The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Two

At his death, Jacob Hendrik bequeathed his English wife far more than just a house in Bankside and a thriving hat-making business. Anne also inherited her husband’s belief in the dignity of work and his readiness to fight hard against any adversity. Whenever she recalled how a Dutch immigrant had prospered in a country whose language he did not at first understand and whose trade guilds had ruthlessly excluded him and his kind, Anne Hendrik was filled with admiration for his tenacity and dedication.

There was another bonus. While she had been helping to improve his command of English, he had been teaching her Dutch, and-since she showed an aptitude for languages-he had schooled her in German as well, a tongue he had himself mastered in Holland for commercial purposes. A happy marriage had been a constant education for both partners. The attractive teen-age girl who had fallen in love with Jacob Hendrik was now a handsome widow in her early thirties with moderate wealth and an independent streak that set her completely apart from her female friends and neighbours.

Anne was able to keep her Dutch in excellent repair by conversing with her employees. Preben van Loew, the veteran hat-maker, was always delighted to slip back into his native tongue. Old and emaciated, he still retained his superlative skills at his craft. When Anne stepped out of her house and into the adjoining premises where her employees worked, she found Preben bent over his latest commission, a woman’s hat with a tall, elegant crown. After greeting them all in English, she spoke to the senior man in Dutch.

‘Could you spare me a few minutes, please?’

‘Of course,’ he said, putting his work aside and rising at once from his stool. ‘What is the problem?’

‘It is a private matter, Preben. Follow me.’

The sadness in her voice and the shadow across her face were bad omens. After a glance at his colleagues, he padded obediently behind her until they reached the parlour of her house. Anne closed the door behind them, then took a letter from the little table.

‘This came this morning from Amsterdam,’ she said.

‘Bad news?’

‘I fear so, Preben. My father-in-law is dying.’

‘Frans!’ he said with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Dear old Frans Hendrik! Tell me this is not true.’

‘If only I could!’

‘Frans is as strong as a horse. He will live forever.’

‘Not according to his brother. He writes to tell me that it is only a matter of weeks. Here,’ she said, offering the missive to him. ‘Read it for yourself. As you will see, Jan asks that I show you the letter because you knew my father-in-law so well.’

‘I knew the whole family,’ said Preben fondly. ‘Frans Hendrik, his poor wife-God bless her! — his brothers, Jan and Pieter, and his children. Jacob, your late husband and my good friend, best of all. Know the Hendrik family? I was part of it, Anne.’ He began to sway unsteadily. ‘They were the kindest people in the world.’

‘I learned that for myself,’ said Anne, taking him gently by the arm to guide him to a seat. ‘Rest there a moment. When you have got over the shock, read the tidings for yourself.’

The old man gave a nod of gratitude and buried his face in his hands. Memories flooded back into his mind and it was a long time before he was able to shake them off. He made an effort to brace himself, then held out his hand. Tributaries were soon trickling down from his already moist eyes as he read the letter, but it was not only the imminent death of Frans Hendrik which prompted them. Preben van Loew was being forcibly reminded of the loneliness of exile. Cut off from his native country, he was reading words in his own language about friends he had been forced to leave behind.

Anne felt a surge of sympathy for him. He was clearly torn between grief and helplessness, shocked by the impending loss of someone he loved, yet powerless even to pay his last respects before Frans Hendrik slipped out of the world. Relieving him of the letter, she glanced through it again herself.

‘I must go,’ she decided.

‘Jan does not ask you to do so.’

‘Not in so many words, Preben, but it is there between the lines. It is my only chance to see my father-in-law again and I must take it. When Jacob died, the whole family came to England to comfort me even though the cost of the visit was crippling. For my husband’s sake-and because I love his father as if he were my own-I must find a way to get to Amsterdam.’

‘Would that I could go with you!’

‘Your place is here, looking after the business.’

‘Carrying on the Hendrik tradition.’

‘Nobody could do it better.’

He gave a faint smile. ‘It is an honour,’ he whispered. Then a thought struck him. ‘I must make contact somehow. I will write to Frans. Let him know that he is in my thoughts. Will you carry my letter to him, please?’

‘Willingly.’

‘When will you go?’

‘I need to discuss it with Nicholas first.’

‘Ah, yes!’

‘He is the sailor among us,’ reminded Anne. ‘Nick will tell me all that is needful. And it is reassuring to know that while you see to the making of hats, he will be here to mind the house itself.’

Nicholas Bracewell had come to lodge in the house again, but the old Dutchman knew that he was much more than just a paying guest. Anne and the book-holder were close friends and occasional lovers. After a long period apart, they had finally drifted together again, and nobody had been more pleased by that development than Preben van Loew. He could see what each gave to the other. The household had a buoyant feel to it once more and it rubbed off on the employees in the adjacent building.

There was, however, one serious danger in the wind.

‘How long will Nicholas be able to remain?’ he asked.

‘As long as he wishes.’

‘He would wish to stay forever, I am sure, but that decision may be taken out of his hands.’

‘In what way?’

A forlorn shrug. ‘Plague deaths mount every day. If the disease continues to spread so fast, it is only a question of time before they close all the theatres. Where will Nicholas go then? He can hardly stay here in Bankside with no occupation. Westfield’s Men may have to leave London in order to find work, and they will certainly take their book-holder with them.’

‘That is true,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘He has already warned me that the Queen’s Head may not open its doors to them for much longer. The plague is one of the hazards of a profession that has more than enough to contend with already.’ She made an effort to brighten. ‘But the disease may yet loosen its hold, as it has done in the past. Nick may be able to stay in the city. Even if he does not, I will still travel to Amsterdam. It is a call that I cannot refuse.’

‘A thousand pities you cannot take Nicholas with you!’

‘It is not his place to be there,’ she corrected gently. ‘This is a private family matter. Besides, Nick has problems enough of his own. If a plague order is signed, Westfield’s Men will be in complete disarray. Nick will have to pilot them through some very rough water or they will founder.’

***

The exodus had already begun. There was foul contagion in the air. Nervous aristocrats turned their backs on the joys of Court intrigue and stole quietly away to the safety of their country estates. Worried professional men and anxious merchants removed themselves and their families from the danger area. Others soon followed, and every road out of London became a busy escape route for citizens fleeing in terror from a ruthless and undiscriminating enemy.

Those unable to leave were forced to stay and risk a lonely death. Plague was a hideous bedfellow. With a grim sense of humor, it liked to tickle its victim under the arms and on the feet, leaving marks that were no bigger nor more irritating than flea-bites at first. Except that these bites developed quickly into sores which in turn swelled up into ugly black buboes. Some doctors lanced the buboes to draw the poison out of the body. Others used a warm poultice made of onions, butter, and garlic to perform the same office, or held a live pullet against the plague sores until the poor creature itself died of the venomous poison.

When the victim was beyond help, he or she was abandoned to a grisly fate. Infected houses were sealed and a placard bearing-within a red circle-the words lord have mercy on us was displayed outside. Other inhabitants were condemned to isolation for twenty days or more, their wants being supplied by the wealthier members of the parish. Imprisoned in their own homes, some of the miserable wretches did not dare to climb the stairs to the bedroom to relieve the agony of their dying family member lest they caught the plague themselves. In the largest city in England, victims found themselves left cruelly alone. Even their servants would not answer their summons. Only the grave enfolded them in an embrace.

Adversity converted many back to the Christianity that they had either neglected or renounced in their hearts. Churches were full of eager congregations who knelt on the cold, hard stone to pray for divine intercession against the sweeping menace, but God seemed to be preoccupied with other affairs and in no position to come to their aid. The torment had to be borne. And so it was. As the weather grew warmer, the plague became more virulent and the shallow burial pits were filled with grotesque corpses at an ever-increasing rate. Anguish walked through every ward of the city. Elizabeth might be queen in name but pestilence ruled London.

Plague orders were inevitably signed and many restraints put swiftly in place. Great efforts were made to clean up the stinking thoroughfares of the capital, and the populace was forced to burn or bury its rubbish instead of just casting it out through the door to rot away beneath a pall of buzzing insects. Butchers were compelled to abandon their habit of casually dumping animal entrails and blood in the streets. Barber-surgeons were forbidden to dispose in the same way of any human viscera or limbs, removed from their owners in the heat of crude and often fatal operations, and encouraging packs of mangy dogs to sniff among the gory bones and add their own excrement to the general slime.

Theatres and other places of entertainment were summarily closed to check the possible spread of infection among large assemblies. The Queen’s Head was allowed to continue to function as one of the many capacious inns, but it was no longer the home of a leading dramatic company and thus a popular attraction to which citizens and visitors to London alike could flock six days a week. Westfield’s Men were forcibly ejected and their repertoire cast into the plague pits along with all the other random casualties.

This was no minor epidemic that would burn itself out in a few weeks. The pestilence was evidently set to stay throughout the summer and beyond. Poverty would come hard on the heels of unemployment. Many were doomed to starve. At the Queen’s Head, there was a mood of utter despondency in the taproom. Four men sat on benches around one of the tables.

‘It is a death sentence!’ groaned Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper. ‘My natural span is over and the sexton is ready for my old bones. I have served Westfield’s Men for the last time.’

‘Not so,’ said Nicholas, vainly trying to cheer him. ‘Those sprightly legs of yours have outrun the plague many times before, and so they will again. You are armoured against the disease, Thomas. It has not left a mark upon you.’

‘It has, it has,’ sighed the other. ‘Each outbreak has left the deepest scars on my memory because it has robbed me of my loved ones and my fellows. You are all too young to remember the worst visitation, but it fills my mind whenever the plague begins to stalk once more.’ He wheezed noisily and placed a palm against his chest. ‘In the year of our Lord 1553, I was living here in London when over seventeen thousand of its hapless citizens fell victim. Seventeen thousand! Hardly a street or lane was untouched. The whole city reeked with contagion.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘And you tell me that I outran it. No, my friend. I lost a mother, a father, and two sisters in that terrible year. No man can outrun a nightmare like that.’

George Dart shuddered. ‘Seventeen thousand plague deaths!’

‘This visitation may kill even more.’

‘Then we are all done for!’ wailed Dart.

‘Only if we are foolish enough to stay,’ said Owen Elias. ‘We will quit this infected city and stage our plays in healthier places. Banbury’s Men begin their tour tomorrow.’

‘It is true,’ confirmed Nicholas. ‘Other companies will soon do the same, Westfield’s Men among them. If we are to keep our art in repair and ourselves in employment, we must ride out of London and try our luck in the provinces.’

There was an awkward silence as each man weighed up the implications for himself. Thomas Skillen was close to despair. When the company went on tour, there was no chance that they would take him with them and it might be six months or more before they returned to the capital. What hope had he of surviving the rigors of the plague? Even if he did, how could an old man with no income keep well-fed and warm during the harsh winter that lay ahead?

George Dart had his own quandary. Terrified to be left behind, he feared the consequences of going. When the company went on tour, it cut its number to lower its operating costs and made greater demands on its individual members. The young assistant stagekeeper was routinely pressed to the limit by Westfield’s Men when they performed at the Queen’s Head. On tour, as he knew from experience, he would be burdened with additional duties and taxed with greater responsibilities. Staring into his ale, Dart was beset by a crisis of confidence.

Owen Elias was the least vexed by the notion of travel. A sharer with the company, the resilient Welshman was certain to be included in the touring company and would make the most of the situation, adapting easily to the different audiences and performance conditions they might find in each town and taking his pleasures along the way with his usual jovial lechery. Elias was a born actor and nothing could dampen his enthusiasm for his craft. But he was also a caring man who was very conscious of the prospects faced, respectively, by Thomas Skillen and George Dart. For the sake of his two colleagues, he did not talk excitedly about the compensatory joys of touring because the former would not experience them and they would be a continual ordeal to the latter.

Nicholas Bracewell was quietly resigned. Westfield’s Men faced the stark choice between flight from London and complete extinction. Now that he and Anne Hendrik were happily reunited at last, he hated the idea of having to part from her again and he was all too aware of the fact that it was a previous tour to the West Country which had split them apart and evicted him from his lodging in Bankside. But it was not only personal considerations which saddened Nicholas. Everyone in the company would suffer. Those who embarked in pursuit of the uncertain rewards of a provincial tour would also be tearing themselves away from families and loved ones. Those who were discarded by Westfield’s Men-and it would fall to Nicholas to inform them of their dismissal-were effectively being thrown into penury. Thomas Skillen was among them, and Nicholas knew in his heart that his dear old friend and colleague would begin to wither once his beloved theatre company had left him behind.

Nicholas finished his ale and looked around at the others.

‘We must count our blessings,’ he said softly. ‘Many have already succumbed to the disease. We may have lost our home here; still, we have our health and strength.’

‘How long will that last?’ murmured Skillen.

‘In your case-forever!’ said Elias with a forced smile.

‘I will be lucky to reach the end of the month.’

‘Is there no remedy against the plague?’ asked Dart.

‘None that has yet been found,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘We do not even know whence it comes or why it has been sent.’

Skillen was bitter. ‘Its purpose is all to clear. It is God’s instrument for the punishment of sin. A brutal justice that carries off the innocent as well as the guilty.’

‘You are wrong, Thomas,’ argued Elias. ‘This pestilence is caused by a poison in the air. It strikes hardest when the weather is at its warmest. Heat and contagion have ever been yoke-devils.’

‘Master Gill has another explanation,’ said Dart meekly. ‘He told me that our destiny is written across the heavens in the stars. If we want to know whence the plague arises, we should consult an astrologer.’

‘Go shake your ears!’ exclaimed Elias with scorn. ‘Do not listen to a word that Barnaby tells you. He is just as likely to persuade you that the cure for this disease lies between your boyish buttocks, and he will urge you to unbutton so that he may conduct his search. Stars in the heavens! Ha! There are only two orbs that interest Barnaby Gill, and they lie close to the earth. Every pretty youth has a pair inside his breeches.’

George Dart blushed a deep crimson and Thomas Skillen forgot his misery long enough to emit a loud chortle. Before the Welshman could get into his stride, Nicholas jumped in to take control of the conversation.

‘This is idle speculation,’ he said firmly. ‘The plague is a mystery that has yet to be divined. Some believe you may ward off infection with onions, cloves, lemons, vinegar or wormwood. Others seek a remedy in tobacco, arsenic, quicksilver or even dried toads. In times of distress, people will grasp at any false nostrum that is offered. Every quack and mountebank has his own useless treatment to foist upon desperate victims. This one sells you some lily root boiled in white wine while that one purveys a draught concocted of salad-oil, sack, and gunpowder.’

‘Gunpowder!’ repeated Dart in astonishment.

‘There are worse remedies than that,’ warned Elias.

‘Indeed, there are,’ continued Nicholas. ‘The sovereign cure is one that only the very rich and the very gullible may sample. It is a specific that draws out the poison and provokes a violent sweat in the patient. Its chief ingredient is that rarest commodity-powdered unicorn’s horn.’

‘Is there such a thing?’ gasped Dart.

‘Only if you are ready to believe in it.’

‘Nick is right,’ added Elias. ‘The only true relief from the disease is a compound made from holly leaves, horse dung, and the testicles of a tiger, cooked slowly over the flames from the mouth of a Welsh dragon!’

‘Has that been known to work?’ asked a wide-eyed Dart.

‘Infallibly.’

‘A Welsh dragon?’

‘I saw the wondrous beast myself.’

‘Owen is teasing you,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘Pay no heed to him, George. There is no remedy. Take my word for it.’

‘Someone must have caught the disease and survived.’

‘None that I know of,’ muttered Skillen.

‘Nor I,’ agreed Elias.

The three of them turned to look at a pensive Nicholas.

‘There was one survivor,’ he recalled at length. ‘I have met him myself, so I know it to be true. His name is Doctor John Mordrake and he lives in Knightrider Street. By all accounts, he is a noted physician, philosopher, and alchemist. Doctor ordrake contracted the disease and cured himself.’

‘Impossible!’ announced Skillen.

‘He is living proof to the contrary, Thomas.’

‘How did he do it?’ asked Dart. ‘What was his remedy?’

‘That remains a secret,’ said Nicholas. ‘All I can do is to repeat common report. People who witnessed his miraculous recovery came to the same conclusion. There was only one way that Doctor Mordrake could possibly have done it.’

‘And how was that?’

‘By magic.’

***

Margery Firethorn was one of the most hospitable women in the whole of Shoreditch, but her customary open-armed welcome was tinged with regret when Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode arrived at the house in Old Street. The two were conducted into the parlour with a faint air of reluctance. They understood why and sympathised with her. Margery was not simply inviting some close friends into her home. She was admitting the two men who were-along with Lawrence Firethorn-the principal sharers in Westfield’s Men and therefore responsible for all major decisions affecting the company. They were there to discuss the projected tour of the provinces. The visitors had come to take her husband away from her for an indefinite period.

Waving them to seats, she called for the servant, and a pitcher of wine was brought in on a tray. Margery dismissed the girl with a glance and filled two of the three cups which stood on the table. Gill and Hoode expressed their gratitude before sipping their wine.

‘This is a sad day for us all,’ she began.

‘It is, Margery,’ said Hoode with a sorrowful smile. ‘We are swept from our stage like unwanted dust. London ousts us.’

‘Nobody can oust me,’ boasted Gill, striking a petulant pose. ‘I leave of my own free will. Neither tempest, flood, nor fire will drive me away when I do not wish to go.’

Hoode shrugged. ‘Even you cannot defy the plague, Barnaby.’

‘People are still leaving in droves,’ said Margery. ‘There are wards of the city where the disease is rampant. Shoreditch has so far been spared the worst effects, but we have victims enough here. Would that we could all flee!’

‘I am not fleeing,’ insisted Gill. ‘I merely choose to exercise my right to go.’

‘This is no time to stand on your dignity,’ said Hoode with irritation. ‘Choice does not come into it, Barnaby.’

‘It does for me.’

‘Plague orders compel us to set off on a tour.’

‘They may compel you, Edmund. I am above compulsion.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Simply this,’ said Gill with a lordly sniff. ‘You may be content to drag yourself around England in search of an audience of smelly oafs who cannot even tell the difference between a tragedy and a comedy. But I am not. Why should I demean myself? Why should I suffer the indignity of walking at the cart’s-tail with a ragged band of players?’

‘Ragged band!’ echoed Margery angrily. ‘Do not let Lawrence hear you speak so irreverently of Westfield’s Men, or he will box your ears soundly. Enough of this vanity, sir! You are contracted to play with the company and my husband will ensure that you honour the contract.’

‘Contracts can be revoked.’

‘To what end?’ asked Hoode.

‘The betterment of my reputation.’

Margery hooted with derision. ‘Desert the company and you will have no reputation, Barnaby! You will be branded a traitor by your fellows. Who would deign to employ you then?’

‘More than one discerning patron,’ he snapped. ‘I have already had some tempting offers which would rescue me from the tedium and fatigue of a tour and prove a fitter setting for my genius.’

‘What offers?’ she demanded.

‘I am not prepared to discuss them with you, Margery. This is a matter between the sharers of the company, and I will not divulge anything to those of lowlier station.’

Margery Firethorn bristled. A big, handsome woman with a friendly nature and warm maternalism, she could turn into a creature of snarling ferocity when she was provoked. Hoode intervened before she roared into life.

‘For shame, Barnaby!’ he scolded. ‘Margery is our hostess. How many times have you dined at her table and received the bounty of her welcome? Every decision we make here today affects her directly, and she is entitled to know how it is reached. So let me ask you again-what offers?’

‘I will disclose them in due course.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because Lawrence is not here and I will not waste my words by repeating myself.’ Gill turned to Margery but could not meet her burning gaze. ‘Pray send your husband in.’

‘He will come of his own accord,’ she retorted, ‘and that may not be for some time. Lawrence is not at home.’

‘He must be!’

‘Search the premises, if you do not believe me.’

‘We were brought here for an important meeting.’

‘It will take place in due course.’

‘The time was set,’ said Gill peevishly. ‘We were here upon the stroke of the hour, and so should Lawrence have been. We have vital business in hand. What could possibly keep him away from such a crucial conference?’

‘Lord Westfield.’

Hoode was surprised. ‘He is with our patron?’

‘An urgent summons came earlier this afternoon.’

‘What was its purpose?’

‘I do not know, Edmund. But this I can tell you. Lawrence saddled his horse and was away to Court within a matter of minutes. He paused only long enough to give me instructions. I am to entreat you to wait and to excuse his delay.’

‘It is unpardonable!’ said Gill.

‘Yet it may bring us advantage,’ mused Hoode, groping for some good news on a day bedevilled with bad tidings. ‘Knowing that we must set forth from the city, Lord Westfield may offer us money to sweeten the sourness of our departure and to help us along the way. That must be it! Our patron is putting his hand into his purse.’

‘Then he has borrowed money from Lawrence,’ said Gill waspishly. ‘That is the only reason our esteemed patron would touch his purse. To put something in rather than to take anything out. Lord Westfield’s purse has been empty for many a year, and there are dozens of creditors to vouch for it.’

‘He may have raised capital from other sources.’

‘Only to spend on more wine for his cellar.’

‘There’s hope for us here,’ persisted Hoode. ‘Our patron would not have summoned Lawrence on some trifling matter. He means to lend his support to us at this difficult time.’

‘I refuse to believe it, Edmund. When has Lord Westfield ever offered more to us than the protection of his name and the occasional discarded cloak for our wardrobe? Because we excel at our art, we give him a special lustre at Court, yet he treats us with the disdain he reserves for the rest of his liveried servants.’ Gill shook his head. ‘No. Put away those fond imaginings. Our patron will not help us with this tour.’

‘The matter is of no consequence to you, Barnaby.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you do not intend to stay with the company.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘You did,’ reminded Margery. ‘You said that you could not endure the misery of another tour and that you would consider other offers which you had received.’

‘Tempting offers,’ said Hoode. ‘That is what you called them, and you have clearly been tempted. If you have already sold your soul to another buyer, why bother to come here in the first place? What point is there in discussing a tour in which you have no intention of taking part?’

Margery indicated the door. ‘There is the way out,’ she said. ‘Leave while you may. When Lawrence hears about this treachery, he’ll tear you limb from limb. What greater disgrace is there than abandoning your fellows in their hour of need?’

‘I am not abandoning them,’ denied Gill.

‘You are,’ confirmed Hoode. ‘We both heard you.’

‘Nothing is yet settled.’

‘Even to countenance the possibility is a crime against Westfield’s Men. Put the company first for once.’

‘And waste my talent in front of country bumpkins?’

‘An audience is an audience.’

‘I deserve the best!’

Margery was scathing. ‘If you leave the company now, you deserve to be boiled in oil,’ she said. ‘And I will be happy to stoke up the fire with my own bare hands.’

Barnaby Gill flared up angrily, Margery Firethorn struck back at him, and Edmund Hoode tried in vain to calm them down. The argument was still at its height when they heard the swift approach of a horse. It made Gill freeze and stilled Margery in mid-expletive. Hoode crossed to the window.

‘Lawrence!’ he announced. ‘At last!’

Firethorn brought his mount to a halt, dropped from the saddle and tossed the reins to the servant who came running out of the house. The gallop had put a glow into the actor’s cheeks. His face was streaked with perspiration and his beard flecked with dust. As he crossed the threshold of his home and doffed his cap with a flourish, there was no mistaking the air of excitement about him. He looked as if he had just quit the stage at the end of one of his most towering performances.

‘What means this sudden return?’ Margery wondered.

‘The strangest news that ever you heard, my love.’

‘Good news, I trust?’

‘Good news but mingled with bad,’ he confessed, putting an affectionate arm around her. ‘Lord Westfield sent for me to put a proposition to us that still makes my head reel.’

‘He bestowed money on us?’ said Hoode optimistically.

Gill was cynical. ‘Disbanded us, more like!’

‘Far from it, Barnaby,’ explained Firethorn. ‘A signal honour has been conferred upon us. We will be the envy of the London theatre. But honour, alas, comes at a high price. While some will prosper, others will have to suffer their absence.’ He placed the softest kiss on his wife’s forehead. ‘We are to leave the city, my angel, and that right soon.’

‘I expected no less,’ she said with a brave smile. ‘Marry an actor and you are a hostage to fortune. There will be hardship without you, but I will bear it nobly.’

‘As ever, my pippin.’

Firethorn pulled her to him and gave her another gentle kiss. Disgusted by the sight of marital tenderness, Gill became increasingly impatient.

‘Why did our patron summon you?’ he asked.

‘To show me the invitation,’ said Firethorn.

‘What invitation?’

‘The one that set my blood racing, Barnaby. The one that made me gallop hell-for-leather back to Shoreditch to acquaint you with its import.’

‘Then do so without further delay.’

‘My mind is still bursting asunder.’

‘Why?’ demanded Gill. ‘Why, why, why?’

‘Will the company still go on tour?’ asked Hoode.

‘Oh, yes!’ affirmed Firethorn. ‘And such a tour as we have never been on before. It will be a supreme challenge, but it may also be the crowning achievement of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Skulking from town to town like beggars?’ sneered Gill. ‘You call that a crowning achievement? It is an insult to ask of a man of my abilities to play before the dullards of the English countryside. I refuse to lower my high standards.’

‘You will need to raise them,’ warned Firethorn. ‘We must give the very best account of ourselves, Barnaby. But not for the benefit of English eyes and ears. We are to sail across the sea on a glorious adventure.’

‘The sea!’ gasped Margery, clutching at him. ‘Will you go so far away from me, Lawrence? Why? When? For how long?’

‘And where?’ asked Gill.

‘To Holland, Germany, and thence to Bohemia.’

His wife was aghast. ‘Bohemia!’

‘That is our principal destination,’ he said. ‘We have received an invitation to play for two weeks at the Imperial Court in Prague. What higher accolade could there be for Westfield’s Men? The company has performed for Her Majesty on more than one occasion. An even mightier sovereign now recognises our worth. We are going to Bohemia at the express wish of the Emperor Rudolph the Second. This is one of the proudest moments of my life. We are set to conquer a whole new world.’

Firethorn was positively glowing but his wife was fighting to hold back tears. All that she knew about Bohemia was that it was a distant country which would deprive her of her husband for a long and arduous period. Travelling around England with his company, he could at least keep in regular contact with her by letter. If he went to Bohemia, she feared that she would lose all track of him. Firethorn himself was enough of a husband to regret his forced departure, but he was even more of an actor and thus eager to respond to the call for a command performance in front of an Emperor.

Barnaby Gill was equally thrilled by the invitation. He could already hear the applause at the Imperial Court as he displayed the full repertoire of his theatrical talents. He was quick to endorse acceptance of the invitation.

‘We must go!’ he asserted. ‘By heaven, we must!’

Edmund Hoode could not resist some gentle mockery.

‘We will, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘Without you, alas.’

‘Without me?’

‘You will be too busy with your other tempting offers.’

***

Anne Hendrik lay naked in his arms while he stroked her hair. Conscious that they would soon be separated for a lengthy period, they were sharing a bed for the night while they still could. It gave their love-making an extra urgency. Panting from their exertions and glistening with perspiration, they lay there in silence for several minutes and listened to the beating of each other’s hearts. It was Nicholas Bracewell who finally put quiet words to sad thoughts.

‘I will miss you,’ he whispered.

‘Mine will be the greater loss,’ she said. ‘I will to Holland and back as swiftly as I may, but your journey will last an eternity. While you are being honoured in a foreign court, I will be pining for you in an empty bed.’

‘It does not have to be that way, Anne.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I do not have to leave you.’

‘But you told me that it was all arranged. You were at the Queen’s Head this evening when Lawrence Firethorn sent for you to tell you of the invitation and to seek your advice. The decision to go to Bohemia had already been taken.’

‘It had. Westfield’s Men will soon set sail.’

‘Then there is an end to it.’

‘Only if I go with them.’

Anne stiffened in surprise and pulled away from him so that she could look into his eyes. ‘You have to go, Nick,’ she said. ‘They would be lost without you. Westfield’s Men have come to rely on you totally.’

‘That may be another reason to stay behind.’

‘Stay behind! I do not believe that I heard you say that. To visit other countries and play at foreign courts. This is an opportunity that may never come again. Any man of the theatre would grab at it.’

‘And so would I if it were not for the circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’

‘You, Anne,’ he said, pulling her to him again. ‘I yearn to go with the company, yet I am loath to leave your side. This invitation is like a blessing from on high. It will take us from a plague-ridden city to the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, where we will be honoured guests. My head urges me to join the company on this wonderful adventure, but my heart tells me that my place is here with you.’ He cupped her chin in his palm. ‘Say the word and I will remain behind.’

Anne was profoundly touched. ‘Would you really do that, Nick? Bid farewell to Westfield’s Men for my sake?’

‘I would!’ he affirmed.

‘That pleases me more than I can say.’

‘Then choose for me, Anne. Do I go or stay?’

‘It is a decision that only you can make,’ she said, ‘and it would be unfair of me to influence you. Weigh duty against inclination here. All that I will offer is this comment. I would much rather welcome a happy Nick Bracewell back from his foreign travels than live in Bankside with an unhappy one. The mere fact that you were willing to make such a sacrifice is enough for me. Do not feel obliged to go through with it.’

Nicholas lay there in the dark and wrestled with his problem. There was no comfortable solution to the conflict of loyalties. Any decision he made would involve pain, loss, and deep regret, but the election had to be his. Anne was right. It was unjust to make her either give him permission to go or entreat him to stay. Nicholas had to take account of all the possible consequences of his actions. The one saving grace of joining Westfield’s Men on their tour was that Anne Hendrik would be waiting for him on his return. If he left the company at such a moment, there would never be a joyous reunion with his fellows. Close friendships would perish. An occupation that was a labour of love would become a sour memory.

‘I will go with them,’ he said.

‘That is where you belong, Nick.’

‘But I’ll not spent a day longer apart from you than I have to, Anne. You must sail for Holland, and so must we. Let us at least travel together as far as Flushing. The sea is in my blood, as you know, and I would love to share its mystery with you even on so short a voyage. Shall you sail beside me?’

‘Always!’ she vowed.

They sealed their love with a surge of renewed passion.