The Devil's Plague (16 page)

Another flash of lightning, this time accompanied by a roll of thunder that was so severe, it seemed to shake the water. Once again, the tunnel lit up, revealing more horrors from within the belly of the Tower. Rats were tearing at the scraps of meat clinging to bleached skulls, some fighting each other for the leftovers.

"Oh please, God, I can't take much more of this," whimpered Anne, as a rat clambered into the boat.

Middleton used an oar to shove the vermin back into the water.

"Everyone calm down!" cried Davenant. "We can't afford to take on any more water."

To his relief, the boat had finally passed through the mouth of the tunnel and onto the open Thames. However, the horror, the turmoil of the rats and decapitated heads were merely the beginning, as the storm had whisked the river up into frenzy, sending their boat crashing from side to side as it hit wave after wave. The rain came down hard, adding to the water in the already deluged vessel.

"We need to moor the boat and empty the water!" yelled Middleton, amidst the storm. "We will drown in minutes if we don't!"

Davenant nodded in agreement, and Turnbull and Middleton rowed towards the riverbank. Davenant reached out to grab hold of a wooden strut. He dragged the boat next to the dock and clambered out, examining the damage to the hull as he did so. It had taken a lashing, but would probably be strong enough to get them out of London. The rest of the group were frantically scooping water out of the boat with anything they could make use of - hands, hats and boots.

"Behind you, father!" Elizabeth suddenly cried out.

Davenant turned, fear already tightening its grip as he let out a shuddering breath.

They shambled towards the dock, their pale eyes full of a terrible, ardent hunger.

"We're leaving now!" he bellowed. Davenant jumped back into the boat, followed by the rest of his troupe. Hauling on the oars with Turnbull, they managed to put just enough distance between them and their pursuers. "Look, over there!" said Charles, pointing to the southern side of the river.

Davenant could make out several hundred walking corpses gathered at the riverbank, desperately seeking a way over the water to engage in battle with the Kryfangan. Some had worked their way across London Bridge, and through the warren of timbered buildings that were built on top. Others weren't quite as intuitive, and attempted to cross through the river itself, before being swept away by the vicious tide.

The Kryfangan had made their way to Tower Hill and their battle had moved eastwards towards the northern shore of the Thames. Both riverbanks were now teeming with the dead, like bees around a honeycomb.

It was at that moment, when there was no escape on either shore, no possible way of swimming to safety through the strength of the deadly current, when it finally dawned on Davenant and his company.

They were sinking.

"Abandon ship!" Davenant yelled.

Elizabeth began to sob uncontrollably. "No, no, please God, no," she whimpered through her tears.

"No, Sir!" cried Turnbull. "I'm the heaviest onboard; if I leave the boat then you can go on!"

"For God's sake Turnbull, do as you're told for once!"

"It's been an honour, Sir William, an absolute bloody honour." Turnbull brushed aside Davenant's desperate outstretched arm. He smiled tenderly at Elizabeth before plunging into the dank water, the boat rising almost immediately.

Davenant's eyes filled up with tears. "Turnbull, get back over here now!" He leant over the side, his head almost touching the water, desperately scouring the river for any sign of his manservant. He could hear Elizabeth, Betterton and Underhill weeping behind him. "It should have been me," he whispered. "It should have been me."

"I hate to interrupt your moment of grief, but we're still going under," spluttered Charles.

Betterton clambered clumsily to his feet. "I'm going over too. It is my fault that we're in this mess, so it is only fair I sacrifice myself as well."

"No, please Thomas, no, not you as well. I couldn't bear it," cried Elizabeth.

Davenant could see the desperation in her eyes. He cursed Cromwell for what he'd done. "Betterton, stay where you are, I am responsible for this, it is my duty. You make sure you look after Elizabeth for me, do you hear? Look after her!"

Betterton stood with his mouth agape, scared to back down, but equally scared to brave the icy water of the river. Before he could make his decision, Davenant was on his feet too, stripping his doublet from his body and grabbing hold of a knife.

He leant in to Elizabeth and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. "I love you, Elizabeth, always remember that."

There was a splash and Davenant looked up in bewilderment. "What in the name of the Lord was that?"

"I do believe Mary has just thrown herself overboard," replied Charles. "I expect she was bored of your theatrical exit!"

Davenant shook his head. "My God," he said finally. "No one else is jumping off this boat! Do you all understand? That is an order!"

The boat had risen another couple of inches and with some frantic bailing they were able to stabilise the craft.

"Thank you, Mary," muttered Davenant under his breath. "You bloody lunatic."

"There's Turnbull! On the north shore!" shrieked Underhill. They peered into the darkness and could just distinguish his vast frame and pot belly amidst his scrawny attackers. He swung a sword, no doubt pilfered from one of the soldiers, decapitating anything that closed in upon him, spraying the riverbank with body parts and saturating it with diseased blood. Eventually the sheer number of the dead swamped him, and Turnbull disappeared beneath a pile of bodies.

Charles grabbed hold of an oar, and together with Middleton, gained control of the boat once more. They glided past Custom House, the tall, proud buildings of Billingsgate on the north side of the river, under one of the archways of London Bridge and alongside the borough of Southwark on the south side of the Thames. Davenant could see what was left of the theatrical district of Bankside, and although the Globe had long been destroyed, he had fond memories of the place. In the shadow and amidst the rubble of its more famous sibling, he was glad to see that the Hope Theatre had survived Cromwell's tyrannical regime, and cast his mind back to his days in which he and his father had trod the boards together. He prayed that he would see the theatres of Bankside again one day, under happier circumstances.

As he settled back against the side of the boat, Davenant spared a fleeting glance back to the north side of the river. Funny, he thought, despite seeing Turnbull desperately and courageously fight for his life, Mary had seemed to vanish into thin air.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Oxford

It was the sun that woke him, piercing through a break in the clouds. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to have its warmth on his face. As Davenant stirred, he became aware that the boat had become entangled in the reeds of the riverbank. With one eye open, he glanced over at his sleeping companions. He took a moment to remember the events of the previous evening and his heart sank. Amidst the chaos of their escape from London, he hadn't been able to grieve for his friend. Even as he saw Turnbull being overcome by the hordes of soldiers, his mind was preoccupied with the thought of getting everyone else to safety.

Davenant broke down in tears. He had tried to remain strong, but losing Turnbull, his trusted friend and manservant was just too much for him to bear.

His sobs woke Elizabeth, who wrestled herself free from beneath Underhill's legs, and crawled her way across the boat to grieve with her father, placing an arm around his shoulders.

"He loved you very much, father," she said, wiping away her own tears.

"I never thanked him enough. I was always whinging at him, always..."

"Ssssh! I won't hear another word about it," replied Elizabeth.

Davenant eventually managed a smile and leant in to embrace his daughter. He held her tightly, unwilling to let go. He looked up at the rolling green pastures and the surrounding fields, brimming with crops and fresh produce. He filled his lungs with the countryside air and let out a sigh of relief.

Thank God they were out of London!

Davenant looked around, trying to establish their whereabouts. He couldn't believe how far they'd come - the Thames had become narrower, so narrow in fact that there was barely enough room for two riverboats to pass one another. He smiled at the sight and sounds of the wildlife: the quacking of ducks, the warbling of a nearby woodlark, and even the splashing of an otter. He couldn't recall when he'd fallen asleep, but remembered passing the last of the London bridges and dockyards. As he looked around he could see a church and a cluster of buildings to the east. There was no doubt in his mind that they were in desperate need of food, water and rest. He was fairly certain that the danger seemed to be restricted to London for now, yet at the same time was aware that Cromwell's men outside of the city would still be on the look-out for Charles Stuart and his mercenary friends.

As much as it pained him to wake his companions from their well-earned sleep, Davenant felt it best they were on the move once more.

He gently shook Charles' shoulder. "My Lord, you must wake up."

"What... what's going on, Sir William?"

"We must have fallen asleep and drifted here. I don't know where we are, but there's a town over there," replied Davenant. "We need food and rest, my Lord. And it would be wise if we were to vacate the boat as soon as possible."

Charles nodded in agreement. "Yes, yes, quite right," he said, pulling himself upright to get a better view of his surroundings.

"Just one other thing, my Lord, we must be wary of Cromwell's men. I doubt word of what has happened in London would have reached them yet, neither would they have heard of our arrest in Evesham. Their orders to capture us are still very much their priority, so we must tread carefully."

The others began to stir.

"Can we not stay here for a while?" Underhill said. "It's so warm."

"No, we can't," replied Charles sternly, grabbing hold of one of the oars and pulling the boat round. Davenant leapt onto the bank, holding the boat in place whilst his companions were able to step carefully to safety.

As the group approached the settlement, Davenant was surprised to find that the cluster of dwellings that had seemed to form part of a small village from his view on the riverbank had opened up into a larger town. It wasn't until they had ambled halfway across the field that it suddenly struck him - it wasn't a town, but a city, and the church he had seen from the boat wasn't a church at all.

It was a cathedral - Christ Church Cathedral.

And the all too familiar city they were advancing on was Oxford - his birthplace, the home of a million memories both happy and sad.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Tower Hill, London

Black clouds boiled above the raging battle below. The Thames shimmered with the crimson of the streams of blood that were washed from the streets by the driving rain. Lightning lit up the unholy war that had laid siege to the capital, the undead and the Kryfangan locked in combat. Any remaining human was quickly despatched either by the dark riders or by the hordes of zombies that washed up into the city with the stench of rotting flesh.

Two of the undead fought over the flesh of one of the Kryfangan, tearing away its cloak and armour to reveal the creature beneath. The two soldiers took great delight in sinking their decaying teeth into the coarse flesh, wrestling with it as if they were dogs fighting over a bone. There was no blood, just dry, raw tissue.

Amidst the howling winds and the sweeping rain, fires raged and buildings crumbled. In just over a day, London, the once proud and thriving city full of heritage and hope, had been reduced to little more than a battlefield.

On the banks of the Thames something twitched. Oliver Cromwell sat up and, clutching a sword in his right hand, rose sluggishly to his feet. Despite his repellent nature, his vulgar face that teemed with scars and his lifeless, vacant eyes, there seemed to linger a glimmer of intelligence that wasn't prevalent in his ungainly brethren.

The pounding of hooves made Cromwell's head turn. As the horseman bore down on him, Cromwell swung his sword, connecting with the forelegs of the mount, sending horse and rider screeching into the dark water of the river. The horse squealed as it died, thrashing as the current took it out of view.

Suddenly, the Kryfangan burst from the water. It threw its dark robe to one side and withdrew a sword from an elaborate scabbard. Even its armour was ornately crafted, with religious symbols and inscriptions embossed in its dark iron chest plate. Its icy breath filtered through the gap in the mask covering its face, another intricate design of twisted metal inlaid with gold. Despite his stricken intellect, Cromwell realised that this must be one of the Kryfangan leaders he had read about. If this was the case, its skills with the sword were likely to be more masterful than any of its platoon.

The Kryfangan lifted its weapon and charged. Gripping his sword tightly, Cromwell parried the first blow with ease, knocking the Kryfangan off balance in the process. He had gained the initiative; taking three strides he swung his sword down on the skull of his opponent. The Kryfangan twisted its body, just before Cromwell's sword crashed down. Somehow, from the jaws of defeat, it had regained the initiative as the force of Cromwell's wild swing sent him tumbling into the shallows of the river, his sword dropping to the bank. Before Cromwell could get back to his feet, the Kryfangan had waded in after him, eager to end their brief skirmish. Cromwell looked up at the demon standing menacingly above him with his emotionless, lifeless eyes - the Devil's eyes. There was no pleading or begging for mercy, just unreserved, unapologetic ruthlessness.