by Mark Benyon
"Break a leg, Sir William," said Charles, having slipped into the wings.
"Thank you, my Lord, and I hope your head falls off," replied Davenant, grinning wickedly. Davenant noted a young stagehand, having walked past at that exact moment, carrying a look of pure astonishment, scarcely believing that someone would have the gall to address the King in such a way. Davenant chuckled heartily.
"Mind your tongue, Sir William. I have had more important men than you hanged at Tyburn for saying less. And where is my pretty Nell? I was hoping to have my wicked way with her before the first act."
"I fear you may--"
Davenant was interrupted by the sound of a trumpet signalling the start of the play and a deathly hush descended upon the audience.
"Looks as though I will have to wait until the interval," whispered Charles. "Let us have the show of your life, Sir William," he said, patting Davenant on the back and disappearing back into the packed auditorium.
Davenant rolled his eyes. "No pressure then."
As Davenant took to the Drury Lane stage for the first time, he experienced a rush of pure adrenalin. He turned to face the audience and, to his relief, they appeared enraptured by what was happening before them. The beams of sunlight that were flooding the auditorium only served to augment the already flagrant sense of wonderment.
Davenant turned and watched as Elizabeth entered gracefully as Lady Macbeth. He was just as enraptured as the vagrants in the pit as she flitted elegantly across the stage with remarkable poise and breathtaking beauty.
"See, see, our honored hostess! The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you how you shall bid God 'ild us for your pains, and thank us for your trouble."
"All our service in every point twice done and then done double were poor and single business to contend against those honours deep and broad wherewith your majesty loads our house. For those of old, and the late dignities heaped up to them, we rest your hermits."
Davenant left the stage and was able to watch the rest of the play from the sanctuary of the wings. What he saw was without doubt the finest display of acting he had ever witnessed from any company of players. Even Nell had somehow managed to avoid being upstaged in almost all of her scenes. That was an accomplishment in itself, Davenant thought. He could hear the gasps from the audience in all the right places, the occasional sob and the fleeting shrieks that accompanied the more gruesome scenes.
As Underhill took centre stage to deliver the final speech, there wasn't a sound from amongst the nine hundred people jammed together. Davenant prayed that Underhill would deliver his monologue the way he did in rehearsals. To his relief, his voice was strong and confident, and as he approached the final line, Davenant closed his eyes and held his breath.
"So, thanks to all at once and to each one, whom we invite to see us crowned at Scone."
Silence - not even a breath or a muted whimper.
Davenant dared to open his eyes and could see that Underhill stood with a bemused expression on his face. Just as Davenant was about to walk onto the stage and interject, a sudden shrill whistle of approval rained down from the top gallery. It was followed by a cluster of muted handclaps, which slowly and surely built up into a resounding ovation and deafening roar. Davenant frantically ushered the rest of his company onto the stage to join Underhill and meet their applause and approval.
Despite all his years spent away from the theatre as a hardened fisherman on the Solent and fighting all manner of ghouls in London, Davenant hadn't lost his lust for the spotlight. Calmly and ever so assuredly, he waited for the right moment, just as the applause had started to dip. Then he made his way onstage and the theatre erupted once more, its glass domed roof would have surely flown off had it not been fastened down.
Davenant took a deep breath and stood between Faith and Elizabeth, his eyes devouring these last few fabulous memories of the London stage.
"Bravo, Sir William, Bravo!"
Davenant could see that it was his King leading the standing ovation.
EPILOGUE
The Cabinet War Rooms, London
30th January, 1944
Winston Churchill had already stated that he was to direct the rest of the Second World War from the confines of the Cabinet War Rooms, a warren of interlocking chambers and tunnels set in a secret underground bunker opposite St James's Park near Westminster. It was from here that Churchill and his cabinet would enjoy the benefits of the dormitories, the refectory and even a shooting gallery whilst they negotiated the war from the hub of the Map Room.
Churchill lay down on a small bed in his own designated suite, the frame struggling to cope with his bulk. He settled himself and lit up one his trademark cigars. Contentedly, he drew its thick smoke into his lungs and made a small 'o' as he gently exhaled. The heavy burden that weighed down upon his raddled mind seemed to lift every time he lit a cigar. General Eisenhower had just laid out his plans for Operations Overlord and Neptune to Churchill. Overlord was to be the codename for the Allied invasion of northwest Europe and Churchill was only too aware of what was at stake. The thought of raising a huge army with over one million men scared Churchill half to death and he wasn't surprised to find that his cigar wasn't having its usual calming influence.
Floundering out of bed, he decided that he needed a stroll. "Clemmie, have you seen my walking cane?" he asked, calling out to his long-suffering wife, who was in the adjoining Map Room.
"No, why do you want your walking cane?"
"Because I want to go to a pub and have a stiff drink," replied Churchill, forthrightly. As he lifted the maps and papers somewhat carelessly off his table in search of his cane, Clemmie appeared in his doorway.
"Why can't you have a stiff drink here? You know it's not safe to go out there at the moment."
"My apologies, I failed to mention that I also want some fresh air. This claustrophobic atmosphere is giving me one of my heads. And besides, the blackouts won't start for another few hours."
"Then at least take someone with you," said Clemmie, reasonably.
Churchill's eyes lit up as he found his cane hiding beneath his bed. "Absolutely not, I want to be alone. It's a gentleman's prerogative, my dear." Churchill kissed Clemmie on the cheek before robustly marching down the main corridor, turning the heads of several of his staff and cabinet members in the process. He strode past the Mess Room and Cabinet Room and up the steps to the guarded entrance, his heavy footsteps echoing all the way back to the Transatlantic Telephone Room.
"Good evening, Sir," said the young man at the entrance, his immaculate dress and appearance displaying an evident pride in his work.
"Good evening, Stapleton," replied Churchill.
"Are you going for a walk, Sir?"
"Yes, so if you wouldn't mind opening the door?"
"Are you sure you don't want someone to accompany you, Sir?"
Churchill guffawed. "My, Stapleton, you are as bad as my wife! Now come on, son, do as you're told!"
Stapleton reluctantly unlocked the door for the Prime Minister and held it open for him as he strode defiantly onto King Charles Street.
"Thank you Stapleton, I shan't be long."
It was early in the evening and bitterly cold. Churchill was greeted by a mizzling rain as he turned left onto Parliament Street. He remembered a decent pub by the name of St Stephen's Tavern on Bridge Street, opposite Big Ben. It was a popular watering hole for Parliamentarians and lobbyists and Churchill had fond memories of drinking with Chamberlain within those very walls. As he ambled past Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament, the rain began to pour down and a blanket of darkened clouds seemed to appear from nowhere. A cold, keening wind cut through him like a knife. He quickened his pace upon seeing the tavern less than a hundred yards ahead. He had no trouble crossing the quiet Bridge Street and eased his way inside the pub, noting the splendour of its carved wood, etched glass, original fixtures and fittings. Although it wasn't busy by any mea
ns, Churchill decided to climb the stairs and settle down in a beautifully upholstered mezzanine alcove by the window, overlooking Westminster Hall and Bridge Street below. He removed his drenched overcoat and top hat, placing them carefully on the armchair beside him.
Within a minute, a tall, beanpole of a barman approached Churchill's table. "Good evening, Sir, and what can I get for you?" It was only as he finished asking his question that he realised he was talking to none other than the Prime Minister. He immediately lost the colour from his rosy cheeks, overcome, awestruck and speechless.
"I'll have a large whiskey, please. It's been a tough day."
The barman managed a reluctant smile and shuffled nervously back to the bar.
"Is anyone sat with you?"
Churchill was taken aback. He looked up to see a strange and crooked gentleman looming over his right shoulder, having seemingly emerged from nowhere. He had a pale, emaciated face that was sunk deep into his hefty, rain-soaked overcoat. The top of his head was obscured by a large hat, which bore a peculiar inscription embossed in its cloth trim.
"No, no, by all means, take a seat," replied Churchill. He was surprised to find himself stuttering and couldn't fathom for the life of him why he had allowed this strange man to share the table when there were plenty of vacant ones. He longed for a moment alone, yet at the same time felt strangely powerless to request it, even with his notorious bravado and forthrightness.
"Thank you, Prime Minister. And may I say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," replied the man, holding out his skeletal hand, revealing two elaborately designed rings on his forefinger and thumb.
"Your name is?" asked Churchill, accepting the man's hand.
"Cipher, Mr Cipher." Churchill could see that he was reluctant to remove either of his sodden garments, probably in fear of exposing his contorted features any further. He presumed he must have had some terrible childhood affliction, but daren't look too closely in fear of insulting the man. The barman scampered across the floorboards, placed Churchill's whiskey down in front of him, his hand shaking nervously as he did so, and flitted back to the bar.
"Thank you, my good man," said Churchill before turning back to Cipher. "I say, the silly fool didn't offer you a drink. I daresay he ignored you completely, almost as if you weren't even here. I wouldn't stand for that if I were you."
"It's not a problem, Prime Minister. I get it all the time."
Churchill was quite taken with the man's deep voice and saw for the first time a set of dark eyes that almost lurked too deep in their sockets. "As long as you're happy," he said, smiling and turning to look out of the window and back over Westminster Hall.
"A remarkable building, is it not? Are you aware of its history?" Churchill nodded resolutely. He could see the statue of Oliver Cromwell that was situated outside the Palace of Westminster.
"Ah, yes. Oliver Cromwell, a weak-minded fool. Look closely at the statue and you will see that his head is bowed in thought. According to one view, this is to avoid the accusing gaze of King Charles I, whose bust is on the wall of St Margaret's Church directly opposite."
"Is that so?" asked Churchill, genuinely interested.
"Indeed. And you are aware that your Cabinet War Rooms are situated on the site of Whitehall Palace, where King Charles was beheaded?"
"How do you know about the War Rooms?" barked Churchill.
"I know a great many things, Prime Minister. Please, calm down and enjoy your whiskey. You look in a great deal of stress." Churchill nodded and took a hefty swig. "Did you know that this very pub used to be called the Hell Tavern in the seventeenth century?" Churchill shook his head. "Well, Prime Minister. That is where you are now, the deepest, darkest depths of Hell. You are worrying, are you not, about what the great British public will think of you when you send hundreds of thousands of their men into a battle that they can ill-afford to lose?" Churchill was paralysed. "What if I were to give you an army, an unbeatable force for you to take into battle? Would that be of interest to you?"
Churchill managed to relax his rigid jaw. He could feel a thin sheen of sweat coating his head. "Yes, yes it would." He couldn't quite believe what he was saying - deep down in his heart he knew that this was ridiculous, but never had he been so terrified of one man. Never had he felt so unmanned, even after all of the perils he had witnessed. This is ludicrous, he kept on telling himself.
"Over the years my army has fought in numerous battles. They have massacred the Persians for King Leonidas of Sparta, united Mongolia for Genghis Khan, defeated the Royalists and the Monarchy for Oliver Cromwell and will now decimate the Nazis for you. In the first two cases, they had never witnessed warriors on horseback before."
"Horseback?" muttered Churchill.
"Oh yes, Prime Minister. Far more powerful than any tank, fighter plane or machine gun of yours. So now you'll be asking yourself who I am and what exactly do I want in return for such a favour?" Churchill forced his head into a slight nod, the sweat now dripping onto the table in front of him, the man's eyes now shining a brighter shade of red and the sound of the air raid sirens beginning to blare out in the near distance. "It is quite straightforward, Prime Minister. All I want in return is your soul."
THE END
HISTORICAL NOTES
When Charles II ascended the throne of England, he granted William Davenant and Thomas Killigrew a warrant to 'erect two companies of players [...] and to purchase, build, and erect [...] two houses or theatres with all convenient rooms and other necessaries thereunto appertaining, for the representation of tragedies, comedies, plays, operas, and all other entertainments of that nature.'
Whereas Killigrew's company were labelled the Original King's Players, Davenant's company were granted the title, the Original Duke's Players. They consisted of ten actors - Davenant himself, Thomas Betterton, Cave Underhill, Thomas Sheppey, Robert Noakes, James Noakes, Thomas Lovell, John Mosely, Robert Turner and Thomas Lilleston, and four actresses, Elizabeth Barry, Anne Bracegirdle, Elizabeth Currer and Mary Lee. Throughout the Restoration, both companies enjoyed a healthy rivalry, although Killigrew's incompetence as a manger coupled with Davenant's brilliance soon led to the downfall of the King's Players. Upon Davenant's death in April 1668, Thomas Betterton took over as manager of the Duke's Players and proved to be just as capable as his mentor and predecessor. He prospered in his duty until Charles Davenant, William's son, was old enough to take over. In the early 1670s, Charles Davenant invested vast sums of money in new theatres and the remodelling of existing ones.
On the 12th December 1660, Davenant and the Duke's Company were given the exclusive rights to nine of Shakespeare's plays; The Tempest, Macbeth, Measure for Measure, Much ado About Nothing, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, King Lear and the very popular Henry VIII. He also regained the rights to all of his own plays and poems.
The Great Fire of London engulfed the City of London from Sunday 2nd of September to Wednesday 5th September, 1666. The fire rampaged through the medieval part of the city inside the old Roman City Wall. It was finally extinguished just short of the aristocratic district of Westminster (the modern West End), the Palace of Whitehall, and the majority of the suburban slums. In total, it consumed 13,200 houses, 87 parish churches, St Paul's Cathedral, and most of the buildings of the City authorities. It is estimated that the fire destroyed the homes of 70,000 of London's 80,000 inhabitants. It was believed to have been started in Thomas Farriner's bakery in Pudding Lane just after midnight on Sunday, 2nd September, and spread quickly thereafter. Experts now believe that Farriner failed to extinguish the fire in the bakery's oven which set light to nearby flour and fuel. Without decent firefighting techniques available at the time, the indecisiveness of the then Lord Mayor of London, Sir Thomas Bloodworth, crucially delayed the use of the creation of firebreaks by means of demolition. By the time he had ordered the large scale demolitions, a wind had already blown the fire across the city. However, for all the destruction it caused, the fire had ended the G
reat Plague that had ravaged the city throughout the previous year, killing up to 100,000 people, a fifth of London's population. The disease was believed to be a recurrence of the Bubonic Plague, or "Black Death", a virulent affliction that spread throughout Europe in the fourteenth century - the plague itself was carried by fleas, which lived as parasites on rats. Designated Plague doctors would scour the city, diagnosing victims, although the vast majority of them were unqualified doctors. They would look for the obvious symptoms on a patient, for example the victim's skin would turn black in patches and inflamed glands or 'buboes' would appear in the neck and groin. Vomiting, diarrhoea, swollen tongue and agonising headaches made it an altogether unpleasant demise. When the plague appeared in a household, the house was immediately sealed up with the inhabitants within, condemning them to suffer an appalling death together. These houses were always made notable by a painted red cross on the front door and the words, 'Lord have mercy on us'. Once dead, the corpses were brought out at night to the cries of, 'Bring out your dead'. They were then placed in wooden carts and carried away to the plague pits to suffer a dishonourable burial. One of these pits, the Great Pit, was at Aldgate in London and another was at Finsbury Fields.
Mark Beynon has had screenplays in development with the UK Film Council and Screen South. He began his writing career with a succession of acclaimed theatrical productions before moving into the short film arena where he enjoyed making the official selection of some of the UK's top film festivals. The Devil's Plague is Mark's debut novel.
