The Devil's Plague (24 page)

Davenant planted his sword through the creature's head. It spasmed once and then was gone. "Help me get him to his feet," he shouted.

"I've been bitten," said Middleton bluntly. "Give me a sword, one of you. Let me finish it my way."

"No, I can't do that," replied Davenant, draping Middleton's arm over his shoulder and dragging him back down the corridor.

"The dead are coming!" cried Henri from outside.

"God in heaven," muttered Davenant. "Help me carry him down."

Betterton and Underhill supported Middleton's other arm and carried him back down the staircase. Davenant then ran into the kitchen where Charles was frantically banging a flint against the stone wall.

"It's Middleton! He's been bitten!"

Charles stopped what he was doing and turned to face him, his pale face somehow luminous against the dark stone. "No, it's not true." He looked utterly crestfallen.

"My Lord, there's no time for that now. There are more of them coming and we need to get the fire started."

Charles nodded. "Yes, yes, quite right, where was I?" His hand trembled as he fumbled for the piece of flint.

"Please, my Lord. Allow me." Davenant took the flint from Charles' sweaty palm, wrapped several pieces of straw tightly around it and smashed it against the stone of the oven. A single spark immediately lit the straw. Davenant used some of the burning grass to ignite the rum-drenched timbers of the kitchen. "We're leaving now." He said as the inferno began to take hold.

Charles stared for a moment at the flames, then turned and ran, joining Betterton, Underhill and Middleton outside. Davenant came tearing out soon after and immediately saw the throng of undead shuffling their way up the narrow street towards them, no doubt with the Kryfangan in close pursuit.

Charles was more concerned with Middleton, who leant sluggishly against a wall. "They've said some terrible things, my old friend. They've said you have been bitten. They are liars, are they not?"

"You need to leave, your Majesty. But before you do, please can you do me the honour of killing me," replied Middleton.

"How dare you ask me such a thing? You will come with us!" decreed Charles, hauling Middleton to his feet and prompting him into a run.

"We can make our way back to the river this way," cried Davenant, leading them up the street.

As they ran, Middleton could feel a burning sensation tingling down his body and into his toes. He began to feel stronger with every step he took.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Their journey back to the river didn't take half as long as Davenant had feared it would. Middleton was bravely marching on, although it was all too evident that he was severely hampered by his wound and the loss of blood. Charles hadn't left his side, closely scrutinising his every move. His hand was rested on the handle of his axe, although the thought of killing his closest friend made him feel sick to his stomach.

The roaring flames had taken hold of the dry timber of Pudding Lane, the yard of Fish Street Hill and St Margaret's Church with ease, and as they spread east along Thames Street aided by the brisk wind, they had begun to provide a slender light for the group running blindly through the dark wilderness. A red hue already hung above the north side of the city, the fire now engulfing anything in its wake.

"Have we any idea of how we're going to get out of here?" asked Davenant, panting in between his words.

"We make it back to the bridge, cross it and return from whence we came," replied Charles. "It is as simple as that."

Davenant could see the looming shadow of the bridge up ahead. The crashing sounds that drifted along on the wind suggested that there were still vast numbers of zombies battling with the Kryfangan nearby. Davenant hoped that at least their war had shifted as far along as Billingsgate, leaving the mouth of the bridge open for them to access.

There was a clattering of hooves nearby and an unholy demonic screeching. "Quickly, into the alley!" Davenant cried, leading the group into the shadows of an inn. The vicious gallop descended into a steady trot - they were close now, less than twenty yards away. Within seconds, the dark stallions and their riders cantered slowly along the cobblestone lane, mere feet from where they were hidden. He spied four of them as they passed; bigger, heavier, more imposing than the rest of their platoon. Davenant calculated that they must be at least eight foot tall when standing. It was then that he remembered what Cromwell had told them that night in the carriage as they had fled the Cheapside streets.

Were these the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse trotting past them? The true disciples of Satan?

As he heard the deep, grunting breaths of the horses as they went past, he had never felt more alive. It was strange, Davenant thought, this was the closest he had been to death and fear was no longer an obstacle. The only fear remaining for him now was how Elizabeth, Faith and Charles would cope without him should he fall.

He pulled himself together and waited until the Kryfangan were safely in the distance. "Come on, let's get going," he barked, looking over at Charles and Middleton as he tried to spur them onwards. Middleton hadn't uttered a word since they had left the Pudding Lane bakery.

They were now only a few hundred yards from the bridge and Davenant could see that the fighting had indeed shifted across to Billingsgate. There were no orders or commands from him this time - every man knew what they had to do, and ran as fast as their weary legs would carry them. As they crossed over the wooden drawbridge, Davenant dared to look over his shoulder. The fire had spread all the way down Thames Street now and was swallowing up everything that stood in its path. London was burning.

As the group clattered across the bridge, their exit was suddenly blocked by a heavy-set man, stood with a great sword clutched in his right hand. In the time it took for Davenant to blink, another group of men had emerged behind their leader, stretching the width of the bridge. Davenant halted, the others following suit, their hands reaching for their weapons.

The inferno blazing behind them illuminated the sallow countenance of the man. Amidst the rag-like attire of his cohorts, this soldier seemed smart and orderly in comparison, his hose and neat overcoat only showing three or four holes. And unlike his gaunt and lean followers, his stature had somehow retained its form and bulk.

With a sudden spark of irrational terror, Davenant could have sworn that it was Satan himself looking him in the eye. But then he was struck with the chilling realisation that it wasn't the Devil at all. It was someone else entirely. "Cromwell!"

Oliver Cromwell's withered upper lip peeled back from his rotting teeth in a sneer, recognition burning deep in his eyes. Much of his face had wasted away; even the many boils and pock marks that once blighted his features were now little more than open scars. But somehow his eyes retained knowledge, wisdom and a glimmer of understanding. They hadn't changed in the slightest.

"God's death, it can't be?" cried Davenant, turning to Charles, who pointed at the ragged army behind Cromwell.

"Look at them! They're following him, Sir William!"

"These bastards are standing between us and our escape. Let's stick it to them!" Betterton cried, wielding his sword

The thought of returning home as heroes spurred the rest of the group on. Led by Tom, the smugglers made a mad dash towards the undead. Not wanting to be outdone, the fishermen followed hot on their heels.

Cromwell and his army tore them from limb to limb.

As Davenant saw another of the fishermen being sliced in half, he charged; Charles, Underhill and Henri piling in after him. Davenant tried desperately to fight his way to Cromwell, fending off blow after blow from the undead soldiers. Charles came to his aid, ramming the handle of his axe into the head of a zombie before hurling it over the side of the bridge. He had lost sight of Middleton, wary that he was turning and could be drawn into fighting for Cromwell at any moment.

The bridge was now covered in gore and Charles lost his balance, his boots slipping on a slick coil of intestines. Looking up, he found to his horror that he had landed at Cromwell's feet. Cromwell seemed to grin as he lifted his sword, the vast blade seeming to stretch into infinity. It shone with a terrible wrath as it reflected the fire that was consuming London.

Davenant looked over and saw what was about to happen. He tried to call out to Betterton and Underhill but they couldn't hear his cries amidst the tumult.

The sword came crashing down and there was a terrific clang.

Somehow Middleton had clambered around Cromwell and parried his blow. He collapsed in a heap beside Charles, his weapon falling from his limp hand. As the mask slipped from Middleton's face, Charles could see that he had breathed his last.

Charles grabbed Middleton's weapon and rose to his feet, his face twisted with rage and the purest hate.

"You may remember me, Lord Protector. And I believe you knew my father."

He swung the sword with all his might and landed it between Cromwell's collarbone and neck, hacking his head from his shoulders in one perfect stroke. The sight of Cromwell falling to his knees seemed to stun his horde into submission, the rest of the group taking advantage of the lull and hacking the heads from the undead army.

Charles paused to survey the carnage, attempting to catch his breath at the same time. He had never seen so much blood, even on the battlefield.

Betterton, Underhill, Henri, Charles and Davenant looked at one another, none of them able to muster up the strength to speak. Charles picked up Cromwell's blooded head and rammed it down upon an empty spike secured to the timber of the bridge.

"Behold the head of a traitor! That is for my father," he shouted.

Davenant smiled. "Now shall we get out of here?"

Suddenly, Middleton jerked to his feet and Charles could see in his eyes that he had turned. He took four ungainly steps forward, driven by the desire for human flesh. Charles knew now that he owed his friend death. After all he had done for him and the numerous times he had saved his life, Middleton didn't deserve this terrible unlife. Middleton reached down and picked up a severed arm, tearing the stringy meat away from the bone. He looked up at Charles as he stood over him, axe raised, and there seemed to be a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

"You must put him out of his misery, my Lord," cried Davenant. Charles lowered his weapon and removed his mask. He gagged as he took in the acrid scent of the city. Middleton backed away, lumbering to the side of the bridge and the balustrade. He looked back once again, and Charles could have sworn he saw a hint of a smile cross his lips before he threw himself into the river below.

"You stupid, clumsy, daft, foolish boar," said Charles under his breath.

Davenant stepped forward and placed a consoling hand on his arm. "He was a good man, my Lord, one of finest." Charles broke down into a frenzy of choking sobs. "But we need to leave; the fire is ravaging the city." Davenant could see that the blaze had stretched as far east as St Botolph's Lane. The heat was now so intense that it seemed to roast their backs.

Charles nodded in agreement, placed his mask back on and turned to run, prompting those stood beside him to move. As they left the bridge Davenant looked back one last time. He firmly believed that they had followed the right course of action and did what was necessary for the good of the country and its people. Yet as he saw the fire take hold of St Paul's Cathedral, he prayed that they would be able to return soon and restore London to its former glory.

The last thing Davenant remembered before losing consciousness was Charles and Betterton supporting his ageing legs as they shuffled through Southwark and out of the city, taking the path back to Wandsworth that had led them to the river. It was far more exhausting this time as they were walking uphill and had no food or water to provide them with sustenance. The ruins of a nearby fountain only added to their frustration, its stone basin was bone dry. They were all desperately thirsty and even the Thames muck had begun to seem desirable to them. Finally, though, they made it back to Wandsworth and its derelict buildings. Davenant had drifted in and out of their few conversations, and woke to find Charles in the middle of some sort of heartfelt monologue.

"This will be consigned to history as the great fire of London that ended this Black Death, this Devil's Plague of ours, and we will now prosper in a new and brighter future. I am eternally grateful to you all, particularly this old war horse, for all you have given up for the cause. I am seldom accustomed to such honour, bravery and dignity."

As they ambled along the causeway with its dilapidated buildings, Charles could spot what was left of their carriages in the near distance.

"Well, looks like we're on foot, gentlemen." He said.

"What's going on?" Davenant asked, waking fully now.

"We made it, Will, but we still have a good way to go."

"Then, my Lord, we will walk this road together."

Davenant's last memory was reaching Portsmouth by carriage. He then experienced flashing images, almost dream-like in nature. He could have sworn he saw darkened, leaden skies and remembered experiencing a rush of relief as they eventually faded into the morning sunshine, the sound of birdsong and lush green landscapes. He could feel the gentle breeze on his face.