The Devil's Plague (17 page)

Once more the Kryfangan raised its great sword. At that precise moment, Cromwell rose from the water, his eyes coming alive and burning a vivid red. He took one enormous leap to the shore, there gathering his fallen sword.

The two warriors circled one another, swords outstretched, both waiting patiently for their opponent to make the first move.

And then it came. Cromwell lunged with vicious ferocity, the tip of his blade piercing the chest plate of the Kryfangan.

It drew no blood.

The Kryfangan responded with a similarly vicious swipe of its blade, narrowly missing Cromwell's abdomen. This was followed by several rattling blows in quick succession as blade met blade; each strike lighting up the riverbank with sparks. The battle had become so fierce that it had caught the attention of the nearby undead, who were busy combing the riverbank for any sign of food.

Cromwell planted a ferocious blow on the Kryfangan's faceplate, sending it sprawling in the mud. With another sweep of his sword, he knocked the Kryfangan's weapon from its hand.

A cluster of the undead had convened around the battleground, and seemed to watch intently as Cromwell mercilessly plunged his sword through the neck of his adversary. The zombies' eyes seemed to gleam with respect. Could this man lead them? If he could defeat a Kryfangan General single-handed, could he win the war for their kind?

As they lurched forward to share in the demon flesh, their somnolent bodies seemed to suggest a mixture of gratitude and fear towards the provider of their feast. Whatever their sentiment, there was no denying that they had found their new King.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Oxford

As they entered the city, Davenant was pleased to see that it hadn't changed one bit. It was market day and the calls of traders selling their goods echoed through the streets. Women in headscarves tussled over bargains while men lounged outside taverns at a safe distance, watching the proceedings with wry amusement through a pall of pipe smoke. Davenant cast his eye over the wares on sale and saw that one enterprising stall-owner was selling Royalist memorabilia. Highly illegal of course, but it would appear that Cromwell's men were willing to turn a blind eye for a small cut of the profit.

Charles picked up a silk scarf with images depicting the famous Royalist victory at Kilsyth. "I don't understand," he said. "How can these people get away with selling such items without ending up in the stocks?"

Davenant smiled. "Ah, my Lord, but this is Oxford, the Royalist capital of England! By the way, keep your identity hidden. They may love you here but if Cromwell's men notice you you're as good as dead."

Charles nodded and paid the tubby market trader. The group sauntered through the hustle and bustle of Market Street, avoiding any contact with the mounted soldiers that paraded the busy cobblestone lanes. Before long they had worked their way to St Giles', bedraggled and in desperate need of respite.

"We must rest soon, Sir William. A night spent in a boat has left me rather weary," said Charles.

"Let's see if we can find rooms in the tavern you were brought up in," said Elizabeth excitedly. "I would love to see where you were born."

Davenant shook his head. "The Crown Tavern? No, I don't think I could face that. Revisiting Oxford is strange enough without having to endure the memories of that wretched place. But I have a better idea. There's a modest inn just around the corner that will provide us with comfortable enough rooms."

"Is it reputable?" asked Charles.

"I daresay you've heard of it, the Eagle and Child. It acted as a headquarters for your father during the early part of the war."

"Well that sounds remarkably suitable!" exclaimed Charles.

"That's settled then." Davenant led the group along a dark, tapered passageway, which opened up onto another cobbled street. Standing opposite them was a tall, proud and narrow building, the Eagle and Child.

Davenant couldn't quite believe how little Oxford had changed as he cast his eye over St Giles' Church in the distance. He spared a thought for his parents who had been buried next to one another in the churchyard there. They had died only two weeks apart from each other. He felt a warm hand slide into his own and looked up to see Faith smiling tenderly at him. She gently guided him into the tavern where the others were waiting.

"You lot stay here," he said to them. "I'll try and secure us some rooms."

Davenant approached the innkeeper, an elderly man with greying sideburns, who was sleeping behind the bar, an empty tankard and plate in front of him. Davenant rapped sharply on the counter.

"Ah, good evening," Davenant said as the publican stirred. "I was wondering whether you may be able to accommodate myself and my friends for the evening? There are eight of us in total."

The innkeeper's eyes narrowed. "My, my, that's some crowd you've got. You lot from the circus?"

"We're just a weary group of merchants who are in desperate need of food and rest. You'll find our money is just as good as anyone else's."

"Very well," replied the innkeeper, clambering off his stool. "I have three rooms that you can take. There's fresh linen and I'll prepare some supper for you. It won't be much; just some bread and cheese."

"That's very kind of you, Sir. Elizabeth, could you fetch the others please, my dear?"

The innkeeper opened an old leather bound book, blowing the dust from its pages. They were filled with signatures from past guests, with a date alongside each faded scribble. As Davenant signed his name, he couldn't help but notice that the signature above his, a MR. D. SYMS, was dated the 24th February, 1647.

"Is business slow?" asked Davenant.

The innkeeper smiled. "No, no, not at all, we just haven't used this book for a while, that's all."

Davenant nodded and finished writing the name, MR. WILL DAVENPORT, on the register.

"Here are your keys, Mr Davenport. Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you, Sir." Davenant received the large iron keys gratefully and ushered his tired troupe up the narrow staircase and towards their rooms.

Once they were out of sight, the innkeeper pulled out a crinkled leaf of parchment from underneath the bar. He read the wanted poster again, grinning at the sight of the princely reward on offer, his toothless smile widening as he saw the names that were printed there.

The rooms were poorly furnished and maintained, but they had been cheap. Woodworm had begun to eat its way into the shabby furniture and creaking floorboards. Davenant shared a room with Charles and Elizabeth, separating her from Betterton who grudgingly shared with Underhill and Middleton. Faith and Anne took the third room.

Davenant stirred when he felt the sun cascading through the moth-eaten curtain. He must have been asleep most of a day, he thought to himself. He craned his neck to peer out of the window, his rickety bed creaking as he rolled over. The sun was beginning to set in the cloudless sky, giving Davenant the impression that it was late afternoon or early evening. He turned to find that Charles was stirring in the bed alongside his.

"My Lord, are you awake?" he asked, his voice a hushed whisper.

"Yes, Will, I am now," replied Charles.

"Ah, I am sorry if I woke you."

"No, no, it was the damned creaking of your bed! Now, what is the plan for today?"

"Well, firstly I plan to get out of this bed before it kills me. Then I propose we leave the city immediately. If my experiences with Cromwell's troops have taught me anything, it's that we must keep on the move. We ought to head south. After all, I insist on keeping my part of the deal we struck in Bewdley Woods."

"The deal?" asked Charles, running a tired hand through his unkempt beard.

"My Lord, you've forgotten!"

"It seems as though years have passed and empire's have crumbled since we first met in Bewdley Woods," said Charles ponderously, allowing the slightest smile to pass over his lips - no doubt replaying the scarcely believable events of the past two weeks over in his mind.

"Then you've forgotten that I promised to ensure that you and Middleton reached Portsmouth unscathed." Davenant said.

"I didn't forget. I just didn't expect you to see it through. What you promised was foolhardy Sir William, and I will not hold you to it. Middleton and I have already cost you the life of dear old Turnbull and I'll be damned if we will cost you another. And neither of us could have possibly imagined what was going to happen, could we?"

"Turnbull's death was no one's fault, and I am a man of my word, my Lord. I will see that you reach Portsmouth, whether you like it or not. Besides, I can hardly return to London now, can I?"

There was a ferocious clatter and shouting outside.

Middleton rushed into the room, almost smashing the door from its hinges in his haste. "We must leave at once! Cromwell's men are outside!"

Charles leapt to his feet as Davenant shook Elizabeth awake.

"Elizabeth, we need to go right away!"

Her eyes flitted wildly around the room, over its ramshackle walls and archaic decor. She was finally able to compose herself and clambered clumsily out of bed. As Anne, Faith, Underhill and Betterton all poured into the small bedroom, a flurry of heavy footsteps began to ascend the staircase. Davenant threw a quick glance at the window and could see that the soldiers had left their horse-drawn carriage unattended by the tavern entrance. In a moment of reckless abandonment, he threw a chair through the window, smashing the glass and sending its shards scattering over the steep tiled roof.

"Out of the window!" he cried, picking Anne up and forcing her through the gap.

"Are you out of your mind?" gasped Underhill, as he reached out to stop his sister from falling.

"For God's sake, Cave! It's the only way!" He lifted Underhill and shoved him out of the window after his sister, receiving a blow in the face from Underhill's boot for his troubles.

Just as the soldiers' footsteps had reached the top of the stairs, Davenant hoisted Elizabeth through, her hand catching on a shard of glass still lodged in the frame. She cried out in agony as blood dripped from her wound. Davenant had no time to tend to it now - besides it was just a scratch - and urged Elizabeth onto the roof to join the others, who were now perched perilously close to the edge. Several tiles gave way underneath her, skipping over the others, smashing onto the cobbled street below.

As she clutched hold of her wounded hand, Elizabeth could see that Betterton had emerged onto the roof close behind her. Another tide of tiles gave way beneath him, dragging him down towards the ledge as if he were riding on the crest of a wave. Just before he fell, Elizabeth reached and grabbed hold of his arm. She screamed out in agony, alerting a cluster of nearby locals to the troubles above. Betterton was hanging on to Elizabeth, his grip lessening with every passing second. He shot a glance over his shoulder to see that one or two of the more sturdy onlookers had positioned themselves beneath him, their arms outstretched, waiting to break his fall.

"Jump you silly beggar, or you'll take her with you!" shouted one of the onlookers.

Betterton let go and landed in the arms of a man. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he noted Underhill, Faith and Anne being helped down by various other strangers. Elizabeth remained on the roof, looking down nervously. "Elizabeth, for God's sake jump! I'll catch you."

Behind Elizabeth, Charles and Middleton had made it onto the roof, the shouts of Cromwell's men issuing from the room behind them. Another line of tiles broke away underneath Charles, this time dragging him all the way over the ledge, dislodging Elizabeth as he came plummeting downwards. Betterton caught her as she fell, and as he looked up, he could see Charles hanging by his tunic from an outcropping of guttering.

"Don't move, my Lord!" yelled Betterton as he clambered to his feet, placing Elizabeth gently on hers. He could see that the burly man who had caught him was positioning himself for a second rescue attempt. Charles winced as his tunic tore fibre by fibre, until he fell into the arms of the man; the two sprawling across the street as he landed.

"Thank you, my good chap," said Charles through gritted teeth, clutching his shoulder in pain. He pointed up at Middleton who was perched awkwardly on the roof. "Now, if you wouldn't mind helping me catch that big brute, we'll be on our way."

The man nodded apprehensively just as Middleton threw himself off the roof. Somehow Charles and the burly man together were able to take Middleton's weight, although Charles grimaced in pain once more as his weakened shoulder was wrenched around. He dropped Middleton to his feet and let out a loud gasp of agonised pain.

"There's no time for that, my Lord," cried Middleton, seeing the soldiers hurriedly making their way back through the tavern. "Quickly everyone, get in that bloody carriage!"

The Parliamentarians' carriage had stood abandoned while the men did a sweep of the inn. As the one means of transport available it was their only option. Middleton clambered onto the driver's seat, clasped hold of the whip and cracked it down as hard as he possibly could. The horses whinnied and reared into action. Middleton allowed himself a fleeting glimpse over his shoulder as the soldiers came rushing from the tavern, a grin painted on his face.