The Devil's Plague (22 page)

His comrades nodded in agreement and Charles slowly retook his seat, a glum expression on his face.

"What would it take for you to come?" asked Davenant.

"We've got families, Will. We can't just leave them and our livelihoods, especially when there is the very real chance of us not returning."

"I've got a family too! Don't you see that this is a chance for you all to reclaim what is rightfully ours, and become heroes in the process? This is the future of England we are talking about. The future of us all! The rot at the centre of our country cannot be allowed to spread and trust me, if we don't so something about it, it will!"

The fishermen sat in silence, all of them weighing up the enormity of the situation.

"When I become King, your actions now will not be forgotten and I will bring stability back to this country," said Charles. A sudden knock on the door broke their train of thought. The innkeeper grimaced as he shuffled across the stone floor to unlock the door. As he tugged it open, he came face to face with a group of local smugglers. They barged past the innkeeper and into the lounge bar.

"God's wounds, Jack, we're dry here! What are you doing locked up at this time of day? Hang about, what have we here?" asked a grimy man as he barged his way into the pub. He strode aggressively up to Davenant and looked him in the eyes with a stern, unbending gaze. "Is this your doing Davenant?"

Davenant nodded. "Yes it is, Tom. What we're discussing here doesn't concern you."

"Hold on Will, do you not think that Tom and his boys have every right to know?" asked one of the fishermen. "Perhaps they might be of some use, provide some more manpower. I know we'd be happier with them coming."

Davenant considered what the fisherman had to say, gesturing for Tom and his band of smugglers to sit.

"It's been the hottest summer in years and London's buildings will be tinder dry. If you want to start a fire, you've got the perfect catalyst right there," said Tom, much to everyone's surprise. "Don't look shocked, we were listening at the door. And we want in."

"It might not be an army, and I might not agree with their morals, but it's the best we've got," said Davenant to Charles, almost cracking a smile in the process. Deep down Charles knew it too. It was the best he had, a collection of ragtag fishermen and smugglers would just have to do.

"Fine," he said. "Say your farewells because we leave at dawn tomorrow."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Portsmouth

It had been at least a decade since Davenant had last set foot on the mainland. The group had set sail from Shanklin in a fleet of fishing boats, aided by a strong wind that got them across the choppy Solent in what seemed like no time at all. Davenant knew only too well that it would be a tearful farewell, and as he had said his goodbyes to Faith, Elizabeth, Charles and Alexander, he had a gut wrenching feeling that he would never see them again. Faith and Elizabeth had expressed a mixture of anger and sorrow, but did their best to put on a brave face for the sake of the children. They didn't want the last time they saw their husbands to be filled with resentment. It was just as hard for Betterton and Underhill to say goodbye to their friends and family, but they knew in their heart of hearts that they were doing the right thing, and the thought of returning as heroes seemed to bolster their courage.

Portsmouth's dock hadn't changed in the slightest, its weathered timber creaking and groaning as the group of men strode purposefully along it. Davenant heard several insults being thrown their way from the locals, belittling the intelligence and breeding of the 'islanders'. He was glad to see that his men were ignoring the jibes, although Tom the smuggler couldn't resist reciprocating with a few offensive hand gestures of his own. Davenant had noted that the fishermen and the smugglers kept well out of each other's way, causing a slight tension in the group. Nevertheless, he was happy that the smugglers had decided to come along, and it was their muscle that had persuaded the fishermen to throw their lot in with the group.

"If you gentlemen wouldn't mind occupying yourselves for a while, we have some business to attend to," said Charles, as he and Middleton headed towards a blacksmith's shop. After a short rest spent loitering by the sun-drenched docks, Davenant saw the two men re-emerge. Middleton let out a piercing whistle which got everyone's attention, and beckoned them over. Davenant led the group to the blacksmith's shed. Inside, a vast array of weaponry shimmered in the meagre sunlight filtering in from outside. All types of swords, daggers, axes and maces were being prepared by the smithy, including three or four claymores, battle axes and machetes. Davenant could also see an array of peculiar body armour along with dark hats that were fixed upon complex masks. The masks were fitted with glass visors to protect the wearer's vision, and long beaks moulded from bronze, stuffed with fresh herbs to purify the air. A selection of waxed gowns and leather boots of all sizes completed the collection. Charles admired the arsenal and handed the hunchbacked blacksmith two bulging pigskin purses.

Middleton could see the bemused expression on Davenant's face. "We placed our order before we came over to the island," he said, grinning wickedly. "We are the plague doctors now, Sir William."

"Our carriages are through there," said Charles. "If we're quite ready gentlemen I propose that we start loading up. I'm certainly more than ready to get out of this shit-hole. We shall be in London in two days!"

The good weather aided their journey from Portsmouth and through the sunken lanes of the Hampshire countryside. Betterton, Underhill, Henri and Charles' men were travelling in one carriage with the smugglers, whilst Davenant, Charles and Middleton occupied the other carriage with the fishermen. Davenant admired the fine craftsmanship of their transport. There were no cracks or holes in this beauty. As he peered out of the carriage windows, the little thatched-roofed dwellings they passed reminded him of his own cottage by the sea, and he immediately felt a tinge of sorrow.

"Sir William!" cried one of the fishermen, a fat, bushy-bearded simpleton. "How comes you got that in front of your name then?"

"He was knighted by my father," replied Charles.

"Well, well, we'll make sure we treat you with the respect you deserve," replied the man, accompanied by snorts of laughter from his cohorts.

Davenant shook. "I don't need to be treated any differently."

"Don't be so modest, Sir William. You should be proud of your knighthood," said Charles. "And who knows, if any of you survive this conflict, perhaps you will get one too."

That shut them up. Davenant turned back to the rolling countryside. Strange, he thought. They hadn't heard one bird or seen any animals since they'd set out.

As night began to fall, Charles called for the party to set up camp. A chill breeze stirred the trees around them and a smattering of rain began to fall as they prepared for the night. Davenant glumly pondered whether it was a sign of things to come.

"I don't mind admitting that I am a little scared," said Tom the smuggler once they had got settled.

"It's the waiting that's the worst part, don't you think?" Davenant replied. "Wondering what might happen, what it's going to be like when we get there."

"I'm a hardened man, Will, and I have seen a great deal of bloodshed in my time. Yet your corroboration of the rumours from London sent shivers down my spine."

"Then why do you risk your life? If you don't mind me asking."

"I may be a smuggler, but I am also a patriot."

"I am indeed grateful for your bravery."

"We laughed at you when you first came over to the island," said Tom, a smile now crossing his lips. "You were totally unaccustomed to life on the sea, flouncing and floundering your way around the ocean on that ridiculous little rowboat of yours. But over the years, we all saw you change from a city man into a bona fide islander. I don't mind saying that you're one of us now, Will."

Davenant nodded his appreciation.

He was surprised by how well he slept and as the group set off the following morning, Davenant felt remarkably revitalised. It was more than could be said for Tom's smugglers, who looked suitably gnarled after a hard session in a nearby tavern.

Half an hour's journeying took them around the twisting, winding lanes of the Devil's Punchbowl, a large hollow of dry sandy heath which commanded spectacular views. Davenant overheard two of the fishermen talking of its legend, how the Devil spent his time tormenting the god Thor by pelting him with enormous handfuls of earth, leaving the Punchbowl the way it was. With what he had already been through, Davenant could just about imagine that to be true.

As the carriages trundled onwards through Guildford and towards Epsom, Davenant could feel his eyelids getting heavier with every turn of the carriage wheels, although he did note another change in weather before he eventually fell asleep.

Dark clouds were gathering.

Somebody nudged him awake. He couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour, he thought to himself, but as he stirred he could see Charles looking at him, his face pallid and etched with anxiety and apprehension.

Davenant quickly turned to look out of the carriage window. The sky was now so dark that he had difficulty discerning their surroundings, although the shimmering of water that ran alongside the carriage must have been the Thames. As he looked up, he could just about make out the outline of several tall buildings that looked in desperate need of repair. In the distance lay a charnel house, a city in ruins.

London.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Wandsworth, London

The two carriages had become trapped; the road blocked by fallen masonry and churned earth. The horses whinnied in terror as lightning lit up the sky. They were in Wandsworth on the outskirts of the city. The original plan had been for the group to commandeer some boats near Putney and row their way into the capital, but now they would have to go on foot. The various buildings that made up Wandsworth lay mostly in ruins, including the old church. Gravestones had been hauled out of the graveyard itself and the crypt door had been shattered.

The group stepped cautiously out of their carriages, the sudden chill of the weather hitting them like a hammer blow. Middleton handed out the weapons and armour, keeping aside a particularly vicious looking sword for himself, and Charles ushered them along the street. Occasionally someone would trip on a stray brick or a piece of timber, but Charles was loath to light the lanterns, fearing their flames would draw the attention of any nearby undead.

Even though the sky was as black as night, and an icy wind howled through the streets, no rain fell. Charles reached out to feel a timber support on a nearby house and, to his relief, felt that it was dry and cracked. It wouldn't take much to get a fire going, especially with the vicious crosswind to aid it. As soon as they made their way to the centre of the city they would get a conflagration of historic proportions going.

Tom and his band of smugglers brought up the rear of the group, each of them clasping a mace, their eyes, accustomed to the darkness of caves and nightfall, darting around the surrounding buildings for any sign of movement. The fishermen, Underhill and Betterton were in the middle of the group, clutching an array of swords, daggers and axes, and Henri and the clergyman were nestled behind their King.

"This is what it was like from Dulwich to Southwark, empty and rotting," whispered Henri. Another gust of wind swept down the narrow street, bringing with it a foul stench.

"From the smell I would suggest that we want to go that way," said Betterton, covering his face with a nosegay. The group swiftly fastened their gowns and placed the masks over their faces, the scent of the fresh rosemary overpowering the putrid stink of rotting flesh. They were now indistinguishable from one another, only Middleton's formidable bulk recognisable beneath the strange attire.

Charles led the way into the dark abyss unaware that something was following them.

Before long the group found themselves at a crossroads, the road to the left leading to Bankside and the Thames, the road to the right to Lambeth Marsh and the road ahead to Greenwich.

"We want to head towards the city and the river. They should be in their thousands around there," said Charles, his voice muffled by the mask.

It was stifling in the plague suits and Davenant could feel the sweat running down his arms and onto his wrists. As the group took the road to the left, Davenant's heart thumped manically in his chest and the exhilarating pulse of adrenaline coursed through his ageing veins. He felt the nervous excitement that only soldiers experienced, staring death in the face, not knowing whether God would spare him and allow him to make it back home and to the sanctuary of his family.

"Should I become one of... them, you must make sure you kill me," he said to Charles resolutely.

Charles nodded. "Likewise, Sir William, but it won't happen. We will prevail. God is on our side."

Davenant heard them before he saw them - a chorus of wheezing groans drifting to them on the wind. He was frozen to the spot in terror, the horrifying memories of what had happened fifteen years earlier flooding back in a wave of awful recollection. Davenant's heart skipped a beat as they appeared in front of him, a group of four shambling undead emerging slowly from the shadows and lurching their way towards them. He turned to see the fishermen and smugglers backing away. As well as they could have possibly prepared themselves for this moment, the sight of the marauding zombies scared them half to death and every part of them wanted to flee.