action, he couldn't help but wonder whether there might be an element of truth in Betterton's implausible account after all. Perhaps their arrival in London would shed some light on this bizarre chain of events, he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Tower of London
It was exactly as he remembered it. The same repellent smell, the same sense of trepidation and apprehension - although Davenant was grateful that this time his entrance into the Tower was over its drawbridge and not through the murky waters of Traitors' Gate. As the weary carriage driver and the even wearier horses plodded through the portcullis of the Lion Tower, Davenant cast his eye at the ominous clouds gathering over the Thames. It had been another wretched day full of biting winds and rainstorms, but these black clouds brought with them an altogether more threatening atmosphere. The distant rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning had woken Elizabeth, who had been asleep since they passed through Abbots Langley more than three hours earlier.
"Where are we?" she muttered.
"The Tower of London," replied Davenant, keen not to make its name sound any more menacing than it already was. It was of no use, the look of fear that was already fixed upon the faces of his companions was clear for all to see. Even Charles and Middleton, men accustomed to the threat of death on a daily basis, looked pale.
The depleted convoy of soldiers followed the carriage and as they came to a halt outside the White Tower, they dismounted and unbolted the carriage doors. As Davenant was hoisted from the transport by one of the soldiers, he peered up at the gigantic building that loomed over them. He took a moment to remember the torpid months that he had been incarcerated here. But then he fondly remembered the friendship he had struck up with dear old Bray, and their ridiculous escape through the same gates that they had just passed through. Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought. Although the clouds hanging above him now were far darker than he ever remembered them being on that day. He pondered what might have become of Bray, the peculiar old seadog, and hoped that wherever he was and whatever he was doing he was enjoying every minute of it.
As he watched the others being hauled from the carriage, he tried to ascertain what was different about the Tower this time - was it the new armouries, or a change to the Queen's House? No, it was something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. And then it hit him, how could he have possibly forgotten? There was no sound of the squawking of ravens; the incessant din that they used to make would keep him awake for hours on end. And then he remembered the legend - that if the ravens ever left the Tower then- the entire Kingdom would fall. He wasn't a great believer in folklore, but perhaps there was an ounce of truth to this one.
Cromwell and the gaunt artist sat within his luxurious chamber in the White Tower. The artist, in his drab workaday gown, had a dark, sporadic beard and drawn out features which looked as though his skin had been pulled tightly over his face. Despite the dingy weather outside, the cold marble floor was still able to gleam beneath the many burning lanterns and the glow of the fire burning in the grate.
The artist was putting the finishing touches to Cromwell's portrait. He was fortunate that the enigmatic lighting favoured Cromwell's new-found vanity, although what he thought of his portrait remained to be seen. There was no denying that Cromwell did look strikingly regal in his long golden gown trimmed with ermine, a surcoat of silver cloth, and a shirt of exquisite linen. Attendants hovered by to offer him wine, hold his gloves, move his chair or, at nod or lift of a finger, take some muttered message from him.
Footsteps resonated along the corridor outside the chamber. Cromwell's tubby General soon appeared, sheepishly, in the doorway.
"Excuse me, Sir. I'm sorry to disturb
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Tower of London
It was exactly as he remembered it. The same repellent smell, the same sense of trepidation and apprehension - although Davenant was grateful that this time his entrance into the Tower was over its drawbridge and not through the murky waters of Traitors' Gate. As the weary carriage driver and the even wearier horses plodded through the portcullis of the Lion Tower, Davenant cast his eye at the ominous clouds gathering over the Thames. It had been another wretched day full of biting winds and rainstorms, but these black clouds brought with them an altogether more threatening atmosphere. The distant rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning had woken Elizabeth, who had been asleep since they passed through Abbots Langley more than three hours earlier.
"Where are we?" she muttered.
"The Tower of London," replied Davenant, keen not to make its name sound any more menacing than it already was. It was of no use, the look of fear that was already fixed upon the faces of his companions was clear for all to see. Even Charles and Middleton, men accustomed to the threat of death on a daily basis, looked pale.
The depleted convoy of soldiers followed the carriage and as they came to a halt outside the White Tower, they dismounted and unbolted the carriage doors. As Davenant was hoisted from the transport by one of the soldiers, he peered up at the gigantic building that loomed over them. He took a moment to remember the torpid months that he had been incarcerated here. But then he fondly remembered the friendship he had struck up with dear old Bray, and their ridiculous escape through the same gates that they had just passed through. Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought. Although the clouds hanging above him now were far darker than he ever remembered them being on that day. He pondered what might have become of Bray, the peculiar old seadog, and hoped that wherever he was and whatever he was doing he was enjoying every minute of it.
As he watched the others being hauled from the carriage, he tried to ascertain what was different about the Tower this time - was it the new armouries, or a change to the Queen's House? No, it was something else. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. And then it hit him, how could he have possibly forgotten? There was no sound of the squawking of ravens; the incessant din that they used to make would keep him awake for hours on end. And then he remembered the legend - that if the ravens ever left the Tower then- the entire Kingdom would fall. He wasn't a great believer in folklore, but perhaps there was an ounce of truth to this one.
Cromwell and the gaunt artist sat within his luxurious chamber in the White Tower. The artist, in his drab workaday gown, had a dark, sporadic beard and drawn out features which looked as though his skin had been pulled tightly over his face. Despite the dingy weather outside, the cold marble floor was still able to gleam beneath the many burning lanterns and the glow of the fire burning in the grate.
The artist was putting the finishing touches to Cromwell's portrait. He was fortunate that the enigmatic lighting favoured Cromwell's new-found vanity, although what he thought of his portrait remained to be seen. There was no denying that Cromwell did look strikingly regal in his long golden gown trimmed with ermine, a surcoat of silver cloth, and a shirt of exquisite linen. Attendants hovered by to offer him wine, hold his gloves, move his chair or, at nod or lift of a finger, take some muttered message from him.
Footsteps resonated along the corridor outside the chamber. Cromwell's tubby General soon appeared, sheepishly, in the doorway.
"Excuse me, Sir. I'm sorry to disturb
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