The Devil's Plague by Mark Beynon Page A

but..."
    "Can't you see I'm busy!" snapped Cromwell.
    "Yes, Sir, but I thought you would like to know that they've arrived."
    "You will leave us." Cromwell said, curtly, to the artist.
    The artist doffed his hat, holding it to his chest as etiquette required. He knelt to Cromwell with a few soft words of parting and slithered from the room.
    "Would you be so kind as to send them up to me?" asked Cromwell, his eyes flickering with devilish glee.
    "Yes Sir, right away."
    Cromwell motioned for his attendants to leave the room. Within a minute he was alone in the vast chamber. He composed himself. Cromwell could feel his heart beating in his chest like a pair of castanets. It angered him to think that Davenant and Charles were having such an adverse effect on his nerves. The sounds of footsteps were becoming more insistent as they approached and Cromwell could distinguish the sound of several heavy boots amongst them. As he looked up, his General re-appeared in the doorway.
    "William Davenant and Charles Stuart, Sir, plus several other... parasites we picked up en route."
    "Send them in."
    The two defiant figures strode purposefully into the chamber, unperturbed by its luxuriant peril, followed by the rest of the group.
    Davenant was immediately struck by how hideous Cromwell had become, the warts that infested his face were like nothing he'd ever seen, even on the most stricken of pox-sufferers. Cromwell, already irritated by his bold entrance, could see the appalled reaction in Davenant's eyes and this angered him further.
    "Good evening, Sir William, it's been a while, hasn't it? I trust you had a pleasant journey down?" he said.
    "It was delightful. May I convey my thanks for sending your finest carriage and your most reputable of soldiers," replied Davenant.
    Cromwell fixed his glare upon Charles. "Charles Stuart as well! My, my, this is quite a gathering. I've no doubt your father would have been very proud of your little rebellion, in particular escaping the Battle of Worcester unscathed. The good it's done you..."
    "Go fuck yourself, you pox-ridden twat!" spat Charles.
    Davenant let out a loud guffaw.
    Cromwell was dumbfounded. "I see you display the legendary Stuart temper," he eventually managed.
    And then it happened again - to begin with only one or two droplets, but within a few seconds blood was pouring from Cromwell's nose. He motioned frantically for one of his attendants to re-enter the chamber. A tall, elegant woman rushed over to him and handed him a scented handkerchief which he duly snatched from her. He placed it carefully over his nose as Davenant and Charles looked on in unreserved astonishment.
    "This happens from time to time," muttered Cromwell from behind the handkerchief, evidently embarrassed, and conscious that it had seemed an age since someone last spoke.
    "I daresay it does," said Charles. "And I must say that it gives me great pleasure to watch you bleed."
    Cromwell dabbed at the blood, thinking long and hard about his retort. "And it will give me great pleasure to finally end this war of ours. And to watch your head roll! I wonder if you will bleed as much as your father did. I was told they were mopping up his blood hours after his execution."
    Charles lunged forward but was held back by Davenant before Cromwell's soldiers could apprehend him. Davenant winced under the pressure of Charles' anger. Eventually he backed down and stood pensively by Davenant.
    "I suppose you have your people call that your throne? And your everyday robes your regal gown? Lord Protector is but another name for a King, and the country shan't tolerate your stealing the crown forever." Charles growled.
    Cromwell brushed it off. "Before I have you all executed, I must ask a favour of you, Davenant. Consider this a temporary reprieve for you all. It is my wife's birthday tomorrow and to celebrate this she wants a cursed play put on for her. As luck would have it, I have your troupe to take care of this for me. I don't