The Devil's Plague (25 page)

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 pit 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.

"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.