The Devil's Plague Read Online Free
- the drill didn't involve him pissing into close at hand foliage.
Another branch snapped. This time Davenant was able to pinpoint its location - it came from above. He reluctantly shone the lantern upwards, half terrified of what he'd find prowling in the treetops.
To his surprise, he found two men staring back at him. One of them was a King.
CHAPTER THREE
The Sun Inn, Long Marston
July 1st, 1644
The crowded inn fell silent as Cromwell stepped through the warped doorway. He glared at a group of his soldiers who were daring enough to partake in a session of ale the night before the most significant battle of their lives. They would incur his wrath later, for right now he was in dire need of a drink himself. As he left them grimacing with embarrassment, he slipped into a private room where he could be assured of some peace and quiet. The timid server, little more than a boy, trembled as he poured rank ale from a decaying cask into a rusty tankard.
There was a time when Cromwell would have thrown the ale, which bore a remarkable similarity to cat's piss, back in the server's face. But not tonight, tonight he received it gratefully and took a hearty swig.
"No one's going to steal it, my dear man."
The guttural voice was unfamiliar to Cromwell, but the tone and choice of words lead him to the conclusion that he was either a brave, foolish man, or that he was unaware of who he was talking to. Either way, Cromwell turned to chastise him for rudely interrupting his respite. He got as far as pointing an angry finger at the crooked man sat in front of him before becoming lost in the dark eyes that prowled deep within the hooded cloak.
"Do I know you?" Cromwell whispered.
"No," the creature chuckled. "But I know you."
CHAPTER FOUR
Bewdley Woods
6th September, 1651
"Good evening, gentlemen." The voice carried a peculiar accent, a strange marriage of French, Scottish and Flemish. Davenant could just about make out a dishevelled mop of dark hair which fell around his ears and a thin moustache which lined his lip.
"Who are you?" Davenant held the lantern aloft and was conscious that a nervous tremble had crept into his arm, jerking the light ever so slightly.
"That is not how you address a King," replied the dark haired man.
Davenant stood, open-mouthed. "You will forgive my ignorance then," he said, finally. "But who exactly are you the King of?"
The dark haired man smiled warmly, seemingly unoffended by Davenant's blunt retort. "My name is Charles Stuart, son of a murdered King and rightful heir to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland. And I would very much appreciate it if you could help us down."
It was Davenant's turn to smile. "Charles Stuart, you say?" There was a hint of cynicism in his tone that didn't go unnoticed.
"Yes and this gentleman alongside me is John Middleton, a commander in my army."
Davenant caught his first glimpse of the other man - a tall, sturdy type with a huge florid moustache that ran the width of his face. "So, if you are who you say you are, how do you know that we are not officers in Cromwell's army? You are taking an almighty risk in drawing attention to yourselves, are you not?"
"Well," replied Charles, "you are wearing stage make-up. I am well aware that the quality of Cromwell's army has dropped as of late, but I am sure that even he would draw the line at drafting up men with a penchant for cross-dressing. Or is that your new uniform?"
Betterton and Elizabeth emerged cautiously from the cart, sensing that any potential danger had passed. Underhill, who had watched the entire episode from his nearby pissing position, was trying his damnedest not to laugh. Charles had rendered Davenant speechless, which was quite an accomplishment.
"Should we not help them down, Sir?" It was Turnbull who eventually broke the silence. Davenant grudgingly nodded, still unable to find his tongue.
"May I know the name of our saviour?" Charles began his descent.
"My name is
Another branch snapped. This time Davenant was able to pinpoint its location - it came from above. He reluctantly shone the lantern upwards, half terrified of what he'd find prowling in the treetops.
To his surprise, he found two men staring back at him. One of them was a King.
CHAPTER THREE
The Sun Inn, Long Marston
July 1st, 1644
The crowded inn fell silent as Cromwell stepped through the warped doorway. He glared at a group of his soldiers who were daring enough to partake in a session of ale the night before the most significant battle of their lives. They would incur his wrath later, for right now he was in dire need of a drink himself. As he left them grimacing with embarrassment, he slipped into a private room where he could be assured of some peace and quiet. The timid server, little more than a boy, trembled as he poured rank ale from a decaying cask into a rusty tankard.
There was a time when Cromwell would have thrown the ale, which bore a remarkable similarity to cat's piss, back in the server's face. But not tonight, tonight he received it gratefully and took a hearty swig.
"No one's going to steal it, my dear man."
The guttural voice was unfamiliar to Cromwell, but the tone and choice of words lead him to the conclusion that he was either a brave, foolish man, or that he was unaware of who he was talking to. Either way, Cromwell turned to chastise him for rudely interrupting his respite. He got as far as pointing an angry finger at the crooked man sat in front of him before becoming lost in the dark eyes that prowled deep within the hooded cloak.
"Do I know you?" Cromwell whispered.
"No," the creature chuckled. "But I know you."
CHAPTER FOUR
Bewdley Woods
6th September, 1651
"Good evening, gentlemen." The voice carried a peculiar accent, a strange marriage of French, Scottish and Flemish. Davenant could just about make out a dishevelled mop of dark hair which fell around his ears and a thin moustache which lined his lip.
"Who are you?" Davenant held the lantern aloft and was conscious that a nervous tremble had crept into his arm, jerking the light ever so slightly.
"That is not how you address a King," replied the dark haired man.
Davenant stood, open-mouthed. "You will forgive my ignorance then," he said, finally. "But who exactly are you the King of?"
The dark haired man smiled warmly, seemingly unoffended by Davenant's blunt retort. "My name is Charles Stuart, son of a murdered King and rightful heir to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland. And I would very much appreciate it if you could help us down."
It was Davenant's turn to smile. "Charles Stuart, you say?" There was a hint of cynicism in his tone that didn't go unnoticed.
"Yes and this gentleman alongside me is John Middleton, a commander in my army."
Davenant caught his first glimpse of the other man - a tall, sturdy type with a huge florid moustache that ran the width of his face. "So, if you are who you say you are, how do you know that we are not officers in Cromwell's army? You are taking an almighty risk in drawing attention to yourselves, are you not?"
"Well," replied Charles, "you are wearing stage make-up. I am well aware that the quality of Cromwell's army has dropped as of late, but I am sure that even he would draw the line at drafting up men with a penchant for cross-dressing. Or is that your new uniform?"
Betterton and Elizabeth emerged cautiously from the cart, sensing that any potential danger had passed. Underhill, who had watched the entire episode from his nearby pissing position, was trying his damnedest not to laugh. Charles had rendered Davenant speechless, which was quite an accomplishment.
"Should we not help them down, Sir?" It was Turnbull who eventually broke the silence. Davenant grudgingly nodded, still unable to find his tongue.
"May I know the name of our saviour?" Charles began his descent.
"My name is
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