The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Six

Fortune favoured them at last. After suffering the rigours of the voyage, the cruel loss of one of their number and the cumulative fatigue of long days on the road, they found some warm consolation awaiting them in Cologne. It was Nicholas Bracewell who made the discovery. Lawrence Firethorn sent him off to the Burgomaster to seek permission for Westfield’s Men to play in the city. Nicholas could not have had a more positive response.

A big, fleshy man with a rubicund face, the Burgomaster wore a resplendent mayoral chain of solid gold which rested on his expansive paunch. Whenever he laughed, the chain bobbed merrily up and down. He oozed wealth and well-being. His command of English was uncertain and his accent guttural but he made himself understood.

‘Willkommen, Herr Bracewell!’ he said, pumping Nicholas’s hand. ‘The English comedians always we like to see in Köln. Lovely city, ja? How long you stay?’

‘Only for a few days, I fear.’

‘Is all?’

‘We have to ride on.’

‘Where you go?’

‘Frankfurt am Main,’ explained Nicholas. ‘After a short stay there, we go on to Eisenach, Weimar and Prague. That is our main destination. Westfield’s Men have been invited to play for two weeks at the Imperial Court.’

‘Wunderbar!’ said the other, chortling with approval and making his chain rattle. ‘Is big honour. You play the comedy for our Emperor, ja? Good.’

‘Did you not know of our visit?’

‘Nein.’

‘In his letter, the Emperor said that he would write to tell you that we were coming here.’

‘Emperor Rudolph,’ said the other with a philosophical shrug, ‘he forgot. Many things he promise, he not remembers. On the fringe of the Empire, Köln is. Prague, long way, ja?’ His chuckle returned to set his chain in motion again. ‘No matter. We pleased here to see Wizzfeld’s Men.’

‘Westfield’s,’ corrected Nicholas politely. ‘Lord Westfield is our patron and he secured our passport to travel abroad and play where we could find an audience.’

‘Here, an audience you have.’

‘We are very grateful.’

‘Köln thanks you. Wizzfeld’s Men is famous. The Emperor invite them. We must see them also, ja?’

‘We are at your disposal,’ said Nicholas deferentially.

‘Natürlich!’

The genial Burgomaster went off into a peal of laughter and his chain bobbed once more. They were in the Council Chamber at the imposing Rathaus, the town hall where civic business was conducted. It was a spacious room with a vast table in it. The Burgomaster was built on the right scale for such a place. A smaller man would have been dwarfed to insignificance. Nicholas was delighted with the cordial reception he had been given. It was a good omen. His host was friendly and willing to help in any way. Nicholas took the opportunity to find out as much as he could about Cologne and its relation to the Empire. The Burgomaster talked fondly about the former but more guardedly about the latter. Nicholas garnered invaluable information.

When the discussion was over, he hastened back through the streets to the White Cross. It was early evening and most of Westfield’s Men were washing down a large meal with mugs of German beer. Owen Elias was making his companions laugh wildly at his anecdotes. Nicholas was pleased to step into a happier atmosphere. They had not forgotten Adrian Smallwood but they had managed to put the horror of his murder behind them. Lawrence Firethorn beckoned his book-holder across to the table he shared with Barnaby Gill. Both men were anxious to hear the tidings.

‘Well?’ prompted Firethorn. ‘What happened?’

‘Westfield’s Men are welcome in Cologne.’

‘Did you mention my name, Nick?’

‘Several times,’ lied the other.

‘And mine, I trust?’ asked Gill.

‘Of course. We are to give two performances here.’

‘Where?’ said Firethorn.

‘The first will be in a public place and the Burgomaster himself will be there with the entire Council and their wives. The audience could be of considerable size.’

‘Was payment mentioned?’

‘We are allowed to charge admission.’

‘This is excellent news!’

‘The second performance will be at the palace,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Duke of Bavaria and other important guests are visiting Cologne, so we will have distinguished spectators. It pleased the Burgomaster that we gave him first call on the services of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Why?’ asked Gill.

‘Cologne is ruled by the Archbishop. He is also the Elector and thus wields temporal as well as spiritual power. The Burgomaster feels that he and his Council are the true government. There is great rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop. The spirit of Hermann Grein lives on.’

‘Who?’

‘Hermann Grein,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘He lived hundreds of years ago but the Burgomaster talked about him as if he were still alive. When he was himself Burgomaster, this Hermann Grein won a victory over one Archbishop Engelbert here in Cologne. The Archbishop wanted revenge. Burgomaster Grein was invited to the monastery for a conference. The monks kept various wild animals there, including a lion. Two canons trapped the Burgomaster in a courtyard with the lion. If the man had not been wearing his sword, he would have been torn to pieces. He fought bravely enough to kill the animal but was savagely mauled and nearly died.’

‘Did the poor wretch survive?’ said Firethorn.

‘By the grace of God, he did. The citizens of Cologne rescued him. Growing suspicious, they forced their way into the monastery and recovered their Burgomaster in time. The two canons involved in the plot were hanged at the monastery gate and Hermann Grein was slowly nursed back to health.’

‘An amusing-enough story,’ said Gill with a yawn, ‘but what bearing does it have on us?’

‘A fair amount,’ replied Nicholas levelly. ‘It helps to dictate our choice of play. The rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop may not be as deadly as in the days of Burgomaster Grein, but it is still there. We would be foolish to stage a play which sets Church against Commonalty, and there are two or three in our repertoire.’

‘A timely warning, Nick,’ said Firethorn gratefully. ‘We do not wish to fan the flames of any dispute in the city. ‘Tis a pity we lack the actors to play The Knights of Malta. That would delight both citizens and Archbishop.’

‘Bore them, rather,’ said Gill contemptuously. ‘Your Grand Master would send the whole of Cologne to sleep.’

‘I will send you to sleep in a moment,’ retorted the other, fingering his dagger. ‘For all eternity.’

‘The Knights of Malta will not serve here,’ argued Nicholas quietly. ‘A play about the Turkish menace would not be the wisest choice. It is too close to the truth. The Turks are attacking the eastern border of the Empire even though they have signed a peace treaty. The people of Cologne may not wish to be reminded of that distant threat. Comedy is in request yet again, I think.’

‘And so do I,’ added Gill. ‘Cupid’s Folly, it must be.’

‘That would be folly indeed!’ sneered Firethorn.

‘They want laughter, song, dance. They want me.’

‘Even drunken Germans cannot be that misguided!’

The familiar bickering began again and Nicholas left them to it. Stealing away from the table, he walked towards the figure he had noticed on his own in the far corner. It was Edmund Hoode, crouched over a sheet of parchment with a quill in his hand. The pen was hovering indecisively.

‘How now, Edmund?’ said his friend, lowering himself onto the stool opposite. ‘Is your teeming brain at work on The Fair Maid of Bohemia?’

‘If only it were, Nick!’ sighed the other.

‘What is amiss?’

‘My Muse has deserted me.’

‘You always say that.’

‘This time, it is true. My mind is empty. The storehouse of my imagination is bare. The mice scamper around in there, unable to find even the tiniest crumbs.’

‘You are tired, that is all,’ reassured Nicholas. ‘The journey has taxed each one of us. A good night’s sleep will soon revive you and fill that storehouse until it bursts apart with fresh ideas.’

‘No, Nick. I have written my last play.’

‘Those words, too, have often been on your lips.’

‘Never with more conviction.’ He lifted both hands up in a gesture of despair. ‘I have nothing new to say.’

‘Novelty is not expected. All you have to do is to take an old play by Edmund Hoode and dress it in a clever disguise. You have fashioned such costumes a hundred times.’

‘I have lost my needle and thread. Look,’ he said, lifting the sheet of parchment in front of him, ‘this is the fruit of two hours’ work. All I have contrived to write is the title and the name of its misbegotten author. The chaste maid refuses to leave Wapping. She’ll have none of Bohemia!’

He tossed the sheet over his shoulder with disgust and buried his face in his hands. Nicholas consoled him gently. It was a service he had often rendered and his touch was delicate. Hoode was slowly weaned away from his crippling melancholy. Nicholas waited until he had coaxed the first faint smile out of his friend before he made his offer.

‘Let me help you,’ he suggested.

‘How?’

‘Not as your co-author, that would be far too great a presumption on my part. I only wish to be a servant, who fetches and carries things for my master. I bring the bones of ideas, you put flesh upon them.’

‘You do not know The Chaste Maid of Wapping well enough.’

‘I know it as well as its author,’ said Nicholas. ‘Better than he at this moment. You forget how often I have seen it rehearsed and played. The first scene, for instance, could be transported to Bohemia with one simple device.’

‘One?’

‘If you are bold enough to use it.’

‘What is it?’ asked Hoode, interested at last.

‘Pick up your pen and I will tell you.’

The drooping playwright took up his quill and dipped it into the inkwell before him. Once he began to write, his hand never paused for a second as a stream of ideas, images and daring concepts poured from Nicholas. Though not an author in his own right, he had a grasp of narrative and of theatrical effect that was the equal of any. Hoode’s enthusiasm was brought quickly back to life again. Instead of simply listing his friend’s comments about the play, he started to challenge, to criticise, to amend, to refine.

It was only a matter of time before his own creative juices flowed freely again. When he replaced the first page with a second, it was his imagination which made the pen dance across it. Nicholas was no longer needed. Hoode was talking to himself and hearing nobody else. The book-holder retrieved the discarded sheet of parchment from the floor and gazed around the room. Firethorn and Gill were still squabbling cheerfully, Elias was still carousing with the others, George Dart was slumbering over his beer again and the resident poet with Westfield’s Men had been rescued from a pit of misery and filled with brimming confidence. It was once more the company he knew and loved. Nicholas was content.

***

When the actors eventually tumbled into their beds, they needed no lullaby to ease them asleep. They had spent several hours celebrating their arrival in Cologne and collapsed instantly beneath the joyous weight of their over-indulgence. As he lay awake in the darkness, Nicholas heard their individual snores merging into a general drone. While his companions sank into oblivion, he had too much to keep him awake.

Adrian Smallwood remained at the forefront of his mind. He had not only lost a staunch friend, he had seen a highly talented actor cut down in his prime. The sense of waste was overpowering. Nicholas was also distressed by his inability to do anything by way of recompense. Back in England, he could at least attempt to trace Smallwood’s family in York and pass on the sad tidings, but it might be months before he was home in London again. Finding the killer was the only thing which would assuage his feelings of guilt and helplessness. That would take time, patience and a degree of sheer luck.

Anne Hendrik was another source of anxiety. She was an able woman with a good working knowledge of Dutch, but she was still a foreigner in a land not wholly amicable towards the English. Nicholas was certain that she would be welcomed in Amsterdam by the family into which she had been married, but how and with whom would she return to Flushing? What sort of return voyage would she have? Was she missing him as painfully as he was now missing her? Where was she?

Nicholas was still asking that question when his eyelids finally closed for the night. He dozed peacefully but lightly. Sharing a bedchamber with seven of his fellows did not make him feel totally secure. Smallwood had been murdered while scores of people were at hand. The same killer would not be deterred by the presence of two apprentices and five snoring actors. Nicholas kept the dagger in his hand throughout the night. But it was not needed.

He awoke at dawn to the sound of carts and wagons rattling past in the street on their way to market. Cologne was a noisy city. Bells were soon ringing, voices were raised, dogs were barking and yelping. His companions slept untroubled through the morning’s pandemonium but Nicholas was wide awake. He grappled with his concerns over the death of Adrian Smallwood and the safety of Anne Hendrik until a third person glided gently into his thoughts.

Doctor John Mordrake had entrusted him with a curious commission. Nicholas was employed to deliver a small wooden box to the very man to whom the secret documents were being sent. What connection did Mordrake have with the mysterious Talbot Royden? Why was he prepared to pay so handsomely to have his gift put into the latter’s hands in Prague? Nicholas sat up with a start as a new consideration arose. He believed that Smallwood had been murdered in error by a man in search of the documents that he himself was carrying. Balthasar Davey shared that belief.

Supposing that they were both wrong? What if the killer was really after the wooden box? Mordrake’s gift was also a form of secret document. Would someone commit a murder in order to seize it? Nicholas reached into his purse for the object and examined it in the half-dark. It looked so small and innocuous. Did it really have the power to kill one man and put the life of another in danger? Were its contents so lethal? The box suddenly felt like a lead weight in his palm. He put it quickly away.

With a performance due that afternoon, there was an immense amount of work for the book-holder to do. Fair weather was a crucial factor in an outdoor performance. Light was poking its fingers in through the cracks in the shutters, but that told him little about their chances of a fine day. Taking care not to disturb the others, he dressed in silence and crept out of the chamber. When he stepped into the stableyard, he saw that they had been blessed with dry weather. The sky was clear and only a faint breeze was trying to brush the wisps of straw across the ground.

Before he could go back into the inn, Nicholas experienced the sensation he had felt on the drive from Rammekins. He was being watched. He sensed that it was a hostile gaze. Instead of swinging around sharply to catch a glimpse of the man, he pretended to have noticed nothing untoward. He sauntered across to the pump in the middle of the yard and worked its arm to fill a bucket with water. Then he casually removed his jerkin to hang it on the corner of a wagon. With his back to the wagon, he dipped both hands into the cold water to sluice his face and beard. He made sure that he took longer than usual over his ablutions. After drying himself on a piece of sacking, he retrieved his jerkin and ambled into the building.

***

The stocky figure dodged the market traders in the street outside and hurried across to the Cardinal’s Hat, a commodious inn chosen for its proximity to the White Cross. As he went upstairs, he congratulated himself on his opportunism. It had taken only a second to remove the document from the pocket which had been sewn inside the jerkin. His objective had been achieved without the need for more bloodshed.

Once inside his chamber, he locked the door and crossed to the window to get the best of the light. He tore the ribbon from the parchment and unfolded it eagerly. As he read the words on the paper, he reached into his pocket for the little notebook which he always carried with him. It listed a wide range of codes and ciphers. He was confident that he could soon unveil the secret message that lay behind the scrawled words. Then he read the document again and blenched.

THE FAIR MAID OF BOHEMIA

a comedy in five acts

by Edmund Hoode

Newly amended, corrected and enlarged from the tale of Nell Drayton, a chaste maid from Wrapping, stolen from her cradle at birth and forced into a life of drudgery until reunited with her noble family, thus showing the triumph of true love over setback and adversity.

Beneath the title of the play was a failed attempt to write a Prologue for it. The author was so dismayed with the poverty of his verse that he had slashed through every line with a vengeful quill. No secret message could be unlocked because it did not exist. What the man was holding was the sheet of paper which Edmund Hoode had discarded in a fit of self-disgust at the White Cross.

The fair maid now took even fouler punishment. Tearing the parchment to pieces, the man flung them to the floor and ground them beneath his heel as if killing some loathsome insects. His rage was short-lived. Realisation froze him to the spot. He had been duped. Nicholas Bracewell had deliberately allowed him to steal the document in order to draw him out of cover. The man was left empty-handed while the book-holder had gained two valuable pieces of information. He now knew for certain that he was being followed and that his shadow was after one thing.

The man smiled, then chuckled, then laughed at his own folly. He had been completely taken in by the ruse. Nicholas won a new respect from him. In the resourceful book-holder, the man had a worthy adversary. It would add more spice to his assignment. Westfield’s Men would need to be trailed in a very different way from now on. Nicholas would be more wary than ever and the rest of the company would be alerted.

As he thought about the sturdy figure who had washed himself in the stableyard, the man’s laughter took on a darker note. Instead of jeering at his own folly, he was savouring the pleasure of a duel with an able opponent. There would be no swift dagger-work in an empty stable this time. He wanted the utmost enjoyment from the death of Nicholas Bracewell.

***

The play which was set before the citizens of Cologne that afternoon was Love and Fortune. It was a compromise. Lawrence Firethorn was desperate to portray one of his gallery of tragic heroes and Barnaby Gill argued vehemently for Cupid’s Folly because he took the leading role of Rigormortis in that pastoral comedy. Nicholas imposed a truce on the warring actors and guided them towards common ground. Love and Fortune gave Firethorn a part in which he could unleash both his thunder and his comic brilliance while Gill was appeased by his generous haul of songs and dances. As it was another staple drama of Westfield’s Men, it needed no exhaustive rehearsal. They donned it like familiar apparel.

A stage was erected against the building which stood at right angles to the town hall. Curtains hung from horizontal poles along the other two sides to screen off the rectangle. Chairs and benches were laid out in rows at the front, with standing room behind them for the bulk of the audience. Seats were also placed in the upper windows of the town hall so that the Burgomaster, his Council and their wives could view the entertainment from a privileged position.

As in Flushing, curtains at the rear of the stage hid the tiring-house from view. It was in the hallway of the building. A stout wooden box below the stage enabled actors to mount it with ease before bursting between the curtains to make an entrance. When not doubling as characters in the play, the musicians could make use of an upper room as their minstrels’ gallery. Nicholas had been diligent in his preparations. Since Nathan Curtis, their master carpenter, had been left behind in London, it was the book-holder who devised and built the cunning trapdoor through which a number of surprise appearances would be made.

The beaming Burgomaster had been as good as his word. He had provided Nicholas with four able-bodied servants, who took some of the massive load from the inadequate shoulders of George Dart, and he persuaded every citizen of distinction to attend the performance. Market-day had swelled the numbers in the city, and many from the surrounding areas decided to avail themselves of the rare treat to see a performance by an English theatrical troupe.

Nicholas converted his German assistants to gatherers and placed them at strategic points to collect money for admission. Four albus was an attractively low price to pay. Westfield’s Men had an audience three times the size of that in Flushing. It flattered their vanity and stimulated their desire to give of their best.

Owen Elias could not resist peering through the curtains.

‘The whole city is out there!’ he said.

‘Let them see you during the play,’ advised Nicholas at his shoulder, ‘and not before. The time to appraise the spectators is when you stand before them.’

‘I know, Nick. But my curiosity was whetted.’

‘About what?’

‘I had to see if they were in the audience.’

‘They?’

‘Some of those eleven thousand virgins.’ Nicholas’s smile threw the Welshman on the defensive. ‘They do exist,’ he claimed. ‘We drank with a German watchmaker last night. His English sounded more like double Dutch, but one thing he did make clear was that there are eleven thousand virgins in Cologne. The city is famous for them.’ He grinned with frank lechery. ‘There’ll be a few less in number by the time I quit this place.’

‘You are centuries too late,’ said Nicholas, taking the curtain from his hand to close it again. ‘Your watchmaker forgot to tell you that the eleven thousand virgins existed in Cologne a long time ago. They accompanied Princess Ursula on a pilgrimage to Rome. When Ursula was martyred by Attila the Hun, she was made into the patron saint of Cologne.’

Elias was deflated. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘The Burgomaster gave me a history of the city.’

‘There are no virgins here?’

‘Not in the numbers you hope for, Owen.’

‘I have been cruelly misled.’

‘Only by the heat of your desire.’

‘You speak true, Nick,’ admitted the other with a wry grin. ‘We Celts are too goatish. When I first heard about those virgins, I thought my cod-piece would burst asunder.’

‘Save your strength for the play.’

He led the disappointed actor back to the tiring-house. Spirits were high among the rest of the cast. A substantial audience was awaiting them in a state of anticipatory delight. This was no routine assignment in their calendar. Westfield’s Men were making their debut before German spectators and were not quite sure how their work would be received. They needed an unqualified success in order to purge the sad memories of their last presentation. Love and Fortune would be a shroud to lay over the corpse of Adrian Smallwood.

Nicholas juggled his many responsibilities with the composure that was typical of him. His outward calm concealed his deep anxiety. He was being stalked by a man who would have no compunction about killing him in order to lay hands on the documents he was carrying. Nicholas had told Firethorn of his discovery and they had decided to take Owen Elias and James Ingram into their confidence. Four of them were now on guard against possible attack, but it was not enough. As long as his identity was unknown, the advantage would always lie with an assassin who could choose when and where to strike.

‘Stand by!’ Nicholas called, marshalling the company.

‘Speak up and follow me!’ ordered Firethorn. ‘And spare a thought for dear Adrian. This performance is for him.’

Music played, then Elias went out to deliver the Prologue. The ovation he collected raised the general excitement even higher. Firethorn and Gill virtually ran onto the stage to play the first scene together. They struck sparks off each other which ignited the whole cast. Love and Fortune had never been played with more attack and commitment.

Cologne adored it. Whether laughing at the wild antics or sighing with the forlorn lovers, they were in their element. They understood only half of the plot and less than a quarter of the dialogue, but that did not dim their appreciation one bit. Movement and gesture were eloquent interpreters. Songs and dances were self-explanatory. And Firethorn’s storming performance in the central role was stunning. Gill’s clown was the perfect foil for him. Whenever the two of them came together, the play took on an extra bite and richness.

What kept them enthralled was the overall quality of the company. Westfield’s Men were undoubted professionals. With Nicholas at the helm behind the scenes, the play was like a seamless web that grew larger and more ornate with each minute. The spectators thought of their own strolling players and winced. The performance of Love and Fortune made their homespun actors look like raw beginners. Two hours flew past in two magical minutes, then applause came in an irresistible avalanche.

It was led by the Burgomaster, standing in a window with his wife and family, cheering loudly and laughing until tears of joy trickled down his cheeks. The cast were kept onstage for ten minutes or more before the acclaim began to show signs of abating. When he led his troupe back into the tiring-house, Firethorn embraced each one of them with gratitude. Even Gill got a spontaneous hug of thanks.

‘That performance had everything!’ declared Firethorn. ‘We were at the height of our powers and the audience worshipped us. What more could we want?’

‘A few of those eleven thousand virgins,’ said Elias.

‘The city is ours. Tomorrow, we storm the Palace.’

‘Not with Love and Fortune,’ warned Nicholas.

‘It is our greatest weapon, Nick. You saw its power.’

‘Over the good citizens of Cologne, yes. But there will be a very different audience at the Palace. You play in front of prelates and nobles. The Archbishop may prefer something less full of noise and bawdy humour. Meat for the commonalty may stick in the throat of the Church.’

Barnaby Gill agreed and pushed forward the claims of Cupid’s Folly yet again. Firethorn countered angrily with Hector of Troy. They wielded the two plays like broadswords and the others backed out of range. The issue was still undecided when the Burgomaster sailed into the tiring-house. His eyes were glistening, his mouth was locked in a permanent grin and his cheeks were like two giant red apples left out in the rain.

‘Wunderbar!’ he announced. ‘Wizzfeld’s Men! Wunderbar!’

‘We thank you, sir,’ said Firethorn, giving his most obsequious bow. ‘We are humble players whose only wish is to serve our masters. It has been an honour, Herr Burgomaster.’

‘Magnificent, you are, Lurrence Feuertorn.’

‘Firethorn,’ enunciated the other. ‘Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘You please us. I help.’

His hand went towards his midriff and Firethorn hoped that he was about to open his purse. Instead, the Burgomaster plucked a letter from his belt and proffered it.

‘To Frankfurt, you go. Ja?’

‘We do, sir.’

‘You take.’

‘Thank you,’ said Firethorn, taking the letter but handing it straight to Nicholas with a bitter aside. ‘Is that what he calls help? Turning us into his couriers’?

‘You read. Ja?’ urged the Burgomaster. ‘In German, I write, and that letter sent to Frankfurt. Emperor Rudolph, he forgets. Frankfurt not been told you come, maybe. Now they know. My letter tell them. Written by Wizzfeld’s Men.’

‘But we wrote no letter,’ protested Firethorn.

‘I do for you, to help,’ said the Burgomaster with a gleeful chuckle. He turned to Nicholas. ‘Read. For all.’

When he unfolded the letter, Nicholas realised that what he held was an English translation. The Burgomaster had taken great pains on their behalf. His application for permission to play in Frankfurt was couched in the language of deference. Nicholas read it out to the whole company in a firm voice.

‘High Honourable, Respectable, Praiseworthy, Highly Learned Lords, Herr Burgomaster and the Council. Particularly Praiseworthy, Gracious and Ruling Lords, our company of players has stayed briefly in Cologne, where we were well-received, and we set out now towards Prague, where, by grace of the Most High Emperor, we are to display our talents at the Imperial Court. As our journey takes us close to your illustrious city, we did not wish to neglect to visit such a famous and praiseworthy place, and to present our plays to the High Council, according to its will. This is why we submit this most humble request to the Council, and ask it for the great honour of graciously allowing us to play in Frankfurt for a short time: for we are experienced players, trained as actors from our youth, commended for our performances before Her Gracious Majesty, Elizabeth, Queen of England, and renowned for our plays, wherein we present no vices or condemnable tricks, only things appropriate to decency and decorum, in addition to charming English music and excellent dances, which will the better increase the pleasure of the spectators and the listeners. Accordingly, we hope that the High Council will not refuse our humble request but will most kindly permit us to engage in theatrical performances for the entertainment of your justly celebrated city. Forever grateful. Your humble servants.’

There was dead silence. Annoyed to learn that a letter had been sent on their behalf without his knowledge, Firethorn speedily adapted to the idea. His problem was to contain his mirth at the cringing humility of the missive’s tone. As he glanced around, he saw that the rest of the company felt the same way. They were struggling to hold in their amusement.

The Burgomaster beamed. ‘Is good. Ja?’

‘Very good,’ said Firethorn.

Then the dam burst. Laughter poured out of him in a torrent and it set of a dozen minor tributaries. The whole company was soon rocking helplessly. A Burgomaster in Cologne would know how a Burgomaster in Frankfurt wished to be addressed and his letter would no doubt win them a favourable hearing, but that took nothing away from its submissive crawling and its essential ridiculousness. As the laughter built to a crescendo, Nicholas was afraid that the Burgomaster would be offended by such a reaction to his help but the latter readily joined in the wild cachinnation. It never occurred to their affable host that they were laughing at him.

‘Is good. Ja?’ he shouted.

The whole company gave its reply in unison.

‘Is very good. Ja! Ja! Ja!’

***

Hours later, some of them were still draining the dregs of the joke. As they sat around a table at the White Cross, they revelled in their triumph and giggled at the memory of the Burgomaster’s letter.

‘Did you ever hear such stuff?’ howled Elias with a mug of beer in his hand. ‘That letter did everything but get down on its knees to lick the arse of the Burgomaster of Frankfurt.’

‘Do you speak of the Particularly Praiseworthy, Gracious and Ruling Herr Burgomaster?’ teased Ingram.

‘I do, James. Most humbly and cravenly.’ said Elias.

‘And do you really believe that our plays are free from all vices and condemnable tricks?’

‘No, I do not.’

‘They are full to the brim with both,’ said Firethorn.

‘Thank heaven!’ added Elias.

And the table roared again. Nicholas gave only a token smile. His amusement at the wording of the letter had soon faded and he was struck by the extraordinary benevolence that lay behind it. On the strength of his long interview with Nicholas-and before he had seen Westfield’s Men perform Love and Fortune-the Burgomaster had taken it upon himself to smooth their passage across Germany by writing to his counterpart in Frankfurt. He would no doubt have sent a covering letter of his own to reinforce the request to be allowed to play in the city.

Firethorn read the mind of his book-holder and moved him aside.

‘Do not blame them, Nick. They needed this laughter.’

‘I know.’

‘Besides,’ said the actor-manager, ‘that letter may not have sounded quite so obnoxious in German. Then again, it may have been far worse.’ He gave a chuckle, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You are missing Anne, I think.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Very much. I fear for her.’

‘There is no need.’

‘She is alone in a foreign country.’

‘Anne is a capable woman. She will survive.’

‘Adrian was a capable man. He did not.’

‘That was different, Nick.’

‘I know, and it is wrong of me to fret. She will have arrived safely in Amsterdam by now, where she will be looked after by the entire Hendrik family. They will be delighted that she has put herself to such trouble and expense in order to see her father-in-law once more.’ He took a meditative sip of his beer. ‘But I do miss her.’

‘The pain of separation!’ said Firethorn, stroking his beard. ‘I know it full well. I miss Margery and the children as I would miss limbs that have been hacked off. While I enjoy the hospitality of Cologne, they live in the shadow of the plague. I lie awake at night thinking of them. Especially Margery,’ he said with a nostalgic twinkle in his eye. ‘She is a rare creature indeed.’

‘I can vouch for that.’

‘Owen may lust after his eleven thousand virgins, but Margery is worth all of them together. She is the perfection of womanhood-and I pine for her.’

‘Write and tell her so,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘I will, I will.’

‘The friendly Burgomaster will tell us how to send letters back to England.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘He is so obliging that he will probably saddle his horse and ride off to deliver the letter for me in person. Is good? Ja?’

Firethorn emptied his own mug with one long swig, then set it down on the table. It was instantly refilled from a jug by a buxom tavern wench. He grinned lasciviously at her and forgot all about his long-suffering wife. As the girl bent over the next table to pour some more beer, he admired the generous proportions of her body with a practised eye. His thoughts flew swiftly to a much finer example of female beauty.

‘Sophia Magdalena,’ he sighed.

‘Edmund is working zealously on the play.’

‘I trust that he will enhance the importance of my role in it. I must dominate the stage as the tormented Earl who searches in vain for his lost child.’

‘The Earl has been changed to an Archduke of Austria.’

‘O happy transition!’

‘And your daughter is brought up by simple shepherds.’

‘My sweet, little, fair maid of Bohemia!’

‘Dick Honeydew will shine in the role.’

‘A pox on the role!’ said Firethorn dismissively. ‘The only person who shines in it is Sophia herself. She is radiant. Her beams are warmer than those of the sun. At the Queen’s Head, she lit up the whole innyard with her presence. That is where I sensed my kinship with her. Sophia Magdalena of Bohemia. My own fair maid. So eager to see me again that she prevailed upon the Emperor to invite us to Prague.’

‘That may not be quite what happened,’ said Nicholas.

‘What other explanation is there? She fell in love with the Grand Master and I lost my heart to her. That is why I will happily ride half-way across the Continent at her behest. She waits in Bohemia for her faithful knight to arrive.’

Nicholas forbore to point out that the knight’s fidelity had been pledged to his wife only minutes earlier. In talking with such fondness and consideration about Margery, the actor-manager had looked back wistfully to London. His gaze was now fixed on Prague and nothing would deflect him. The wayward knight now rode solely under the banner of Sophia Magdalena.

‘Onward!’ said Firethorn, holding an imaginary sword in the air. ‘In the east, my pleasure lies. Onward to Bohemia!’

‘The journey will be a difficult one.’

‘I will swim lakes to reach her. I will hew down whole forests. I will climb the mountains as Hannibal once did in search of conquest. Sophia is distraught without me.’

‘She is not the only person we seek in Prague,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘There are others.’

‘Not for me. Sophia Magdalena is enough. She is Prague.’

‘Emperor Rudolph is our host.’

‘Only because of her.’

‘That may well be, but we must pay due homage to him.’ He felt the pouch inside his jerkin. ‘And we have to deliver the documents to Doctor Talbot Royden.’

‘He has gone right out of my mind.’

‘Bring him back,’ urged Nicholas. ‘Keep his name in your thoughts. These documents have already cost Westfield’s Men dearly. As long as they are in our possession, the company remains in danger.’

‘From whom, Nick? That is what I want to know.’

‘We can but guess.’

‘The worst enemy is one who will not show himself.’

‘I brought him out of hiding this morning.’

‘But you did not see the villain. He remains a phantom.’

‘That is why we must exercise the greatest care,’ stressed Nicholas. ‘You have a burning desire to reach Prague. Let us be sure that the whole company reaches it with you.’

‘I will be Vigilance personified.’

‘We will all need to take that role.’

Firethorn quaffed his beer and leaned closer to him.

‘Who is this Talbot Royden?’ he wondered.

‘What did Lord Westfield tell you about him?’

‘Nothing beyond the fact that he was a doctor of repute. Our patron simply pressed that pouch into my hands and urged me to deliver it to this fellow.’

‘How did he speak the man’s name?’

‘His name?’

‘With pleasure?’ asked Nicholas. ‘With distaste? With familiarity? Can you remember?’

Firethorn was reflective. ‘It seems a long time ago, Nick. I was so thrilled at the idea of travelling to Bohemia that I paid scant attention to this trivial service we were asked to perform.’

‘Because of that trivial service, Adrian Smallwood died.’

‘Secrecy,’ recalled Firethorn. ‘That is what Lord Westfield sought to impress upon me. Above all else, the documents were to be kept secret. As they have been.’

‘Not from the murderer.’

‘How did he know of their existence?’

‘We will find that out in due course. But you have not answered my question. How did our patron say the name of Talbot Royden?’

‘As if he had never laid eyes on the man.’

‘Then all we know about the good doctor is what we may deduce,’ mused Nicholas. ‘If he is employed at the Imperial Court, he must have a high standing in his profession. But in what branch of medicine or science is he most learned? Is he a personal physician to Emperor Rudolph himself? Or does he have some other function? How did he get to Bohemia in the first place?’ He felt the wooden box in his purse. ‘And what links does he maintain with England?’

‘Doctor Talbot Royden is an enigma,’ said Firethorn.

‘Not entirely. He enjoys the favour of the Holy Roman Emperor and he would only do that by dint of some remarkable skills. Of one thing we can be certain.’

‘What is that, Nick?’

‘Talbot Royden is a species of genius.’

***

The laboratory was situated in what had once been the largest apartment at the castle. It was a long, low, narrow room whose ceiling was supported by a series of arches which divided the place into bays. Tallow candles burned with such abundance that the laboratory had the feeling of a chapel, but it was dedicated to a stranger religion than Christianity. Chemical odours of competing pungency mingled with the abiding smell of damp. Spiders flourished in dark corners. Mice and beetles traversed the wooden floor in search of food. A lazy black cat spent most of its time asleep on a wooden stool.

Tables were laden with jars of weird liquids and coloured powders. All kinds of scientific equipment was scattered about. A surgeon’s chest-complete with a gruesome collection of knives, pincers and scissors-stood open on an oak chest. Beside it lay the saw that was used for amputations, its teeth blunted by recent use. Leather-bound tomes, written in many languages, were stacked everywhere. Learning lay cheek-by-jowl with instruments for letting blood.

The two men stood in front of the furnace at the far end of the room. Even with its iron door closed, it gave off a fierce heat.

‘Open it,’ ordered Talbot Royden.

‘Has it had time enough?’

‘Do as I tell you, Casper.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Open the door slowly.’

Royden took a precautionary step backwards. He was an ugly man in his thirties with a bulbous nose and porcine eyes. His compact body was hidden by a long red gown decorated with the signs of the zodiac. His hat covered his ears, the back of his neck and most of his forehead. He was sweating profusely.

His young assistant wore a leather apron over his shirt and breeches. He put on thick gloves before he reached out to open the door of the furnace. As it swung on its hinges, there was a dramatic surge of heat and light. The whole room seemed to be on fire. Caspar’s intelligent face registered both hope and fear. With a pair of large tongs, he reached into the furnace to pull something out with great tenderness before setting it down on the block of stone beside the furnace.

Both men watched carefully as the small cauldron hissed and glowed. When it began to give off a succession of sparks and peculiar noises, Doctor Talbot Royden clicked his tongue in irritation. It was speaking to him in a language that he understood.

‘It is not yet ready,’ he admitted.

‘We were too hasty,’ said Caspar respectfully. ‘It was my fault, Master. Perhaps I extracted it too quickly from the furnace. Or did not bring the fire to the requisite heat.’

‘No, Caspar. It is my judgement that is awry.’

‘What must we do?’

‘What else?’ said Royden wearily. ‘We try again.’

But they were not allowed to repeat their experiment. Before the assistant could use his tongs again, the door of the laboratory was flung open and four armed soldiers marched in. They surrounded Royden and looked suspiciously down at the sizzling cauldron.

‘Is it a success?’ grunted one of them.

‘Not yet,’ conceded the alchemist.

‘Arrest him.’

‘Stop!’ protested Royden as he was seized by two of the soldiers. ‘I am in the middle of an important experiment.’

‘A failed experiment.’

‘The augmentation process is very tricky.’

‘Take him away!’

‘You will regret this!’ yelled Royden as he was dragged unceremoniously away. ‘I will report you to the Emperor.’

‘We are acting on his orders.’

Caspar was horrified at the sudden change in their fortunes. Years of patient work had been halted in a matter of seconds. It left him utterly bewildered. He turned to the soldier who had barked the orders.

‘Doctor Talbot Royden is a brilliant man,’ he argued.

‘He was.’

‘You cannot treat him in this vile way.’

‘We just did.’

‘He is a scientific genius. His work must go on.’

‘Not at the Emperor’s expense.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ask him.’

‘But we were almost there,’ insisted Caspar.

‘Almost is not good enough.’

‘Doctor Royden simply needs time.’

‘He will have plenty of that now.’

‘Why?’ asked the other. ‘Where have they taken him?’

‘To his new home.’

‘Home?’

The man gave a callous grin before strutting off.

‘Where is this home?’ called Caspar.

‘The castle dungeon.’