The Devil's Plague by Mark Beynon

smugglers and pirates of all ages, races and religions. A regular melting pot.
    He ignored their jibes, many of which he couldn't even comprehend, and took in the view of the ocean as he wiped the mixture of spittle and bile from his lip. Theirs was the only craft in view on the vast expanse of water. The sun was shining in the cloudless sky and a fair wind licked over the surface of the sea. After taking deep breaths, Davenant rolled onto his back, squinting as the sun disappeared and reappeared behind the sail. The rigging garlanded the sky, scoring it with the dark lines. He noted the hordes of sweating men heaving the barrels of brandy, beer and gunpowder along the deck and fastening them in place with thick rope. What a journey those barrels must have had, Davenant thought. Through secret tunnels and onto covert carriages before being hauled onboard the Algernon.
    "What do you think of my boat?" Bray said, as he took a hearty swig of whatever putrid liquor filled his carafe.
    "Your boat?"
    "Yes, William, my boat. These men are working for me. What do you think got me imprisoned in the Tower in the first place?" Davenant cast his mind back to what the guards had told him and smirked. "You haven't answered my question, William. What do you think of my boat?"
    "It's very grand," replied Davenant.
    "Have you always been a terrible liar?"
    He was right, Davenant thought. He was lying. The boat was a pockmarked ageing bark, barely held together by pitch and rope; the weathered timber could have sprung a leak and drowned them all at any moment. And the stink was almost unbearable. At least he could console himself that he would be in France within days, free from the threat of Cromwell's men and the judgemental eyes of Bray's comrades. That aside, Davenant was grateful for Bray's assistance in helping him escape the grim confines of the Tower and they had even managed to strike up a peculiar friendship in the two months that they had been on the run. Their journey down from London to Portsmouth had been a perilous affair. They had almost been caught on two separate occasions by Parliamentarian soldiers, and Davenant had felt a heady blend of relief and gratitude when he had seen the glittering coast for the first time. However, his contentment was not without a tinge of sadness, and the thought of Elizabeth's welfare continued to occupy his thoughts and even his dreams. He had managed to send word to Turnbull of his plans to stay in France until he could secure military stores for the Royalists' battle with Parliament.
    "I wonder what our friend Cromwell makes of all this?" said Bray, as he removed his jerkin and stretched out on the deck.
    "I hope he chokes on his own venom and vitriol," replied Davenant, allowing a rare glimpse of his rancorous side.
    "What do you plan to do when we reach France? You know, I could use a good man like you, a man lacking in moral fibre, a man willing to fuck the hierarchy. And who knows, maybe you might end up making some money from it? Enough to buy your own boat, perhaps?"
    Davenant smiled. "Is that a veiled complement?" Bray shrugged. "In truth, although I appreciate your kind offer, I have my own agenda. There are several people I need to see in France."
    "To help you pursue your incessant tryst with Cromwell, no doubt."
    Maybe he was right, Davenant thought. Maybe he should settle down and find something else to do rather than gallivanting around the country catering to the whims of Royalists. It would certainly mean that he would see more of Elizabeth and less of the dank cell walls belonging to the Tower. But then, in a moment of lucidity, he regained his perspective. He'd be damned if he was going to let Parliament and Cromwell ruin his country.
    "Cromwell is the man who threatens our freedoms, our daily lives and the man who threatens to take away my first love."
    "Bellyaching?"
    Davenant let out a wicked cackle. "No, my dear old chap. The theatre."
    "In which case, I shall wish you the