The Devil's Plague (15 page)

"We must get some rest," said Davenant, peering out of an arrow loop. "I propose we take it in shifts."

"I agree," replied Charles. "I'll gladly take the first one."

"Very well, I shall take the second, Turnbull the third and Middleton the fourth."

"What about me?" Cromwell asked. "Surely I can take one of the shifts?"

Charles let out a chuckle. "You will forgive my impertinence, but I can't say I'm comfortable with sleeping whilst you watch over me."

"And I with you," spat Cromwell.

"Yes, but I have a say in the matter. And you don't."

"Enough! We must formulate a plan should our defences be breached. Have we any riverboats?"

"Yes, they are moored at Traitors' Gate," replied Cromwell.

Davenant felt a shudder run down his spine at the mere mention of its name. He turned back to the arrow loop and gazed over the Thames. The unspeakable savagery he had witnessed today seemed to pale in comparison with a journey through Traitors' Gate and its dark waters. And the very real prospect of Elizabeth having to endure its horrors occupied his thoughts more than any impending attack.

"I wonder whether word has reached any other town yet?" pondered Davenant, as he cast his eye over the dark sky looming high above him. For the briefest of moments he could have sworn he saw a shooting star fall into the stinking Thames. He concluded that his lethargic eyes must have deceived him.

He let out a vast yawn and rested his tired hand against the cold stone wall. It had been the longest day of his life.

"Sir William, will you please oblige me by taking some sleep," said Charles.

Davenant smiled. "Gladly, my good man, gladly." He ambled over to the fire, careful not to wake his sleeping companions. "Have we any firewood, Cromwell? This chamber is freezing cold."

"Yes, I think so. There should be some in the Queen's House," he replied, clambering to his feet and scurrying from the chamber, clutching his arm as he did so.

"Should we be letting him go?" asked Charles. "As far as I can see, he's our prisoner and should be treated as such. I know we're under extraordinary circumstances, but we shouldn't extend him the courtesy of wandering unaccompanied around the Tower as and when he pleases."

Davenant nodded in agreement. "I won't let it happen again."

He rubbed his hands together in a fruitless attempt to warm them. As he leant against the wall and closed his eyes, he suddenly became aware of a faint rustling noise at his feet.

"Sir William, you should not trust him," whispered Mary, sidling towards him.

"Should not trust who?" he asked.

Mary's eyes flittered around the room before returning to meet Davenant's. "I'm sorry, Sir William."

"Sorry for what, Mary?"

"For treating you with disrespect. You're a good man, I can see that now."

"Thank you Mary, but whom shouldn't I trust."

Mary took a deep breath. "Cromwell. He's one of them."

Davenant's eyes widened with anxiety. "One of the plagued?"

"I saw him clutching his arm in the carriage. There was blood seeping through his sleeve."

"He could have acquired his wound from a weapon. What makes you so sure that the disease has been passed on?"

"It's in his eyes, Sir William, I can tell."

Davenant leant back against the wall, knowing better than to question her judgement, and hurriedly assessed his options. With Cromwell's return with the firewood imminent, Davenant took his chance to liaise with Charles. "My Lord, we've got a problem."

"I'll put the wood in the grate."

Davenant turned to find Cromwell standing in the doorway, his arms full of well-seasoned timber. "Very well," he replied.

Cromwell shuffled across the chamber and placed the wood in the grate.

"What problem?" Charles asked.

"Oh, it's nothing. It can wait. I say, Cromwell. Can you fetch us some bread and wine?"

"Can it not wait until I've got the fire started?"

"No, it can't. I'm famished," replied Davenant, noticing for the first time how Cromwell was favouring his left arm.

"Very well then, I shan't be long."

"Sir William! Someone must accompany him!" hissed Charles.

Davenant turned and shook his head, motioning Charles to stay quiet. Oblivious to what was going on around him, Cromwell brushed past the two men, sauntered back outside and down the narrow staircase of the turret, his heavy footsteps echoing back up into the chamber.

Davenant waited patiently until he was sure Cromwell was out of earshot. "For God's sake, do not let him back in here! He's one of the infected!"

Charles grinned. "You don't have to ask for my permission to lock him out."

"I'm deadly serious, he's been bitten by one of them! Mary saw it!"

The expression on Charles' face changed dramatically. "Middleton, Turnbull, get up!" he barked.

"What's wrong, my Lord?" asked Middleton, his voice faint and fatigued.

"What does a man have to do to get some bloody sleep around here?" Turnbull grumbled.

"Help us barricade the door, you big oaf!" cried Davenant, his eyes darting around the chamber, desperately trying to locate something to utilise. To his horror, there was nothing available to him apart from a couple of battered old stools.

Charles inspected the lock on the door. "Is there a key?"

"I haven't seen one," replied Davenant, testing the durability of one of the stools against his hand, a leg snapping off.

Mary was waking those who were still asleep. She gently tugged Elizabeth by her shoulder. "Wake up, you must wake up," she said.

Faith, Anne, Underhill and Betterton had begun to stir too amidst the commotion.

"What's going on?" asked Underhill, rubbing his eyes.

His question went unanswered.

"Where's Cromwell?" asked Middleton more forthrightly.

"Outside, and we mustn't let him back in! We need to get this door secured. Can we not just stand against it?"

"Stand against it? I say we leave immediately and board the riverboats," replied Davenant, hurling the broken stool back across the chamber in frustration.

"Not that I have a problem with the decision, but why exactly mustn't we let him in?" demanded Middleton. "Someone had better tell me what's going on!"

"Cromwell's been bitten, he's one of them," said Davenant.

"Where is he now?" asked Elizabeth, backing away from the door.

"I asked him to fetch us some bread and wine as a ruse to get him out of here. But he will be back any moment."

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed up the turret stairs. They weren't the same as the steps that had been heard making their way down earlier. No, these were far different - a rough, dragging of the feet that shuffled awkwardly against the hard granite. After what seemed an eternity, the steps reached the top of the turret and shambled up to the door. Middleton and Turnbull pressed their backs against the ageing timber, frantically beckoning the others into the furthest corner.

Suddenly, the door handle started to shake violently. Anne let out a scream, which seemed to encourage the handle to shake more fiercely than before.

Betterton thrust a hand over her mouth to quieten her. "Be quiet, it'll only make it worse," he whispered breathlessly.

She nodded apologetically and Betterton eased his hand away. Silence - no footsteps, no murmurs or groans, just the sound of the ever-present wind.

"Do you think he's still outside?" muttered Faith.

Davenant shrugged his shoulders, half-tempted to open the door and see for himself. "What shall we do?" he asked, turning in Charles' direction.

The door impacted inwards with a sharp crack, sending Middleton sprawling to the floor, his large frame bouncing off the hard stone. Davenant and Charles surged forward to give Turnbull much needed support. They could now hear a low growl from the other side of the door, as, with another thunderous crack, one of the timber panels splintered. "The door won't hold for much longer!" cried Davenant, as Cromwell slammed against it again. A panel shattered and Cromwell forced his arm through, his doublet tearing on the sharp splinters and piercing his flesh.

Davenant could see him now. The boils that had so markedly covered his skin had burst, spilling blood and pus all over his face. Blood poured from his nose, and his eyes had rolled up into his skull.

Cromwell grabbed hold of Davenant's jerkin, pulling him against the door. Elizabeth let out a gasp of horror as she saw her father come face to face with Cromwell, who had forced his head through the broken panel and leant into the chamber.

"For God's sake somebody help me," cried Davenant, as he arched backwards to avoid Cromwell's bite.

Elizabeth picked up the broken stool and smashed it over Cromwell's head, sending him stumbling backwards. He looked up and caught a glimpse of her, his eyes, although vacant and wasted, seeming to spark with a hint of recognition. He forced his hand through the hole in the door, and then his shoulder and Cromwell growled in triumph as he smashed through the last of the wood and stumbled into the chamber. The weapons they had raided from the armoury were drawn - Turnbull's axe, Charles' knife and Middleton's sword.

As Cromwell shambled forwards there was a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood from the courtyard. The whinnying of horses and the sound of hooves on cobbles stopped Cromwell in his tracks.

"It's the gates," gasped Davenant.

Cromwell, mouth agape, turned sluggishly on his heel and barged back through the splintered door, lurching his way down the turret steps.

Betterton's eyes lit up. "The Kryfangan, he's after the Kryfangan! Remember what he told us?"

"We must get to the boats. We're in a real danger of being caught up in the middle of this devilish conflict, especially once Cromwell opens the gates to them all," Davenant said.

"How far is Traitors' Gate?" asked Charles.

"Not far, some two hundred yards or so."

As a group, they tentatively made their way from the chamber and down the turret steps. Before long they were outside in the cold, rain was beginning to fall.

"We've got to go that way!" shouted Davenant over the wind.

He pointed towards the narrow passageway that led to St Thomas's Tower; a small, one-storey half-timbered building that squatted over Traitors' Gate. Davenant took a quick glance over his shoulder as they raced up the passageway - the dead had breeched the portcullis of the Lion Tower and were forcing their way over the moat of the Middle Tower. The wind was blowing icy rain into their eyes now, impeding their vision and making it harder for them to see where they were going. Davenant ran his hand along the wall, feeling instinctively for the gap that opened up into Traitors' Gate. Eventually the wall turned into a stone archway that encompassed a small jetty. Beneath the archway sat a large imposing wooden gate, the same gate that had long plagued Davenant's nightmares. As he looked down at the water, his heart sank. There was only one boat.

"There won't be enough room for us all!" he cried, looking helplessly at Charles.

There was a loud thump that reverberated all the way down the passageway.

Charles peered through the heavy rain, covering his forehead with his hand. His eyes widened as he spied the shadows of a hundred men staggering towards them, fending off the swords of the Kryfangan. "They're past the Byward Tower and coming this way! We must go, now!"

There was a mad dash as the troupe descended and boarded the vessel. As Betterton finally managed to squeeze himself aboard, Turnbull slashed the weathered rope binding them to the jetty. It snapped with ease, the boat catching a gust of wind which took them away from the landing platform. Middleton passed him an oar and the two men desperately heaved the craft towards the gate.

As Davenant looked back, he saw two or three soldiers stumble onto the jetty before jumping in after them. "Quickly, open the gates!"

Summoning up all the strength they could possibly muster, Underhill, Betterton and Charles forced the gates open, which groaned against the pull of the water. The half-open doors grated against the hull of the boat as it squeezed its way through. Davenant looked back once again and, to his relief, the undead soldiers had sunk to the bottom.

The boat bounced its way off the tunnel wall before taking a straight course through the dark water. The lanterns that usually greeted those travelling through the river entrance to the Tower had been extinguished by the wind, plunging the whole tunnel into darkness.

"What's that smell?" asked Underhill, gagging at the stench.

"If I told you, you'd panic," replied Davenant, conscious that the weight in the boat was allowing the vile water to slowly trickle onboard.

A flash of lightning lit up the tunnel, briefly exposing the horrors that bobbed in the oily water.

"I wish I hadn't seen that," Elizabeth breathed.

"We'll be out of here before you know it," stammered Davenant.

Charles felt the water begin to lap at his boots. "Sir William, we're too heavy! We're not going to cross the Thames, let alone get out of this hellhole without sinking!"