“I cannot say for sure my Lord,” Jonathan answered, “but there was something ill about Eyam, other than the plague. You could sense it in the air somehow.”
“Damn,” Godfrey cursed, turning to look in the direction of the nearby town.
“Have we not suffered enough? We have been hit by the dreaded plague barely ten years since and we are only just recovering from Prince Rupert and the blasted storm he brought down upon us.”
“If it is the plague,” Jonathan pointed out, “then we will just have to send these poor souls away back to their homes and help them as much as we can.”
“But you said yourself my dear friend, there is something ill in the air,” Godfrey replied, staring at him.
“As my closest friend and confidante, truly what think you of this?
Jonathan stared across the expanse of the courtyard. At the gated entrance, a party of his men stood, muskets at their sides. He turned and stared into his friend’s eyes.
“Pray for the best, but prepare for the worst my Lord,” he replied, “for I sense some trouble shall visit us before the break of dawn.”
“People are approaching over the hill!”
Jonathan and Godfrey stared at each other.
“Do you have witches blood in your veins?” Godfrey asked, smiling.
“No, my lord,” Jonathan replied, “I just knew that I would not be lucky enough to see my bed too early this eve.”
“Leave it with me my Lord,” Jonathan said, staring at the gate, “I shall go and see who it is who is travelling the lanes at this hour and I will return in haste.”
Mounting his horse, he rode swiftly across the courtyard to the gate.
Godfrey turned to find his wife Elizabeth stood in the doorway. Behind her, clutching the hem of her mother’s long dress, their daughter Mary.
“Where are they man?” Jonathan called to one of his men stood at the gate.
The man pointed to the long lane leading to the nearby hill in the distance, running to the manor before continuing to the bay of the Mersey.
Jonathan could see a large gathering of figures in the distance, slowly moving westwards in their direction.
He felt saddened, but if these ill-fated souls truly succumbed to the illness, he would have no choice but to turn the poor wretches away and instruct them to return to their homes, rather than risk the spread of this accursed plague.
He cantered his horse through the open gates, in the direction of the approaching crowd.
After riding for several minutes, drawing closer to the approaching figures, he slowed his horses pace to a trot.
Though a lot closer to them, he could not define any details in the gloom, except the way they walked appeared strange, noticing at least a handful of the figures seemed dragged one leg behind the other, rather than walking with normal steps.
“Hello! Where are you headed?” He called to them.
Receiving no response, he beckoned his horse on in their direction.
My god, there are hundreds of them.
Behind the first line of figures, he discovered dozens of others. Even in the dim light of the dusk, he made out figure after figure, as far as he could see from his view atop his horse.
Slowly and cautiously approaching the first line, he heard their guttural moaning clearly, even over the heavy panting of his horse.
From them, came forth an awful chattering noise, causing his horse to rear slightly, as if the beast could sense these wretches carried the illness.
Approaching further, his eyes fell upon the closest of the figures, causing him to wish he was in but the midst of a terrible dream and he would awaken in a moment in his own bed.
Their gazes were set upon him, staring through blood red eyes set within pale, ashen faces, crisscrossed with thick, dark veins.
He saw the clothing several of the figures wore, were bloodied rags.
He also discovered clearly and with awful clarity, a few of the faces wore large gashes, skin hanging down in bloody ribbons.
A tall woman appearing heavy with child, walked nearby. Her clothes torn apart, he viewed clearly the large mound of her swollen stomach, hanging down between the stripped rags.
Above her stomach, he saw her full, heavy left breast, but discovered to his horror, where her right breast should have been, stood now merely a bloody, gaping hole, strands of pale white skin hanging in strips across her exposed rib cage.
He felt tendrils of unashamed fear spread throughout his body, his legs shaking as he sat in the saddle.
The procession of death ahead, slowly approaching him.
Pulling the reins hard to his left, he attempted to turn his horse in the opposite direction, to find more of these fouled creatures scrambling through the bushes either side of the lane.
Lord how many of these are there?
As the horse turned in the lane, it became hampered by colliding into two of the creatures stumbling from the bushes. One of its hind-legs caught one of them, a boy of no more than seven years old, a gaping, bloody gash where his cheek once was.
Spooking, his horse reared up. Jonathan’s right foot fell from its stirrup and he felt himself slipping from the saddle. He desperately tried to hold onto the rein, but it snapped away, leaving him to tumble to the ground.
His resulting fall an agonising one, as the hilt of his broad sword struck against his hip bone, as he landed upon the ground. He let out a howl of anguish as the pain radiated throughout his body like a fire.
He lay on his side curled up like a babe for a moment.
Almost a moment, too long.
Opening his eyes, wet with tears of pain, through his blurred vision he realised the horde were moving closer to him.
The creature once a youth, scrambled on the grass trying to stand up.
The other creatures his horse collided into, remained on its feet, now but a few yards away from where he lay.
Painfully, he rolled on the hard ground, stones digging into his sides as he began to kneel up.
Turning his head, he stole a glance behind to see the rear of his horse in the distance, galloping away from this monstrous place.
Chapter Three
The horse has the right idea.
Painfully standing, he turned to cast a glance at the approaching horde. They neither increased their pace, nor slowed it, their shambling bodies drawing nearer with each second.
Struggling along the lane to the distant hall, the pain in his side ensured each step felt as if he trod on burning spikes.
He walked with stumbling steps, but fortunately, the guard atop of the gate noticed his horse approaching the estate rider-less.
Upon the guard informing him, Peter rode to Jonathan with all haste upon his chestnut mare.
Reaching his friend, he turned his horse to place himself between the approaching crowd and Jonathan.
Leaning from his saddle, he offered his outstretched arm to Jonathan, who grasped it willingly. With all his might, Peter hauled Jonathan onto his horse, who scrambled to sit behind him.
“My god Jonathan, what happened?” Peter exclaimed.
Jonathan fought for air, positioning himself behind his friend, the pain within his side radiating immensely.
“Demons or devils, I know not which,” he managed to utter, within gasps of breath, “but they are not human.”
Turning his head in the direction of the mass of figures, Peter thought Jonathan sustained a form of head injury, uttering such words.
But, when he stared into his frightened friend’s eyes, he sensed within himself, Jonathan spoke words of truth. He urged his horse forward into a gallop to the hall.
As the two men approached the walls of the manor, one of the men near the gate, rushed to the side of Peter’s horse.
“Help him down,” Peter instructed.
Carefully, the other man held Jonathan, gently easing him from the horse onto the ground, before assisting him through the gateway.
Standing near the fountain, talkin
g to one of the other men, Lord Godfrey looked up.
“Dear Lord, what has happened?” He called, seeing his friend stood obviously injured.
“Have you been set upon?” he enquired, after sprinting across the courtyard to be at his side
Jonathan relayed the events of what occurred, Godfrey listening intently, taking in each word spoken in silence.
“How bad is it Jonathan?” he asked, noticing his friends pained expression as he spoke, in addition to Jonathan’s hand holding tightly onto his hip.
“I will live my lord. I am sore, but I am alive,” Jonathan replied, grinning through the now easing pain.
“I know you are in pain Jonathan.” Godfrey said after a few moments thought, placing his hands upon his shoulders, “but do you think you can still ride?”
“With a bit of effort, a hand up and a fresh horse, as mine had the sense to run, I think so. But why do you ask my lord?”
“I need you to ride into town and muster as many able-bodied men as you can. I do not mind what you have to say to persuade them but bring them here, lest these accursed wretches make their way to the town itself.”
“But my Lord!” Jonathan exclaimed, “My place is here with you. Not riding away leaving your side to face these things!”
“Jonathan,” Godfrey said, smiling at him, “truly my friend, I would wish for no other sword arm than yours by my side. But at the moment, it is preoccupied favouring holding onto your side. Ride, bring as many reinforcements as you can and I will see you upon your return my dear friend.”
Before Jonathan could protest, Godfrey left his side, ordering another man to fetch one of his fastest steeds.
With the aid of two of his men, Jonathan sat in the saddle of the horse, brought to the front of the Manor, before biding his companion’s good luck and setting off in haste to Liverpool.
Godfrey ordered his men to ensure everybody nearby were relocated safely within the high walls of the manor and to secure the gates they were within its confines.
Several of his men ran into the surrounding fields and areas of the estate. Soon, the men and women toiling late, hurried to make their way through the gates into the safety of the courtyard beyond.
One of the men atop of the wall, called to say the large group approaching, were mere minutes away from reaching the walls.
Godfrey nodded, turning to stride across the courtyard to the Manor.
The moment he entered under the roof of the porch-way, one of the oak doors opened, his wife appearing before him.
Upon hearing the shouts and cries of the men from across the courtyard, they both looked at the walls.
The horde almost reached them.
“Take Mary upstairs now my love and bolt the bedchamber door,” he ordered, turning to her, “Do not open it until I return.”
“Be safe my love,” she said, grabbing his hands, holding them tightly within her own, “for the sake of us all.”
Smiling at her, Godfrey leant down to place the gentlest of kisses upon her forehead.
“I will be fine my love. Now take our precious flower upstairs and I will be with you both soon.
Turning, he strode across the courtyard to the gate, noticing the many people now standing within the outer walls of the manor.
Plenty of able bodied men, but if needed, do we have enough weapons?
He ordered that the women, children and the elderly were to take refuge in the manor. They were to stay within the great hall until this situation over, he instructed them.
He heard the horde long before he reached the gate. The sound from beyond the walls sounding as if from the depths of the pits of hell itself, growing louder as he approached.
Nearly a dozen of his men stood near the gate itself, though standing at a safe distance away.
He realised the reason why clearly, as arms stretched through the bars of the gate, swiping at the air to seek to seize the men inside.
Jonathan was right. These poor creatures are no longer human.
“My Lord,”one of his men said, turning his gaze from the gate, “what are we to do?”
Moving through his men to be closer to the gates, Godfrey could now see the faces of the horde clearly.
Their skin appeared as pale as the moonlight above itself, nearly translucent in places. Thick, dark veins covered nearly all their skin. Those still possessing teeth, bared them, snapping within snarling mouths.
The eyes of the creatures standing closest, transfixed him, as they did the men stood alongside him. They saw the wretches’ eyes still possessed pupils, but where their eyes should have been white, the sclera, it was of the darkest, purest crimson.
The irises still retained their original colour but, staring into these orbs made Godfrey feeling he stared into the eyes of inhabitants of hell itself.
The throng pushed forward into the metal bars of the gate itself, bodies now compressed against the thick bars.
They heard a loud audible crack as one of the creatures, stood at the front of the horde, became pushed against the gate hard enough for its ribcage to break. A couple of bloody ribs protruded through from beneath its rags.
Peter, standing alongside Godfrey, turned and retched at the sight of this atrocity to God.
The creature, even in its broken state, continued to stretch its grasping arms through the gates, along with now a score of the other foul abominations.
Hugh, crouched to his knees, hid behind the fountain in the middle of the courtyard.
Staring at the gates, he swiftly brought his head behind the stone surround, whispering words aimed at the almighty, begging and pleading to be saved from this living nightmare.
Hearing more shouts from the direction of the gate, he pushed himself up to look once again. His hand slipped over the edge of the small fountain and he felt the cold water covering up over his wrist. He recoiled in horror.
He loathed any part of him being underwater but, knew there were worse things out there in the world this evening.
He desperately tried to shield his ears by covering them with his hands, to mask the sound of the infernal moaning from outside the walls.
Glancing at the manor, he saw the last of the women rushing inside, away from the danger awaiting them at the gates.
He ran, bending over, his hands scrabbling against the gravel, looking around in his haste to ensure none of the other men could see him. Luckily for him, their attention turned to the creatures, currently holding them under siege.
He reached the porch-way a moment too late, as the last of the women closed the door behind her.
What am I to do?
He could not knock on the door to gain entry, they would never let him enter the safety and sanctuary of the manor, expecting him to join the others to fight the foul denizens from hell at the gates.
Looking at the gate, he found Godfrey talking to one of his men.
He glanced around in panic, until his eyes fell upon a barrow to the far side of the manor, used to deliver fresh food to the kitchen earlier.
Without another moment thought, he sprinted across to where it stood, darting behind the side of the building housing the entrance to the kitchen.
Rushing hastily to the kitchen door, he could hear the moaning of the terrible creatures from beyond the perimeter of the outer wall, standing mere yards from him.
God, they seem so close!
Grasping hold of the large round metal handle on the door, he twisted it and pushed hard.
The door opened.
Hurrying inside, he ran across the large kitchen to one of the inner doors located at the far wall, knowing it as a large pantry, big enough to hold a dozen men.
He entered the dark, cold room.
Within its confines, stood bags containing flour, salt and grain amongst other supplies. Immediately running to the furthest bags, he hid behind them, cowering in fear.
Chapter Four
Looking up from his kneeling position on the ground, Peter apologised for emptying the
contents of his stomach.
“Let it not worry you Peter,” Godfrey said, patting him on the shoulders, smiling grimly, “‘tis natural at such a sight. Tell me, how many weapons do we have?”
Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Peter stared at the gathered men in the courtyard.
“I will open the store room and find out my Lord.”
Rushing to the large store room to the side of the courtyard, he unlocked the huge doors and entered its confines, closely followed by Godfrey and several other men.
“We have more than enough pikes to go around my lord,” he said, as they stood in the large expanse of the store, containing weapons stored for many years, since the siege of Liverpool, “though some may have rusted a little, I really do not think that should matter much.”
“What about muskets?” Godfrey asked, nodding, staring at the contents of the store.
“We have enough muskets and shot aplenty to keep our men supplied my Lord, but not enough to arm the rest of the men.” One of the other men replied, kneeling by a couple of boxes taking stock.
“Check that the powders are dry and bring a few of the kegs out,” Godfrey instructed, staring at the stacks of pikes leant against the wall, “issue pikes to all of the men. Hopefully we will not have need for them.”
They were interrupted by a terrible scream from outside, followed immediately by the distinctive shot of a musket being fired.
“But, I could be mistaken,” Godfrey said, as they rushed from the stores, to the source of the scream.
The scream originated from the vicinity of the gate.
As they drew closer, they could see countless arms grabbing through the gaps, hands clasping at open air.
Mathew, one of the men stationed at the gate, leant against the thick, stone wall, clutching one of his arms close to his chest.
“It bit him!” A man near him cried, holding a musket with the distinctive cloud of gunpowder, rising in the air around him.
“I had to fire, my Lord.”
“It is fine man,” Godfrey said, approaching closer.
The moaning from the horde at the gates become an unholy sound, terrible to bear witness to.
The view from the gate now lay obscured by the throng of the infected, pressing their plague-ridden bodies against it, seeking to gain entry within.
The Infected Chronicles (Book 1): Origin Page 3
