The Devil's Plague (14 page)

Turnbull and Middleton quickly bundled the group into a side alley, seconds before the riders swept past them.

Davenant didn't open his eyes immediately.

"You're alive! We're alive!" Elizabeth cried.

"Thought that just standing there wasn't one of your better ideas, Sir," Turnbull said. "Saw the alleyway and got us moving sharpish."

"Look!" Elizabeth pointed to the battle that was raging further up the street. Davenant watched part in awe, part in horror, as the horsemen clashed with the undead. Swords carved through flesh like knives through butter, spraying Cheapside with blood and guts. Davenant had given up trying to hide Elizabeth from the horror as she, along with everyone else, watched with their mouths agape, hypnotised by the massacre.

"What the hell!" gasped Betterton, pointing at one of Cromwell's fallen soldiers. The corpse had begun to twitch. Slowly, it levered itself up, one arm hanging by a mere scrap of tendon. Crawling along the cobblestones it began to feed on the lumps of flesh and offal that were strewn there.

Charles watched the ghoul feeding for a moment and then gasped. "We need to leave now!"

"Let's take the carriage," Middleton said, surprised to find that it had escaped unscathed, horses still intact.

Davenant ushered everyone inside as Middleton clambered into the driver's seat.

Charles was the last to enter and slammed the door tightly shut behind him. "It's almost as if they're not interested in fighting us, only each other," he said, gazing out of the smeared windows at the two armies engaged in battle. It appeared to be very much a one-way conflict, as the horsemen decapitated wave after wave with their vast blades.

Davenant turned to Betterton. "I'm sorry, truly sorry that I didn't believe you."

"And I'm sorry for my actions, but there is no time for apologies now, we have to leave!" cried Betterton, as Middleton gave a vigorous crack of the whip, sending the horses into a frenzy. They ploughed straight through the battleground, mowing down anyone or anything that stood in their way, almost slipping several times on the blood-drenched cobblestone. Windows were smashed open and rotting arms groped into their carriage. A hand grabbed hold of Anne's hair, stubbornly refusing to let go. Underhill jumped to her aid, pulling her in the opposite direction. A clump was torn from her scalp and she let out an agonised scream. The hand, still holding the tuft of hair, remained in the carriage, bouncing its way over the carriage floor.

"For God's sake, somebody throw it out!" cried Faith.

Eventually Turnbull was able to grab hold of the writhing hand and threw it from the broken window. There was a collective sigh of relief followed by a marked silence.

It was Betterton who spoke first. "Have we left them behind?" he asked, his eyes darting around the carriage.

Davenant reluctantly peered out of the smashed window. "Yes, I think so." He looked back in the other direction and suddenly saw a lone figure standing in the entrance to an alleyway. "Wait! There's someone up ahead!"

He felt the carriage slowing as they approached, and it wasn't long before it became strikingly apparent who the figure was.

"Well, well, well," said Charles through gritted teeth. "If it isn't our friend Oliver Cromwell, I do hope we're not slowing down to carry him to safety?"

"I say we let him rot in Hell," spat Elizabeth.

"No, I want answers! Middleton, stop the carriage!" cried Davenant.

"No, Middleton, carry on! Sir William, you cannot make this decision on your own. We all have a say in whether we stop or not."

Davenant could see the look on Cromwell's face as they passed - the look of defeat. "I want answers from him. I want to know who those horsemen were."

"And what makes you so sure that Cromwell has got those answers?" asked Charles, unwilling to back down.

"Because I heard him summon them, and because there is a look in his eye that tells me that he is frightened to his marrow."

The two men shared a long, lingering stare. It was Charles who broke rank first.

"Very well, but promise me that I can kill him as soon as you've finished your interrogation."

Davenant nodded. "As long as I can help you," he said, smiling for the first time in a while.

"Middleton, stop the carriage! Let us see how he feels with the boot on the other foot."

"Are ye sure this is a wise idea, my Lord?" he shouted.

"No, but do as you're told!"

Middleton shook his head ruefully and reluctantly pulled the carriage up two hundred yards from Cromwell, who turned and ran towards them. There was a marked sense of unease as he clambered inside. Faith and Anne quickly slid over on the seats as far as they possibly could to make room for him, the thought of sharing a carriage with Cromwell as abhorrent to them as it was to Elizabeth. As he sat down next to her, she caught a waft of his odour, like a festering wound.

Cromwell's eyes drifted around the carriage, surveying the disgusted expressions on the faces of his companions, until they fell on Charles in the furthest corner, carrying a look of pure, unmitigated hatred.

"And to which one of my thespian friends do I owe my gratitude?" asked Cromwell.

Charles felt for the knife that was concealed in his belt and wrapped his hand tightly around its ivory handle. "I don't think any of us particularly want you in our carriage..."

"It's my carriage."

"Be that as it may, no one is here to look after you, so if I were you I'd think long and hard about how to start addressing people," said Davenant.

"Or else...?"

"Or else we'll throw you out of the window and happily watch as your 'horsemen' come back and rip you to pieces."

"Ah yes, my horsemen, my New Model Army, I wondered how long it would take you to mention them. They are quite remarkable, are they not?"

As much as it pained him, Davenant was impressed with his resilience. "Yes, they are. Yet I couldn't help but notice that their enemy were... well, already dead."

Cromwell's eyes swung back to face Charles. "No doubt you would have recognised the soldiers; after all, they've already been killed once before at Worcester."

That was it, the final straw. Charles couldn't take any further snide remarks, so he leapt across the carriage, withdrew the hunting knife from his belt and held it to Cromwell's throat, his hand shaking with rage.

"We want answers, Cromwell!" he yelled. "Or I might just have a little accident with this here knife."

"Go ahead and slit my throat. I'll thank you for it. I'm dead already."

"I say you slit his throat," said Elizabeth venomously.

"My, my, you are a little poisonous one, are you not? I daresay another character trait she has picked up from her mother..."

It was Davenant's turn to lose his composure. He leant in to Cromwell and planted a fierce blow across his jaw, sending him sprawling at Betterton's feet.

"Who are they, Cromwell, and where did you get them? I'd wager they didn't come with conscription!"

Cromwell shakily climbed back onto his seat. "You've no doubt heard several rumours about me. I know they've been circulating around the taverns and inns of Whitehall, I daresay started by my enemies in Parliament."

"There have been whispers," said Davenant, conspicuously rubbing his bruised fingers. "Something about a pact with the Devil is the one that I've heard."

Cromwell took a deep breath. "Yes, I've heard that one too. It is true, the rumours are true."

"How can that be possible?" asked Charles, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Please, let me finish. It was at the Battle of Marston Moor. My army were a shambles, a rambling mess of drunkards and low-life vermin. They'd barely the knowledge of which way up to hold a sword, let alone how to wield one. The night before the battle I decided to drown my sorrows in a local tavern. I fully expected it to be my last drink as a free man as I had no hope of winning the battle the following day. It was in the tavern that I was approached by a strange crooked man in a dark brown robe. I can vividly remember his wasted face and in his eyes seemed to shine a glimmer of dark red. This peculiar stranger offered me a deal. In return for my soul, he would give me his 'Legion', the Kryfangan, an ancient army of unbeatable evil..."

Charles scoffed at his words.

"Mock me all you like, but I tell you no lie. I stupidly agreed to his... pact, shaking the man's hand, praying that he would leave me alone. As he hobbled from the tavern, I fully expected to never see him again and nothing to ever come of our strange conversation. Like you, I derided his comments and dismissed them out of hand. That was until the following day. My army were being slaughtered; it was a bloodbath, a massacre. I had all but surrendered when the horsemen appeared from nowhere, counter-attacked under the cover of darkness and won the battle with ease. I soon realised that I wielded a weapon such as no man has ever used in all the grim history of warfare and that victory and control of the country was finally within my grasp. But victory wasn't achieved without a price and without suffering on my part. I see this strange, crooked man in my dreams, and I see him sometimes in the street, amidst the crowds. And I am dying inside; I cannot step onto consecrated ground without being sick and my body is rotten to the core."

"At last, some honesty!" spat Charles, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"Please, my Lord! Let him finish," replied Davenant.

"You don't believe this nonsense, do you?"

Davenant didn't answer immediately. His eyes worked their way back over to Cromwell, who was sat despondently with his head in his hands. "I'm not sure. But let us show the good grace to allow him to finish his story."

"Very well," said Charles.

Cromwell took a deep breath. "Although at first I was happy to let the identity of my bloodthirsty soldiers remain a secret, after a while I couldn't help but conduct some research into their shrouded mystery. I found an old manuscript in the Westminster library that shed light on the subject. What I discovered was almost the death of me. I have unleashed onto the country the darkest, purest evil." There was genuine sadness in his forlorn eyes. "And they've taken my family from me. You have heard of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? The Bible makes reference to them in the Book of Revelation. You must ignore their traditional interpretation. In fact, the four horsemen are the four beasts mentioned in the Book of Daniel. They represent four kings, the last of which will devour the world. The Kryfangan are lead by four soldiers, the most powerful and the most terrifying of them all. They do not ride the time-honoured white, red, black and pale horses. No, they ride black, jet-black steeds, and they represent the Antichrist, Plague, Famine and Death. One interpretation is that Satan has control over when the horsemen end the world - when the victims at the hands of horsemen rise from the dead to fight in a battle that will end all mankind. Well, that time is now. And that is why I bare my soul..."

"You have no soul," whispered Elizabeth.

"Why you, Cromwell? Why did he choose you?" asked Davenant.

"It wasn't just me."

"There are others too?"

"Yes, there have been others. During my research I discovered reports of a dark army on horseback fighting in Ancient Greece and then again in Mongolia in the thirteenth century."

"What happened on those occasions?" asked Davenant earnestly.

"I don't know about Greece, but in Mongolia, eyewitnesses claimed to have seen Genghis Khan unite the country with the help of a mysterious dark army on horseback. It was only after he had created his Empire that things started to take a turn for the worse. The statements went on to say how those who were killed by the horsemen rose from the dead and sought their vengeance upon them. They called them a plague army."

"How did it end?" asked Charles.

"They said a great fire ended the plague and the Kryfangan disappeared as quickly as they came."

"So this would explain why these... soldiers came to London, to seek the Kryfangan, to seek their revenge. And before the horsemen turned up, I saw them feast on the flesh of the living. Those slain by this unholy army in turn rose from the dead. Their hunger was terrible to observe."

Cromwell nodded. He was only too aware of the truth behind Davenant's observation. After all, he had been conspicuously rubbing the wound on his arm, a bite mark, for the past twenty minutes. He had even felt the disease course through his veins and prick at his skin. His vision had become blurred; no doubt a symptom of the same affliction.

"I can see the Tower up ahead!" yelled Middleton.

At last, Cromwell thought, he could seek sanctuary, for the time being at least...

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Tower of London

"Do I take it you're not going to imprison us this time?" asked Davenant.

Cromwell didn't satisfy him with an answer and instead began the arduous task of fortifying the defences of the Tower. He'd already lowered the portcullis of the Lion Tower and had strengthened its ramparts by moving the cannons from the nearby armouries of the Middle Tower. The group had set up camp in the adjacent Byward Tower from where they had a perfect vantage point of any intruders or would-be attackers.