The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Eleven

Anne Hendrik was in considerable discomfort. She had been tied to the chair for several hours now and cramp was setting in. Her arms were aching, her wrists were chafed and she had shooting pains in both legs. Yet the physical pain was small compared with her mental anguish. She was terrified that they might never release her. They would certainly have no qualms about killing her. Anne shuddered when she recalled how easily she had been abducted.

Sewing in her chamber at the inn, she had heard the gentle tap and opened the door out of curiosity without even taking the simple precaution of asking who was there. Two men had rushed in with their faces muffled from view. Anne had been overpowered in a matter of seconds. The gag had stifled her cries and the rope tied her hands immovably behind her. She was shown no courtesy. A dagger robbed her of all resistance.

The blindfold made her helpless. She could neither see her kidnappers nor move of her own accord. They had come prepared. A cloak was slipped over her shoulders and its hood pulled up to conceal much of her face. One of them hustled her down the back stairs and out into the street. They walked arm in arm, the knife pressed unseen against her ribs. To passers-by, she must have looked like an ungainly wife being helped along by a caring husband.

Panic deprived her of common sense. Instead of trying to work out how far from the inn they went, and in what direction, she was dizzy with apprehension. Instead of listening for clues as to her whereabouts, she heard only the pounding of her own heart. Had she crossed a bridge? Climbed or descended a hill? Walked over earth or cobbles? Anne could not remember. It was only when she was bound in her chair that she began to ask such vital questions.

Fear for her own safety was compounded by her concern for Nicholas Bracewell. She knew how shocked he would be by her disappearance and how frantic his efforts would be to trace her. But he was up against clever adversaries, who held all the advantages. The thought that Nicholas was marked out as a murder victim made her break out in perspiration. To avoid the trap they might set for him, she almost wished that he would not come looking for her. Anne was horrified at the idea that she might be used as the bait for Nicholas.

Her recriminations came to a sudden end as she heard the door of her prison open. The two men came in, turned the key in the lock and stayed at the far end of the room to continue their conversation. Their voices were subdued and she was only able to hear certain words clearly, but they were enough to cause her even more alarm. Not realising that she was proficient in the language, they talked in German as they finalised some sort of plan.

She heard the last exchange all too distinctly.

‘What of Nicholas Bracewell?’ asked one.

‘I am saving him until afterwards,’ replied the other. ‘I have promised myself the treat of killing him very slowly.’ He strode across to Anne and she felt his hot breath once again. ‘Still here, Mistress Hendrik?’ he teased in English. ‘I thought you might have been rescued by your knight in shining armour. Where is he?’ He removed her gag. ‘Doesn’t he care enough about you?’

‘What are you going to do with me?’ she asked.

‘I know what I would like to do,’ he said, running his hands freely over her body and making her recoil. ‘But other work preoccupies me tonight. However, I will be back. You will not be alone. My friend will look after you. Guard you. Feed you. Fetch a chamber-pot when it is needed.’ Anne convulsed with shame at the very notion. ‘I am sure that you will both have a happy night together. I am sorry that I shall not be here to share in it.’ He sniggered into her face. ‘Yes, I can see why Nicholas Bracewell is so eager to have you back. He is a man of taste.’

‘Why do you hate him so?’

‘He got in my way.’

‘Nicholas was only a courier.’

‘He should take more care which messages he carries.’

‘He did not even know what this message was.’

‘That is his misfortune.’

‘Spare him!’ she pleaded.

‘I could never do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I have a score to settle with him,’ said the man. ‘Nobody obstructs me so and then walks free. Your beloved Nicholas made me change my plans. I will chastise him roundly for it before I make him pay full price.’

***

Barnaby Gill had plenty of time to meditate on his findings. When the two of them returned to the Black Eagle, he was waiting for them with twitching impatience. Westfield’s Men reacted with surprise at the sight of the blood-stained bandage around Nicholas’s head, but in his excitement, Gill did not even notice it. He leaped up from his seat to accost Firethorn and the book-holder.

‘I must speak with you both,’ he insisted.

‘Another time, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn dismissively. ‘We have other things on our mind.’

‘This will brook no delay.’

‘I have already told you. We are not going to indulge you again. I refuse to play Cupid’s Folly just to satisfy your vanity. Enough is enough.’

‘It is nothing to do with that, Lawrence.’

‘Then why do you ambush me like this?’

‘To tell you about my visit to the Týn Church.’

‘Why should we have the slight interest in that?’

‘Because of what I learned about Hugo Usselincx.’

Firethorn was about to wave him away but Nicholas sensed that Gill had something of consequence to say. It was so unlike the latter to consort with his fellows in the same inn that there had to be a sound reason why he was even still at the Black Eagle. Nicholas motioned both men to an empty table and they settled down on the benches.

‘Well?’ he prompted.

‘Earlier this evening,’ said Gill in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘finding the atmosphere in here too stuffy, and the companionship too dull, I decided to view some of the sights on the other side of the river.’

‘Spare us the excuses, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn cynically. ‘We know why you went and what you hoped to find.’

‘I was in the Town Square when I met Hugo Usselincx. He was still full of admiration for my performance as Rigormortis in Cupid’s Folly.’

‘That accursed play again! I knew it.’

‘Meeting him was no surprise,’ commented Nicholas. ‘Hugo Usselincx is the organist at the Týn Church, which is nearby.’

‘But that is the point, Nicholas,’ said Gill. ‘He is not.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I went to the church and ventured in. There is scaffolding up and a deal of rebuilding is taking place. One of the things they are putting in is a new organ.’

‘But Master Usselincx told us in Frankfurt that he had to hasten here in order to take up his duties. Perchance he was expecting to play this new organ.’

‘It will not be ready for a week or more. I took the trouble to ask. Besides, the church already has a resident organist. He has been in the office for a number of years.’

‘What of Hugo Usselincx?’ wondered Firethorn.

‘They had never heard of him.’

There was a pause as the two men absorbed the impact of the news. Nicholas was first to see how valuable a piece of intelligence it was.

‘You have done well, Master Gill,’ he said, as his mind raced ahead. ‘This explains much. He was always too ready to befriend us and to find out the innermost workings of the company. I begin to suspect why.’

‘One moment,’ said Firethorn. ‘If Hugo had nothing to do with the Týn Church, why was he in its vicinity?’

‘My guess is that he may have a lodging nearby. That might explain why he was there earlier.’ He indicated the bandage. ‘When he or his accomplice was responsible for this.’

Gill blanched. ‘What happened, Nicholas?’ he said, seeing the wound for the first time. ‘Were you assaulted?’

‘Close by the Týn Church.’

‘Why?’

‘I am only now beginning to understand that.’

‘That two-faced Dutchman!’ exclaimed Firethorn.

‘We have no proof that he is Dutch. That is merely what he wanted us to believe. Supposing,’ said Nicholas, remembering the voyage on the Peppercorn, ‘that he is a German who can speak Dutch. We could tell no difference between the accents. Hugo Usselincx-I doubt that is his real name-gulled us all. There is only one reason he could wish to do that.’

‘The rogue! Let’s go hunt the villain down.’

‘Where?’

‘We begin at the Týn Church.’

‘No, Lawrence,’ said Gill, ‘that is the one place he will not be. Besides, night has fallen. We cannot search for anyone in the dark. It will have to wait until morning.’

‘I will not leave Anne in peril a moment longer than I have to,’ vowed Nicholas. ‘We may not be able to find Hugo Usselincx-whoever he is-but his accomplice could be a different proposition.’

‘You have found the man?’

‘Not yet, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘But we will.’

Nicholas rose to leave. ‘Pray excuse me.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to the castle.’

‘But we have only just come from there, Nick.’

‘No matter,’ said Nicholas. ‘We twice met Hugo in the courtyard of the castle. The stone which struck me down was from the castle fortifications. The man who has shed most light on this business is in the castle dungeon. That is where the answer lies,’ he concluded. ‘And that is where Anne may be held.’

***

Rudolph knelt alone at the altar rail in the Cathedral of Saint Vitus. In the soaring majesty of the vast edifice, he was a tiny and insubstantial figure. It was symbolic, he felt, of his relation to his Empire. He was dwarfed by religion. Unlike the cathedral, the colossal structure that was his Empire was in danger of crashing down about his ears. Too many rivals’ hands had helped to build it. The Pope had laid the foundation stone, but Huss, Luther, Calvin, the Ultraquists, the Bohemian Brethren and others had been involved. Its pillars were unsteady, its massive roof too heavy and its services too controversial.

The Empire was a travesty of its original design. Its constituent materials clashed, its proportions were distorted and it rested on shifting sands. It was architecture without artistic merit or common purpose.

Rudolph quailed in its shadow. Having received absolution, he did not feel absolved. Having bared his soul, he had no sense of being cleansed. Prayers circled endlessly inside his febrile mind but they could find no way up to God. After an hour on his knees, an hour of pain, humility and penance, he was still unable to connect with his Maker.

The priest eventually walked over to him. Fearing the Emperor had either gone to sleep or been taken ill, he put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Words finally forced their way out of his tormented mind.

‘I know that I am dead and damned,’ confessed the Holy Roman Emperor. ‘I am a man possessed by the devil.’

***

‘No, no!’ he protested vehemently. ‘I refuse to believe it.’

‘At least, consider the possibility,’ said Nicholas.

‘There is no need. Caspar has been like a son to me.’

‘Sons have been known to rebel against their fathers.’

‘Not him. He is the epitome of loyalty.’

Doctor Talbot Royden was studying one of his books when the visitor descended on him and the heavy tome still lay open across his knees. Surprised to see Nicholas Bracewell for a second time, he was even more astonished by the proposition that had been put to him.

‘I would stake my life on Caspar Hilliard,’ he affirmed.

‘That is exactly what you have done.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘Look where you have ended up,’ said Nicholas, gesturing at the cell. ‘Entombed down here. Is this not a kind of death?’

‘Worse than that.’

‘And who was responsible for your imprisonment?’

‘Emperor Rudolph.’

‘The blame is not entirely his. He could not have had you arrested without cause. And you told us what that cause was.’

‘We failed.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we ran short of time.’

‘Could there not be another reason, Doctor Royden?’

‘Another?’

‘Base metal into gold,’ said Nicholas. ‘You would not have promised the Emperor such a wonder unless you knew that it was within your compass. You had been conducting experiments for years.’

‘We had,’ admitted the other, ‘and we finally achieved success. There are twelve stages in the alchemical process. The first six are devoted to the making of the white stone. That involves calcination, dissolution, conjunction, putrefaction and forms of distillation I may not disclose.’

‘What of the other six stages?’

‘That is where science and magic go hand in hand.’

‘In what way?’

‘They are designed to turn the white into the red stone. The true philosophers’ stone, Master Bracewell. And we did it.’ He referred to his book. ‘It is all here. The two final stages of the process are the crucial ones. The augmentation of the elixir and the projection or transmutation of the base metal by casting the powder of the philosophers’ stone.’ His eyes glinted. ‘And we did it. Caspar and I actually did it.’

‘When?’

‘A month ago,’ said Royden, aflame with the memory. ‘We created the philosophers’ stone. It transformed heated mercury into gold. Only a minute amount, it is true. But it was a triumph. Caspar deserves his share of the credit for it.’

‘Should he then not also take his share of the blame?’

‘For what?’

‘Your failure.’

‘It would simply not come right somehow.’

‘Who devised the process?’

‘I did.’

‘Who was in charge of the work?’

‘I was!’ said Royden defensively.

‘Who heated the furnace?’

‘Caspar did.’

‘Who provided the materials?’

‘Caspar did.’

‘Who made notes of each of the twelve stages?’

There was a long pause. ‘Caspar did.’

Nicholas waited while the alchemist finally came to accept that his assistant might not have been as blindly loyal as he appeared. Instrumental in the successful experiment, Caspar had also occupied a key role in the failed one. Royden was so profoundly shaken that he could not even speak for a moment.

‘You have been betrayed, Doctor Royden,’ said Nicholas softly. ‘By the one person whom you would never suspect. The only one in a position to discredit his master.’

‘But why? Why? Caspar loved me.’

‘He loves something else more and that made him act with such calculation. He knew that the Emperor would turn on you if you failed and he made sure that you did. With what result? Caspar still has his liberty. You do not.’

Royden was perturbed. ‘He wanted me imprisoned?’

‘He contrived it.’

‘But I was his master!’

‘His true allegiance is to the Pope,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Caspar Hilliard was set on you deliberately. Under the guise of being your assistant, he was able to divine your other activities. He is the one who intercepted your letters and identified your agents. It is at his feet that the deaths of your spies must be laid.’

‘So young and yet so callous?’

‘His task was to destroy you. That argues how effective you must have been here in Prague. Intelligence sent back to London by you led to the arrest of Catholic spies and no doubt saved Her Majesty from falling victim to a conspiracy. Doctor Talbot Royden, the alchemist, was ruined in order to render him useless as an intelligencer.’

Royden slumped back against the wall and the book slipped off his lap. The betrayal left him paralysed.

‘How did you guess?’ he croaked.

‘A number of things came together,’ explained Nicholas. ‘He offered to deliver any message I had for you. At first I thought him helpful, but he was only trying to relieve me of the documents I had brought. How did he know that I had them? Only Master Firethorn and I knew of their existence.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘We two and Mistress Hendrik.’

‘What else drew you to suspect Caspar?’

‘A remark he made about you. When I pressed him on the subject of your relationship with Doctor Mordrake, he grew evasive. He told me that he was your assistant and not your father-confessor. The phrase slipped out,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think we know why.’

‘Caspar is a covert Jesuit.’

‘Working on behalf of Rome. That was another clue. He told me that he had studied medicine at Padua.’

‘One of the finest universities for the subject.’

‘What else was he taught there?’

‘How to cheat a credulous fool like me,’ groaned Royden.

‘How to win his way into your affections.’

‘Caspar was so conscientious and sincere.’

‘He was well-trained in the arts of spying. One more thing,’ added Nicholas. ‘When Caspar could not get the documents from me by deceit, they abducted Mistress Hendrik to force my hand. You see this wound? I was struck down with one of the loose stones from the castle rampart. That pointed to a culprit here.’

‘Caspar Hilliard!’

‘Do you believe me now, sir?’

‘I do, indeed!’ yelled Royden, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Let me at the traitor! I’ll murder him for what he has done!’

‘You are trapped down here,’ said Nicholas, restraining him. ‘This is work for me. I, too, have a personal stake in this. Caspar will not go unpunished, I assure you. What I need from you, Doctor Royden, is your help.’

‘Help? What help can I give?’

‘The key to the laboratory.’

‘Caspar has it.’

‘There is no duplicate?’

‘None.’

‘Could the door be easily forced?’

‘No,’ said Royden. ‘It has been strengthened. The laboratory contains things of great value. They need to be protected. A battering ram would be needed on that door.’

‘Is there no other way in?’

‘Not without that key.’

‘Think hard, sir,’ urged Nicholas. ‘If that key were lost, if you and Caspar were locked out and had somehow to get back into the room-how would you do it?’

Royden ran a pensive hand through his spiky hair.

‘There is one way, I suppose. But only a brave man would even attempt it. A very brave and very foolish man.’

***

His silence was disconcerting. In its own way, it was as frightening as the other’s speech. Anne Hendrik knew that her captor was in the room but she could not draw a single word out of him. He had given her food and left the gag off her mouth. Was he himself eating? Was he close? Was he at the far end of the room? Or was he simply watching her?

‘I know that you’re there,’ she said.

No answer. Was he sitting or standing?

‘Don’t you understand English?’

Still no response. Had he been ordered to say nothing?

‘Where am I?’ she asked. ‘At least, tell me that.’

There was a creaking sound as he shifted his position on a chair. It was barely a yard away. Anne was unsettled by the idea that he was so near to her, then a new thought struck her. The other man had done all the talking. His accomplice had been careful not to speak to her directly. The conversation between the two men had taken place some distance away, so that she could not hear him properly. There was a reason for that.

‘Do I know you?’ she challenged.

Words at last came but they were not from him.

‘What ho! Within there!’

It was the voice of Lawrence Firethorn, accompanied by a banging on the door. Before she could cry out, the gag was back in place, tied tighter than ever. Firethorn knocked harder.

‘We need your help, sir! Are you there?’

She heard him walk down the room towards the door. There was a third shout from Firethorn, then he seemed to give up. A full minute passed before the door was unlocked, opened and locked again from the outside. Anne was in despair. Help had been within reach and she had been unable to call for it. She struggled hard against her bonds, but the ropes were too secure. A scraping sound drifted into her ear. She stopped to listen. It was coming from outside the room and getting closer.

***

Nicholas Bracewell had borrowed the rope from one of the ostlers in the castle stables. The bribe had been too generous for the man to refuse. Up on the roof of the palace, Nicholas tied one end to the pole which bore the Bohemian flag and let the rest of the rope hang down the front of the building. He was at the highest point in the city. A fall would mean certain death, but he did not hesitate. Taking the rope in both hands and pushing himself out with his feet, he began the perilous descent.

The secret, he knew, was not to look down. Three years at sea with Drake had taught him how to swarm up the rigging and stay aloft even in bad weather. There was no swell to contend with here, no rocking movement of the mast to make a climb more hazardous. At the same time, he realised, there was no sea to break his fall if he was hurled off, no swirling waves from which he could be retrieved by helpful shipmates. As he inched his way down the front of the building, there was no margin for error. Darkness was an enemy.

When his foot slipped, he was left dangling in mid-air for a few moments and had to adjust his position quickly. Sweat broke out on his brow and his weight began to tax his muscles. The slow descent continued. As befitted a man who, among many other things, was a skilled mathematician, Royden’s instructions had been extremely precise. He had told Nicholas where to tie the rope and exactly how far down the window of the laboratory would be. After hanging in space for what seemed like an age, the climber was relieved when one foot made contact with the sill. It allowed him to pause, to rest, to take stock.

Reaching the window was only half of the battle. He still had to gain entry. The shutters were locked firmly from the inside. With both feet on the sill, Nicholas kept one hand on the rope and used the other to take out the dagger which had been lent to him by Firethorn. Its blade was long and thin but it could still not be inserted between the shutters to flick up the catch. There was only one means of entry and that was by brute force.

Nicholas slipped the dagger back into his sheath and took a firm grip on the rope with both hands. Then he pushed himself off and swung away from the building. For a split second, he was suspended in the middle of a black void, then he swung back towards the window and kicked hard at the moment of impact. The catch broke, the shutters burst open and he was into the laboratory in a flash. Candle-light illumined the captive.

‘Anne!’ he exclaimed.

She wriggled in her chair and made what sound she could.

Nicholas moved quickly. Checking that they were alone, he raced across to embrace her before tearing off the blindfold and the gag. His dagger started to cut through her bonds.

‘Thank God!’ she said through tears of relief.

‘Have they harmed you?’

‘Only by taking me away from you. Where am I?’

‘In Doctor Royden’s laboratory.’

‘Why here?’ she said, looking around.

‘I will explain later,’ he said, slicing through the ropes around her ankles. ‘There-you are free.’

Anne tried to stand but almost keeled over. Nicholas held her in his arms, then lowered her gently back into the chair. He looked furtively around.

‘How many of them are there?’ he asked.

‘Two. One was left to guard me.’

‘Caspar Hilliard.’

‘That young man we met?’ she said in disbelief.

‘I fear so, Anne.’

‘But he was so pleasant and helpful when he met us.’

‘What better way to throw suspicion away from himself?’

‘The other man is German,’ she said. ‘I recognised his voice. It was the one I overheard on the Peppercorn.’

‘Let us worry about Caspar first,’ said Nicholas, as he moved to the door. ‘He will be back soon. Lawrence Firethorn was to distract him while I found a way in. He will not be able to keep him away for long.’

Even as he spoke, they heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Waving Anne away, Nicholas darted across to the door and stood behind it. Caspar came in and gaped when he saw the open shutters. Nicholas was on him at once, grabbing him by the shoulders to run him across the room and dash him against the opposite wall. All the breath was knocked out of him. Before he knew what was happening, the young assistant was turned around and flung down on his back. Nicholas pinned him to the floor and held a dagger at his throat.

‘Remember me?’ he asked.

***

Even the joy of knowledge could not hold him. Books which had offered Talbot Royden an escape for his mind were now cast aside. He paced his cell in a frenzy. The visit from Nicholas Bracewell had opened his eyes to the full horror of his position. Caspar Hilliard, his trusted assistant, had betrayed him in every way. As a man, as a Protestant agent, and as an alchemist, he had been the victim of calculated treachery. The assistant whom he had loved and schooled had ruined him. Royden had lost his position at Court and his reputation. If the Emperor became more vengeful, worse might follow.

He threw himself at the iron bars in the door and tried to shake them, but he was far too puny. His energy was soon spent. He flung himself to the floor in despair, but even that worked against him. As he hit the straw with a thud, the sudden displacement of air made two white feathers rise up and float teasingly. Royden saw them out of the corner of his eye and groaned. Even in a dungeon, he was not safe from Doctor John Mordrake.

An explosion of noise brought him to his feet again. A door opened above, voices were raised, many feet descended. This was no social visit. When he heard chains clank, he feared the worst. Rudolph had ordered his execution. The prisoner would be fettered and dragged off to meet his fate. Royden buried his face in his hands and awaited damnation. When the door of his cell was unlocked, he began praying furiously. But the touch on his arm was light and courteous.

‘Come this way,’ said Nicholas, ‘you are released.’

‘Released?’ Royden lowered his hands. ‘Can this be so?’

‘You are set free and exonerated.’

‘By whose order?’

‘That of the Emperor.’

‘But he put me in here in the first place.’

‘He repents of that folly,’ said Nicholas. ‘Besides, the cell is needed for another occupant.’

Nicholas gathered up his books for him, then led him out. When Royden saw who would replace him in the cell, his anger returned. Caspar Hilliard was manacled and held between two soldiers. Before his former master could attack him, he was hurled into the cell and the door was slammed behind him. Royden yelled at him through the bars until his throat was hoarse. He turned to Nicholas for enlightenment.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘I found a way into your laboratory.’

***

The marriage between Conrad of Brunswick and Sophia Magdalena of Jankau was an event of great diplomatic and religious significance. Eminent guests converged on Prague from every part of the Empire. Archdukes and dukes, electors and princes, margraves and landgraves, archbishops, bishops and counts would be there to witness what Rudolph hoped would be part of a healing process in his ailing dominions. Protestant and Catholic were to be joined together in holy matrimony.

Such an important ceremony could not be improvised. Careful rehearsal was needed. On the eve of the wedding, therefore, the couple went into the cathedral to be instructed in how they should conduct themselves during the long and complicated service. The couple harboured no illusions. Theirs was not a love match. They were marrying out of duty and expediency. They had met only once before. Conrad marvelled at her beauty and Sophia Magdalena was impressed by his forthrightness, but neither sought the other as a partner throughout life. Obedience was all. For the good of the Empire, they were doing what they were told.

As they entered the Cathedral of Saint Vitus, their footsteps echoed in the cavernous interior. Sepulchral music played. Apart from the Archbishop, the organist and the two monks who attended the couple, the bride and bridegroom were alone. They neither touched nor looked at each other. Conrad wore his finery with great poise but Sophia Magdalena was not in her wedding gown. That would be saved until the morrow. She was dressed in blue for the rehearsal, with the veil shielding her face from her future husband.

They had come in through the Golden Gate, the main entrance to the cathedral, walking beneath the mosaic which depicted the Last Judgement. Ahead of them was the organ, a massive structure whose pipes cascaded down from above like a waterfall and whose sonorous notes reverberated around the entire building. Bent over his instrument, with his back to them, the organist coaxed deeper notes still to mark their arrival.

They turned right and paused at the entry to the chancel. The monks took up their position several paces behind them. There was no hurry. Dignity and ostentation went side by side. A slow procession would enable all to see and savour. Far ahead of them, the Archbishop waited at the steps of the main altar in his cope and mitre. On the following day, Sophia Magdalena would be led to the altar rail on the arm of the Emperor, but he was absent from the rehearsal. Conrad was allowed the privilege of walking beside his future bride to the archbishop.

The music stopped and there was dead silence. When the couple began to walk off again, Hugo Usselincx slipped gently off the organist’s stool and glided up to the bridegroom. When he took him by the sleeve, it seemed as if the organist was about to offer a word of congratulation, but a dagger was now in the palm of his other hand. He struck quickly.

Nicholas Bracewell was ready for him. Garbed as Conrad of Brunswick, he had walked with the measured tread of a nobleman. He now burst into life. He grabbed his attacker’s wrist and twisted with such power that the knife fell from Usselincx’s grasp. Nicholas punched him hard but took some solid blows himself. As they grappled, Usselincx tried everything to dislodge him. He kicked, spat, bit at Nicholas’s cheek and went for his eye with a thumb. The frenetic scuffle turned the cathedral into a gigantic echo chamber.

Usselincx was a strong and experienced fighter, but Nicholas burned with a deeper passion. He remembered the murder of Adrian Smallwood and the abduction of Anne Hendrik. Those memories put extra power in his muscles and greater determination in his mind. When Usselincx finally began to tire, Nicholas had a surge of energy, lifting him bodily into the air above his head and spinning around several times before hurling him to the marble floor. Usselincx was dazed by the force of the impact.

By the time he began to recover, he found himself surrounded by four drawn swords. Owen Elias and James Ingram had shed their monastic habits, and Archbishop Lawrence Firethorn had joined them to produce a weapon from beneath his cope. Nicholas had also drawn a sword. Even Richard Honeydew-in a dress borrowed from Sophia Magdalena-was armed. His trembling hand held a poniard.

Firethorn stood over the cringing figure and gloated.

‘You praised Westfield’s Men so much,’ he said, ‘that we decided to give you a private performance. It will be something for you to think about on your way to your execution.’

‘How ever did you know?’ hissed Usselincx.

‘From your hostage,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mistress Hendrik was blindfolded and gagged, but you did not stop her ears. She understands German. When you talked with Caspar Hilliard, she heard enough to know that a plot was being hatched. We guessed the rest.’

‘Yes,’ added Firethorn, ‘your sense of theatre gave you away, Hugo. We knew that you would strike during the wedding. Since escape would have been more difficult at the actual ceremony, it had to be during the rehearsal.’

Usselincx sat up and grinned. Without irony, he started to clap his hands. It had been a convincing performance. Intent on playing his own role as the organist, he had not had time to look closely at the principals in the tableau. They had made him show his hand and caught him. He got up on one knee.

‘What is your real name?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Christian Dorsch.’

‘We can see why you changed it,’ said Elias. ‘Murder sits ill with a name like Christian.’

‘I have several names,’ boasted the other. ‘Usselincx has been useful before and, as you see, I can play the organ.’ He looked around. ‘Well done, gentlemen. A fine performance. I own myself privileged to have had a play written for me by so famous a company.’

He began to chuckle, then put his head back to laugh his fill. Nicholas was not fooled. Without warning, the prisoner suddenly produced another dagger from under his surplice and lunged at the book-holder. The latter moved even swifter and raised his swordpoint at precisely the right moment. His adversary’s surge was his own downfall. Impaled on the weapon, he could only scream in agony and squirm impotently. When Nicholas extracted the sword with a decisive pull, the German fell dead at his feet.

Richard Honeydew burst into tears at the shock. Firethorn took the boy in his arms to comfort him. He looked across at Nicholas’s resplendent attire.

‘Next time,’ he said. ‘I will play Conrad of Brunswick. It is the only way I will marry my fair maid of Bohemia.’

Restored to favour and clad in a new gown, Doctor Talbot Royden was permitted to attend the wedding after all. He had a seat at the very rear of the cathedral and could see nothing of the ceremony itself, but that did not matter. He was there. Honour had been satisfied. When the organ swelled in celebration and the couple came down the aisle as man and wife, Royden got only the merest glimpse of them, but it was enough for him to make his prediction about their marriage.

Floating on the wishes of the Emperor and the goodwill of the congregation, Conrad of Brunswick and Sophia Magdalena of Jankau were filled with happiness and optimism at that moment. Royden wished that he could share it. But his work as an agent had given him too close an insight into the lethal religious undercurrents in the Empire. Rudolph had contrived to wed a handsome Protestant with a beautiful Bohemian maid, but it would achieve little in the way of permanent reconciliation. A man who had alternately ignored or exacerbated the schism in the Empire could not really hope that a two-hour ceremony in the Cathedral of Saint Vitus would solve the problem.

During the magnificent banquet in the Vladislav Hall, Royden kept his cynical reservations to himself. The Emperor was beaming, Sophia Magdalena was an angel in white and her husband was lovingly attentive. Rich wine and plentiful beer achieved a temporary amity between Protestant and Catholic. Every stage of the endless repast was accompanied by some kind of entertainment. Singers, dancers, musicians, tumblers, clowns, performing animals and conjurers were brought in to delight and divert. The portrait of the Emperor as a selection of fruit was borne aloft proudly by its artist. Royden at last understood the meaning of the fruit basket sent to his cell.

Westfield’s Men were given pride of place. Saved until the evening, when the celebrations were at their height, they were given a standing ovation as soon as they were announced. Without the bravery of the theatre troupe, there would have been no banquet. Westfield’s Men had foiled an assassination attempt on Conrad of Brunswick, designed to rescue Sophia Magdalena from marrying into a Protestant family. She had unwittingly become a symbol of Catholic defiance. Had the bridegroom been murdered during the rehearsal for the wedding, the consequences would have been hideous. The guests preferred not to contemplate them. Disaster averted, they now wanted to put it behind them, but they had not forgotten that Westfield’s Men were their saviours.

The Fair Maid of Bohemia was given its debut in the largest secular hall in Prague. Its size intimidated some of the company, who feared that their voices would not be heard. Built at the end of the previous century, the Vladislav Hall had the most remarkable ceiling they had ever seen. Its reticulated stellar vaulting covered a huge expanse, yet had no supporting pillars. Some of the actors could not understand how the ceiling stayed in position.

‘It is a miracle,’ said George Dart, gazing up.

‘So is our play,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘Edmund has written while we travelled across Germany in our wagons. Yet it holds together every bit as well as the ceiling.’

‘Thank you, Nick,’ said Hoode, ‘but you helped me to fashion the piece. Its lustre is partly due to you. We can but hope that Sophia Magdalena will like it.’

‘She will adore the play,’ said Firethorn confidently. ‘And dote on my performance as the Archduke.’

‘What about my role as the jester?’ asked Gill sniffily.

‘An ill-favoured thing, Barnaby, but we’ll endure it.’

‘My comic skills are the joy of this company.’

‘Yes. We never stop laughing at your absurdity.’

‘My Rigormortis in Cupid’s Fool was the shooting star of Frankfurt. Everyone loved it.’

‘None more so than Hugo Usselincx,’ noted Elias with a grin. ‘He has aped your performance and now plays rigor mortis himself.’

The laughter was mixed with groans of distaste. They were in the tiring-house, an ante-chamber off the hall. A high stage had been built up against the door and screened at the rear with curtains. To mount the stage, actors had to skip up five steps. Once there, they held a commanding position over the entire audience. After feasting for the best part of a day, that audience was in the most receptive mood possible.

Nicholas called the actors to order, then gave the signal for the play to begin. The quartet went out to set the mood with music, then Elias swept onto the centre of the stage to deliver a Prologue, which Hoode had kept deliberately short and simple. It began with one of the three German words he had mastered.

‘Willkommen, friends, to our new-minted play,

A humble gift upon this wedding day

To Brunswick’s Conrad and his lovely bride,

Sophia Magdalena, Beauty’s pride.

Our theme today is Happiness restored,

A long-lost child, remembered and adored,

Is on her sixteenth birthday found again

And reunited with her kith and kin.

In Prague’s great city is our action laid,

Prepare to meet Bohemia’s fairest maid.

To help your understanding ere we go,

Our play, its theme, we here present in show.

Elias bowed low and the tidal wave of applause carried him off the stage. When the sound finally faded, the musicians struck up again and the cast came on to perform the play in dumb show. It held the entire hall spellbound.

The Archduke and his wife were seen doting on their baby daughter. The girl is stolen by an unscrupulous lady-in-waiting and sold to childless peasants. Blaming the court jester, the Archduke banishes him and he commits himself to a search for the missing child. Sixteen years pass. She is now a gorgeous girl with a nobility of bearing that marks her out from the peasants. A prince falls in love with her but is forbidden to marry her because of her lowly station. The jester eventually tracks her down, identifies her, reunites her with her parents and is reinstated at Court. The play ends with the marriage of the fair maid and her prince.

Having seen the play in mime, the spectators had no difficulty in following its story in verse. Songs and dances were used in abundance. Eager to find his daughter himself, the Archduke disguises himself as a troubadour and goes among his people for the first time in his life. Firethorn extracted enormous pathos and humour out of his scenes and sang like a born troubadour. Richard Honeydew blossomed as the fair maid, with James Ingram as her handsome prince. Barnaby Gill added yet another mirthful jester to his collection, and Owen Elias displayed his comic touch as a drunken hedge-priest who keeps marrying the wrong people to each other. Edmund Hoode was the kind old peasant who brings up the fair maid as his own.

The rustic simplicity of the narrative enthralled the sophisticated audience. Emperor Rudolph clapped with childlike glee. Conrad of Brunswick laughed heartily and thumped the arm of his chair. Sophia Magdalena was overwhelmed that a play had been written specifically for her and she was in ecstasy throughout. Alone of those present, Doctor Talbot Royden saw the true worth of The Fair Maid of Bohemia, and he applauded the way that Westfield’s Men had taken the base metal of their drama and turned it into pure gold. They were the true alchemists.

Vladislav Hall echoed with cheers when the actors came out to take their bows. Firethorn and his company were exultant. All their setbacks and sufferings melted away in the heat of the acclamation. They had entertained an Emperor and his Court. Westfield’s Men had reached a new peak of achievement in their erratic history. During two magical hours on stage, their love for Sophia Magdalena, the fair maid of Bohemia, had been gloriously consummated.

***

The remainder of their stay in Prague was an uninterrupted idyll. They rehearsed every morning, performed at Court every afternoon and caroused every evening. Their work was revered and their purses were filled. They knew that it could not last and, in their hearts, they did not wish it to do so. The more admired they were in Prague, the more homesick they became for London. The more they played at their lavish indoor theatre, the more they yearned for the shortcomings of the Queen’s Head. They even began to miss Alexander Marwood.

Handsome offers flooded in from distinguished guests. They were invited to perform at the respective courts of the Elector Palatine, the Elector of Saxony, the Elector of Brandenburg, the Duke of Stettin, the Duke of Wolgast, the Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel, the Landgrave of Hesse-Darmstadt and even that of the King of Poland. All were reluctantly turned down, though the company promised to return at some future date to take up the invitations.

On their journey home, the only place at which they consented to play was at the court of the Duke of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel in the presence of the newlyweds. At the request of Sophia Magdalena, they agreed to give a second performance of The Fair Maid of Bohemia in the city which would become her home. The company would then make their way to London, pausing at Flushing on the way to pay their last respects to Adrian Smallwood.

‘We have one consolation,’ noted Elias. ‘Adrian’s killer also lies in his grave now. Thanks to you, Nick.’

‘You played your part as a monk, Owen.’

‘What about my Archbishop?’ reminded Firethorn. ‘I gave off the authentic odour of sanctity in that cathedral.’

‘That was the incense, Lawrence,’ teased Hoode.

They were outside the Black Eagle, loading up the wagons for departure. Doctor Talbot Royden was to ride part of the way with them. His pack-mule was laden with his books and equipment. Nicholas strolled across to him for a private word.

‘Are you leaving Prague with any regrets?’ he asked.

‘Several,’ said the other. ‘But my work is done here and it is time to move on. I need to get well away from memories of Caspar Hilliard and his Popish conspiracy.’

‘Why will you not travel all the way to London with us?’

‘Because of John Mordrake.’

‘Do you fear him so?’

‘I do not fear him at all, Master Bracewell. But I am in terror of his wife.’

‘His wife?’

‘Yes,’ confessed Royden. ‘After all the services you have rendered me, you deserve to know the hideous truth. Do you recall those two white feathers?’

‘Very well. What did they signify?’

‘Unwanted fatherhood.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘Almost a year ago, I returned to London and stayed with John Mordrake and his wife in Knightrider Street. Mordrake is old, his wife is young. My flesh was weak. I told them I had received an injunction from the spirit world to lie with the wife if I wished to divine the secret of the philosophers’ stone. The wife resisted, but Mordrake was so eager to learn the secret which all alchemists search for that he compelled her to share their bed with me. A featherbed.’

‘I begin to see the consequence,’ said Nicholas.

‘I possessed her,’ admitted the other, ‘then fled before Mordrake realised that the command from the spirit world had really arisen inside my breeches. That night of madness between the thighs of Sarah Mordrake has returned to haunt me.’

‘She is with child?’

‘Worse, sir. Those two feathers were taken from the bed on which I gave my lust full rein. It was Mordrake’s way of telling me that his wife had given birth.’ He grimaced in pain. ‘Doctor Talbot Royden is the father of twins.’

Nicholas smiled. He could not condone what Royden had done and his sympathy went out to the wife, but he could understand why his companion felt unable to return to London. Exiled from England and driven out of Bohemia, the homeless Royden was doomed to roll around the Continent for the rest of his days.

By contrast, Nicholas had somewhere to go and someone with whom to go there. He clambered up onto the first wagon and took his seat beside Anne Hendrik. She was slowly recovering from her ordeal at the hands of the kidnappers and had more pleasant memories to take away from Bohemia. As the rest of the company climbed aboard the two wagons, she took a last look around the city.

‘I am sorry to leave,’ she sighed, ‘but I will be glad to get home to London.’

‘It will seem a rather quiet place after Prague.’

‘That will suit me, Nick. I am ready for quietness.’

‘I still feel guilty that I brought you here.’

‘But you did not,’ she pointed out. ‘I made the decision to come. So I must bear some of the blame for what happened. I should not have inflicted myself on Westfield’s Men.’

‘You were our inspiration, Anne.’

‘No, that role fell to Sophia Magdalena. She brought you here, not me. Tell me, Nick,’ she said with a teasing smile. ‘What did you really think of her? Everyone else in the company fell madly in love with her. What of you? What is your true opinion of the fair maid of Bohemia?’

Nicholas grinned and gave her an affectionate squeeze.

‘I am taking you home with me,’ he said.