock, its slippery walls garlanded by a vast array of flora and fauna. It really was a magical place, especially to the children of the village who would watch its majestic grandeur in awe. Unbeknown to Charles, the gorge also had its uses for those who weren't quite as innocent. It was well-known amongst the locals as a haunt for smugglers, with a tunnel having been dug between the old village and the Chine Inn.

  And that was why his mother refused to let him go there at night.

  Faith caught a glimpse of her son through the mullioned windows of their thatched cottage; he sat transfixed by the sight of one of nature's finest splendours. She would often find him there, and no matter how much she warned him of its perils, he would continue to risk her wrath by sneaking out for one last glimpse before bedtime. His obstinacy reminded her of his father's stubbornness. Certainly one character trait that she wished he hadn't inherited.

  Faith hastily removed a pan from the range and dashed outside, the warped cottage door left swinging on its rusty hinges.

  "Charles! How many more times must I tell you? Do not leave the cottage without telling me!"

  Charles turned to face his mother, his rosy red cheeks and bright blue eyes melting her heart. How could she possibly stay angry with him?

  Faith turned to the beach as she heard a patter of weary footsteps dragging through the sand. It was her husband, dressed head to toe in his fisherman's garb and clutching a handful of mackerel. His mass of grey hair poked out from beneath his hat and his beard was soaking wet.

  "I've caught a veritable banquet tonight, my dear!" He called out. Thomas Betterton stood next to him, clasping hold of two fishing rods which bowed in the strong wind.

  "It was a joint effort!" called Betterton.

  "What's Charles doing out here so late?" Davenant asked.

  "He sneaked out whilst I was tending to the stove."

  Davenant knelt down beside his son, running his hand through his thick mass of blonde windswept hair. "Come on; let's get you inside before it starts to rain. Are you hungry?"

  Charles' eyes lit up and he nodded happily. Davenant ushered him back towards the cottage before turning back to Faith. "Remember Elizabeth and Alexander will be eating with us tonight."

  "Am I not invited too?" asked Betterton, bending down to avoid clouting his head on the frame of the door. "As the father of your grandson, the husband of your daughter and the provider of the feast, I feel I have every right to sit at your table."

  "What utter rot! You caught one fish!"

  "Of course you're invited Thomas. Ignore this gruff old seaman, he's getting far too big for his boots," interjected Faith, shutting the cottage door against the brewing storm.

  Betterton smiled, removed his boots and collapsed into an armchair by the roaring fire. Davenant followed suit and looked out of the window as the waves began to churn. The mizzling rain began to turn into a hard downpour and thunder joined the crashing of the sea.

  The smell of steamed mackerel and vegetables drifted in from the kitchen. "That smells delicious!" Davenant said, looking at Betterton and finding that he had fallen asleep. He gently placed a blanket around his shoulders.

  Over the years Davenant had managed to grow accustomed to Betterton and Elizabeth being together, and by the time they became man and wife, the two men had forged a new relationship based on mutual respect. They still enjoyed making fun of one another, but the tension that had been present from their time on the run had eventually dispersed. Davenant wouldn't admit it, but he was a little hurt when they named their son Alexander and not William, after his grandfather. Still, he hadn't been as foolish as Davenant himself and named his son after Charles Stuart. The traitor who had broken his word.

  Davenant had waited patiently for his friend to return to England, but after fifteen years he had all but given up hope that he would ever see him again. As they had said their farewells to Charles and Middleton in Portsmouth, Davenant thought it best the group stay on the coast and as far away from London as possible. By the time word had begun to sift down about the horrors in the capital, more and more families had fled south, and before long Portsmouth had become overrun. It was the same in all of the coastal towns and cities, and Davenant would hear rumours of all sorts of goings on in places such as Southampton and Bournemouth. After a while, new laws were introduced to stop the looting, raping and pillaging, and new committees were elected to oversee that the judicial system remained intact. A small army was raised to maintain order, a platoon composed of the very best soldiers the southern cities could spare. They had enough resources to mount an attack on London with a view to reclaiming the capital should the call come. Having seen the horrors for himself though, Davenant was in no doubt that their efforts would be futile. Already several small-scale operations had been mounted, but not one man had returned.

  Eventually Davenant had felt it best that they relocate to the Isle of Wight, fearing that conscription would see Betterton, Underhill and himself drafted up. It was never a place he was overly fond of, but in comparison to the heaving mass of unruly louts that overran Portsmouth, it seemed like paradise. Very few people had cottoned on to this idea, so
Davenant insisted their exile be kept secret. By this time, Faith was already pregnant with Charles and Elizabeth and Betterton were married, so it seemed fitting that they came with them. He had even persuaded Underhill and Anne to come too. Although they put up some resistance, they could see for themselves just how infested Portsmouth had become.

  Davenant had left word with one or two trusted innkeepers of his plan and told them that should two men named Charles and Middleton come looking for them; they could find him in Shanklin on the Isle of Wight. It was more an act of blind optimism than expectation, but he felt it best he covered all his bases. As the years slipped by, the chances of Charles and Middleton returning seemed to lessen with every passing Christmas. Davenant knew he was an old man now, without the agility he once had, and Charles couldn't have been much younger. If they were to return to England, it would have to be soon, or not at all.

  A tapping on the door broke Davenant out of his reverie and woke Betterton with a start. Davenant groaned as he got out of his chair, hobbled across the room and unlocked the door. As it creaked open Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, her hair soaking wet and baby Alexander cradled tightly in her arms.

  Davenant ushered her in from the cold and removed the sodden shawl from her shoulders. "My darling, take a seat by the fire. You must be freezing!"

  "This storm seems to have come from nowhere," replied Elizabeth, taking a seat, her face illuminated by the flames. Despite the passage of time she had still maintained the same unmistakable beauty.

  "Something smells good," said Elizabeth. "Where's Charles?"

  "He's in his room. I found him by the gorge again," replied Faith, coming through from the kitchen. "It's good to see you Elizabeth."

  Davenant looked on with pleasure as Faith embraced his daughter. He had feared that she would be wary of their relationship, but to his surprise Elizabeth treated her every bit like the mother she never knew.

  He glanced back out over the bustling waves crashing onto the sand and spied a small, solitary vessel being tossed around as it approached the shore. A group of several men climbed frantically over the sides and into the shallows; wading the rest of their way onto the beach, their vessel capsizing as a big wave struck it from the stern. Davenant pitied those fishermen who had stayed out late. In such conditions as these, death was never far away. He just hoped that the men who made their way up the beach hadn't lost any of their comrades.

  It was almost as if the storm from the previous night had never happened, little debris littered the beach and the sun beat down relentlessly, making the sand almost too hot to walk on.

  Davenant, Betterton and Underhill had risen early once they realised that the storm had passed. It was cooler and easier to work the sea at this hour - before the sun reached its zenith and made the already difficult work twice as hard. It had been a stiflingly hot summer, bringing with it shoals of weird and wonderful fish that were rarely seen in English waters. It did wonders for their trade and Davenant had managed to make a tidy sum from the unusually warm conditions. If Bray could only see me now, he thought, the old sea dog would be proud. Davenant had gone from seasick landlubber to hardened sailor in a remarkably short time.

  "We should think about heading back soon. I don't want to miss the service," he said, reeling in his line.

  Davenant had had plenty of time to mull over what they had witnessed in London, not least Cromwell's declaration regarding the Devil and the events that seemed to corroborate his claims. Over the years, Davenant had formed the belief that if there was such an evil, an evil that could manifest itself in human form, then there must be a force that represented all that was good. Since their arrival in Shanklin, he hadn't missed a Sunday service, thus a devout believer was born. Slowly and surely, the others began to follow him, no doubt driven by their own conclusions as to what had happened all those years ago.

  Underhill took off his hat and leant against the starboard rail, happy to bask in the glorious sunshine. "Did you hear the stories of a strange boat appearing overnight? Apparently it was full of foreign smugglers," he said.

  Davenant stiffened. "No, no, I didn't hear a thing."

  Betterton replied with a quizzical shrug of the shoulders. "Whoever they were, I'm sure they'll come to light soon."

  The line of Underhill's fishing rod jerked taut, sending busy ripples across the water. "Another one for me!" he said, with a smug grin stamped across his face. "At this rate you two will be going hungry."

  The jollity passed Davenant by as he stared out over the ocean, transfixed by its serenity. His mind raced at the thought of who those sailors were who had barely made it to shore in the night. It sounded as if they hadn't been normal fisher-folk at all.

  That night Davenant tried to fight his way into sleep. It wasn't the reappearance of the howling winds whistling round the cottage that bothered him, it was something else entirely. Davenant could hear Faith's sleep-heavy breathing beside him and he longed for the same release. He hated his constant insomnia. Spending the small hours alone with his thoughts, listening to the wind and rain beating down upon the cottage drove him wild with frustration.

  He rolled out of bed, doing his best not to wake Faith in the process, and tiptoed across the cold stone floor and into the living room. Elizabeth, Betterton and Alexander, who had once more joined them for supper, had returned to their own dwelling further along the seafront, leaving the cottage in silence.

  Davenant ambled up to the window and took in the view. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, but he could still make out the waves grinding up the beach. His thoughts soon turned to the capsized boat and the men he had seen the night before.

  Who could they have been?

  Davenant nestled into his chair by the fireplace, its fading coals providing little heat, and picked up his clay pipe, stuffing it with tobacco. He lit his briar and sat back in his armchair, contentedly puffing away. As his eyes drifted back towards the window, he suddenly became aware of a cluster of shadows skulking close to the cottage. He leapt out of his armchair with the agility of a man half his age and backed into a darkened corner, concealing himself by a chest of drawers. He listened closely; keen to discern any audible words amidst the wind and rain.

  "This is the place," said a voice in a muted whisper.

  Davenant saw the outlines of the men moving to the front door. His hand fumbled for a poker and he clutched it tightly, wondering whether he would have enough time to get back to the bedroom and alert Faith and Charles before the door burst open. But instead, there was a polite knocking.

  "Who is it?" he asked.

  "Is this the home of Sir William Davenant?"

  He hadn't been called Sir William in years. "Yes, yes it is. I ask again, who is it?"

  "An old friend," said the voice in reply. "So could you do us the greatest of services and let us in?"

  The voice sounded familiar, but Davenant hesitated as he shuffled towards the door, his hand fumbling as he turned the key in the lock. He eased the door open and came face to face with a shabbily dressed middle-aged man.

  "Charles?"

  Davenant heard Faith come into the room behind him and she let out a gasp when she saw the man standing in her doorway.

  "Do not be alarmed, my dear," said Charles, taking a step inside the cottage. "It is I, your long lost friend, Charles Stuart."

  Faith lifted her lantern, its light revealing the contours of Charles' wrinkled face. Davenant could scarcely believe his eyes. The man had the same voice, the same mannerisms and the same gruff countenance, but the years had been unkind to him. Charles edged forward and embraced Davenant who, dumbfounded, reciprocated.

  "Fifteen years, it's been fifteen years," he said, beginning to sob. "What took you so long?"

  Charles didn't answer straight away. Instead he shuffled sheepishly up to Faith and offered her the same warm embrace. Davenant could see a group of men ambling idly outside. One of them took a timid step into the cottage, revealing his vast bulk and imposi
ng stature.

  "Middleton, is that you?"

  "Aye, Sir William, it is. And can I say what a pleasure it is to see you again!"

  "It is wonderful to see you both again!" Davenant's voice began to break, emotion taking hold and eventually getting the better of him. He could see Middleton properly now - age hadn't shrunk him in the slightest, although a shock of white hair had replaced his once proud black mane.

  "I am so very sorry to disturb you at this hour, and my sincere apologies for leaving it so long before I returned," said Charles, turning back to face Davenant. Young Charles had emerged in the doorway, the commotion having woken him. "You have a son, William?"

  Davenant looked lovingly towards Charles. "Yes, my Lord, we have a son. And we named him after you."

  "Well then, I am indeed delighted for you both, and appreciate your kind gesture. I have had several children of my own, all bastards of course. I have yet to be so foolish as to get married," replied Charles flippantly as he took a seat. "Yes, you are wondering why it has taken me so long to return, Sir William."

  "We have grown old, my Lord. Any chance of us reclaiming London and your throne has surely passed."

  "The truth of the matter is this. I was reluctant to commit myself and my men to a cause until I had received word from the spies I had sent over from France. I must have sent at least fifty men these past few years to report back to me. And only one of them returned, last week in fact, hence my arrival at your cottage tonight. Henri, could you step forwards please and introduce yourself?"

  A slight, impish looking man eased into the cottage, taking off his soaking, weathered hat before bowing to Faith and Davenant. "I am at your service, Sir William," he said in perfect English, with only a trace of a French accent.

  "Would you be so kind as to tell them what you told me?" asked Charles.

  Henri took a moment to compose himself. "Sir William, what I saw was beyond the pale. I arrived in London by carriage, having to pay the carriage driver a princely sum to take me to the outskirts. After narrating his own grisly stories of what he'd seen and heard, he naturally refused to take me any further than Dulwich Wood, and as he left me I had never felt more alone. It was at the Thames that I saw the first signs of destruction and chaos. As I hid in the ruins of a tavern, I saw groups of the undead roaming the streets in search of food. There were thousands of them I tell you!"