The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Nine

Crouched in the corner of his cell, Doctor Talbot Royden munched disconsolately on an apple and listened to the rat snuffling in the clotted straw. There was a savage irony in his predicament. A famous scientist, who strove to push out the frontiers of knowledge, could not even tell whether it was night or day now. A celebrated alchemist, who basked in the glow of his furnace, had only one flickering candle between him and total darkness. An Emperor’s favourite had suddenly become the butt of his cruel humour. Royden spat out a pip, then hurled the apple core angrily at the wall.

Another tedious hour limped past before he heard the noise from above. Two sets of footsteps were descending towards him. A rush of light came from a burning torch. Royden leaped up and peered hopefully through the bars, shielding his eyes from the glare of the flames. One of the gaolers was bringing a visitor down to the prisoner.

‘Caspar!’ shouted Royden. ‘Am I to be released?’

‘Not yet,’ said his assistant.

‘Have you not spoken with the Emperor?’

‘He refuses to see me.’

‘Does my name count for nothing in Prague?’

‘Unhappily, it does not.’

‘Help me!’

‘I am doing my best, Master.’

The gaoler unlocked the door so that they could have a proper conversation but he stayed close to keep them under observation. Since the man spoke no English, they were able to talk freely. Royden grasped his assistant by the shoulders and gabbled questions at him.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why have I been cast into this foul pit? Who has turned the Emperor against me? When will they let me out of here? Tell me what you have found out, Caspar. Is there any comfort at all for me? Can I dare to hope? Or will I be left here to rot in perpetuity?’ He tightened his grip. ‘What time of day is it?’

‘Not long after noon, Master.’

‘It is eternal night down here.’

‘How do you fare?’ asked the other considerately.

‘I dwindle, Caspar. I dwindle and decay.’

‘Bear up.’

‘This is the vilest torture.’

‘Such affliction cannot last forever.’

‘It will break my spirit.’

He slumped to the floor and sat in the straw. Caspar knelt beside him and tried to offer consolation, but Royden was close to despair. His assistant could see the tears in his eyes.

‘There is one tiny ray of hope, Master,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ begged the other. ‘Tell me. Please tell me.’

‘They have not touched the laboratory.’

‘My materials? My equipment?’

‘All safe.’

‘My books? My records of our experiments?’

‘Untouched.’

‘You still have the key?’

‘Yes,’ said Caspar, patting his purse. ‘I keep the room locked at all times. Nobody else may enter the laboratory. I am looking after it until my master returns.’

‘God bless you!’

‘The Emperor must relent.’

‘What chance is there of that?’

‘He is often given to charitable impulse.’

‘Bohemia has a madman upon its throne. I have seen so much evidence of his lunacy over the years. My loyalty to him was grossly misplaced. I should have quit Prague a long time ago.’ He spread his palms in supplication. ‘I have done him great service, Caspar. Why will he not even see me?’

‘His mind is taken up with the preparations.’

‘For what?’

‘The wedding.’

‘Ah, yes!’ sighed Royden. ‘The wedding.’

‘That may have been our downfall,’ said Caspar sadly. ‘The Emperor was counting on us. We were to provide a wedding gift that was quite unique. And we did not.’

‘Only because his guards stopped us.’

‘Our time ran out, Master.’

‘Alchemy will not conform to time.’

‘When the wedding is over, he may take pity on you.’

‘Will I still be living?’

‘Assuredly. Think of your laboratory.’

‘I think of nothing else down here.’

‘If the Emperor had turned against you, he would have destroyed your work completely. But it has been left quite unmolested for you to resume one day.’

‘When?’

‘After the wedding. That preoccupies him now.’

‘Will I have to languish here until then?’

‘I fear so, Master.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

‘Not out of my mind,’ promised the other. ‘Nor that of a stranger from England who has been asking after you.’

‘A stranger?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell. Does you know him?’

‘I have never heard the name before.’

‘He travels with Westfield’s Men, a troupe of players from London. They are to play a comedy this afternoon before the whole Court.’

‘A comedy!’ Royden gave mirthless laugh. ‘Send them down to my dungeon and they will see a tragedy being performed.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What did this Nicholas Bracewell want?’

‘To speak with you.’

‘Why?’

‘He would not say.’

‘What manner of man was he?’

‘A fine, upstanding fellow, from what I could judge. He is only the book-holder with the company, but he is highly respected by all. A solid man, one not likely to give way if trouble came. Honest and trustworthy.’

‘How did he earn such a good opinion from you?’

‘I talked to him,’ said Caspar. ‘He impressed me with his strength of purpose. When I offered to bring a message to you on his behalf, he insisted on delivering it himself.’

‘What sort of message does he have for me?’

‘I have no idea, Master.’

‘From whom does it come?’

‘Not from Nicholas Bracewell himself, I think.’

The gaoler grunted to signal that the visit was at an end.

‘Let him stay longer!’ implored Royden.

‘He has his orders. And I will come again.’

‘Soon, Caspar. Soon.’

‘As soon as they will let me.’

‘And find out more about this Nicholas Bracewell. What possible interest can a book-holder in a theatre company have in a man like me?’

‘He mentioned Doctor Mordrake.’

‘Mordrake!’ hissed the other, cringing against the wall. ‘If he is an emissary from John Mordrake, keep him away from me. I do not want any message from that doddering old fool.’

The gaoler stepped forward to tap Caspar on the shoulder. The latter rose to his feet and nodded. Helping Royden up, he embraced his master before turning swiftly away. The prisoner waited until the door had been locked and both men had vanished before he looked down at the gift which his assistant had pressed into his hand during the embrace. Royden was holding three candles. Battle against the creeping darkness could commence.

‘Thank you, Caspar,’ he said with deep gratitude.

Sinking to the floor, he hid the candles beneath the straw until they would be needed, then he reached out to take another apple from the basket. As he bit into it, he discovered that it had already been gnawed by a rat. He flung it away in sheer disgust.

‘Rudolph,’ he said grimly, ‘My curse upon you!’

***

Arrayed once more in his coronation robes, the Emperor sat on his throne and played idly with a ring on his left hand. His crown felt heavier than ever as the crushing weight of religion pressed down on his skull. He endured the pain until he could bear it no longer, then removed the crown and set it on the floor. But the headache grew even fiercer now. Religion could not be so easily put aside.

Rudolph stood up in distress and massaged his throbbing temples with his fingertips. The movement did not disturb the work of the Milanese artist. His portrait of the Emperor continued to take shape beneath his brush. When his subject began to wander distractedly around the room, the artist kept one eye fixed on the throne as if it were still occupied. The pain finally eased. Rudolph sighed with relief. Noticing his companion for the first time, he spoke to him in Italian.

‘Do you ever have headaches, my friend?’ he asked.

‘Now and again.’

‘What do you?’

‘I send for my wife to caress the pain away.’

‘And if your wife is not at home?’

‘I send for my mistress.’

Rudolph brooded on the problem. He had no wife for whom he could send and his former mistresses evoked some unpleasant memories. No woman could caress away the agony that descended on him. Indeed, he reflected, the Virgin Mary was at least partly responsible for it. He was still meditating on the inadequacy of womankind when the Chamberlain knocked and entered. His long strides brought him across to Rudolph.

‘They are ready,’ he announced.

‘Who are?’

‘The players from England.’

‘Have they arrived at last?’

‘Yesterday, Your Imperial Highness.’

‘Sophia Magdalena will be pleased.’

‘You have met two of them,’ reminded the Chamberlain.

‘Did I?’

‘You conducted them to my apartment.’

Rudolph smiled. ‘Ah, yes! Westfield’s Men. Now I remember. What do they intend to perform for us?’

‘The Three Sisters of Mantua.’

‘A comedy or a tragedy?’

‘A comedy,’ said the other briskly. ‘I have looked into the nature of the piece and deem it suitable for performance.’

‘Nothing about religious dissension, I hope?’

‘Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Good. Let us meet these three sisters forthwith.’

The Chamberlain gave a slight bow and followed the Emperor towards the door. The artist, meanwhile, stayed at his easel and painted on. Rudolph swept out into the corridor.

‘One question,’ he said.

‘Yes, Your Imperial Highness?’

‘Have my wolves been fed today?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Make certain,’ he ordered.

‘I will.’

‘Raw meat keeps all three contented.’

***

The delay added to the already high tension in the tiring-house. From their position in the adjoining room, Westfield’s Men could hear the hall fill up with spectators. Their last private performance had been in the palace at Cologne before a conservative and rather sombre audience. Prague had a more lively Court. The actors could hear the hubbub and sense the animation. It sharpened their desire to begin the play. But it could not start until Emperor Rudolph was present.

‘Where is the fellow?’ complained Lawrence Firethorn.

‘I have never been kept waiting this long before,’ said Barnaby Gill in jester’s costume. ‘It is unforgivable.’

‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, ‘in the time that we have been kept dawdling here, he could have ridden to Mantua and back to visit the three sisters in person.’

‘Why is he holding us up?’ wondered Edmund Hoode.

‘Because it is his privilege,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, trying to calm the tetchy atmosphere. ‘This is no random gathering of spectators in the yard of a London inn. We are playing at the Imperial Court and must abide by its rules. What does it matter if we wait another hour? Our audience waits with us. They will not go away.’

The book-holder’s philosophical attitude soothed many frayed nerves but Firethorn remained on edge. He prowled the tiring-house until he noticed Stephen Judd, an apprentice, attired as one of the sisters in the play.

‘No, no, you imbecile!’ he admonished. ‘Look to your bosom, boy. A woman’s paps come in pairs. And side by side.’ He grabbed the padding which had slipped down inside the lad’s dress and yanked it back into position. ‘Our play is about three sisters of Mantua. Not the one-titted witch of Whitechapel.’

The laughter helped to ease the tension. Blushing a deep crimson, Stephen Judd used both palms to adjust his bosom to a more seemly and convincing position. A scrape of chairs and a shuffling of feet told them that the spectators had risen out of respect as Emperor Rudolph had finally made his entrance. Accompanied by Sophia Magdalena and the Chamberlain, he strode to the centre of the front row and lowered himself into a high-backed chair with gilded arms. His companions took the padded chairs on either side of him and the spectators were able to resume their seats. The hubbub became an expectant murmur.

‘At last!’ said Firethorn. ‘Are we all ready?’

‘We have been for hours!’ groaned Gill.

‘Take us in hand, Nick. Guide us with care.’

The book-holder took charge. At his command, four musicians played behind the curtain at the rear of the stage and their courante silenced the audience and set the mood for the play. Elias came out in a black cloak and delivered the Prologue in a bold voice with the exaggerated gestures he had learned to use in Germany. The rippling applause which he gathered was an indication of what was to come. They loved the play.

The Three Sisters of Mantua was by no means one of the best dramas in their repertoire. Its verse was often banal, its characters lacking in depth and its story too moralistic, but these defects became advantages on this occasion. The verse was largely incomprehensible, the unsubtle characterisation made identification of the dramatis personae much easier and the undertones of a morality play gave it a neatness of shape and meaning. As in Frankfurt, music was used between each of the acts to facilitate changes of costume and scenery.

It was the visual comedy and the poignant moments of thwarted love which delighted the audience most. When they were not laughing uproariously, they were sighing with one of the three sisters as each in turn was rejected by the Duke of Mantua. Firethorn was at his most commanding, Gill at his most hilarious and they set the standard for the rest of the cast. Richard Honeydew, playing the lute in public for the first time, accompanied the plaintive song with which the three sisters took their farewell of the Duke. Many a sleeve among the spectators was used to dab at moist eyes.

Emperor Rudolph was transfixed. Nothing as smooth and apparently effortless had ever been played at Court before. Every detail of the performance intrigued him and he scrutinised it with the open-mouthed intensity of a child watching an ingenious clockwork toy. While they took note of his grandeur and his reaction, the company were once again caught up in their admiration for Sophia Magdalena, closer and even more beautiful to them this time, and drawing the best out of them simply by being there.

Firethorn wooed her shamelessly as the noble Duke and directed the Epilogue to her with moving conviction. When he bowed low to his fair maid of Bohemia, she was so thrilled that she stood up to lead the applause. The whole Court rose to its feet in approbation and the actors luxuriated in the ovation for several minutes. Rudolph remained seated but one palm beat against the arm of his chair in dignified salutation. The Emperor was pleased. Westfield’s Men had been accepted.

Steps were brought so that Rudolph could be escorted up onto the stage to be introduced to the leading sharers. Gill fawned monstrously and Hoode became tongue-tied in the face of majesty. Neither of them enjoyed the treasured moment which fell to Firethorn. Luminescent with excitement, Sophia Magdalena followed her great-uncle up the steps and offered her hand to the actor-manager. The kiss which he placed upon it was both an act of homage and a promise. His lips tingled for minutes. It was the Emperor who had the last word. When he congratulated Firethorn on his performance as the Duke of Mantua, the latter beamed obsequiously and gave a bow.

‘I am your obedient servant!’ he said with humility.

‘No, Master Firethorn,’ countered a smirking Rudolph. ‘It is I who was your obedient servant.’

He went off into such a peal of infectious laughter that everyone joined in and the whole room echoed with wild mirth, even though most of them had no idea what the source of amusement was. Only the Chamberlain and Sophia Magdalena were immune. They were too accustomed to Rudolph’s eccentricities to find them quite so diverting anymore. Wolfgang von Rumpf remained aloof. Sophia Magdalena took quiet enjoyment from watching Firethorn’s huge and uninhibited delight. Like everything else about him, his capacity for exultation was magnificently theatrical.

***

Nicholas Bracewell and George Dart were the last to leave. Everything had been cleared off the stage and stored in a room which had been put at their disposal. Nicholas surveyed the empty hall with quiet satisfaction.

‘We acquitted ourselves well, George,’ he remarked.

‘I never dreamed that I would visit such a palace,’ said Dart, looking around with veneration. ‘It is the most wonderful theatre in which we could ever play.’

‘That is not quite true.’

‘What could possibly outshine this?’

‘The Vladislav Hall,’ said Nicholas, pointing in the direction of the door. ‘Master Firethorn and I were shown it during our visit here yesterday. It is even bigger and more impressive than this hall.’

Dart gaped. ‘Bigger?’

‘Much bigger, George. It is used for coronation feasts and for assembles of Bohemian noblemen. Great matters of state are settled there. In bad weather, they have even held indoor jousting tournaments there, with the knights entering by means of the Riders’ Staircase.’ He smiled at Dart’s expression of utter amazement. ‘But you will see the Vladislav Hall for yourself when we play there.’

‘I thought that all our work was to be staged here.’

‘All but one of our plays. The Fair Maid of Bohemia.’

‘We perform that in this bigger hall?’

‘We do, George. That is where the wedding banquet will be served. Westfield’s Men will be one part of an entertainment which will go on throughout the day in celebration of the happy event. We will play before a vast and distinguished audience.’

‘My knees are trembling already.’

‘They will be steady enough on the day.’

‘I hope so,’ said Dart, consumed by feelings of inadequacy. ‘Have you finished with me now?’

‘One last service.’

‘What is it?’

‘Some of our costumes were left at the Black Eagle for repair and alteration. There is a doublet that Adrian was to have worn in Double Deceit, for instance. It had to be tailored to fit the more slender frame of James Ingram.’

‘I miss Adrian horribly,’ confided the other.

‘So do we all, George.’

‘And will his murderer go scot-free?’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ said Nicholas seriously. ‘But let us concern ourselves with those costumes. Mistress Hendrik will have finished sewing them by now.’

‘It is kind of her to take on that task.’

‘She is anxious to contribute in some way to our success here, though she has already done that in no small measure.’

‘I know that she has helped me and I could not be more thankful. She has been a second mother to me.’

‘Go to her now and ask for the costumes.’

‘What must I do with them?’

‘Bring them back here and put them with the rest of the wardrobe, for we will use most of them tomorrow.’ Dart nodded dutifully. ‘About it straight. Do this last errand and the rest of the day is your own.’

Given such an incentive, Dart went scampering off down the hall with a mixture of haste and reverence. Nicholas went after him at a more leisurely pace, savouring the beauty of the frescoes and the subtle artistry of the statuary. Wherever he walked, there were new wonders to capture the attention. The royal palace was a continuous marvel. It seemed to him like a fairy-tale creation. Then he remembered the man who was locked up in one of its dungeons. The plight of Doctor Talbot Royden gave him a more critical view of the opulence all around him. He quickened his pace towards the exit.

As Nicholas left the palace, he saw two figures standing on the steps of the cathedral and recognised one of them immediately. Hugo Usselincx was deep in conversation with a priest. The Dutchman was gesticulating with both hands. The priest was nodding solemnly. When he caught sight of the book-holder, Usselincx excused himself from his companion and trotted across to Nicholas. The diffident smile appeared.

‘How was your play received?’ he asked eagerly.

‘It was much admired, Hugo.’

‘And so it should be. Westfield’s Men are superb.’

‘We strive to give pleasure.’

‘My dearest wish is to watch you again somehow. Is Love and Fortune to be staged, by any chance?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Then I will do all I can to be here.’

‘You will be most welcome.’

‘What of Cupid’s Folly?’

‘A decision has not yet been made about that.’

‘Please let me know when it has been. I would not wish to miss the joy of seeing Master Gill at his finest.’

Usselincx fell in beside him and they walked into the second courtyard together. Chatting pleasantly, they left the castle and made their way down the hill. Nicholas noted how quickly the Dutchman seemed to have settled into the city. It was clearly not his first visit there. Half-way down the hill, Usselincx came to a halt and took in the view with a gesture.

‘What do you think of Prague?’ he asked.

‘I like it.’

‘How much have you been able to see so far?’

‘Enough to fill me with admiration.’

‘Has it been worth the effort of getting here?’

‘We think so.’

‘The city is blessed by your presence.’

‘It has saints enough to give a proper blessing,’ said Nicholas, smiling as he looked at the profusion of church spires. ‘What has surprised us is the number of foreigners here. Italians, Poles, Hungarians, French and Spanish.’

‘Do not forget the Dutch and the English.’

‘Prague is truly a meeting-place of nations.’

‘That is one of the things which drew me here.’

‘What are the others?’ asked Nicholas with interest.

Usselincx gathered his thoughts before replying. As soon as he began to speak, however, he was interrupted by the sound of running feet. Panting stertorously and white with fear, George Dart was struggling up the incline towards them. There was no sign of the costumes he had been sent to fetch.

When he reached them, he fell into Nicholas’s arms.

‘Slow down, George,’ said the latter, supporting him. ‘What means this haste?’

‘I have just been to the Black Eagle,’ he gasped.

‘That was your commission.’

‘I went up to Mistress Hendrik’s chamber.’

‘And?’

‘She was not there.’

‘Haply, she has stepped out for some reason.’

‘She would never leave the costumes in that state.’

‘What state?’

‘You told me they were being repaired,’ said Dart, trembling under the weight of the news that he bore. ‘Yet those costumes have been torn to shreds and scattered over the floor. And that is not all,’ he added, as he gulped in more air. ‘The whole room is in disarray. There has been a violent struggle.’

***

The Black Eagle was in turmoil. Nicholas sprinted all the way there and burst in through the door to find the rest of the company engaged in a frantic search of the premises.

‘Has George Dart told you?’ asked Firethorn, rushing across to him. ‘Anne has disappeared. We have looked everywhere for her, Nick, but she is not here.’

‘Let me see the chamber,’ said Nicholas.

‘Prepare yourself for a shock.’

Firethorn followed him up the stairs and into the little room where Anne Hendrik had slept alone. Nicholas looked around in consternation. The stool and table had been overturned, the jug of water smashed, a tapestry torn from the wall and Anne’s belongings scattered everywhere. The costumes on which she had been working were in tatters on the floor, but it was another garment which made him shudder. Lying on the bed, slit open from top to bottom, was Anne’s white night-dress. Nicholas snatched it up involuntarily and clutched it to him.

It was Firethorn who first saw the letter. It had been hidden beneath the night-dress. He picked it up and read the name scrawled across it in a spidery hand.

‘It is addressed to you, Nick,’ he said.

‘Let me see it.’

‘Do you wish to read it alone?’

‘No. This concerns us both.’

Putting the night-dress aside, Nicholas took the letter and opened it. The message was short and unequivocal.

Bring the documents to the Town Square this evening. Stand beneath the clock when it strikes seven. Come alone or she will sleep tonight with Adrian Smallwood.

Nicholas blenched as he took in the full import of the demand. Anne had been abducted. Because of the pouch that he carried in his jerkin, her life was now in immediate danger. His mind was an inferno of guilt and apprehension. He blamed himself for what had happened to her. The man who had murdered Adrian Smallwood had not given up the hunt. He had simply been biding his time until he could strike at the most vulnerable point. Nicholas had no doubt that he would carry out the threat in his letter. His temples pounded.

‘What does it say, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.

‘See for yourself.’

Nicholas held it out so that his friend could read its blunt demand. Firethorn was so enraged that he immediately snatched out his dagger.

‘Meet with him there and I will follow you.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll cut out his black heart!’

‘That is not the way. I am to go alone.’

‘You will only put yourself in danger, Nick.’

‘If it will save Anne, I will happily do that.’

‘It is unjust,’ said Firethorn. ‘I was asked to carry those documents and not you. It was wrong of me to shirk my duty thus. Let me make amends now. I will meet him at the appointed place instead of you. He will get much more than the documents, I warrant you.’

‘We must comply with his orders or Anne will die.’

‘You must let me do something.’

‘Keep the contents of this letter to yourself,’ said Nicholas as he thrust it inside his jerkin. ‘Our fellows need know nothing of this. It is private business of mine.’

‘And mine, Nick!’

‘Only I may go.’

‘But you are dealing with a ruthless killer here,’ argued Firethorn. ‘We both saw what he did to Adrian Smallwood. He may be planning to murder you in the same way. What trust can you place in his word? Anne may already be dead.’

‘She is more use to him alive.’

‘You may be his next victim.’

‘That is a chance I am ready to take.’

‘Why?’ said Firethorn, searching for a way to protect him. ‘We are guests of the Emperor. Let us take this to him. He will send a whole army to comb the streets of Prague until they find Anne.’

‘Then would she certainly be killed.’

‘Use all the strength at our disposal.’

‘No,’ asserted Nicholas. ‘He has set the terms. I must abide by them. Let us call off the search and calm our fellows down. We are being watched.’

Firethorn eventually accepted his advice. While the actor-manager went off to round up the company, Nicholas looked down again at the night-dress. It was a message in itself. The dagger which had rent it apart would be used on Anne Hendrik without compunction. That could not be allowed to happen.

When he went back downstairs, Nicholas saw that George Dart was seated at a table weeping piteously, and being comforted by Hugo Usselincx. The book-holder’s first task was to confine the problem to the company. Though trying to help, the Dutchman was an intruder. Nicholas bore down on them.

‘Calm down, George,’ he soothed. ‘There might yet be a simple explanation for all this.’

‘Might there?’ sobbed the other.

‘I think that you were misled.’

‘Was I? How?’

‘What has happened?’ asked Usselincx solicitously.

‘Nothing that we cannot deal with ourselves,’ said Nicholas, guiding him to the door. ‘I am sorry that you were caught up in this wild excitement. It was a misunderstanding on George’s part.’

‘Why all this commotion?’

‘Unnecessary panic.’ They were back in the street now. ‘Actors thrive on drama. On- and offstage. It is all over now.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes, Hugo. We do not need to keep you.’

‘But I want to offer what help I can.’

‘None is required.’

There was a pause. ‘I see that I am in the way,’ said Usselincx, moving away. ‘Forgive me. It was wrong of me to trespass on your privacy. Adieu!’

He turned on his heel and scuttled apologetically away.

Nicholas went back into the inn. Firethorn had gathered the whole company into a room at the rear where they could be alone. A tearful Dart joined them to hear Nicholas. The book-holder spoke with far more confidence than he felt.

‘There is no cause for alarm,’ he said firmly. ‘Mistress Hendrik is indisposed. We have the matter well in hand. She will be back with us very soon. Meanwhile, you may rest easy. This confusion was unfortunate and took you away from a more proper purpose. We performed at the Imperial Court today with resounding success. You should be celebrating that triumph. Go to it now and forget this unwarranted agitation.’

It took time to persuade the actors, but they eventually began to trickle back into the taproom to compare their theories over a mug of beer. George Dart hovered, wanting to believe Nicholas but prevented from doing so by his memory of the ravaged bedchamber. When he began to gibber his dissent, he was lifted bodily by Firethorn and carried off to join the others. Only Owen Elias and James Ingram stayed behind. Neither of them was convinced by the book-holder’s attempt at reassurance.

‘Where is she, Nick?’ asked the Welshman.

‘You have heard what I had to say, Owen.’

‘We are more interested in what lay behind your words.’

‘Yes,’ added Ingram. ‘You must have your reasons and we respect them. But do not forget us. You may not need us now, but our swords are always there at your command.’

‘Thank you, James.’

‘Swords, daggers and bare fists,’ emphasized Elias, as he held up both hands. ‘Put them to some use.’

‘If the bare fists could sew a fine seam, I would. We have costumes to repair and another play to stage tomorrow. Think on those problems. Leave all else to me.’

‘As you wish,’ said Elias, ‘but Anne will be ever in our minds. Sooner or later, we must learn the truth, Nick.’

Nicholas gave a soulful nod. As the two men went out to join the others, Firethorn came back into the room. He knew that they had only bought themselves a temporary respite. If Anne was missing for much longer, the company would be asking more urgently about her.

‘What of the hostess?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘She has been no use at all to us.’

‘Did she see nothing, hear nothing?’

‘Who knows?’ asked Firethorn. ‘The woman has no English and we have less than one word in Czech between us. Anne was the only person who could get a coherent sentence out of her and that by dint of talking in German.’

‘The servingmen?’

‘Complete idiots!’

‘Do any of them understand English?’

‘Not a jot.’

‘Someone at the inn must be able to help us.’

‘They are all blind and deaf, Nick. They saw nobody go up to Anne’s chamber and they heard no struggle. You saw the condition of the room. She must have fought like a demon. The noise would have been heard all over the inn.’

Nicholas gazed pensively up at the floor above.

***

Doctor Talbot Royden used one of the fresh candles to take a full inventory of his cell. It was an uninspiring task. The walls were stained by the passage of time and scored with marks from previous guests. Names had been scratched in the stone. A date had been patiently gouged out. Parallel lines of dried blood on one wall suggested that someone had tried to claw his way out of his prison. Royden wondered how long it would be before he sank to the same level of desperation.

No natural light came into the dungeon and the bars on the door were the only means of ventilation. Royden was forced to inhale the stink of his own excrement along with the foul stench left behind by his predecessors. There was no way out. Caspar was his only ambassador. He had great faith in his assistant but he knew how perverse the Emperor could be. It would take more than Caspar’s plea to instil some mercy in the wayward Rudolph.

Royden sank down into the straw and wondered what was to become of him. He had been brought to Prague as a brilliant astrologer with the gift of foretelling the future. Even his dreams had borne a mystic significance. Yet now he could not even foresee what would happen in the next hour. The symbols on his gown merged with the stifling gloom. His powers had been taken away from him.

A distant noise concentrated his mind. Someone was unlocking a door to descend the steps. Blowing out the fresh candle, he concealed it in the straw again and relied on the guttering illumination of the candle they had given him. He scrambled to the door in the hope of seeing Caspar again but the gaoler was alone. Torch in one hand, he carried a pitcher of water in the other. He was a slovenly man with a ponderous walk. It took him some moments to find the right key for the lock.

Opening the door, he thrust the pitcher at Royden without comment. The prisoner took it, then jabbered loudly.

‘I should not be here!’ he protested. ‘I am Doctor Talbot Royden and I demand respect for my achievements. Remind the Emperor that I have been his devoted servant. I have cast horoscopes, I have cured diseases, I have set bones. My skills have been of untold value in Bohemia. They have earned me the right to defend myself. Tell him!’ he insisted. ‘Tell the Emperor what I have said. He must hear me.’

‘He does hear you.’

The man looked at him for the first time and Royden saw the familiar face under the soiled cap. Rudolph gave him a sinister smile and stepped back. Before the prisoner could even express his horror, the door slammed inexorably shut.

***

Firethorn looked on in fascination as Nicholas set the pen, parchment and ink on the table. They were alone in the room from which Anne Hendrik had been kidnapped. Having first set the table upright, Nicholas now sat before it on the stool. He unhooked his jerkin to slip a hand inside. When he extracted the pouch, he heard Firethorn step up behind him to peer over his shoulder. Both men were anxious to see what it was that had caused them such tribulation on their journey to Bohemia.

Nicholas broke the elaborate seal and unfolded the sheets of paper. A letter was enclosed with four documents, but all were totally incomprehensible. They looked at the strange words and the mixture of numbers and symbols.

‘Is this some kind of jest, Nick?’ said Firethorn.

‘Far from it.’

‘The letter is not even signed.’

‘I believe it is,’ decided Nicholas. ‘That number at the bottom of the page discloses the sender. Everything is in some kind of code. It will be known to the recipient.’

‘Can Talbot Royden make sense of that gibberish?’

‘I think so.’

‘And was it those squiggles which got Adrian Smallwood killed and Anne Hendrik abducted?’ Firethorn scratched his beard. ‘What does it all mean?’

‘That Doctor Royden is a spy.’

‘For whom?’

‘I do not know,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but I wager that there is espionage afoot here. Hidden in these documents is vital information.’

‘About what?’

‘That will emerge in time.’ He picked up the quill. ‘At least, we know what we are dealing with here.’

‘Arrant nonsense!’

‘Secret orders. Valuable intelligence. Couched in a private language to ensure its safety. This did not come from Lord Westfield. We were couriers for a much higher authority.’

He dipped his pen in the ink and began to copy the letter. Firethorn watched in silence until all the documents had been transposed to the blank parchment. Having completed his task as a scrivener, Nicholas used the point of his dagger to ease off the seal. He melted some wax in a candle flame, folded the original documents, then dropped the hot wax over the marks left by the seal. Firethorn applied the signet ring he had worn in the play that afternoon and their work was complete. Who had sent the documents they did not know, but they now bore the seal of the Duke of Mantua.

‘What will you do now, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Exchange these for Anne.’

‘Let me come to guard your back.’

‘Stay here and guard these instead,’ said Nicholas, giving him the copies he had just made. ‘We will peruse them at our leisure and see what we can deduce from them.’

‘Nothing! This language is worse than Czech.’

‘That is perfectly lucid to those who understand it.’

‘Who is this fiend?’ demanded Firethorn.

‘I will tell you when I have met him.’

‘How did he know we were bearing those documents?’

‘That is one of many things I hope to ask him.’

When the seal had dried, Nicholas put the documents into the pouch and slipped them back inside his jerkin. He removed his sword but kept the dagger at his belt. Firethorn embraced him warmly.

‘Take care, dear heart!’

‘I will.’

‘Give Anne my love.’

Nicholas nodded, then went swiftly out through the door.

***

The Town Square was enormous. Tall, proud, well-maintained burghers’ houses ran along all four sides of it, each house given colour and individuality by its elaborate decorations. The Town Hall itself lent civic authority, while the Church of Saint Nicholas and two monasteries showed the spiritual face of the city. Looming over one side of the square were the massive twin towers and the arresting facade of the Týn Church. Power and prosperity were reflected in the square, which lay on the eastern bank at the very centre of Prague. Hundreds of people were abroad, standing in small groups or crossing in all directions, but there was no sense of clutter or discomfort. The Town Square seemed big enough to accommodate the entire population of the city.

Nicholas arrived well before the stipulated time and strolled around the perimeter of the square to show that he was completely alone. That he was under observation was quite certain but he could not begin to guess from where. Countless windows looked down on the square and there was an endless choice of streets, lanes and alleys in which to lurk unseen. His enemy might be any one of the dozens of people whose shoulders brushed him in the great market-place of Prague.

As the hour approached, Nicholas walked across to the huge tower crowning the Town Hall. The astronomical clock was one of the most celebrated sights in the city, and visitors came from far and wide to view the extraordinary and complex device. It consisted of three distinct parts. The large calendar dial was flanked by statues of the philosopher and the angel on the left side and the astronomer and the chronicler on the right. At its centre was the Prague coat of arms.

Even though he was there on such a grim errand, Nicholas was struck by the twelve turning circles around the edge of the dial. The astronomical clock above was even more intricate. Flanked by figures of the Miser, Vanity, Death and a lute-carrying Turk, it consisted of a series of rings, the outer one bearing Arab numerals, and the inner ones, the signs of the zodiac.

Nicholas was not alone. A small crowd gathered to hear the clock strike and to watch figures emerge from the two doors above the clock. At the first stroke, Nicholas swung round to look more closely at his companions. Some were local inhabitants who stopped out of habit but most were curious visitors. None even spared him a glance. He could not compete with the horological masterpiece.

Detaching himself from them, he scanned the square for a sign that did not come. As the astronomical clock finished its performance, the crowd drifted away and Nicholas was left alone beneath the tower. When fifteen minutes had rolled past, he began to wonder if he was the object of some unkind jest. Had someone brought him there simply to mock him? Another fifteen minutes sapped his patience.

He was about to move away when a figure appeared in a corner of the square diagonally opposite. Clad in a dark gown and a large hat, the man was unidentifiable at that distance but he was able to send a clear message. He put a hand to his breast and brought it away again, as if removing something from inside his doublet. Nicholas understood. He took out the pouch from inside his own doublet and held it up. The man beckoned him forward, watching carefully to make sure that nobody was with him.

As Nicholas got closer, the man slipped into a lane and gestured for him to follow. Their transaction would clearly take place in a more private venue. Walking with a steady gait, Nicholas kept one hand close to his dagger. He left the bustle of the crowd and plunged into the lane. Three people were strolling towards him. Over their shoulders, he could see the man waiting for him some thirty yards away. Nicholas continued to follow him until his guide turned down a narrow alley-way. Instinct made Nicholas slow down and slip the dagger into his palm.

He put his head cautiously around the corner and saw two figures waiting for him now. One was the man who had led him there and the other was a woman, wearing a cloak with its hood up. From the grip which the man had on her wrist, Nicholas decided that it was Anne. The bargain had been kept. He hurried forward with the pouch held high, eager to trade it for her safe return. But he never got anywhere near her. As he went past a shop doorway, someone stepped out behind him and clubbed him to the ground with a heavy stone.

Nicholas sank into oblivion. The man who had enticed him into the alley-way paid the woman for her help before sending her quickly on her way. Then he sauntered towards the inert body of Nicholas Bracewell and, with a grin of triumph, took the pouch from the hands of his accomplice.

***

Anne Hendrik sat in a high-backed chair with her hands tied to its arms and her feet to its legs. A blindfold blocked out all vision and a gag prevented her from calling out for help. She had no idea where she was but the room felt large and warm. Distant voices drifted up to her but she could not pick out what they were saying. For the first few hours, her main problem had been to fight off hysteria.

At least, they had now left her alone. She was no longer being looked at and gloated over by the two men who had brought her there. They had said nothing but she could sense their eyes caressing her. Anne could still feel the hot breath of the one as he had bent over her to check her bonds before quitting the room. When the key had turned in the lock, she had felt a measure of relief for the first time. But she knew that it was only temporary. They would be back.

Her chances of rescue depended entirely on Nicholas Bracewell. She could imagine how disturbed he would be by her abduction and how determined to track her down, but the city was a complete enigma to him. Nicholas would not know where to begin. Anne had no doubts about why she had been kidnapped. She was the weak point in his armour. Unable to wrest the documents from him directly, they had opted for a different means. Fear for her would persuade him to hand over the secret pouch, but what would happen then? Hysteria threatened again and she shook her head vigorously. For her own sake, she had to remain calm.

Anne went back over the series of events that brought her to the room, searching for any clue that might give her some indication of where she was and who was holding her captive. Were the voices coming up from a street or from the river? How far had they brought her from the Black Eagle? Why had she been foolish enough to open the door of her chamber to them? As she assailed herself with questions over and over again, one came to dominate all the rest.

Where was Nicholas Bracewell?

The sound of a key in the lock banished all other thoughts from her mind. She heard the door open, shut and get locked again. Only one man had come this time. Anne counted his footsteps as he walked towards her. The door was at least fifteen yards away. He tested her bonds and adjusted her blindfold. His breath was hotter than ever but he had not come to gloat over her this time.

Something far more important claimed his attention. She heard him sit down and unfold some parchment. He gave a low chuckle and talked to himself in German.

‘Now, then. Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’

Anne’s blood congealed. It was the voice she had heard on the Peppercorn. She was held captive by a murderer.