The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Four

The first betrayal came from the sea itself. It offered one thing to their faces while plotting another behind their backs. When the estuary broadened out, the Peppercorn came round the headland and sailed out into open water. The wind freshened to beat noisily at the canvas and the waves made the vessel twist and undulate, but most of the passengers felt no real discomfort. To the bolder souls who remained on deck, the spray was invigorating and the creaking rhythm of the ship was oddly reassuring.

Standing fearlessly in the prow, Lawrence Firethorn scanned the empty horizon ahead like a Viking warrior in search of new lands to plunder. So exhilarated was he by the dipping motion of the vessel that he began to quote speeches extempore from his favourite plays, hurling iambic pentameters into the white foam with joyous prodigality. Owen Elias was also excited by his first sea voyage and talked volubly to James Ingram about the delights that lay ahead for them on the Continent.

While some were thrilled by the experience, others were simply relieved that it was not the ordeal they had feared. Edmund Hoode found a quiet corner in which he could meditate on the problem how The Chaste Maid of Wapping could arrive in Prague in Bohemian disguise. Barnaby Gill tucked himself against the bulwark and used his pomander to keep out the salty tang of the sea, inhaling dramatically through flared nostrils to attract what attention he could. Adrian Smallwood grew accustomed to the swell so quickly that he was even able to instruct Richard Honeydew, the youngest of the apprentices, in how to accompany himself on the lute.

Nicholas Bracewell was unable to enjoy the ambiguous pleasures of being at sea again. Anne Hendrik’s report had been highly unsettling.

‘Are you sure that is what you heard?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Nick.’

‘There could be no mistake in the translation?’

‘Jacob taught me well. My German is not perfect but it was more than adequate for this.’

‘And the two men were looking at us?’

‘They were studying you,’ she said. ‘They were keeping the whole company under surveillance.’

‘I wish that you had kept them under surveillance a little longer, Anne, instead of running straight to me. You might have seen their faces and marked their apparel so that I was able to identify them. As it was, you only viewed them from behind, and that leaves me short of necessary detail.’

‘I was frightened, Nick!’

‘I know, I know,’ he soothed.

‘That man talked of murder,’ she recalled with a shudder, ‘with such evil pleasure in his voice. I could not bear to stand beside him a moment longer. That is why I rushed directly to you.’

He put a comforting arm around her. ‘You did right and I am very grateful to you. What you chanced to overhear may save a life. Forewarned is forearmed. I will spread the word.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘But we take precautions against an invisible foe. You and I have been twice around the ship together to search high and low, but you did not recognise those men.’

‘I thought I saw one of them, Nick. But I cannot be sure.’

‘Remain vigilant.’

‘I will, I will.’

‘And stay close to me at all times.’

‘You do not have to give me that advice,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will not let you out of my sight. That man terrified me. Why could anyone wish to harm a member of the company?’

‘I do not know, Anne.’

‘He was ready to kill someone.’

‘He will have to get past me first.’

‘What if you yourself are the victim?’

She buried her head in his chest and he held her tight. It was minutes before she was able to speak again. Controlling her fear, Anne looked up at him.

‘I am ready to search the vessel again with you, if that would help,’ she offered. ‘They are aboard somewhere.’

‘So are many other passengers, and those two men are concealed in the press.’

‘We know that they are German. That gives us a start.’

‘Perhaps, and perhaps not, Anne. You heard them speak in German, but that may not be their native tongue. It might simply have been used as a common language between men of different nationalities. We have Dutch, Danish, and Polish merchants aboard. I have also heard French spoken here.’

‘There must be some way to find them.’

‘There is, Anne. We wait until they come to us.’

‘If only I had seen their faces!’

‘You saw and heard enough.’ Nicholas glanced around. ‘But it is time to go below deck before the storm breaks.’

‘What storm? I see no signs of it.’

‘It is coming, believe me. Let us gather up the others.’

His prediction was remarkably accurate. The blue sky ahead was only a distraction from the dark clouds that crept up behind them. Westfield’s Men were heedless victims of the sea’s swift treachery. The wind stiffened, the waves became hostile, and the first drops of rain were carried on the air. A yell from the boatswain brought the crew running to get their orders. The Peppercorn was in for a buffeting.

Firethorn soon discovered that he did not have Viking blood in his veins and he abandoned his station in the prow as the first torrent of water washed over it. Elias and Ingram had their conversation terminated and Hoode’s authorial musings were also interrupted. Gill’s pomander was knocked out of his hand and the music lesson became impossible as the ship began to heave with more purpose. Nicholas tried to gather his fellows together to assist them below.

George Dart suffered the full impact of the sudden change in the weather. Scurrying to join the others, he tripped over a rope and fell headlong onto the deck. As he dragged himself painfully up, he was knocked off his feet again by a stray wooden bucket that slid across the wet timbers. When he finally got upright, the ship listed so sharply that he was flung against the bulwark and drenched by the biggest wave yet. With a mind full of terror and a mouth full of sea water, he crawled after his colleagues on all fours.

Nicholas assembled the company below deck so that he could both protect them and offer some assurance. Three years at sea with Drake on the circumnavigation of the globe had taken him through all kinds of tempests and he still had nightmares about the remorseless battering which the Golden Hind received on its way through the Straits of Magellan. To anyone who had endured such extremities of weather, the squall was no more than a trifling inconvenience, but Nicholas could see that it seemed like a typhoon to the others.

‘We will all drown!’ wailed Gill, green as his doublet.

‘There is no chance of that,’ said Nicholas calmly. ‘The vessel is sound and the crew able.’

‘No ship can stay afloat for long in a storm like this.’

‘It can, Master Gill. Put your trust in the Peppercorn.’

‘We are trying, Nick,’ said a pallid Firethorn, ‘but it is difficult to trust any craft which tosses us about so. We are like so many dice shaken in the pot before being thrown out on the table. Must we submit to this torture?’

‘Try to forget the storm,’ said Nicholas.

‘Forget it! Can a man who is being hanged forget the rope? You are our sailor. Help us. Tell us what to do.’

‘First, you must hold fast to known facts.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Peppercorn has sailed to and from the Netherlands many times. Take comfort from that. It has survived far worse squalls than this without loss of life or damage to the hull. I have spoken with some of the crew. We could not be in a more secure craft.’

‘Secure!’ gasped Firethorn.

‘We are like corks in a waterfall,’ said Elias, as he lurched a few feet to starboard. ‘This storm hurls us where it wishes. Is there nothing we can do, Nick?’

‘Stay below and sit it out.’

‘Teach us how to escape from this ordeal.’

‘Fill your mind with other thoughts, Owen.’

‘I am more worried about emptying my belly,’ groaned the Welshman, both hands on his stomach. ‘I feel as if I am about to spew up a barrel of ale that I never had the pleasure of drinking. If this be voyaging, I’d as lief stay in London and take my chances against the plague.’

‘What did you do in bad weather, Nick?’ asked Anne.

‘Do you really wish to know?’

‘Yes!’ chorused five sufferers.

‘It may not work for you but it saved me.’

‘Tell us your secret,’ she said.

‘I sang.’

‘You what?’

‘I opened my lungs and I sang,’ he admitted. ‘Most men cursed at a hurricane, as if foul words could keep it at bay. But I sang to keep my mind occupied.’

‘They must have thought you were mad!’ observed Gill.

‘Nobody hears you in a howling gale.’

Firethorn was incredulous. ‘You sang? In a condition such as we poor wretches are in, you had breath enough to sing?’

‘I found that it helped.’

‘I can barely speak,’ croaked Hoode. ‘This storm has robbed us of our voices. Which of us could even sing one line of a song?’

‘I could,’ said Adrian Smallwood bravely.

The whole company turned towards him. Feeling as queasy as any of them, Smallwood made a determined effort to overcome his seasickness and sang in a ringing baritone voice.

‘Now is the month of Maying,

When merry lads are playing.

Fa la la.’

He looked around his fellows and tried to shake them out of their self-pity. Even though the vessel began to rock more violently, Smallwood persevered as a choirmaster.

‘Come on!’ he exhorted. ‘Sing away this storm. We would never have beaten the Armada with sailors such as you. Show your spirit. Sing in defiance. Who’ll join me?’

‘I, for one,’ volunteered Nicholas.

‘And me,’ said Elias. ‘You will never find a Welshman shirking a chance to sing. Lead on, Adrian. We follow.’

Smallwood sang out with even more gusto this time.

‘Now is the month of Maying,

When merry lads are playing.

Fa la la.

Fa la la.

Each with his bonny lass,

Upon the greeny grass,

Fa la la.

Fa la la.’

Nicholas lent his support and the rich deep voice of Elias blended with those of his companions. Firethorn was the next to take up the song, then Ingram, then Richard Honeydew. Anne soon joined them, and others were caught up in the melody. Even the bilious Gill joined in while Hoode-unwilling to open his mouth again lest more than words gush out-tapped his foot in time to the rhythm of the piece.

Huddled below deck, the other passengers watched with blank amazement at the incongruous recital. Foreigners amongst them decided it was yet further evidence of the madness of the English and they responded with scorn, sympathy, or amusement. Led by Adrian Smallwood, the choir surged on regardless.

‘The Spring, clad all in gladness,

Doth laugh at Winter’s sadness.

Fa la la.

Fa la la.

And to the Bagpipes’ sound,

The Nymphs tread out their ground.

Fa la la.

Fa la la.

Fie then, why sit we musing,

Youth’s sweet delight refusing?’

And so it went on. A ragged band of players, frightened by the storm, shaken until they were about to vomit, wondering if they would ever see dry land again, slowly blended together in harmony to work their way through song after song. Adversity united them, and the man who had revived their spirits was Adrian Smallwood. It was very gratifying to Nicholas because he had recommended the actor for inclusion in the touring company.

The repertoire of songs did nothing to still the troubled waters of the North Sea, and the vessel continued to roll alarmingly as it sailed on. Several of the actors peeled off at intervals to vomit into one of the wooden buckets provided for the purpose and their contribution towards the recital was thereafter muted. But the singing carried on until the company began to fall asleep, one by one, from sheer exhaustion. Adrian Smallwood ended as he began, with a solo performance.

***

It was a rough crossing. Inclement weather throughout the night blew the Peppercorn off course and added hours to their voyage. There was one small advantage for Westfield’s Men. Gathered together in a corner below deck, they were easier to protect from the feared attack, and Nicholas shared the watch under the swinging lanterns with Firethorn, Elias and Smallwood. No threat came. Nicholas surmised that the assassin had either been disabled by the heaving motion of the ship or that Anne Hendrik had misheard him. She herself slept fitfully against the shoulder of her lodger and dear friend.

Dawn revealed billowing waves through a blanket of rain and few passengers ventured up on deck. The members of the company woke sporadically and were surprised to find themselves still alive and unharmed. When they had relieved themselves in one of the fetid privies, some were even able to rediscover their appetite. The worst was definitely over.

Time glided past and the bucking rhythm of the vessel seemed to ease. The yell from the look-out filtered down to them. Land had been sighted. When the weary travellers started to drift up on deck, they learned that the rain had ceased and that the sky was slowly clearing. The swirling wind still played havoc with the rigging and the choppy waves still climbed high enough to scour the deck occasionally, but the sight of their destination helped the passengers to accommodate these discomforts without any sense of panic.

Nicholas escorted Anne to the bulwark to take her first look at the little seaport of Flushing, situated at the mouth of the River Schelde and welcoming them to a harbour where many smaller vessels already bobbed and swayed. The welcome was illusory. When the Peppercorn tried to put in, its captain found the waves too strong and the wind too guileful, so he elected instead to sail on to Rammekins for surer anchorage.

Lawrence Firethorn was outraged by the change of destination. He took his protest across to his book-holder.

‘Our passage was booked to Flushing!’ he roared.

‘We will not be too far away,’ said Nicholas.

‘Order the captain to deliver us to the town that is named on our passport. I will not endure such a hellish voyage and be put down on the wrong part of the Dutch coast.’

‘The captain has no choice. He shows good seamanship. Would you rather stay aboard until the sea decides to calm? That might take a whole day.’

‘Another day on this floating death-trap! Get me off!’

‘Be patient,’ counselled Nicholas, ‘and you will soon have dry land beneath your feet again.’

‘Thank heavens!’

Firethorn’s relief was short-lived. When the company at last disembarked from the Peppercorn, the dry land had been turned to mud by a fortnight’s steady rain. Disenchantment gnawed at the actor-manager. Having envisioned a triumphal arrival at Flushing, he was now limping ashore at Rammekins. Instead of being welcomed like a victorious admiral after a naval battle, he was a complete nonentity forced to lead a bedraggled company on foot across a squelching quagmire.

Supporting Anne by the arm, Nicholas again took the full force of his employer’s ire. Firethorn was incandescent with righteous indignation.

‘Could they not supply us with horses?’ he demanded.

‘We were not expected to land here.’

‘This country is barbaric!’

‘Other passengers must walk as well as us.’

‘This mud almost reaches to my knees.’

‘Flushing is only four miles away.’

‘Four miles of this misery?’

‘Anne fares worse than us,’ noted Nicholas, breaking in on the other’s self-absorption. ‘If we had to struggle through this mire in a dress-as she does-we might have just reason to complain. Yet Anne bears it all with a brave smile. We should learn from her example.’

Firethorn accepted the rebuke with good grace and showered Anne with profuse apologies for the next mile. The rest of the company trudged along behind them in a mood of dejection. Not even the resilient Smallwood could manage a song now. The only person missing was George Dart. Nicholas had no qualms about leaving Dart behind to guard the wicker baskets containing their costumes and properties until a cart could be sent for him from Flushing. It was inconceivable that the diminutive assistant stagekeeper could be the intended victim of the death threat. The murderer-if he existed-would be stalking another member of the company.

***

Flushing was an English possession, a cherished bridgehead on the Continent which to some extent compensated for the disastrous loss of Calais on the eve of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. Ceded by the Dutch in recognition of military support against the Spanish invaders, Flushing showed the influence of English occupation. It had an English church, English settlers, and a permanent garrison of English troops. When the weary, mud-covered travellers reached the town, they saw English faces and fashions at every turn.

But it was by no means a home from home. Dutch inhabitants were cold and hostile, feeling that the English had not merely taken their town away from them. They had changed its name as well. The busy little port of Vlissingen was now the military base of Flushing, full of soldiers on their way to battle or wounded men and corpses returning from it. Overcrowded and insanitary, the place was haunted by profiteers, adventurers, and others who could exploit the wartime situation. The town was inhospitable and there was a pervading sense of unease.

It was Gill’s turn to have a fit of disillusionment. He gazed around with utter disgust and stamped a sodden foot.

‘This whole escapade is a catastrophe!’ he exclaimed.

‘Give it time to unfold, Barnaby,’ said Hoode.

‘It has unfolded far enough, Edmund. I am imprisoned in the hold of a ship, subjected to a voyage of sheer terror, forced to ruin by best shoes and hose by wading through the mud, then confronted with this cesspit!’ He folded his arms and turned away. ‘I expect better, I deserve better, I am owed better!’

‘We all share your disappointment.’

‘It was cruel to inveigle me into this calamity.’

‘You are a calamity in yourself!’ sneered Firethorn.

‘To come here, I turned down some highly tempting offers.’

‘Why?’ mocked the other. ‘What did Clement Islip promise to do to you? Hold you between his thighs and play you like his viol? Be your own fair maid?’

‘There is no point in bickering,’ said Hoode, stepping between the two men. ‘Our first task is to find somewhere to stay in this unfriendly town.’

‘It is already arranged,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is what Lord Westfield gave me to understand. Nick?’

‘Yes?’ asked Nicholas, stepping forward.

‘Be our pathfinder here. Where do we go?’

‘We stay right here.’

‘In the town square?’ said Gill with disdain. ‘We are renowned actors, not street beggars. We demand respect.’

‘I believe that we are about to receive it, Master Gill.’

Nicholas had seen the horseman approaching them at a steady trot. He was a tall, slender young man in neat apparel and he was already composing his features into a polite smile of welcome. The horse came to a halt in front of them. The rider touched his hat deferentially.

‘I am seeking Master Lawrence Firethorn,’ he said.

‘He stands before you,’ announced the actor with a hand on his chest. ‘Who may you be, sir?’

‘Balthasar Davey, at your service. Secretary to Sir Robert Sidney, Lord Governor of Flushing. I am sent to welcome you to the town and to apologise for the gross inconvenience you have clearly suffered.’ He dismounted from the saddle. ‘Sir Robert sends his compliments and bids me conduct you to the inn where you and your company will lodge for the night.’

‘Thank you, Master Davey,’ said Firethorn, pleased by this new development. ‘We drop from fatigue and need refreshment.’

‘I will take you to it directly.’ He turned to Anne and spoke with courtesy. ‘But I see that you have a lady with you. We have only a short distance to walk but I will happily offer her the use of my horse for that journey.’ He glanced at the soiled hem of her dress. ‘You have already marched too far on foot, I think. Travel the rest of the way in some comfort.’

Anne acknowledged the kind offer with a smile and was about to refuse it but Nicholas took the decision for her.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, taking her by the waist and hoisting her up into the saddle in one fluent move. ‘This is Mistress Hendrik, who has been our companion thus far from London. Her business takes her to Amsterdam and we seek advice as to how she can reach it in the safest and swiftest way.’

‘Put the matter in my hands,’ said Davey obligingly. ‘If Mistress Hendrik will spend a night at the inn, I will ensure that she may set off for Amsterdam in the morning. Will that satisfy you?’

‘It will,’ said Anne with gratitude.

Balthasar Davey tugged on the reins and led his horse along the road. Restored by the promise of hospitality, the company followed eagerly. Nicholas fell in beside their guide and introduced himself.

‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘Our baggage was too heavy to drag from Rammekins. A member of the company stayed behind to guard it. I would retrieve it and him as soon as possible.’

‘Your wagons await you at the inn.’

‘Good.’

‘I will find someone to do this errand for you.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘It is my responsibility. I will drive the wagon myself without delay.’

‘So be it.’

The inn was a long, rambling, ramshackle building with a steep roof whose thatch was in need of repair, but its defects were willingly overlooked by guests in need of rest and sustenance. English ale and wholesome food awaited them. With four walls around them at last, they were mollified. After an inauspicious beginning, their visit to the Continent might yet be redeemed. They were expected, after all.

Nicholas did not share in the repast. When he had shown Anne to the privacy of her bedchamber, he went out to the stables where an ostler was harnessing two of the horses between the shafts of a wagon. Nicholas was soon rumbling off in the direction of Rammekins to collect the abandoned George Dart. Curled up on a basket like a stray dog, Dart shivered in the grudging sunshine and scanned the road to Flushing with large and fearful eyes. When he saw Nicholas approaching with the wagon, he burst into tears of joy and fell on to the ground from his perch. He soon rallied when Nicholas praised him for discharging his duty so well and promised him a nourishing meal once they returned to the inn. After loading the baskets into the wagon, they set off on a creaking journey along the muddy track.

They had gone well over a mile before Nicholas realised that they were being followed. A sixth sense made him turn sharply and he caught a glimpse of a stocky man on a roan some fifty yards or more behind them. The lone horseman quickly dropped back and sought the cover of some trees. Nicholas said nothing to his companion. Flicking the reins, he coaxed a brisk trot out of the animals and they made light work of pulling the wagon along. When he next looked over his shoulder, Nicholas saw no evidence of any pursuit.

It was late afternoon when they trundled up to the inn. The sun had belatedly decided to grace the day with its full force and this drew some members of a Dutch militia company out onto the tufted lawn at the rear of the building for a game of skittles. Inside the hostelry, Westfield’s Men had already made themselves at home and were carousing happily. George Dart was given such a rousing reception that he forgot all about the privations of the voyage and the agonies of being left alone in a foreign country to guard the company’s baggage.

Nicholas saw immediately that Firethorn, Gill, and Hoode were missing. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. Owen Elias spoke over the top of a tankard of ale.

‘They are at the Governor’s house,’ he explained. ‘Sir Robert Sidney invited them to his table and that smooth-faced secretary of his escorted them thither. We have plainer fare here but it goes down well with this ale. Come and join us, Nick. You must be starving.’

‘I will speak with Anne first.’

‘She is resting in her chamber and left word that she will come down to you anon.’ He nudged his friend and chuckled. ‘Forget your office for once. Stop worrying about the needs of others and put Nick Bracewell first.’

‘I will admit to being thirsty, Owen.’

‘Hungry, too, I wager.’

‘Very.’

‘Then let us address the problem.’

With a loud yell, Elias banged the table until one of the servingmen came to see what he wanted. Food and drink were ordered for Nicholas and he set about both with relish. James Ingram and Adrian Smallwood were at the same table. All four men were soon chatting amiably but Nicholas remained alert. He remembered Anne’s warning very clearly and wondered if it might have a connection with the horseman who had trailed him.

They were in a long bare room with a scattering of tables, benches and stools. Apart from the actors, there were groups of English soldiers taking their ease during a break from fighting, watched resentfully by a few Dutch militiamen. Taunting remarks were occasionally tossed between the nominal allies. The tensions of war were clearly taking their toll.

Elias was buoyant again. ‘This tour of ours will be a triumphal march!’ he affirmed. ‘I feel it in my bones.’

‘That may just be the ague,’ joked Smallwood.

‘Do not rush to judgement,’ cautioned Ingram. ‘We have a long way to go yet, Owen. And we will spend far more time travelling than strutting upon a stage.’

‘We are pioneers!’ insisted Elias. ‘Other companies have brought their plays to the Continent, but none of our standing. I may well turn out to be the first Welshman to have acted before the Emperor Rudolph. Perhaps I should insert some lines in my native language for him.’

‘He would not understand them, if you did,’ said Nicholas as he put his dish aside. ‘The Emperor may not speak English, Welsh or any other tongue that you may know. He was brought up in the Spanish Court.’

‘Spanish!’ echoed Elias with distaste. ‘I’ll not speak that foul language for the Archangel Gabriel, let alone for a mere Emperor.’

‘You spoke it readily enough for Banbury’s Men,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘When you played in The Spanish Jew for them, you even sang a ballad in Spanish.’

‘Only in mockery of King Philip!’ he protested. Contrition came at once. ‘You are right to jog my memory, Nick. I rue the day when I was foolish enough to join our rivals. I paid dearly for that act of madness. My heart and hand belong to Westfield’s Men now.’ His chuckle resurfaced. ‘What is the point of travel if we cannot pick up every language that may lie in our way? I am turned schoolboy again.’

‘This venture will educate us all,’ said Ingram.

‘Yes,’ agreed Smallwood. ‘Including our apprentices. Dick Honeydew has already begun his lessons on the lute. He is an apt pupil. We take only one lutanist to Bohemia, but there will be two of us on the return journey.’

‘Is the lad that quick to learn, Adrian?’ asked Elias.

‘He will be a finer musician than his teacher one day.’

Before Nicholas could comment, he saw Anne descending the oak staircase and rose quickly to beckon her across. She exchanged greetings with them all and joined them at their table. The three actors talked respectfully with her before breaking away, one by one, to join their noisier fellows and to give Nicholas time alone for her on the eve of her departure for Amsterdam. Anne let him order a glass of wine for her but would only eat a light refreshment.

‘I will not sleep after a heavy meal,’ she said, ‘and I need all the rest I can get before I set off tomorrow.’

‘What time do you leave?’

‘At dawn.’

He was shaken. ‘So early?’

‘It is a long journey, Nick. Soldiers and supplies are moving to and fro every day. Master Davey tells me I may join some men who are heading north. It means that I will have a military escort.’

‘That puts my mind at rest a little.’

‘The anxiety will be all on my side.’

‘Why?’

‘I heard what that man said aboard the Peppercorn.’

‘Some idle boast, that is all.’

‘He was in earnest, Nick. I am bound to fear.’

‘The danger is over,’ he assured her.

Nicholas made no mention of the man who had followed him on horseback from Rammekins. There was no point in sending Anne off in a state of apprehension to the bedside of a dying man. She had worries enough of her own. He simply luxuriated in her company for a couple of hours while he still could, then escorted her upstairs when she chose to retire. Promising that he would see her off at dawn, he took a lingering farewell.

When he rejoined his fellows, Nicholas was in time to see Lawrence Firethorn burst into the room, with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode at his heels. All three were palpably flushed with wine. Firethorn closed on his book-holder, but his news was addressed to the entire company.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said effusively. ‘We have broken bread with Sir Robert Sidney himself. Our reputation has come before us. His brother, the late and much-lamented Sir Philip Sidney, was his predecessor here as Lord Governor of Flushing. He praised us to the skies. Sir Philip saw me play Hector at the Bel Savage Inn and witnessed some of our finest hours at the Queen’s Head.’

‘He also commended my genius to his brother,’ said Gill.

‘And one of my plays,’ added Hoode modestly.

‘In short,’ continued Firethorn, ‘Sir Robert is not content merely to lodge us here before sending us on our way. He has called for a play from Westfield’s Men.’ There was a flurry of interest from the company. ‘Our first engagement is to be before the Governor, his staff and our gallant English soldiers.’

There was a derisive snigger from one of the soldiers at the far end of the room, a big, scowling man with a sash across his chest and a rapier at his hip. The actor-manager sailed over the interruption without even hearing it.

‘Our play chooses itself,’ he announced.

‘Does it?’

‘Hector of Troy!’

‘Over my dead body!’ howled an irate Gill.

‘Yes, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I cut you down with my sword at the end of Act Five. A most deserved end for you.’

‘It is a hideous choice.’

‘I am bound to agree,’ said Hoode. ‘Anything but that.’

‘Support me here, Nick,’ said Firethorn, turning to the book-holder. ‘Hector is the only man fit for this occasion.’

The whole room was now listening to the argument and it showed nobody in a good light. Nicholas turned a public dispute into a private conference by leading Firethorn to a settle in the corner. Seated beside him, he used quiet persuasion in place of hot words. The others in the room gradually picked up their own conversations and left the two men alone.

‘Hector is one of your greatest roles,’ began Nicholas. ‘it is justly acclaimed. But this may not be the time and place for him.’

‘What better time than during a war? What more appropriate place than in front of English soldiers?’ He grabbed the other’s arm. ‘Hector is a military hero. My performance will inspire our army to similar feats of heroism in the field.’

‘I fear that it will lower their spirits.’

Firethorn felt betrayed. ‘My acting? Lower spirits?’

‘I talk of the play and not your performance,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘This war in the Netherlands is now in its seventh year, with no sign of resolution. Many English soldiers have already sacrificed their lives and others will surely do so.’

‘How does this bar Hector of Troy?’

‘The army is weary and disheartened. Soldiers need a play which takes them away from war, not one which reminds them of it. They want rest, amusement, distraction. In place of a stirring tragedy, offer them a harmless comedy. There is another consideration,’ he argued softly. ‘Where is the performance to take place?’

‘That was not decided.’

‘Is there anywhere suitable in the army’s quarters?’

‘They have no quarters, Nick,’ said Firethorn with a shrug. ‘The soldiers are dispersed around the town in lodgings. The Governor himself does not have a residence of his own. He rents a house. Flushing may be an English town but it is crawling with Dutch landlords.’

‘Where, then, are we expected to play?’

‘I was relying on you to find a place for us.’

Nicholas pondered. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.

***

Adrian Smallwood demonstrated his true value to the company next morning. He was indefatigable. In default of anywhere more suitable, Nicholas selected the inn itself as their theatre and he found the landlord much more amenable than Alexander Marwood had ever been. Decisions had to be taken quickly and implemented at once. Since there was no enclosed yard like that at the Queen’s Head, Nicholas elected to set the stage up in the angle between the main body of the inn and the stables. The afternoon sun would strike the acting area directly and warm the back of the spectators’ heads.

Smallwood was in action at once, helping the ostlers to lead the horses out of the stables and tethering them a distance away. Aided by George Dart, he rolled barrels into place, then lifted boards onto them to create a springy but quite serviceable stage. Nicholas screened the wall of the inn with a makeshift curtain so that one room could be pressed into service as the tiring-house and its neighbour as a storeroom for costumes and properties. The stage nestled beneath the windows, making it possible for actors to step through each set of shutters to make separate entrances. When it was cleared out by Smallwood, a stable was incorporated into the play as the home of one of its characters.

It was Smallwood’s idea to utilise the upper window as a gallery where he and the other actor-musicians could play their instruments to best effect. The chamber had been vacated by Anne Hendrik at dawn and the landlord obligingly reserved it for use by Westfield’s Men. A hundred other jobs needed to be done and Nicholas shared them out evenly, but it was Adrian Smallwood who somehow ended up doing most of them with an infectious cheerfulness.

‘How did you contrive the miracle, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Miracle?’

‘You turned Hector of Troy into Mirth and Madness. Nobody else could have worked so subtly on Master Firethorn.’

‘I have had some practice,’ said Nicholas wryly.

‘What is your secret?’

‘Patience and fortitude.’

‘Heavy demands must have been made on both.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘I have lived to tell the tale.’

The rehearsal of Mirth and Madness was attended by all kinds of errors and delays, as the deficiencies of the stage forced several changes to the text as it was played at the Queen’s Head. But there was no sense of desperation. It was stock play from their repertoire and they knew they could make it work as successfully as it always had done. To his credit, Firethorn led his company with admirable commitment. The loss of his beloved Hector was a blow that left no visible bruises. At the end of the rehearsal, he gave them his routine blast of criticism in order to concentrate their minds. He then retired without any qualms to take refreshment in the inn.

Smallwood remained behind to help Nicholas with last-minute refinements. The two wagons were placed end to end at the rear of the rows of benches to provide additional seating at a raised level. Because there was no charge for admission, it was unnecessary to screen off the open side of the improvised auditorium. Nicholas fully expected customers from the inn and townspeople to converge on them out of curiosity when the performance was under way. He took a final look around.

‘We are all done, Adrian,’ he decided.

‘Thanks to your leadership.’

‘Take your share of the credit. You have worked as hard as any of us and with far less complaint.’

Smallwood beamed. ‘I love this life, Nick.’

‘This tour may put that love under severe strain.’

‘It will not be found wanting,’ vowed the other.

They slipped away for a frugal meal and were soon back in the tiring-house with the rest of the company. Spectators began to pour in and the benches quickly filled. Firethorn felt the need to make an oration to his fellows. Dressed in his costume, he beckoned them close to hear his urgent whisper.

‘Lads,’ he declared, ‘this is a test of your mettle. We perform a trusty old play on a rickety stage in front of an untried audience. Anything may happen and we must be ready to respond to it. The good name of Westfield’s Men must be preserved at all costs. See this afternoon as a chance to try our art on foreign eyes and ears. English soldiers will form the main part of our audience but there may be Dutch, Danish and German spectators out there as well. Include them at all times. Raise your voices. Broaden your gestures. Leave them shaking with mirth at the divine madness of Westfield’s Men.’

They were ready. With no silken flag to hoist above their little playhouse, they used a trumpet fanfare to indicate the start of the play. Lawrence Firethorn stepped out in person to deliver the Prologue and set the tone. His words rang out effortlessly across a hundred yards or so.

‘Mirth and madness are our themes today,

So darker minds must seek another play

To feed their gloom. All’s froth and folly here,

And Comedy itself will oft appear

To grace this Flushing stage and mend a tear

With laughter and with song. And have no fear

That tragedy will come by stealth to turn

Your joy to sighs. Our clownish antics spurn

Life’s miseries and with a Sidney’s skill

Govern your happiness.’

The first laugh was led by Sir Robert Sidney himself, delighted at the way that his name had been worked into the verse. Seated on cushions in one of the wagons, he was accompanied by the erect figure of Balthasar Davey, immaculate as ever and trembling with controlled amusement. A ragged cheer went up from the English soldiers. Firethorn was saddened to see how many of them were wounded but it did not show in his voice. It continued to pound out the lines with exquisite timing until even those who did not understand a word of English were soon laughing.

He quit the stage to applause and passed the book-holder.

‘You were right, Nick.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The ideal play.’

Nicholas had no time to savour the compliment. Mirth and Madness demanded all his attention. It was a rumbustious comedy with many changes of scene and some striking dramatic effects. Deft stage management was required to keep it moving at the requisite pace. Shorn of his usual complement of assistants behind the scenes, he had to take even more responsibility on his own shoulders. George Dart shared the increased burden, but he was taking a series of minor roles in the play and was thus of limited help.

Mirth and Madness was indeed an ideal choice. It was a visual delight from start to finish. Its plot was easy to follow, its comedy rich and varied, its characters engaging companions with whom to spend a sunny afternoon. Jaded soldiers were transported from the cruelties of a war to a world of helpless laughter. Dutch spectators marvelled at the quality of acting, which made their own indigenous travelling players look like floundering amateurs.

Nobody appreciated the performance more than Sir Robert Sidney. Vexed by the cares of office, he had appealed to Queen Elizabeth to relieve him of his duties in Flushing so that he could escape from a conflict which had already robbed him of his revered elder brother. There was a sublime Englishness about the play which allowed the Governor to spend two glorious hours in his own beloved country. Poised and handsome in his high eminence on the wagon, Sir Robert quickly surrendered to the general hilarity.

His approval did not go unnoticed by the members of the cast. Owen Elias came hurtling offstage after another riotous scene and paused beside Nicholas.

‘Sir Robert is laughing his noble head off at us.’

‘He is not the only one, Owen.’

‘I had no idea that he was so young,’ said Elias. ‘He cannot have reached thirty yet. Why has he been deemed worthy of the Governorship at such an age?’

‘His wife is Welsh,’ said Nicholas with a teasing smile. ‘That must have counted mightily in his favour.’

‘Lady Sidney is Welsh? I knew he was a man of taste.’

Invigorated by the news, Elias went out for his next scene with even greater zest. The play was carried along by its own breath-taking momentum now. Lawrence Firethorn plundered his whole armoury of comic effects and gave endless pleasure with his extraordinary facial expressions, Barnaby Gill’s hilarious songs and dances brought even more guffaws, and Edmund Hoode supplied some gentler humour as a parish priest who falls hopelessly in love with an unattainable young milkmaid.

Yet it was Adrian Smallwood who impressed Nicholas the most. The three leading sharers had taken their respective roles many times and had been able to refine their portrayals. Smallwood, by contrast, was making his first appearances in Mirth and Madness. Having mastered his supporting role at short notice, he also accompanied five songs on his lute, took part in three dances and still managed to lend a willing hand to Nicholas behind the scenes. In a selfish profession, Smallwood was a rare example of readiness to serve others.

When the play reached its giddy climax, the audience burst into frenzied applause. Westfield’s Men had given them a priceless entertainment and rescued them from the harsher concerns of resisting Spanish aggression. As Firethorn led out the company to take their bow, the spectators surged forward to congratulate, embrace and cheer them.

Nicholas Bracewell was alone behind the scenes. When a hand closed on his arm, it belonged to no grateful spectator. Instead, he found himself looking up into the anxious face of the landlord. The man gibbered with embarrassment and motioned for Nicholas to follow. They went swiftly upstairs to the chamber which the book-holder shared with Owen Elias, Edmund Hoode and Adrian Smallwood. It had been ransacked. Baggage had been slit open and all their belongings scattered across the floor.

‘Who found it like this?’ asked Nicholas.

‘A servant,’ said the landlord in halting English.

‘When?’

‘During the play. She came up here with fresh linen and found all the rooms like this.’

‘All of them?’

‘Every chamber set aside for your company.’

Nicholas went to each of the rooms in turn to see for himself. Someone had searched them in great haste and left chaos in his wake. The landlord was deeply upset. Westfield’s Men had brought a large audience to his inn and he had made a tidy profit selling food and drink to them. He mumbled his apologies and spoke of compensation for the outrage that had taken place under his roof. Nicholas paid no heed. His mind was racing with the implications of what had happened.

Hurrying back downstairs, he found that the actors had now withdrawn from the milling crowd into the privacy of the tiring-house. Inebriated with success, they were talking and laughing together. Nicholas saw at a glance that someone was missing. He pushed to the centre of the room.

‘Where is Adrian?’ he asked.

‘He must be still onstage,’ said Elias, looking around.

‘No,’ said Richard Honeydew. ‘He went into the stable to fetch his lute. It was left in there after my last song.’

‘That is right,’ confirmed Hoode. ‘I was waiting in the stable for my next entrance. Adrian quit the stage as a lutanist but rushed back on as a cuckolded husband with a foil in his hand. He’ll be here in a moment.’

Nicholas did not wait. Stepping through the window, he brushed aside the curtain and went onstage. Spectators were still standing about in groups, enthused by the wonderful performance they had seen. There was no sign of Smallwood. Nicholas ran to the stable which had been utilised during the play to great effect. Its door was shut tight. He wrenched it open and stepped quickly inside.

Adrian Smallwood lay face-down on the floor, his head smashed violently open. His buff jerkin had been ripped from his back and a long-handled knife plunged deep between his shoulder-blades. The lute floated lazily in a pool of blood.