The Devil's Plague

The Devil's Plague by Mark Beynon Page B

Book: The Devil's Plague by Mark Beynon Read Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Beynon
Tags: Tomes of the Dead
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give a damn what play you decide to perform, and don't think for one moment that this is a chance for you to escape. Any funny business will see you executed on the spot. Think of this as your one final hurrah."
    "Where are we to perform?" asked Davenant.
    "The theatre, you damned fool!"
    "With respect, you've destroyed all the theatres."
    "There might be one or two left on Drury Lane," said Elizabeth, piping up.
    Cromwell peered around Charles to get a better view of Davenant's daughter. He was instantly taken by the young, naive beauty that she displayed.
    "And who are you, my pretty one?" he asked, as he made his way towards her.
    "My name is Elizabeth Davenant," she said hesitantly.
    Cromwell let out a wicked cackle. "Well how fortunate for you that you look nothing like him. Your mother must have been a very beautiful woman."
    Elizabeth could smell his foul breath and noted his yellow, decaying teeth and bleeding gums. "I believe she was," she replied, already regretting her interruption.
    Cromwell took her hand and planted a kiss upon it. "Do not worry, my dear. You shan't suffer at the hands of the executioner the way your father shall. I'll make sure he is swift with you." Elizabeth began to weep, as if the enormity of the situation hadn't hit her until Cromwell's sadistic statement.
    Davenant put a comforting arm around her and glared at Cromwell with a blazing look of utter hatred. "The Phoenix Theatre," he said, in between gritted teeth. "I used to manage it and I made sure it was left... untouched."
    "Excellent. The Phoenix Theatre it is!" cried Cromwell, as he turned his attention back to Davenant. "I shall leave it in your capable hands to arrange the entertainment. Oh, and William, I've doubled the sentry at your cell so there's no chance of you escaping this time."
    "That's very kind of you."
    "In which case, I shall bid you all a good evening." Cromwell sauntered from the chamber, his long gown trailing behind him.
    Davenant turned to look out of the window. The sky was black, not even the moon was visible through the murkiness. With the fog came the cold and Davenant dreaded the night ahead, knowing full well how bitter the cells became when the Thames mist rolled in. They'd be lucky if they all saw the morning in, he thought.
    As the group were frogmarched from the chamber and towards the cells, Davenant could see the General and Cromwell in the middle of an animated conversation at the furthest end of the corridor. He wondered whether they were discussing the strange circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the three mounted soldiers.
     
    At least they were still together. This way they were able to stay as warm as possible, making use of one another's body heat as they huddled together. Cromwell had confined them to the Salt Tower and a smaller, more uncomfortable chamber than they would have received elsewhere. The cells were exactly as Davenant remembered them. The same stink of damp and mould, the same carvings adorning the walls, some drawn in beautiful calligraphy, others coarse profanities. Indeed, many of the inscriptions were left by Catholic and Jesuit priests during the reign of Elizabeth. And there was the same prevailing sense of sorrow that couldn't possibly be explained unless you'd spent a night within the same unforgiving walls of this torture palace.
    Davenant could hear the rain lashing down outside. The cell would occasionally be illuminated by a flash of lightning accompanied by a grumble of thunder so severe, it sounded as if it had originated within the bowels of Hell itself. Davenant noticed that the majority of his group had somehow fallen asleep. He was grateful for that although he couldn't fathom how they could sleep in such conditions.
    Davenant knew only too well that he would spend the entire night wide awake with worry, only his thoughts and Turnbull's ceaseless snoring to accompany him. He jumped when he felt a hand brush against his shoulder. He turned to face Faith,

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