The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Three

The next few days were among the most hectic that Westfield’s Men had ever known. Preparations which should have taken a month were made with wild haste in a fraction of that time. Decisions which needed the most careful consideration were reached with undue speed. Mistakes were inevitably made but their consequences would not become clear until a later date. Eager to escape the plague, the company was about to rush off on a headlong adventure which had implications that they had not even begun to see, let alone to appraise properly.

News of the impending departure struck the players in a variety of ways. Some shared the excitement of Lawrence Firethorn and indulged in grandiose fantasies about triumphs in foreign courts. Others thought less about where they were going than what they would leave behind in a perilous city. Married actors feared for their families while their wives and children in turn grieved for them. Westfield’s Men were about to set off on a journey into the unknown. While that prospect might inspire a questing spirit like Owen Elias, it daunted a more cautious creature such as Edmund Hoode, and it left a lesser mortal like George Dart positively gibbering with terror.

The first and most important task was to determine the composition of the touring company. Preference was given to the sharers-those with a financial stake in Westfield’s Men which gave them certain rights-and to the apprentices. Only a few of the hired men could be taken, and versatility was the key factor.

‘My choice falls on Clement Islip,’ said Barnaby Gill.

‘We all know that!’ murmured Lawrence Firethorn.

‘Clement is a gifted young man.’

‘So he should be, Barnaby. You have showered enough gifts on him these past few months. Has he been duly grateful?’

‘Clement is a musician,’ reminded Edmund Hoode, ‘and not a player. We need someone who can play an instrument and take his share of the smaller parts.’

‘He can do both,’ insisted Gill. ‘He lacks instruction in acting, that is all. Clement will quickly blossom into an actor if I take him in hand.’

‘Have you not already done so?’ teased Firethorn.

‘That is a gross calumny!’ exploded Gill.

‘We are met to choose the best company we can muster. Not to find some simpering bedfellow for you, Barnaby.’

‘Clement Islip would be an asset to us.’

‘He is a male varlet who plays a viol tolerably well.’

‘This is unendurable!’

‘Let us forget Clement,’ said Hoode tactfully. ‘He is not the man for this occasion. A fine musician, I grant you, but too young and of too delicate a constitution to withstand the stresses that a long tour will place upon us. I am sorry, Barnaby. My vote is cast for Ralph Groves.’

‘My mind inclines that way, too,’ said Firethorn.

‘Well, mine does not,’ snapped Gill. ‘Ralph Groves is a disgrace to this noble profession of ours. I’ll not take a blundering fool like him to the Imperial Court.’

‘Ralph can both act and sing,’ argued Hoode.

‘But he can do neither with any distinction.’

‘Let’s hear what Nick has to say,’ suggested Firethorn.

Nicholas Bracewell had remained silent throughout the long and acrimonious debate. As the book-holder, he was merely a hired man with the company, and its decisions lay in the hands of the three major sharers. He only gave his advice when it was sought. The four men were sitting around a table in one of the Eastcheap taverns. Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch was the usual venue for meetings about company policy, but the actor-manager had considerately moved it well out of earshot of his wife on the grounds that a prolonged discussion of his departure from the country would only cause further anguish to Margery. Eastcheap had also been chosen in preference to Gracechurch Street because the hovering presence of its landlord would have made the Queen’s Head a difficult place in which to talk in private.

‘Well, Nick?’ prompted Hoode. ‘What’s your opinion?’

‘Clement Islip or Ralph Groves?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Neither,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Both have their virtues and both have served us well in their own ways at the Queen’s Head. But this tour will make special demands on every one of us and test our resources to the full. I do not believe that either Clement or Ralph would be equal to the challenge.’

‘Then who is to come in their place?’ said Gill.

‘Adrian Smallwood.’

‘Smallwood!’ sneered the other. ‘Can this be serious counsel? Adrian Smallwood has only been with Westfield’s Men for five minutes. And will you promote him over a more worthy and long-serving contender than Clement Islip?’

‘Yes,’ returned Nicholas. ‘It is true that Adrian has been with us for less than a month, but in that time he has proved himself beyond question. Not only is he a fine actor, he can also sing, dance and play the lute. He is the most complete man we have and it would be folly to leave him behind.’

Firethorn nodded. ‘I see your reasoning, Nick, and it is as sound as ever. Because he is such a newcomer, I had not even taken Adrian Smallwood into my calculations. Now that I have, I begin to appreciate his merits.’

‘So do I,’ said Hoode thoughtfully. ‘A lutanist will be sorely needed on this tour and I have heard Adrian upon the instrument. He is a trained musician who will give us all that Clement would have given us.’

‘That is not true!’ countered Gill.

‘No,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘Adrian will certainly not give you what that prancing viol-player would have offered. But his contribution to the company as a whole will be far greater.’

‘Not merely on the stage,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is another factor we must weigh in the balance here. We are all so keen to reach Bohemia itself that we have forgotten how long and how dangerous the journey there may be. Holland and Germany have their robber bands and masterless men just as we have here. When we travel through open country, we will seem like easy prey to outlaws. We must be able to defend ourselves.’

‘My sword is ready,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘And so will yours be, Nick. Owen Elias is a doughty fighter as well, so that gives us three weapons we may call upon.’

‘More than that,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have others who can handle a rapier and dagger. James Ingram, for one. Even Edmund here, in extremity. But in Adrian Smallwood we have someone as strong and capable as any of us. There may be situations in which those qualities turn out to be vital.’ He glanced across at Gill. ‘With respect to Clement Islip, I do not believe that he would render the same help in an emergency.’

Firethorn chuckled. ‘All that Clement could do would be to beat off an ambush with his bow or play a sad melody on his viol while the rest of us were being butchered. No,’ he decided, thumping the table with an authoritative palm, ‘we do not even have to look at Clement Islip or at Ralph Groves. The man of the hour is assuredly Adrian Smallwood.’

‘I accept that willingly,’ said Hoode, ‘and we should be grateful to Nick for discerning the value in a man whom we had all overlooked.’

‘I am not grateful!’ said Gill sourly.

‘Your ingratitude is of no concern here, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn with a dismissive wave. ‘Edmund and I both embrace Nick’s recommendation. Our two voices silence your lone and ridiculous protest. Smallwood is our man, and there’s an end to it.’ He beamed with satisfaction. ‘Now, what’s next to be settled?’

‘Our repertoire,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘Until I know which plays we mean to offer, I cannot assemble the costumes and properties which need to travel with us.’

Firethorn was peremptory. ‘That is easily resolved. We will play Black Antonio, Vincentio’s Revenge, Hector of Troy, The Corrupt Bargain and The Knights of Malta.’ When he saw Gill spluttering with rage, he threw in a concession. ‘To please the rougher palates, we might also perform Cupid’s Folly.’

‘No!’ howled Gill. ‘I’ll not permit such an outrage!’

‘Then we’ll omit Cupid’s Folly altogether.’

‘This is monstrous!’

‘I am bound to agree, Lawrence,’ ventured Hoode boldly. ‘Every play you listed is a tragedy in which you take the leading part. Comedy will be more welcome to an audience which may not speak our language, and even a Titan of the stage such as Lawrence Firethorn needs to take a secondary role at times in order to rest himself in readiness for his next great portrayal of a tragic hero.’

‘Bohemia must see me at my best!’ boomed Firethorn.

‘Why, so it shall. But it also deserves to see Barnaby Gill at his best, and Owen Elias and James Ingram. Even a player of such modest talents as my own has the right to shine a little, and your repertoire forbids me. Cupid’s Folly would be high on my list and not tossed in as an afterthought.’

‘It would be first on my list,’ added Gill.

‘What!’ cried Firethorn. ‘That low, despicable, rustic comedy stuffed with songs and dances?’

‘Those songs and dances are the very reason that it must be included,’ reasoned Nicholas, taking up the argument. ‘They carry their own meaning with them. Stirring rhetoric will be lost on foreign ears. Edmund is correct. Comedy is a surer way to success. Where tragedy is called for, choose a play that already has a significance for the spectators. They will certainly know the story of Hector of Troy, but I fear that Black Antonio will confuse them, and Vincentio’s Revenge will lead to even deeper bewilderment. Simplicity must be our watchword. The more they understand, the more our audiences will enjoy.’

‘Well-spoken, Nicholas!’ said Gill approvingly. It was praise indeed from one who so often maligned the book-holder. ‘You have given us true guidance.’

‘I say Amen to that,’ supported Hoode.

Firethorn sulked. ‘I must be allowed to share some of my glorious roles with our hosts. They will expect it from me. That is why the Emperor invited Westfield’s Men in the first place. He heard of my reputation.’

‘Our reputation, Lawrence,’ corrected Hoode. ‘You are not the company in its entirety.’

‘Indeed, no,’ said Gill, seizing on the chance to laud it over his rival. ‘Let us be candid. Why have we been invited to play in Prague by a sovereign who has never been within a hundred miles of our work? Because he has been told about us. And by whom? Why, by his great-niece. By that dear creature who so applauded my performance in The Knights of Malta that her palms must have smarted for a week.’ He sat up straight and preened himself. ‘I am the reason this honour has befallen us. She begged this favour of her great-uncle because she is so desperate to see my art sparkle on a stage again.’

‘Any woman who is desperate to see you will only meet with further desperation,’ said Firethorn pointedly. ‘I know full well that it is the beauteous Sophia Magdalena who is the source of this invitation to the Imperial Court. But it is not your Maltese capering which has stayed in her mind. It is my portrayal of Jean de Valette. A Grand Master fit for this grand mistress.’ He inflated his barrel chest. ‘Whatever we omit, it will not be The Knights of Malta.’

‘Perforce, it must be,’ said Nicholas.

‘Never!’

‘The decision is already taken.’

‘By whom?’

‘By you, by Edmund, and by Master Gill. In reducing the size of the company, you make such a piece impossible to stage. We do not have enough actors to do it justice. Besides,’ said Nicholas, ‘it is not a suitable play for our audiences. It touches on religious and political themes that may give offence to our hosts if they manage to understand them. We are guests in foreign courts and that imposes discretion upon us. Mock their religion or pour scorn upon their government and our visit would swiftly be curtailed.’

‘I had not thought of that,’ admitted Firethorn.

‘Choose our plays with the utmost care,’ said Hoode.

Gill nodded. ‘Let Cupid’s Folly take pride of place.’

Lawrence Firethorn lapsed into a brooding silence. Nicholas Bracewell was his most trusted colleague, yet it was the book-holder who had dealt him the blow to his pride. When the company embarked on its tour abroad, some of the actor’s finest roles would be left behind in England. Firethorn felt like a gladiator who is deprived of his weapons as he is about to encounter the most testing adversary of his career.

‘Sophia wants me,’ he sighed. ‘She has persuaded her great-uncle to summon us to his court so that she may feast on my genius. I must have something remarkable to set before her gaze. She must see Lawrence Firethorn in his prime.’

‘And so she shall,’ reassured Hoode.

‘Not in some base, barren piece like Cupid’s Folly.’

Nicholas intervened. ‘I have a suggestion that may answer all needs,’ he said. ‘If we are to be guests at the Court of the Holy Roman Empire, we should at least take an appropriate gift with us. What better gift from a theatre company than a new play? And what better play than one which celebrates one of the illustrious spectators who will be present?’

‘Rudolph himself?’ asked Gill.

‘No. The generous lady who has made our visit possible. Sophia Magdalena, the great-niece of the Emperor. A play in honour of her would delight our hosts and enable us to give our due thanks for the honour accorded us.’

‘A wonderful idea!’ said Firethorn, reviving as he saw the potential benefits. ‘A sprightly comedy written to enchant her and to give free rein to my superlative skills upon the stage. God bless you, Nick! This meets all needs. Edmund will write the play and we will lay it at her feet as our offering.’

‘You are more likely to lay me at her feet,’ moaned Hoode. ‘If I am to spend the journey to Prague in the devising of some new drama, I will be exhausted by the time we get there. It is a hopeless commission. There is no way that I may accomplish it.’

‘There is, Edmund,’ said Nicholas evenly.

‘A new play would take me months to write.’

‘That is why it will not be entirely new.’

‘But that was your argument.’

‘What I spoke of was a play that celebrated the kind lady who has looked so favourably upon us. It already exists.’

‘Who is its author?’

‘Edmund Hoode.’

‘You are talking in riddles, Nick.’

‘Am I?’ said the other with a grin. ‘Have you so soon forgotten The Chaste Maid of Wapping?’

‘But that has no bearing upon Bohemia and no relevance whatsoever to Sophia Magdalena.’

‘It could have. A subtle pen like yours could make the necessary changes in a matter of days. Your chaste maid is brought up in the belief that the humble folk of Wapping with whom she lives are her true family. It is only at the end of the play that she discovers she is really the daughter of an earl, stolen from her cradle at birth but reunited with her real father at the end.’

‘Go on,’ encouraged Firethorn. ‘There’s matter in this.’

‘Move from Wapping to Prague at a stroke and the story takes on a new meaning. Change this chaste maid into Sophia Magdalena and make her undergo all the trials that she does in the original drama.’ He put a hand on Hoode’s shoulder. ‘It can be done, Edmund. You are a most proficient cobbler. Put a new sole and heel on this play and we have a drama that will dance joyfully across the stage in Prague.’

‘Nicholas may have hit the mark,’ said Gill.

‘It might be done,’ conceded Hoode, thinking it through. ‘Changes of name and place. A new song or two. The girl brought up as a peasant in the countryside outside Prague. Yes, it might indeed be done.’

‘It shall be done!’ insisted Firethorn with a ripe chuckle. ‘About it straight, Edmund! Dick Honeydew will play the girl and I will be her rightful father, the Earl. This is a brilliant notion, Nick. All we need is a new title.’

‘I have thought of that already.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Fair Maid of Bohemia.’

***

A perverse contentment had settled on Alexander Marwood. He now had something about which he could be truly unhappy. Instead of circling the Queen’s Head like the lost soul, fearing the worst at every turn and viewing even the intermittent moments of good fortune as warnings of some future evil, he had a genuine cause for grief. Plague had not only emptied his innyard of playgoers, it had drastically reduced the number of visitors to London and thus depleted the traffic which came his way. Stables were bare, ostlers stood idle. Servingmen had little to occupy them in the taproom. Many regular patrons of the inn had either left the city or were keeping away from a public place where the lethal infection might conceivably lurk.

Personal inconveniences added to Marwood’s professional difficulties. His wife, Sybil, and his daughter, Rose, had joined the flight from London and were staying in Buckingham with his sister-in-law. Sleeping alone was only marginally less painful than sharing a bed with a cold, indifferent partner, but he missed Sybil’s commanding presence in the taproom, where she could quell unruly behaviour with her glare and ensure that nobody consumed ale without paying for it. Rose’s departure caused him greater sorrow because she was the one person in his life who brought him a spectre of pleasure and whose uncritical love stayed him throughout the recurring miseries of his lot.

He was in the cellar when he heard the commotion above and it sent him scurrying up the stone steps. The taproom was only half-full, but the atmosphere was taut. In the far corner, six or seven men were engaged in a violent argument which just stopped short of blows. They were actors from Westfield’s Men and there was an element of performance in their rowdiness but that did not lessen its potential danger. Such an outburst would never have happened when Sybil Marwood was in control. Lacking her authority, her husband looked around for the one man who could restore calm among his fellows.

Marwood saw him on the other side of the room. Nicholas Bracewell had his back to him, but the broad shoulders and the long fair hair were unmistakable. The landlord trotted over.

‘Stop them, Master Bracewell!’ he bleated, tapping the other man on the arm. ‘Stop them before this turns into a brawl.’

‘They would not listen to me, my friend.’

‘It is your duty to prevent an affray.’

‘I do that best by staying clear of it, sir.’

The burly figure turned to face him and Marwood realised that it was not Nicholas Bracewell at all. It was Adrian Smallwood, a younger man but with the same sturdy frame and the same weathered face. Smallwood’s vanity led him to trim his beard while Nicholas allowed his own more liberty, and the book-holder’s warm smile was not dimmed by two missing teeth, as was the case with his colleague. Seen together, the two men would never be taken for each other. When apart, however, the resemblance seemed somehow closer.

Their voices separated them completely. Nicholas had the soft burr of the West Country while Smallwood’s deeper tone had a distinctively northern ring to it.

‘Stand aside, sir,’ he advised Marwood. ‘These are only threats they exchange and not punches.’

‘I’ll not have fighting in my taproom.’

‘Then tell them as much. It is not my office.’

‘They are your fellows.’

‘They were, sir, but no longer. Our occupation is lost. Hired men such as we were the first to go. That is what this quarrel is about. The company is to sail to the Continent to play before foreigners. Only a few of us will go with them. The rest will be left behind. Each man here thinks that he should be taken on the tour. Attesting their own worth, they feel they must malign that of their rivals.’

‘Why do you not join them in their dispute?’

‘Because I already know my fate,’ said Smallwood with a philosophical smile. ‘There is no hope that I will travel with the company. I am a newcomer. Some of them-Ralph Groves there, for instance-have been in the employ of Westfield’s Men for years. They have a much better claim than me and I would dare not to gainsay it.’

Smallwood was now almost shouting to make himself heard above the hubbub. The argument was taking on a new and more reckless note. When the first punch was thrown, others came immediately and the whole group was drawn into the brawl. Marwood emitted a cry of alarm and jumped out of the way of the flailing arms. Adrian Smallwood stood his ground and watched with growing distaste. When one of the combatants fell heavily against him, anger stirred. He could remain apart from it all no longer. Hands which could coax sweet music out of a lute were now put to coarser usage.

With a single punch, Smallwood felled the man who had cannoned into him. Grabbing two of the others by the scruff of their necks, he banged their heads together so hard that they dropped to the floor in a daze. A fourth man was detached from the mêlée and flung ten yards away. Smallwood snatched up a bench and held it menacingly over the heads of the three actors who were still grappling.

‘Stop this!’ he ordered, ‘or I’ll crack open your skulls.’

The men froze in horror. Normally placid, Smallwood was a fearsome sight when roused. As they cowered beneath the bench, they knew that his threat was a serious one. It was at that precise moment that Nicholas Bracewell came into the taproom. He looked around the scene of carnage with frank disgust. When he saw that Adrian Smallwood was involved, he was gravely disappointed.

‘What is going on here?’ he demanded.

Shamefaced actors turned away in embarrassment and nursed their wounds. Smallwood lowered the bench to the ground. Nicholas turned apologetically to the landlord.

‘They’ll pay for any damage that has been caused,’ he promised. ‘And they’ll pay a larger amount in other ways. Westfield’s Men will not have brawling in its ranks.’ He looked at Smallwood. ‘It grieves me to see that you are part of this, Adrian.’

‘But he was not,’ Marwood piped up. ‘He refused to be drawn into the quarrel that led to the fight. When you walked in just now, he had just stopped the affray.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I did what I could,’ said Smallwood.

‘He saved my taproom from any real damage,’ said Marwood. ‘Do not blame him for this. He is another Nicholas Bracewell. Had you been here, this would never have happened. I was lucky to have such a man here in your stead.’

Nicholas looked around the seven actors who had been embroiled in the fight. All were the worse for wear, and a couple slunk out under his stern gaze. When Nicholas studied the tableau with more care, it yielded up a clearer meaning.

His faith restored, he turned back to Adrian Smallwood.

‘Can you be ready to sail in a day?’ he asked.

The broad grin on Smallwood’s face was an answer in itself.

***

Anne Hendrik went into the workshop to take leave of her employees. They were deeply sorry that she was off on such a sad errand, and the fact that she was visiting their native country made her departure even more poignant for them. After separate farewells to all four, she was conducted outside by Preben van Loew. He pressed a letter into her hand.

‘Deliver this to Frans Hendrik,’ he said quietly.

‘I will, Preben.’

‘Let us hope he is still alive to read it.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘We can but pray.’

‘Give my warmest regards to Jan and to the rest of the family. They will remember old Preben.’

‘With affection.’

‘They are always in my thoughts.’

‘I will tell them that.’ Anne became brisk. ‘As to my house while I am away-’

‘Forget it,’ he interrupted, holding up a blue-veined hand. ‘You will have enough to think about in Holland without worrying about your property here. Put it from your mind. It is safe enough in our keeping. So is the workshop. Stay as long as you wish, Anne,’ he urged. ‘We have commissions to keep us busy until Christmas, and more will surely come in. London will not go bare-headed while you are away.’

She squeezed him by the shoulders and kissed him softly on the cheek. A faint blush attacked his pallor. No more words were needed. With a grateful nod, she turned away from him.

When she went back into the parlour of her house, she found Nicholas Bracewell sitting pensively on a chair beside their luggage. He was so pre-occupied that he did not even notice her at first. It was only when Anne stood over him that he became aware of her presence.

‘Oh!’ He sat up with a start. ‘I did not see you.’

‘You were miles away, Nick. We both know where.’

‘Do we?’

‘Bohemia.’

‘No, Anne,’ he explained. ‘You are wrong. My thoughts certainly touched on Bohemia but they had not raced ahead to the country itself. I am still troubled about something much nearer home.’

‘Troubled?’

‘Sit here and I will tell you all.’

‘Do we have time before we leave?’

‘This is something for which we must make time. I have tried to talk to Master Firethorn about it but he brushes the matter away. And I may not even mention it to Edmund because I have sworn to divulge the secret to none of the company.’

‘Secret?’

Surrendering his chair to her, Nicholas pulled the stool across so that he could sit beside her. Anne could see from his knotted brow that his mind was vexed. She took his hand.

‘Are you not breaking your oath in confiding in me?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You are not one of Westfield’s Men and I know that I can trust you implicitly. Besides, I need a pair of sympathetic ears so that I can talk about the problem.’

‘What problem?’

‘This tour on which we are about to embark. It arose out of an invitation to visit the Imperial Court in Prague and to play there for two weeks. The invitation came with the suggestion of the route we should take so that we might acquaint others with the work of Westfield’s Men. Hospitality has been arranged for us on the way to these places. Someone has gone to great trouble on our behalf.’

‘Is this not a matter for celebration?’

‘Indeed, it is.’

‘Then where is the problem?’

‘Here,’ said Nicholas, taking a pouch from the inside of his buff jerkin. ‘It was given to Master Firethorn by Lord Westfield himself with express orders. It contains documents to be delivered to one Talbot Royden, an English doctor at the Court of Rudolph the Second. We are to be couriers, it seems.’

‘That is not unusual, Nick,’ she said. ‘I am a courier myself for Preben. As soon as he heard that I was travelling to Holland, he asked me to bear a letter for him.’

‘Did it come with an appreciable amount of money?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘This did,’ he said, holding up the pouch.

‘Payment for carrying the documents.’

‘Nobody is that generous,’ he said sceptically. ‘There is enough money here to support us for most of the journey. And when we land in Flushing, two wagons with fresh horses will be put at our disposal. Who is providing all this help?’

‘Your host in Bohemia.’

‘He makes promise of payment when we arrive, but that will be for the entertainment we provide. Who is ensuring that we will eat well and travel in comfort on the way to Prague?’

‘Lord Westfield.’

Nicholas laughed and shook his head. ‘He is as deep in debt as ever, Anne. Our patron has neither the resources nor the inclination to assist the company so generously. When he handed over this pouch, he did so in someone else’s stead.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘That is what has been exercising my mind.’

‘Does Lord Westfield have close friends at Court?’

‘Dozens.’

‘Could not one of them have supplied the money?’

‘Why did he not present it in person?’ asked Nicholas. ‘And what is so important about these documents that their very existence must be kept secret?’ He replaced the pouch inside his jerkin. ‘Why all this mystery?’

‘I have no explanation.’

‘Nor did I expect one. I merely wished to bring the matter out into the open to see if it really is as curious and alarming as I feared.’

‘Alarming?’

‘Westfield’s Men are being used, Anne,’ he decided. ‘By whom and for what purpose, I do not yet know. That fact is disturbing enough in itself. But there is another possibility to consider.’

‘What is that?’

‘Someone is so anxious to see these documents safely delivered to this Talbot Royden in Prague that we are being handsomely paid to take them there. Why hide them in the baggage of a theatre company when they could travel more swiftly by other means?’

‘It does not make sense, Nick.’

‘Unless letters sent by messenger are intercepted before they reach the person to whom they were directed. Documents which would be confiscated from other couriers may be sneaked through by us. Supposing we are caught in possession of them?’

‘By whom?’

‘I do not know,’ he confessed, standing up. ‘That is part of the problem, Anne. I am hopelessly in the dark. But I sense danger here. In carrying those documents, we are not just performing a favour for a friend of Lord Westfield. We may be making ourselves a target.’

***

London Bridge was one of the busiest thoroughfares in the City. It was the one means of crossing the broad back of the River Thames on foot or on horseback, and it was also a place where many lived and where people came to buy from the shops that lined both sides of the narrow road. While the plague was claiming its victims from every ward, it seemed unable to touch the inhabitants of the bridge, and this guarantee of safety brought the crowds in their usual abundance. Carts and wagons rolled constantly to and fro to increase the bustle and the general pandemonium.

From a vantage point on the bridge, it was possible to take in the whole vast panorama of London, a higgledy-piggledy mass of houses, shops, taverns, ordinaries, prisons, civic buildings and churches, held in place by the high City wall, dominated by the soaring magnificence of Saint Paul’s Cathedral and guarded with grim solidity by the impregnable Tower. The multifarious sights and diverse sounds of London were supplemented by the noisome smells of the capital. Billingsgate sent up its abiding stink of fish, but it was mixed with many other pungent aromas and garnished with the sharp odour of the Thames itself.

Anyone looking down from the bridge that day would have seen one spectacle that was unique. Westfield’s Men were giving an impromptu performance on the wharf below. No stage was set up and no audience had paid to watch, but a dozen minor tragedies were being played out with great intensity. The company was about to set sail for Deptford, where they would transfer to the larger vessel that would cross the sea to Holland. Tearful wives and howling children had come to send their beloved off with a forlorn hug. Distraught mistresses clung to bodies with which they had been entwined throughout the night. Whole families surrounded some of the actors, with parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and even doddering grandparents in attendance for a last sighting.

No parting was more touching in its sincerity nor more agonising in its pain than that between Lawrence and Margery Firethorn. Both arms around his children, the actor wept bitterly and gave his wife the same advice after each relay of kisses planted upon her upturned face.

‘And Margery, my good, sweet wife…’

‘Yes, Lawrence?’

‘Keep your house fair and clean, which I know you will.’

‘Yes, husband.’

‘Every evening, throw water before your door and have in your window a goodly store of rue and herb of grace.’

‘I am well-provided with them.’

‘They help to purge the air and keep disease at bay.’

‘This departure of yours is worse than any disease.’

Another flurry of kisses stopped her mouth.

A few friends were there to wave Edmund Hoode off and a bevy of wenches from Bankside were bidding a raucous farewell to Owen Elias. The tall, thin, sensitive Clement Islip was wishing Barnaby Gill a safe voyage, and the bruised Ralph Groves had overcome his disappointment at being left out of the party and arrived to shake hands with Adrian Smallwood and admit that the latter would be a more worthy traveller than he himself.

Amid the tragic scene, there was one touch of unintentional comedy. George Dart was weeping copiously because nobody had turned up to send him off with a kind word. When he saw Thomas Skillen hobbling towards him, he was so delighted that he burst into hysterical laughter and the old man boxed his ears out of sheer force of habit. Dart backed quickly away from the attack and dropped ridiculously into the cold, dark water of the Thames. As they hauled him ashore again, he did not know whether to cry at the humiliation or laugh with relief, but he did both simultaneously when Skillen enfolded his sodden body in a paternal embrace.

Nicholas Bracewell was in his accustomed role as the stage manager to the drama, gently detaching the players from their trailing loved ones and easing them aboard the boat one by one. When all but Firethorn had been shepherded away, the book-holder was suddenly accosted by a weird figure who seemed to glide out of the throng of well-wishers.

‘Nicholas Bracewell, I think?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ confirmed the other.

‘We have met before.’

‘I recognised you at once, sir.’

‘Doctor John Mordrake. Come to crave a boon.’

‘Of me?’

‘You are the only man who can serve me. Step aside.’

Mordrake was a big, heavy, round-shouldered man, his spine curved by a lifetime bent over his experiments. He had long, lank silver hair and a wispy beard. The gold chain around his neck was thrown into relief by his black gown. Nicholas was familiar with his reputation. He was both hailed as a master-physician and denounced as a necromancer, but the balance of opinion tipped heavily in favour of the former. Not only had Mordrake been retained to treat Queen Elizabeth herself on occasion, he had also outwitted the plague.

The old man ushered Nicholas aside for a private conference.

‘You are journeying to Prague, I hear,’ said Mordrake.

‘That is our farthest destination.’

‘Could you carry something with you for a friend?’

‘We already have cargo enough,’ said Nicholas pleasantly.

‘This will take up no room at all and may be lodged in your purse without anyone knowing that it is there.’ He slipped an object into the other’s hand. ‘Carry that to its rightful owner and you will be well-rewarded.’

‘What is it that I am to carry?’

Nicholas held out his palm and examined the small wooden box which had been put there. It was exquisitely carved. When he tried to ease up the lid, he found the box locked.

‘There is no key,’ he observed.

‘He will know how to open it.’

‘Who will?’

‘The man to whom I send it-if you accept my charge.’

Nicholas hesitated. ‘I need to know its contents.’

‘They would be meaningless to you. Here,’ said Mordrake as he dropped two crowns into Nicholas’s other hand. ‘There’s proof of how important it is for that to reach Prague. Two more crowns await you on your return if you do me this kindness.’

Nicholas looked into the watery blue eyes. Their keen intelligence was dimmed by a wistfulness and a sense of pleading. Doctor John Mordrake was a distinguished man of science, yet he was imploring a humble book-holder from a theatre company to do him a favour. The reward seemed absurdly out of proportion to what Nicholas was being asked to do.

‘You do not even know me,’ he protested.

‘We met once before,’ said Mordrake. ‘That told me much about you. I made enquiries. Nicholas Bracewell is a man of good repute. I know that I may trust him.’

‘Who is the fellow?’ asked Nicholas.

‘You’ll help me?’ gasped Mordrake with a glint of joy.

‘If I am able to find the man.’

‘Oh, you will find him easily enough, Nicholas. If you play at the Imperial Court, you are bound to meet him, for he serves the Emperor just as I once served him myself.’ Mordrake pointed to the box. ‘Put that into his hand and your errand is done. No more remains, I do assure you.’

‘What is the man’s name, sir?’

‘Come close and I will whisper it.’

Nicholas inclined his ear. ‘Well?’

‘Talbot Royden.’

‘Royden?’

‘Do not forget the name. Doctor Talbot Royden.’

Nicholas mastered his surprise and nodded his head.

‘There is no chance of that, sir.’

***

As the craft edged its way slowly downriver, the passengers waved until the figures on the wharf were dwarfed in size and obscured by other traffic on the water. There was no sense of adventure to spur them on. That would come later. They were still too caught up in their personal griefs and regrets. Firethorn tried to enliven them with fulsome boasts about the triumphs that beckoned them, but even he was only half-hearted in his enthusiasm. It was left to Nicholas to move quietly among his fellows, talking to each one in turn and reminding them that they had abandoned one family in order to be part of another. They were all children of the company now.

Anne Hendrik waited patiently until he had done his rounds. She was never short of companionship. Years of watching Westfield’s Men at the Queen’s Head had helped to forge a number of friendships with its members. She was especially fond of Edmund Hoode and Owen Elias, but it was with the personable young James Ingram that she was talking when Nicholas finally rejoined her. After exchanging a few token niceties, Ingram slipped away to leave them on their own.

‘There is a lot of sorrow aboard this vessel,’ she said.

‘It will lift in time, Anne.’

‘Who was that man with whom you spoke at the quayside?’

‘I spoke to several.’

‘This one drew you apart. An old man in a black cloak.’

‘That was Doctor John Mordrake.’

‘You speak his name with a sense of wonder.’

‘So I should,’ said Nicholas. ‘He has wondrous gifts.’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He told me how to cure the plague.’

‘How?’ she asked. ‘We all wish to know that.’

‘The good doctor advised me to sail out of London in the company of a beautiful woman,’ he said with a fond smile. ‘So here am I-and there she stands before me.’

Anne smiled. ‘Is that all that he said to you?’

‘It is all that is of consequence.’

He slipped an arm around her and stared out over the bulwark. London was receding into the gloom. He wondered how long it would be before he returned to the City and how many of the discarded hired men would still be there. Theatre could be a cruel master at times.

When they reached Deptford, they disembarked to the sound of hammering in the shipyards and to the plaintive cries of sea-gulls. Nicholas took a moment to look nostalgically across at the Golden Hind, the ship on which he had once sailed around the world with Francis Drake. Moored in perpetuity, it was now an object of veneration and he was hurt to see how much of its timbers had been chipped away by those eager for souvenirs. It now seemed far too small for the interminable voyage it had survived and the large crew it had carried. As unhappy memories flooded his mind, Nicholas turned his attention to getting the company aboard the other vessel.

The Peppercorn was a three-masted craft with a reputation for safety, but this was a relative term at sea. When they left the protection of the Thames estuary, Nicholas knew that they would encounter high winds and surging waves. Many of his fellows would feel both queasy and frightened when they lost all sight of land. Moving amongst them again, he warned them of what was to come and suggested precautions they might take. As Anne watched him striding confidently around the deck, she was struck by the consideration he was showing to the others and she was forcibly reminded that she would not be able to call upon that consideration herself for much longer.

‘Is all well, Mistress Hendrik?’ asked a voice.

‘Yes, Adrian,’ she said with a weary smile.

‘Nicholas asked me to keep an eye on you.’

‘That is very kind.’

‘He is trying to instil some courage into us,’ said Adrian Smallwood. ‘We are poor sailors and need all the help we can get. My stomach is already telling me that I should have stayed behind in London.’

‘Where do you hail from?’

‘York.’

‘That is not so far from the sea.’

‘It never tempted me,’ he confessed. ‘I prefer to have dry land beneath my feet and not this tilting deck.’

Anne chatted happily with him. Though Smallwood had only been with the company a short time, he was a gregarious man who got to know everyone very quickly. She liked him. On the few occasions they had met, he had always been polite but effusive. Adrian Smallwood had the same bubbling vitality which she admired in Owen Elias, and even more in Lawrence Firethorn.

As Anne was talking, two men brushed past her and stood a yard or so away. Her brief glance told her that they looked like foreign merchants but she paid them no further attention. It was only when Smallwood excused himself to go below that she was able to take a closer interest in the men. There was a sinister air to them. They were studying the members of the theatre company with great curiosity, as if trying to identify someone.

A throaty chuckle from one man somehow alerted her. Anne moved an involuntary step closer so that she could overhear what they were saying. They were talking in German and she needed a moment to translate the snatches that she picked up. When she edged closer still, only one more sentence was spoken but she was able to understand it at once. The smaller of them, a short, stocky individual with a gruff voice, indicated Westfield’s Men with a hand.

‘Which one must I kill?’ he asked.

The relish in his tone made her blood run cold.