The Devil's Plague (21 page)

Davenant looked on with pleasure as Faith embraced his daughter. He had feared that she would be wary of their relationship, but to his surprise Elizabeth treated her every bit like the mother she never knew.

He glanced back out over the bustling waves crashing onto the sand and spied a small, solitary vessel being tossed around as it approached the shore. A group of several men climbed frantically over the sides and into the shallows; wading the rest of their way onto the beach, their vessel capsizing as a big wave struck it from the stern. Davenant pitied those fishermen who had stayed out late. In such conditions as these, death was never far away. He just hoped that the men who made their way up the beach hadn't lost any of their comrades.

It was almost as if the storm from the previous night had never happened, little debris littered the beach and the sun beat down relentlessly, making the sand almost too hot to walk on.

Davenant, Betterton and Underhill had risen early once they realised that the storm had passed. It was cooler and easier to work the sea at this hour - before the sun reached its zenith and made the already difficult work twice as hard. It had been a stiflingly hot summer, bringing with it shoals of weird and wonderful fish that were rarely seen in English waters. It did wonders for their trade and Davenant had managed to make a tidy sum from the unusually warm conditions. If Bray could only see me now, he thought, the old sea dog would be proud. Davenant had gone from seasick landlubber to hardened sailor in a remarkably short time.

"We should think about heading back soon. I don't want to miss the service," he said, reeling in his line.

Davenant had had plenty of time to mull over what they had witnessed in London, not least Cromwell's declaration regarding the Devil and the events that seemed to corroborate his claims. Over the years, Davenant had formed the belief that if there was such an evil, an evil that could manifest itself in human form, then there must be a force that represented all that was good. Since their arrival in Shanklin, he hadn't missed a Sunday service, thus a devout believer was born. Slowly and surely, the others began to follow him, no doubt driven by their own conclusions as to what had happened all those years ago.

Underhill took off his hat and leant against the starboard rail, happy to bask in the glorious sunshine. "Did you hear the stories of a strange boat appearing overnight? Apparently it was full of foreign smugglers," he said.

Davenant stiffened. "No, no, I didn't hear a thing."

Betterton replied with a quizzical shrug of the shoulders. "Whoever they were, I'm sure they'll come to light soon."

The line of Underhill's fishing rod jerked taut, sending busy ripples across the water. "Another one for me!" he said, with a smug grin stamped across his face. "At this rate you two will be going hungry."

The jollity passed Davenant by as he stared out over the ocean, transfixed by its serenity. His mind raced at the thought of who those sailors were who had barely made it to shore in the night. It sounded as if they hadn't been normal fisher-folk at all.

That night Davenant tried to fight his way into sleep. It wasn't the reappearance of the howling winds whistling round the cottage that bothered him, it was something else entirely. Davenant could hear Faith's sleep-heavy breathing beside him and he longed for the same release. He hated his constant insomnia. Spending the small hours alone with his thoughts, listening to the wind and rain beating down upon the cottage drove him wild with frustration.

He rolled out of bed, doing his best not to wake Faith in the process, and tiptoed across the cold stone floor and into the living room. Elizabeth, Betterton and Alexander, who had once more joined them for supper, had returned to their own dwelling further along the seafront, leaving the cottage in silence.

Davenant ambled up to the window and took in the view. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, but he could still make out the waves grinding up the beach. His thoughts soon turned to the capsized boat and the men he had seen the night before.

Who could they have been?

Davenant nestled into his chair by the fireplace, its fading coals providing little heat, and picked up his clay pipe, stuffing it with tobacco. He lit his briar and sat back in his armchair, contentedly puffing away. As his eyes drifted back towards the window, he suddenly became aware of a cluster of shadows skulking close to the cottage. He leapt out of his armchair with the agility of a man half his age and backed into a darkened corner, concealing himself by a chest of drawers. He listened closely; keen to discern any audible words amidst the wind and rain.

"This is the place," said a voice in a muted whisper.

Davenant saw the outlines of the men moving to the front door. His hand fumbled for a poker and he clutched it tightly, wondering whether he would have enough time to get back to the bedroom and alert Faith and Charles before the door burst open. But instead, there was a polite knocking.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Is this the home of Sir William Davenant?"

He hadn't been called Sir William in years. "Yes, yes it is. I ask again, who is it?"

"An old friend," said the voice in reply. "So could you do us the greatest of services and let us in?"

The voice sounded familiar, but Davenant hesitated as he shuffled towards the door, his hand fumbling as he turned the key in the lock. He eased the door open and came face to face with a shabbily dressed middle-aged man.

"Charles?"

Davenant heard Faith come into the room behind him and she let out a gasp when she saw the man standing in her doorway.

"Do not be alarmed, my dear," said Charles, taking a step inside the cottage. "It is I, your long lost friend, Charles Stuart."

Faith lifted her lantern, its light revealing the contours of Charles' wrinkled face. Davenant could scarcely believe his eyes. The man had the same voice, the same mannerisms and the same gruff countenance, but the years had been unkind to him. Charles edged forward and embraced Davenant who, dumbfounded, reciprocated.

"Fifteen years, it's been fifteen years," he said, beginning to sob. "What took you so long?"

Charles didn't answer straight away. Instead he shuffled sheepishly up to Faith and offered her the same warm embrace. Davenant could see a group of men ambling idly outside. One of them took a timid step into the cottage, revealing his vast bulk and imposing stature.

"Middleton, is that you?"

"Aye, Sir William, it is. And can I say what a pleasure it is to see you again!"

"It is wonderful to see you both again!" Davenant's voice began to break, emotion taking hold and eventually getting the better of him. He could see Middleton properly now - age hadn't shrunk him in the slightest, although a shock of white hair had replaced his once proud black mane.

"I am so very sorry to disturb you at this hour, and my sincere apologies for leaving it so long before I returned," said Charles, turning back to face Davenant. Young Charles had emerged in the doorway, the commotion having woken him. "You have a son, William?"

Davenant looked lovingly towards Charles. "Yes, my Lord, we have a son. And we named him after you."

"Well then, I am indeed delighted for you both, and appreciate your kind gesture. I have had several children of my own, all bastards of course. I have yet to be so foolish as to get married," replied Charles flippantly as he took a seat. "Yes, you are wondering why it has taken me so long to return, Sir William."

"We have grown old, my Lord. Any chance of us reclaiming London and your throne has surely passed."

"The truth of the matter is this. I was reluctant to commit myself and my men to a cause until I had received word from the spies I had sent over from France. I must have sent at least fifty men these past few years to report back to me. And only one of them returned, last week in fact, hence my arrival at your cottage tonight. Henri, could you step forwards please and introduce yourself?"

A slight, impish looking man eased into the cottage, taking off his soaking, weathered hat before bowing to Faith and Davenant. "I am at your service, Sir William," he said in perfect English, with only a trace of a French accent.

"Would you be so kind as to tell them what you told me?" asked Charles.

Henri took a moment to compose himself. "Sir William, what I saw was beyond the pale. I arrived in London by carriage, having to pay the carriage driver a princely sum to take me to the outskirts. After narrating his own grisly stories of what he'd seen and heard, he naturally refused to take me any further than Dulwich Wood, and as he left me I had never felt more alone. It was at the Thames that I saw the first signs of destruction and chaos. As I hid in the ruins of a tavern, I saw groups of the undead roaming the streets in search of food. There were thousands of them I tell you!"

"Was there any sign of the horsemen, the Kryfangan?" Davenant asked.

"No, I didn't see them. Although I must confess that I didn't hang around long enough to seek them out."

Davenant turned back to Charles. "Where is your army based?"

"There is no army," replied Charles solemnly.

"No army? Then how in God's name do you expect us to mount an attack?"

"I tried, Will, really I did. But it is very hard to raise an army to fight the undead! Most of the time they laughed in my face. France is sadly lacking in lunatics who are willing to risk their lives for me, unlike Henri over there."

"So what do you propose we do?" asked Davenant.

"I have brought over a group of five of us. Are Betterton and Underhill still around?" Davenant nodded, seeing for the first time the other two men in Charles' group, little more than fresh-faced schoolboys. He noted that one of them was dressed as a clergyman. "Then we few could attempt to get into the city." Charles said.

Davenant admired his bravery and recklessness, but at the same time was entirely unconvinced that a group of middle-aged men and schoolboys would make the slightest difference.

Yet Davenant wasn't prepared to sit idly by whilst London crumbled. "How will we defeat them, my Lord?"

Charles could see the fire burning in Davenant's eyes; perhaps a symbol of what was to come. "Oh, worry not Sir William, for I have a plan."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Chine Inn, Shanklin

The following afternoon they gathered at the Chine Inn. The storm of the previous night had disappeared and in its place returned the beautiful sunshine, highlighting the splendour of the island, its glorious cliffs and lush green forests contrasting one another majestically.

Davenant had requested that Betterton and Underhill join them in the inn as well as a group of local fishermen. Elizabeth, Faith and Anne had all been left behind, much to their annoyance. Davenant could easily imagine them, along with the other women of Shanklin, all gathered around bellyaching about their respective husbands, brothers and fathers, but Davenant didn't care. He wanted them as far away from London and danger as possible.

Betterton and Underhill were still in the dark as to what was going on, and it wasn't until Charles and Middleton had entered that the situation became clear to them. As happy as they were to see their compatriots again, they were only too aware of the reasons behind their visit. The men huddled around the largest table that the inn had to offer and the innkeeper locked and bolted the door behind them, keeping their conspiracy safe from regular customers.

"Thank you for agreeing to come at such short notice gentlemen. It is a most terrible matter that brings us all together," said Davenant.

"Come on Will, out with it!" cried one of the fishermen, a robust gentleman with a bushy grey beard.

Davenant gestured towards Charles. "This gentleman beside me is none other than Charles Stuart, the rightful heir to the throne of England."

There was a collective gasp and then one of the fishermen got to his feet. "You call us here today and you interrupt our work to tell us ridiculous lies!" he cried.

"For pity's sake, they are not lies!" replied Davenant, banging his fist angrily on the table. "And that is not the half of it, for I will tell you a story that will make your skin crawl."

Davenant had won their attention. After calming himself, he proceeded to recount the events from London. The group listened intently, occasionally shaking their heads in disbelief. Like everyone else, they had heard the rumours of what was happening in the capital but had never been privy to a first-hand account. As Davenant came to the end, he nodded to Charles to take over.

"It's as simple as this," he said. "We make our way into London under the cover of darkness and set fire to the city." Charles turned to Davenant. "You remember what Cromwell told us about the plague in Mongolia? He told us that Genghis Khan had united the warring tribes of Mongolia with the help of a dark army on horseback. When their victims rose from the dead to seek their vengeance upon them, it started a civil war in which those who weren't afflicted by the blight were caught in the middle. It was a great fire that eventually ended the plague."

"And you want us to help you get to London?" asked one of the fishermen. "We are only simple folk, we are not warriors."