The Devil's Plague

by Mark Benyon

  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 th
ey 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.

  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."

  "Ve
ry 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.