The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Five

It was a paradox. Over three hundred people had come to watch a play, yet not one of them had witnessed the real drama which had occurred at the inn. Watching a delightful romp, they missed the foul murder which took place under their noses. The killer had searched their rooms while everyone was distracted by Mirth and Madness, then used the swirling crowd as his cover when he struck down Adrian Smallwood. Or so it appeared to Nicholas Bracewell. He was convinced that the two crimes were linked but uncertain about the motives which inspired them.

When he raised the alarm, everyone was shocked to learn that one of the actors had been bludgeoned and stabbed only a short distance from where they stood. The goodwill engendered by the performance evaporated at once. While the audience was stunned, Westfield’s Men were in despair. At the very moment when they were celebrating the first success of their Continental tour, one of their number was brutally killed. All of a sudden, the English possession of Flushing seemed alarmingly foreign. They were adrift in an alien land.

Nicholas was deeply shaken. Smallwood was both a friend and an invaluable member of the company. To lose him at all was a bitter blow, but to have it happen in this way was shattering. Without understanding why, Nicholas felt an obscure sense of guilt, as if it had been his duty to protect the actor. The guilt merged with his surging anger and prompted a vow to bring the killer to justice at whatever cost. Unfortunately, the vow was easier to make than to keep. Obstacles lay in his path. It was Balthasar Davey who pointed them out to him.

‘You attempt the impossible, I fear,’ he said.

‘But I am involved in this to the hilt.’

‘I understand that.’

‘Adrian Smallwood was my fellow.’

‘If he had been a complete stranger, he would not have deserved the hideous fate which he met. I am as anxious as you to see the murderer caught and hanged, but finding him is a task for the proper authorities.’

‘I may have information that they do not, Master Davey.’

‘Then it is your duty to pass it on.’

‘I have already given a statement about how I found the body,’ said Nicholas. ‘My sole concern now is to track down the man who left it there.’

‘What chance have you of catching him?’

‘We shall see.’

‘None, sir,’ said the other politely. ‘An assassin who can work so cunningly will not be reckless enough to remain in Flushing while you and others conduct a search for him. He will be several miles away by now.’

‘Then I will pursue him!’

‘How?’

There was a calm practicality about Balthasar Davey that made him formidable in argument. The Governor’s secretary was keen to help in any way that he could, but he felt bound to oppose the course of action Nicholas wished to take. It was some hours after the play had ended. An official investigation into the murder had been set in motion and the corpse had been taken off by cart to the morgue in the English church. While the rest of Westfield’s Men were drowning their sorrows in the inn, Balthasar Davey and Nicholas were in a private room at the rear of the premises. The secretary was acquainting the book-holder with the reality of his situation.

‘Take my advice,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘Leave the town tomorrow and put this whole matter behind you.’

‘We cannot desert our fellow. That would be cruel.’

‘It is a cruelty which masks a greater kindness.’

‘Kindness!’ Nicholas blinked in disbelief. ‘Abandoning a friend at a moment like this? You call that kindness?’

‘I do. It would be a kindness to you because it would spare you untold pain and vexation. And it would be a kindness to your fellows to take them away from this unseemly business as soon as you may. I have heard actors are superstitious by nature. Keep them here to brood on the murder and that superstition will turn into morbid fear. Your company will suffer greatly.’

‘There may be a grain of truth in that,’ conceded Nicholas. ‘But we will still not forsake Adrian.’

‘Do you have any other choice?’ asked Davey. ‘You can hardly take his body with you. Pray for his soul and ride away from the scene of his murder. Tomorrow.’

‘We will at least stay for the funeral.’

‘That may not be for some days.’

‘Why not?’

‘Casualties of war,’ said the other. ‘We suffer heavy losses here. Wounded or dying men come in everyday. Many others are already waiting for burial and their turn must come before Adrian Smallwood.’

‘But he was a victim of murder.’

‘That gives him no prior claims.’

‘It should,’ protested Nicholas. ‘What sort of an uncaring place is this? Have you no human decency here?’

‘We have as much as the war allows us.’

Nicholas boiled with resentment but it was not directed at Balthasar Davey. The Governor’s secretary was not obstructing his wishes deliberately. He was very distressed at the murder, especially as it had occurred at the inn which he had chosen for the company. But living in the shadow of a long and expensive war had forced him to accept unpalatable facts. Emotion gave way to expediency. One man’s death-however gruesome-had to be set against countless others on the battlefield. In the long catalogue of slaughter, the name of Adrian Smallwood was of no particular significance.

Nicholas was still agonising over the decision.

‘I cannot bring myself to leave him here,’ he said.

‘You must.’

‘He deserves to lie in his own parish churchyard, not in some nameless grave hundreds of miles away from his home.’

‘He will not lack for English companions.’

‘What of his friends, his family?’

‘Write to them with these dread tidings,’ said Davey. ‘I will see that the letters are speedily dispatched. We are all too accustomed to sending bad news back to England.’ He saw the doubt in the other’s face. ‘Sir Robert has asked me to give you his assurance that every effort will be made to find the villain who committed this heinous crime. And I give you my promise that your unlucky friend will have a Christian burial here in Flushing.’

Nicholas studied the secretary for a moment. Balthasar Davey was an elegant young man with an intelligent face which had been schooled to hide his true feelings. He had been gracious with Anne Hendrik and unfailingly helpful to Westfield’s Men, yet there was something about him which troubled Nicholas. The secretary was holding something back. It was time to find out what it was.

‘Why did you lodge us here?’ asked Nicholas.

‘It seemed the best choice. They serve imported ale here. I thought that a thirsty troupe of players would prefer to drink English ale out of pewter tankards rather than quaff Dutch beer out of ceramic mugs.’

‘You misunderstand me. I wondered why you took such trouble on our behalf when you must have far more important things to do. Why did you not leave us to fend for ourselves?’

‘That would have been ungentlemanly.’

‘How did you even know that we were coming?’

‘We are well-informed about any notable visitors.’

‘We are a humble theatre company, passing through the town. Yet someone pays for our lodging and three of our sharers are invited to the Governor’s table.’

‘Sir Robert is fond of the theatre.’

‘Did he order you to look after us?’

‘Acting on a request from someone else.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Lord Westfield,’ said Davey easily. ‘Who else?’

‘I was hoping that you might tell me that.’

There was a long pause. Nicholas searched his face but it remained impassive. One thing was clear. Balthasar Davey was not responding to any request from Lord Westfield. Their patron’s wishes carried no weight in Flushing. Inside his jerkin, Nicholas still had the pouch which had been entrusted to him. He suspected that his companion might have some idea what it contained.

‘You will enjoy your time in Bohemia,’ said Davey, trying to inject a note of optimism. ‘I am sure that Westfield’s Men will be a resounding success at the Imperial Court.’

‘Have you been to Prague?’

‘Indeed, I have. Some years ago, with Sir Robert. We both have fond memories of Bohemia. You will be well-received there. All the more reason why you should not linger here. It will be a very long journey.’

‘We are braced against that,’ said Nicholas. ‘And this is by no means our first tour. We are used to travelling along endless roads in England.’

‘You will find this expedition far more taxing,’ warned Davey. ‘And you will stop to give performances on the way. Even with sturdy horses pulling the wagons, it will take you weeks to reach Bohemia.’

‘We are very grateful to you for providing such good transport. Why have you done so?’

‘It was requested.’

‘By Lord Westfield?’

‘Who else?’ said the other without a trace of irony.

Nicholas glanced towards the taproom. ‘I talked with some of the English soldiers in there last night. They were very bitter about this war.’

‘Not without cause, alas.’

‘Their main complaint was a shortage of food and money. They also railed against a lack of munitions. They were hired to join the garrison here but arrived to find no quarters. My question is this, Master Davey. If the situation here is so desperate, how can you find the money to furnish us with a comfortable lodging before sending us on our way with wagons and horses that could be more profitably engaged in moving supplies?’

The secretary weighed his words carefully before replying.

‘You are a perceptive man, Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘We are not entirely ignorant of what has been going on here. Word trickles back to England. London hears all the rumours.’

‘That’s all most of them are. Rumours. False reports.’

‘You have not answered my question.’

‘Westfield’s Men answered it for you this afternoon.’

‘Did they?’

‘You heard those same soldiers,’ recalled Davey. ‘They had real pleasure for the first time in months. Your play was a feast of entertainment which helped them to forget the war completely for a couple of hours.’

‘That was our intention when we chose Mirth and Madness.’

‘You are not the first to offer such distraction.’

‘The first?’

‘I served in the household of the Earl of Leicester for a time,’ said Davey wistfully. ‘It was an honour that I will always treasure. That is how I first came to Flushing. When the Earl arrived here to lead the army, I was part of a train which included lawyers, secretaries, chaplains, musicians, and acrobats. Yes, and players, too. Will Kempe among them.’

‘Kempe?’ said Nicholas in surprise.

‘You know his pedigree.’

‘All of London is aware of it.’

‘Kempe is the equal of your own Barnaby Gill. A born jester who could raise laughter on a battlefield, if need be, with one of his jigs. He played his part in this war.’

‘So did we, Master Davey, and we were proud to do so. But we were only briefly your guests. No host has ever spent so much money and care on us as you have done. I ask again. Why?’

‘I was obeying a request.’

‘Still from Lord Westfield?’

‘Who else?’

Nicholas gave up. The secretary was too elusive for him. Balthasar Davey could play games with words all day long and he would always best Nicholas. The visitor rose to leave.

‘I will return early tomorrow to bid you farewell.’

‘How do you know that we will go?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Because you know the folly of staying. I will bring a map with me. It will be very crude because I am no artist, but it will show you the route you must take.’

‘Thank you.’

Davey offered his hand and Nicholas stood up to shake it. There was a hint of genuine regret in the former’s eye.

‘I am sorry this had to happen,’ he said.

‘We held Adrian Smallwood in high regard.’

‘Mourn him accordingly.’

‘We will.’

Davey regarded the other shrewdly. ‘It is a pity that you have to depart from the town, Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I should like to have known you better.’ He moved away but a sudden thought detained him at the door. ‘Your chambers here were searched during the performance.’

‘That is so.’

‘Was anything taken?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So the thief searched for something he could not find.’

‘Apparently.’

‘It is still in your possession, therefore?’

‘What are you talking about, Master Davey?’

‘You are the ablest man in the company. It must be you. One more reason for you to ride out of Flushing tomorrow.’

‘One more reason?’

‘To save your life,’ said Davey softly. ‘I believe that the villain made a mistake. He did not intend to kill Adrian Smallwood at all. Your friend died because of his unfortunate resemblance to someone else. The murderer was really stalking Nicholas Bracewell.’

***

Westfield’s Men sat around a table strewn with pitchers of ale and traded maudlin reminiscences of their dead colleague. Adrian Smallwood had been snatched away from them just as they were coming to appreciate his qualities as a member of the company. Notwithstanding his egoism, Lawrence Firethorn did notice the performances around him on stage and he was ready to pay generous tribute where he felt it was deserved.

‘Adrian was a fine actor,’ he said fondly. ‘You could not fault his voice, his movement or his gestures. Even in minor roles, he had a real presence. Had he stayed with us, Adrian might have looked to become a sharer one day.’

‘I will miss his companionship,’ said Owen Elias. ‘It is rare for a man to fall in so easily with his fellows. Adrian seemed to have been with Westfield’s Men for years.’

‘Would that he had!’ sighed Edmund Hoode. ‘It would have made my task as a playwright a trifle easier.’

‘How so?’ asked Firethorn.

‘When I pick up my quill, I have to tailor the parts to suit the talents of the company. It would not have been so with Adrian. He could play anything-a lovesick shepherd, a scheming cardinal, a noble duke, a miserable beggar, a young gallant, an old greybeard, an Italian prince or a Flemish pieman; they were all grist to his mill.’

‘I could play all those parts with equal skill,’ boasted Barnaby Gill. ‘And many more besides.’

‘True, Barnaby. But even you could not have portrayed the sturdy woodcutter in Double Deceit. Adrian made that role his own. You do not have the height or build for the part.’

‘I can act height. I can dissemble build.’

‘We are not talking about you,’ said Elias impatiently. ‘Adrian was the more complete actor and that is that.’

‘He was a mere hired man,’ said Gill with a sniff.

‘You are unjust to his memory,’ chided James Ingram. ‘Have you so soon forgot how he cheered us on the voyage by making us sing? He showed true leadership that day.’

‘Which is more than you have ever shown, Barnaby,’ added Firethorn. ‘The poor fellow is dead. Brutally slain. Does not that mean anything to you?’

‘Yes,’ retorted Gill. ‘It means that I will not sleep soundly in my bed as long as we are in this dreadful country. One of us has already been killed. Who is next? Supposing that the villain murdered me?’

‘I would happily join in the applause.’

‘That is a most callous remark, Lawrence.’

‘Callous but honest. Show some respect to Adrian.’

‘It was not my decision to bring him with us.’

‘No, you were trying to force Clement Islip upon us.’

‘Had Clement been here,’ said Gill defensively, ‘this would not have happened. He was more wary. Clement would never have turned his back to an armed assailant.’

‘He would be too busy turning his back to you,’ growled Firethorn. ‘That is why you wanted to take that lisping milksop along with us. To face the same way as Clement in the bedchamber and satisfy your unnatural desires.’

‘That is obscene!’

Gill leaped to his feet in a state of uncontrollable agitation and jabbered wildly, waving his arms, stamping his feet and rolling his eyes as if trying to dislodge them from their sockets. Firethorn goaded him on, Elias chuckled, Hoode tried to intervene, Ingram reminded everyone that they were there to mourn a friend and the other members of the company looked on with a mixture of amusement and sadness.

The argument was still at its height when Nicholas walked in. He stared at them with unfeigned disgust. Even the hysterical Gill was silenced by the book-holder’s smouldering anger. Nicholas rarely lost his temper but he was clearly on the point of doing so now.

‘Will you bicker like silly children?’ he said. ‘Adrian Smallwood lies dead on a stone slab not a few hundred yards away and you wrangle here regardless. Was he murdered in vain? Must you dishonour his memory in this shameful way? Can you not even raise a passing sigh for the loss of a good friend?’

Westfield’s Men shifted uneasily in their seats.

‘You are right to censure us, Nick,’ said Firethorn at length. ‘I must take the lion’s share of the blame. It was I who provoked this quarrel.’ He turned to Gill and took a deep breath before speaking. ‘I owe you an apology, Barnaby.’

‘I feel that I owe Adrian Smallwood an apology,’ said the other pensively. ‘He deserves our profoundest sympathy. He was indeed a competent actor. But I would still have brought Clement Islip in his stead.’ He looked solemnly around the table. ‘Gentlemen, I bid you good night.’

‘Perhaps it is time for all of us to take to our beds,’ suggested Elias as Gill walked away. ‘We have drunk more than enough for one night. Let us grieve over Adrian in the morning with kinder hearts and clearer heads.’

The Welshman led the slow departure from the table. Only Firethorn remained. Seeing that Nicholas wished to talk to him alone, he motioned the latter to sit beside him.

‘Forgive our behaviour, Nick. We do care about Adrian.’

‘I know.’

‘Do they have any notion who the killer may be?’

‘None as yet.’

‘What action has been taken to track him down?’

‘Master Davey would not give me details.’

‘Stabbed to death in broad daylight! And only minutes after he had helped to give such pleasure on the stage. It beggars belief! Who could do such a thing to Adrian? And why?’

‘That is what I came to discuss.’

Nicholas looked around the room to make sure that nobody was within earshot. The place was fairly full but the other customers seemed to be locked into their own conversations. Taking no chances, Nicholas dropped his voice as a precaution.

‘Do you recall the pouch you gave me for safekeeping?’

‘Very well,’ said Firethorn.

‘That is what he was after.’

‘Who?’

‘The murderer. He first ransacked our chambers. When he could not find the pouch there, he followed Adrian into the stable and killed him.’

Firethorn was stunned. ‘How do you know?’

‘It is the only explanation that fits the facts.’

‘But Adrian did not have the pouch.’

‘The assassin thought that he did,’ argued Nicholas. ‘My guess is that he knocked Adrian senseless from behind, then tore off his jerkin to search it. Adrian was a strong young man. Even a savage blow like that would not keep him unconscious for long. He may have groaned for help, even tried to rise. The dagger was used to finish him off.’

‘I am quite confused here, Nick.’

‘The confusion was in the mind of the killer.’

‘Why should he imagine that Adrian had the pouch?’

‘He did not,’ said Nicholas. ‘He knew that it was in my possession. In some ways, Adrian and I might have been twins. In Mirth and Madness, he was wearing a buff jerkin much like this one of mine. The killer mistook him for me.’

‘You were the intended victim?’ gasped Firethorn.

‘I believe so. Why should anyone stab a harmless young actor to death? There was no motive. Had I been cut down in that stable, the motive would have been all too clear.’

‘Nick, dear heart!’ exclaimed Firethorn, embracing him impulsively. ‘We came that close to losing the very foundation of our company? Can this be true?’

‘Unhappily, it can. The Governor’s secretary confirmed it.’

‘Balthasar Davey?’

‘The idea had already crossed my mind but I chose to resist it at first. I had guilt enough over Adrian’s murder. To know that he died in place of me is a chilling thought. I am overcome with remorse.’

‘You mentioned the secretary.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Master Davey has an acute brain. He reached the same conclusion. Adrian Smallwood was killed by a man in search of the pouch I carry.’

‘But the existence of that pouch is a secret,’ said Firethorn in alarm. ‘How does Master Davey know about it?’

‘He knows far more than we.’

‘It was entrusted to me and I gave it privily to you. Who told the willing secretary that it was in your charge?’

‘You did, I fear.’

‘I never breathed a word on the subject.’

‘You did not need to,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘Master Davey made his own deductions. That was the reason you were invited to the Governor’s house yesterday.’

‘We were guests of honour. Sir Robert praised my work.’

‘Deservedly so. But while the Governor was enjoying your company, his secretary was no doubt watching you carefully to decide if the pouch you had been given was somewhere about your person. He realised it was not.’

Firethorn gave a hollow laugh. ‘Am I so easy to read?’ he said. ‘Can I fool a thousand spectators with a performance and yet be found out by Balthasar Davey? Alas, I can. I was an open book. He saw me in my cups. One more vain actor, crowing upon the dunghill of his achievements. Far too irresponsible to look after secret documents by himself. My behaviour told him all that he needed to know. The pouch was in your capable hands.’

‘That intelligence came later,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘He surmised that you had given the pouch to someone else in the company. Master Davey’s conjecture fell on me.’

‘What of the killer?’

‘He, too, came around to the same name.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘He followed us from England on the Peppercorn and bided his time. Anne overheard his murderous intent but not the identity of his victim. It is probably just as well. Had she known that I was in such danger, she would have been sorely vexed on her journey to Amsterdam.’

‘What is in that damnable pouch?’ wondered Firethorn.

‘Something of great value, it seems.’

‘It has already cost us one life, Nick. I’ll not let it rob us off another. My book-holder is far more precious to me than any secret documents.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give me the pouch. I’ll take it straight to Sir Robert Sidney and ask him to send it to Prague by official messenger.’

‘That is the last thing you must do.’

‘Why?’

‘We have been entrusted with an important duty. If the documents could have been sent by any other means, they would have been. Westfield’s Men were considered to be the safest couriers.’

‘Safest! It has made us anything but safe, Nick.’

‘We must still deliver the pouch to Doctor Talbot Royden.’

‘We are more likely to deliver another dead body to a hole in the ground. And the chances are that it may be yours. I will not take that risk.’

‘I will,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘Why?’

‘Because it is the only way to find Adrian’s killer.’

‘Will you invite destruction?’

‘I must. I want him.’

***

Bowing to expediency, Westfield’s Men decided to leave on the following morning. They wanted to stay for the funeral, but loyalty to Adrian Smallwood had to be weighed in the balance against practicalities. Bohemia was their final destination and they had been asked to arrive in Prague by a specific date. A delay of some days in Flushing would make it difficult for them to comply with that request, and they did not wish to linger in a town that was so redolent of the horrors of war.

The English presence was reluctantly tolerated by the local burghers and openly resented by ordinary townspeople. Younger members of the community expressed their animosity in a more obvious way. While the company was loading its two wagons outside the inn, a group of children came to spit at them and make obscene gestures. The mirth and madness of the previous day had been supplanted by a more usual rancour.

The well-bred James Ingram was shocked by the display.

‘Why do they hate us?’ he asked in dismay. ‘We are fighting in this war on their side.’

‘And occupying their town,’ Elias pointed out.

‘An army must have a garrison.’

‘These children are too young to understand that, James. All they see is an invasion by uncouth soldiers, who strut about their streets and lust after their mothers and sisters. In their eyes, we are just another set of filthy interlopers.’ He looked across at the jeering gang. ‘I have a lot of sympathy for them.’

‘Sympathy?’ Ingram was astonished. ‘With that behaviour?’

‘It is no worse than some of the things I did at their age. You forget that I was born in a country that has seen more than its share of English soldiers. Wales did not seek the Act of Union any more than these lads sought to hand over their town to foreigners.’ He clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Ignore them, James. Every actor must endure a hostile audience from time to time.’

They continued to help with the loading. Both men wore a sword and dagger, as did most of the company. The death of their colleague had put them all on guard. Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn were the only ones with an awareness of the likely motive behind the murder and they resolved to keep it that way. If the others realised that they were carrying documents which made them vulnerable to further attack, they would be sent into a communal panic.

When the company were ready for departure, Balthasar Davey rode up with two soldiers in attendance. He reined in his horse beside Nicholas and Firethorn.

‘I am glad to see that you took my advice,’ said Davey.

Nicholas sighed. ‘It was not an easy decision.’

‘But it has been taken,’ said Firethorn briskly. ‘There is nothing to keep us here now. We are keen to ride out of such an unfriendly town.’

‘I am sorry that our welcome turned sour,’ said Davey with an apologetic shrug. ‘We tried to make your visit here as pleasant as was possible in the circumstances. You certainly lifted our hearts with your play and for that we are truly grateful.’ He indicated his companions. ‘I have brought you some guides to escort you a few miles out of the town and set you on the right road. Beyond that point, you will be on your own, but this may be useful to you.’ He took a folded sheet of parchment from his belt and handed it to Nicholas. ‘It is the map I promised. With the names of towns or wayside inns where you may conveniently break your journey.’

‘Thank you, Master Davey.’

‘You have been a kindly host,’ said Firethorn with a hint of irony, ‘but we well understand why you wish to speed our departure. Farewell, sir.’

‘Adieu!’ replied Davey, quite unruffled. ‘Sir Robert sends his compliments and wishes you a safe journey. Do not fret over Adrian Smallwood. I will make sure that he is buried with honour and you may pay your respects at his grave when you return to Flushing.’

‘We are ever in your debt,’ said Nicholas.

He climbed into the first of the wagons and took up the reins. James Ingram was beside him while Edmund Hoode sat among the baggage with George Dart and the apprentices. The rest of the company were travelling in the second wagon. Owen Elias was its appointed driver, with Firethorn at his side. It was not a happy departure. Westfield’s Men had fond memories of their fallen comrade and those memories would be ignited when the little cavalcade went past the church where Adrian Smallwood lay on a cold and lonely slab.

Balthasar Davey watched them set off. Led by their two guides, and accompanied by the cruel gibes of the Dutch children running after them, the wagons rolled forward on the first stage of their onerous journey to Bohemia.

***

Thanks to the ease of their task, the horses kept up a steady pace without effort. They were accustomed to dragging carts that were crammed with men and munitions. Hearts were heavy in the wagons, but the loads were comparatively light for the two powerful animals between each set of shafts. It was not long before the two soldiers wheeled off the road and gestured for the travellers to continue. Westfield’s Men rumbled on into open country. They were on their own now.

Nicholas kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure that they were not being followed, but there was no shadowing horseman behind the second wagon. He felt a sense of relief. There was safety in numbers and he would not be in danger while he was surrounded by his fellows. At the same time, he sensed that the murderer was too determined a man to give up the search he had undertaken. Sooner or later, he would be back.

What Nicholas did see were the gloomy expressions on the faces of his passengers. Edmund Hoode was so laden with sadness that he might have been meditating on his latest doomed love affair, and the four boisterous apprentices, who chatted incessantly on most days, were strangely silent on this one. Three of them were managing to hold back tears but Richard Honeydew was weeping enough for the whole quartet. His cherubic face was glistening, his mouth agape with despair. Nicholas handed the reins to Ingram and beckoned the boy to come to him. Richard Honeydew was lifted bodily and placed between the two men.

‘Take heart, Dick,’ said Nicholas, an arm around him.

‘I miss Adrian.’

‘So do we all. Dreadfully.’

‘He was kind to me,’ bleated the boy. ‘Like you. He took an interest in me. Adrian was teaching me to play the lute. He was such a gifted musician. Truly, I had so much pleasure from that instrument.’

‘You will do so again, Dick.’

‘How can I? My tutor is dead.’

He succumbed to a fresh burst of tears and Nicholas held him tight for a few minutes. The book-holder then reached into the back of the wagon. He lifted up an object which he had wrapped carefully in soft material. Nicholas set it down in the boy’s lap.

‘Here, lad. Take this to give you some small cheer.’

‘What is it?’

‘See for yourself.’

Honeydew began to remove the material and soon realised what he was holding in his hands. He was overjoyed.

‘Adrian’s lute!’

‘He would have wanted you to have it.’

‘But it is far too costly for me to buy.’

‘It is an heirloom. It carries no price.’

‘And is it really mine?’

‘Only if you promise to practice on it diligently.’

‘Every day!’

‘That is what Adrian would have expected of you.’

The boy was completely overwhelmed by the gift. He held it with the tender care of a mother holding a baby. When he plucked at the strings, he gave a sudden laugh of disbelief. Adrian Smallwood had gone but he would at least have something by which to remember him. His tears began to dry in the sun.

Nicholas was pleased to be able to offer him some solace. A murder which had shaken the hardiest of them had devastated the apprentice. Richard Honeydew was habitually teased by the other three boys because they envied his superior talent. In Smallwood, he had found someone who rescued him from their mockery. Nicholas tried to keep a paternal eye on the lad, but his duties as book-holder consumed much of his time and attention. The lute was a tiny recompense for the loss of its owner but it brought Honeydew unexpected delight. Nicholas made no mention of the blood he had washed off the instrument.

James Ingram was glad to surrender the reins to Nicholas again. Keeping the two horses trotting along at a comfortable pace was not as easy as his friend made it look. The animals took advantage of an inexperienced driver and the wagon swayed all over the road. Nicholas soon imposed his control on them. The landscape was flat and fertile, allowing them to see for miles in all directions. The road was no more than a rutted track but it was dry and hard beneath their wheels.

Richard Honeydew slowly recovered his curiosity.

‘Are we in Germany yet?’ he asked, nursing the lute.

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor shall we be by nightfall. We will not reach the border until well into tomorrow and there may still be days before we arrive in Cologne.’

‘Will they let us perform there?’

‘We hope so, Dick.’

‘I am afeard they will not like us.’

‘Remember the dictum of Master Firethorn,’ said Ingram. ‘It is the duty of an actor to make an audience like him. As we did in Flushing.’

Honeydew tensed. ‘The audience may have liked us but the townspeople did not. Those Dutch boys hated us. Will it be any different in Cologne?’

‘So we are led to believe,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Emperor himself urged us to visit the city and promised to warn them in advance of our coming. It is not some crowded little seaport like Flushing. Cologne is one of the largest cities in the Empire, famed for its beauty. Is that not true, James?’

Ingram nodded. ‘So I have heard tell.’

‘But we are English,’ observed the boy.

‘That is part of our appeal. Foreigners arouse curiosity.’

‘It goes deeper than that, James,’ said Nicholas. ‘A few English companies have been here before us and made a very favourable impression. Theatre is a serious profession in London. It is not so in Cologne or Frankfurt or any of the other places we visit. The quality of our plays and players sets us well above anything else they may have seen. Only companies from Spain or Italy could compete with us and they do not have an Edmund Hoode to devise wonderful dramas. Nor do they have actors as accomplished as Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill, Owen Elias or James Ingram here.’

‘You over-praise me, Nick,’ said Ingram modestly.

‘Your time will come, James.’

‘My fear was of another kind,’ explained Honeydew.

‘Fear?’

‘Yes. We are English, they are German. We speak one language, they speak another. We follow one religion, they hold to a different faith. Will not all this drive us apart?’

‘Who knows?’ said Nicholas. ‘We must take our hosts as we find them and trust that they will overlook our faults. From what I hear-and that is not much-there has been a great upheaval in Germany over the question of religion. The Pope still rules firmly in some areas, but others have been yielded to the Lutherans, the Calvinists, and sects whose names and creeds I do not even know. It behooves us to tread warily.’

A sound like the report of a musket startled them. Lawrence Firethorn had given a full-throated yell. Bored with the leisurely pace at which they were moving, he seized the reins from Owen Elias and cracked the whip of his voice at the two bay mares pulling his wagon. The vehicle lurched straight into life, swung crazily out to one side of the road and went thundering past its companion. Firethorn roared with laughter and challenged the other wagon to catch him. With a sharp flick of the reins, Nicholas goaded his own horses into a canter and the race was on.

Passengers in both wagons were happy to trade discomfort for exhilaration. Each time a wheel hit one of the frequent potholes, they were violently bounced and shaken, yet they still urged their respective drivers on. Firethorn was in his element, crackling with vitality, laughing madly and handling his horses with the reckless bravery of a Roman charioteer. Nicholas was a more skillful but cautious driver, who was content to keep his wagon within easy reach of his rival’s without endangering his passengers by a foolish attempt to overtake at such speed.

When they saw the two vehicles hurtling towards them, other travellers quickly got out of the way. Three carts were driven off the road, horsemen were scattered, and a group of ambling peasants dived into some bushes for cover. The race continued for well over a mile, until a ford provided a natural finishing post. As his horses splashed through the water, it acted as a brake on the wagon and Firethorn did not need to heave too hard in the reins to bring his animals to a halt on the bank. Nicholas was soon drawing up beside him.

‘We needed to wake ourselves up, Nick,’ said Firethorn, hopping to the ground. ‘The weight of gloom was slowing us down and I sought to cast some of it off.’

‘We proved one thing,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our horses are sound in wind and limb. They enjoyed the race as much as us. I think they deserve a rest.’

‘So do we.’

While the horses were watered, the company jumped out of the wagons to stretch their legs, compare bruises, satisfy the wants of nature and eat some of the fruit which they had brought with them. Richard Honeydew sat with his back against a tree and practised for the first time on his own lute. Two of the other apprentices had a playful fight. Owen Elias went upstream to see if his quick hand could catch a fish or two. Dusting off his doublet and hose, Barnaby Gill wished that he had stayed in London with a certain young musician. James Ingram’s thoughts were still with their murdered colleague.

When it was time to move on, Firethorn first called them together so that he could impart his vision.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said soulfully, ‘we have suffered pain and sadness thus far. We have lost a cherished friend and were forced to leave him behind to be buried in foreign soil. You all know his virtues. Adrian Smallwood will never be forgotten by any of us. But he was first and foremost an actor, and he would not wish his death to leave a lasting grief. Adrian was proud of Westfield’s Men. Let us resolve to justify that pride by giving of our best in the true tradition of this company.’ He struck his Hector of Troy pose. ‘Do not look back. Forward lies our road. Destination is all. Remember where and why we are bound. Westfield’s Men are to be honoured guests at the Court of Emperor Rudolph. Let that inspire you. Do not trudge there with spirits low and heads hung down. March into Prague like conquerors. The city is there for the taking!’ He smiled inwardly. And so, he thought to himself, is the fair maid of Bohemia. She is mine!

***

When they slipped across the German border on the following day, Firethorn’s speech still echoed in their ears and they were excited by the thought that they had just entered the Holy Roman Empire. Most of them took the grandiose name at face value and had no conception of the chaos that lay behind it. It would be some time before they learned that Germany was a bewildering mass of electorates, principalities, duchies and prince-bishoprics, owing their allegiance less to the Emperor than to various religious and political factions. Westfield’s Men were innocent children in an enchanted forest filled with invisible wolves.

Days took on a fixed pattern. They would set out at dawn and vary their speed until noon. After rest and refreshment, they would press on until early evening before taking another break. A final push before nightfall took them to one of the capacious German inns, where food was served in huge quantities and where local inhabitants were often in a state of permanent drunkenness. They slept in large rooms that contained several beds or mattresses, grouped around a central stove of such size and significance that they were grateful they were not there during the winter. Germany in the snow was evidently a traveller’s ordeal.

In the summer, it was a constant delight, with verdant meadows, rolling hills, rich woodland, sparkling streams and sunlit vineyards to catch the eye. Towns and villages were picturesque but solidly built, a compromise between romance and reality that reflected something of the German character. To the gaping visitors, who had never been outside England before, it was enthralling. To Nicholas Bracewell, who had voyaged around the whole world, it was still fascinating.

Firethorn did not waste their time on the road. While he savoured with the others the pleasures of the traveller, he kept their mission firmly before their gaze. Every journey was a rehearsal of a play, every wayside stop an opportunity to practice dances or to stage fights. Westfield’s Men worked hard to keep their repertoire in a state of good repair because they knew it would be put under the closest scrutiny.

While rehearsals shaped each day, it was something else which gave them direction. The Rhine was a revelation to the newcomers, a majestic waterway which rose in the Swiss Alps and wended its way for over eight hundred miles until it fed into the North Sea. Like the Thames, it was a main thoroughfare, with sailing ships, barges, ferries, hoys, fishing-smacks and rowing-boats riding on it in profusion. There was a slow, unhurried, timeless quality about the Rhine. Along both banks, at points of scenic beauty or strategic importance, it had a succession of charming little towns and quaint villages. Nicholas felt a pang of regret that Anne Hendrik was not there to share such sights with him.

The river was their guide. Whether looping capriciously or running straight for miles, it eventually took them to their destination. When they got their first sight of the city, they brought the wagons to a halt and stood to marvel at what lay ahead. Nothing had prepared them for the glory that was Cologne. It was dazzling. Built on a graceful curve in the Rhine, it was an ancient city which had once been the largest in Germany and one of the wealthiest in Christendom. Much of its grandeur still clung to it like robes of tissued gold.

London might be bigger, especially now that it was pushing out into ever-widening suburbs, but they only ever saw the capital from the inside. They had absorbed its impact and taken its wonders for granted. Cologne was different. It was a dignified city of high towers, soaring steeples, fine houses and stately civic buildings, standing respectfully in the shadow of a mighty cathedral whose Gothic extravagance made Saint Paul’s look plain and homely and whose spire rose to a height which dwarfed its London counterpart. Westfield’s Men were struck dumb when they saw how much time, energy, money, love and sublime artistry had been dedicated to the service of God. Cologne Cathedral was a monument to centuries of belief.

It was still the centre of a vigorous Christianity and they could hear dozens of bells chiming even at that distance.

‘Cologne is a Roman Catholic city,’ warned Nicholas. ‘We must be very careful what we say and how we behave.’

‘We are here to entertain them,’ stressed Firethorn, ‘and not to convert them. Nor should we let them convert us to their Popish practices.’

‘It is magnificent!’ sighed Hoode, still wide-eyed.

‘Ha!’ snorted Gill.’ All that I see is a crumbling mausoleum of the Old Religion. And are we to debase ourselves by offering them our plays? It is an insult to my faith.

‘The only Superior Being in your life is yourself,’ said Firethorn sharply. ‘When we perform at the Queen’s Head, we share our bounty among Anglicans, Roman Catholics, Huguenots, Calvinists, Jews, Anabaptists, Atheists and creeping Puritans who come to sneer at our work. Theatre serves all religions. Even the God-forsaken will not be turned away by us.’

With Gill silenced, the wagons rolled on once more and they were able to take a closer inventory of Cologne. The city was fronted by several wharves and there were so many craft at anchor that it was almost possible to use them as stepping-stones to the opposite bank. Originally built on the western bank, the capital of the Rhineland had long since outgrown its fortified walls and spread out in an easterly direction. The river both divided the two parts of the city and joined them closely together.

Driving the first wagon, Nicholas led the way through the crowded streets in search of the inn recommended by Balthasar Davey. The secretary’s advice had been trustworthy so far. His choice of the White Cross had to be respected. While the book-holder was concerned with finding a place to stay, the actor-manager wanted to let the whole city know that they had arrived. Standing in his flamboyant apparel in the rear of the second wagon, he declaimed a martial speech to the tallest spires. A drum was beaten, a trumpet blared, the actors went into an elaborate mime and everyone knew that the players had come to Cologne.

The stocky man in the garb of a merchant did not need to be told that they were coming. He was lounging outside the White Cross as the two wagons rumbled around the corner. His presence went completely unnoticed by the newcomers. Nicholas Bracewell had glanced over his shoulder many times during the journey but he never thought to look in front of him.

Someone was waiting for them.