by Mark Beynon
Were these the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse trotting past them? The true disciples of Satan?
As he heard the deep, grunting breaths of the horses as they went past, he had never felt more alive. It was strange, Davenant thought, this was the closest he had been to death and fear was no longer an obstacle. The only fear remaining for him now was how Elizabeth, Faith and Charles would cope without him should he fall.
He pulled himself together and waited until the Kryfangan were safely in the distance. "Come on, let's get going," he barked, looking over at Charles and Middleton as he tried to spur them onwards. Middleton hadn't uttered a word since they had left the Pudding Lane bakery.
They were now only a few hundred yards from the bridge and Davenant could see that the fighting had indeed shifted across to Billingsgate. There were no orders or commands from him this time - every man knew what they had to do, and ran as fast as their weary legs would carry them. As they crossed over the wooden drawbridge, Davenant dared to look over his shoulder. The fire had spread all the way down Thames Street now and was swallowing up everything that stood in its path. London was burning.
As the group clattered across the bridge, their exit was suddenly blocked by a heavy-set man, stood with a great sword clutched in his right hand. In the time it took for Davenant to blink, another group of men had emerged behind their leader, stretching the width of the bridge. Davenant halted, the others following suit, their hands reaching for their weapons.
The inferno blazing behind them illuminated the sallow countenance of the man. Amidst the rag-like attire of his cohorts, this soldier seemed smart and orderly in comparison, his hose and neat overcoat only showing three or four holes. And unlike his gaunt and lean followers, his stature had somehow retained its form and bulk.
With a sudden spark of irrational terror, Davenant could have sworn that it was Satan himself looking him in the eye. But then he was struck with the chilling realisation that it wasn't the Devil at all. It was someone else entirely. "Cromwell!"
Oliver Cromwell's withered upper lip peeled back from his rotting teeth in a sneer, recognition burning deep in his eyes. Much of his face had wasted away; even the many boils and pock marks that once blighted his features were now little more than open scars. But somehow his eyes retained knowledge, wisdom and a glimmer of understanding. They hadn't changed in the slightest.
"God's death, it can't be?" cried Davenant, turning to Charles, who pointed at the ragged army behind Cromwell.
"Look at them! They're following him, Sir William!"
"These bastards are standing between us and our escape. Let's stick it to them!" Betterton cried, wielding his sword
The thought of returning home as heroes spurred the rest of the group on. Led by Tom, the smugglers made a mad dash towards the undead. Not wanting to be outdone, the fishermen followed hot on their heels.
Cromwell and his army tore them from limb to limb.
As Davenant saw another of the fishermen being sliced in half, he charged; Charles, Underhill and Henri piling in after him. Davenant tried desperately to fight his way to Cromwell, fending off blow after blow from the undead soldiers. Charles came to his aid, ramming the handle of his axe into the head of a zombie before hurling it over the side of the bridge. He had lost sight of Middleton, wary that he was turning and could be drawn into fighting for Cromwell at any moment.
The bridge was now covered in gore and Charles lost his balance, his boots slipping on a slick coil of intestines. Looking up, he found to his horror that he had landed at Cromwell's feet. Cromwell seemed to grin as he lifted his sword, the vast blade seeming to stretch into infinity. It shone with a terrible wrath as it reflected the fire that was consuming London.
Davenant looked over and saw what was about to happen. He tried to call out to Betterton and Underhill but they couldn't hear his cries amidst the tumult.
The sword came crashing down and there was a terrific clang.
Somehow Middleton had clambered around Cromwell and parried his blow. He collapsed in a heap beside Charles, his weapon falling from his limp hand. As the mask slipped from Middleton's face, Charles could see that he had breathed his last.
Charles grabbed Middleton's weapon and rose to his feet, his face twisted with rage and the purest hate.
"You may remember me, Lord Protector. And I believe you knew my father."
He swung the sword with all his might and landed it between Cromwell's collarbone and neck, hacking his head from his shoulders in one perfect stroke. The sight of Cromwell falling to his knees seemed to stun his horde into submission, the rest of the group taking advantage of the lull and hacking the heads from the undead army.
Charles paused to survey the carnage, attempting to catch his breath at the same time. He had never seen so much blood, even on the battlefield.
Betterton, Underhill, Henri, Charles and Davenant looked at one another, none of them able to muster up the strength to speak. Charles picked up Cromwell's blooded head and rammed it down upon an empty spike secured to the timber of the bridge.
"Behold the head of a traitor! That is for my father," he shouted.
Davenant smiled. "Now shall we get out of here?"
Suddenly, Middleton jerked to his feet and Charles could see in his eyes that he had turned. He took four ungainly steps forward, driven by the desire for human flesh. Charles knew now that he owed his friend death. After all he had done for him and the numerous times he had saved his life, Middleton didn't deserve this terrible unlife. Middleton reached down and picked up a severed arm, tearing the stringy meat away from the bone. He looked up at Charles as he stood over him, axe raised, and there seemed to be a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.
"You must put him out of his misery, my Lord," cried Davenant. Charles lowered his weapon and removed his mask. He gagged as he took in the acrid scent of the city. Middleton backed away, lumbering to the side of the bridge and the balustrade. He looked back once again, and Charles could have sworn he saw a hint of a smile cross his lips before he threw himself into the river below.
"You stupid, clumsy, daft, foolish boar," said Charles under his breath.
Davenant stepped forward and placed a consoling hand on his arm. "He was a good man, my Lord, one of finest." Charles broke down into a frenzy of choking sobs. "But we need to leave; the fire is ravaging the city." Davenant could see that the blaze had stretched as far east as St Botolph's Lane. The heat was now so intense that it seemed to roast their backs.
Charles nodded in agreement, placed his mask back on and turned to run, prompting those stood beside him to move. As they left the bridge Davenant looked back one last time. He firmly believed that they had followed the right course of action and did what was necessary for the good of the country and its people. Yet as he saw the fire take hold of St Paul's Cathedral, he prayed that they would be able to return soon and restore London to its former glory.
The last thing Davenant remembered before losing consciousness was Charles and Betterton supporting his ageing legs as they shuffled through Southwark and out of the city, taking the path back to Wandsworth that had led them to the river. It was far more exhausting this time as they were walking uphill and had no food or water to provide them with sustenance. The ruins of a nearby fountain only added to their frustration, its stone basin was bone dry. They were all desperately thirsty and even the Thames muck had begun to seem desirable to them. Finally, though, they made it back to Wandsworth and its derelict buildings. Davenant had drifted in and out of their few conversations, and woke to find Charles in the middle of some sort of heartfelt monologue.
"This will be consigned to history as the great fire of London that ended this Black Death, this Devil's Plague of ours, and we will now prosper in a new and brighter future. I am eternally grateful to you all, particularly this old war horse, for all you have given up for the cause. I am seldom accustomed to such honour, bravery and dignity."
As they ambled along the causeway with its dilapi
dated buildings, Charles could spot what was left of their carriages in the near distance.
"Well, looks like we're on foot, gentlemen." He said.
"What's going on?" Davenant asked, waking fully now.
"We made it, Will, but we still have a good way to go."
"Then, my Lord, we will walk this road together."
Davenant's last memory was reaching Portsmouth by carriage. He then experienced flashing images, almost dream-like in nature. He could have sworn he saw darkened, leaden skies and remembered experiencing a rush of relief as they eventually faded into the morning sunshine, the sound of birdsong and lush green landscapes. He could feel the gentle breeze on his face.
Perhaps this was the afterlife?
As he woke for the third time, he was greeted by the monotonous rolling sounds of the sea and the beautiful scent of saltwater. He felt remarkably at peace and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He could tell that it was dark again, his eyes slowly becoming familiar with the stars and the moon in the cloudless sky. He could have sworn he heard Charles' voice beside him, its comforting, soothing tone sending him back to sleep again.
And as he woke for the last time, he found his wife by his bedside, lovingly tending to his wounds.
He had never been so happy.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Theatre Royal, London
1st November, 1667
After so many years of Puritan Interregnum, Davenant could scarcely believe that he was witnessing such a beautiful sunny November's day in the heart of London. The crowds were flocking to the theatre in their hundreds. The poor were arriving on foot and the rich were arriving by carriage, coach or palanquin.
Davenant saw Samuel Pepys ambling towards him from the corner of his eye. He pretended to watch the flock of birds that were soaring high above the flag of the new theatre, its three tiers of the best timber providing the finest playhouse he had ever seen, even grander than the Globe.
"I am glad the King chose one of your baroque spectacles to put on as an opening performance, rather than one of Killigrew's talk dramas. Those who have attended your shows at Lincoln Inn Field's have informed me that you have moveable scenery and wings! My, my, Sir William, you have the monopoly on them all!"
"Thank you, Samuel," replied Davenant as politely as he could. In his eyes, Pepys was little more than a sycophant, a fawning monstrosity who would weasel his way into any event or occasion.
"Don't worry, Sir William. I'll be sure to give you a good review," cried Pepys, waving his little pocket diary in the air as he spotted someone else in the crowd.
As the last of the audience filtered into the theatre, Davenant was struck by a feeling he hadn't experienced in years: first night nerves. He decided to take a short walk down to the river to calm his anxiety.
Davenant was immediately taken by just how much London had changed in little over a year, with many of the dilapidated buildings now bearing the first symptoms of reconstruction. Since his coronation, Charles had been true to his word and had begun to rebuild much of what was destroyed by the great fire. He had even commissioned Christopher Wren to design and oversee the building of a new St Paul's Cathedral, its predecessor having been reduced to smouldering rubble. Charles had shown Davenant the designs, and he was left in awe by their magnificence, although a little sceptical that it could be accomplished. Nevertheless, Charles and Wren had seen through the construction of the majestic Theatre Royal, which could hold almost seven hundred theatregoers. So perhaps the Cathedral wasn't such a daring project after all.
Davenant took several deep breaths to calm his nerves. The air was refreshingly clean in comparison to what it had been like on that fateful night by the Thames. Once the group had left London and returned to the Isle of Wight, Charles and Henri had headed back to France to assemble a group to take back to London with them on a clean up mission. Davenant had decided to remain at home with Faith, Elizabeth and Charles, although Betterton and Underhill had agreed to revisit London. When they returned home Betterton informed Davenant of what had happened.
Much of the city had been decimated by the fire, all traces of the plague had been consumed by the flames and there was no sign whatsoever of the Kryfangan, who had presumably perished alongside the undead. Charles had organised groups of his men to bury what was left of the corpses in designated plague pits, although rumour had it that he had found Cromwell's head and body and performed a posthumous execution on the thirtieth of January at Tyburn by hanging his body in chains. It was on the very same date that his father had been executed by Cromwell at Whitehall, years earlier.
Above all else, Davenant was glad to see that London was becoming repopulated. He could see a lone Thames waterman fighting against the current as he carried his fare from Bankside to Billingsgate, and even noticed a group of painted ladies flaunting their wares to a group of Merchant Tailors by the Pickleherring Stairs. As his eyes worked their way round to London Bridge, his thoughts immediately turned to the clash with Cromwell and his legion at the southern entrance. It gave him a peculiar feeling, and a sudden chill crept down his spine.
He turned around hastily, thinking it best he returned to the theatre, fearing people would start to question his absence. Tonight they were performing Macbeth, giving Davenant a chance to finish what he had started all those years ago in the Phoenix Theatre before he had been so rudely interrupted. Charles had lifted the ban on women performing in public theatre and had insisted that his mistress, Nell Gwynne, take the part of one of the witches. She was a rancorous little trollop, but Davenant didn't have any say in the matter, especially when Charles had just granted him an exclusive license to perform at the Theatre Royal and to establish a company of players. Davenant had formed his own troupe of players in Shanklin, which he still regarded as his home, but could hardly miss out on such an opportunity to act on the London stage again and in such a magnificent venue.
They had had several rehearsals at the playhouse in Lincoln Inn Field's, which seemed to go down a storm, giving Davenant hope that this would be the performance to end all performances. Faith and Elizabeth reprised their roles of the first witch and Lady Macbeth respectively and Nell took the part of the third witch, although her acting ability was limited at best. Betterton, on the other hand, had grown into one of the country's finest actors and now took the title role after Middleton's sad demise, with Underhill portraying Malcolm in his place. Davenant took the part of King Duncan, with Charles happy to be consigned to the Royal Box in the auditorium. Davenant completed the casting by filling the other parts with up and coming actors from the Duke's Players, such as the Noakes brothers, Robert and James, Thomas Sheppey, John Mosely and Edward Kynaston, and actresses such as Anne Bracegirdle and Mary Lee.
He cast his mind back to what his father had once told him.
"A part never belongs to an actor, but an actor belongs to a part."
Those words had always rung true, and tonight Davenant hoped and prayed that he did his father justice.
After slipping into his costume and applying some stage make-up, Davenant sidled into the wings from where he could observe the buzzing atmosphere of the crowded auditorium. All walks of London life were represented - shipwrights and fishmongers from St Dunstan's; drapers and haberdashers from Spitalfields; the skinners and silk weavers from St Giles Cripplegate, and the King himself in his green baize-covered box, ornamented with gold-tooled leather. Davenant noticed that many were without seats and were huddled together by the sides and in the narrow passages, increasing the capacity to at least eight or nine hundred. His eyes wandered upwards towards the glazed dome that allowed shards of sunlight to shaft into the theatre, lighting the stage and protecting the patrons from the wind and rain. They needed no protection today though, Davenant thought. It was a glorious afternoon.
His eyes worked their way back down over the semi-circular galleries crammed with doctors, lawyers and the incessant deluge of Protestant Frenchmen in exile from Catholic France, and onto the p
it where there was a palpable hum of excitement. The poorer folk had packed themselves onto the backless green benches with the vendors, who were selling nuts and bottled ale, struggling to weave their way through the commotion. Davenant could hear the heaving, sweating anticipation, the excited noises of conversation and secretive whispers, and could smell the fetid stench of raw garlic; stale ale and Thames tobacco mingled together with the sharp tang of cheap perfume and oils. The rustling of silk and tunics, the clinking of bottle on bottle and the high-pitched giggling of the ladies in the third gallery only served to add to the atmosphere.
Davenant heard a clatter of footsteps approach from behind him and turned to face Nell Gwynne, dressed head to toe in a dark witch's cloak and wearing a thick layer of make-up. "Why can't I be the first witch, Sir William?" she asked, in a thick cockney accent.
"Because I want you to have the least lines, my dear," replied Davenant bluntly. He didn't enjoy a particularly fruitful relationship with Nell and didn't feel the need to placate her, simply because he knew that Charles with his notorious nocturnal habits would cast her aside in favour of a younger, prettier girl soon enough. He grinned as she turned her back on him, stomped her foot and disappeared in a sulk. He could see Faith and Elizabeth rehearsing by the tiring house. They were consummate professionals now, veterans of the stage. Davenant let out a broad smile. Never in a million years could he have ever dreamt that this would become reality - sharing the very finest London stage with his wife and daughter. He could remember a time when the thought of women on the stage was an abhorrent notion. But now he couldn't think of two more deserving actresses.
