The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Seven

A persistent drizzle greeted them next morning but it could neither soil memories of their triumph on the previous day nor dampen their enthusiasm for the performance that lay ahead. Rain, sleet or snow would have no effect at all on them. Westfield’s Men were due to play at Court, and that made them impervious to bad weather. When they actually went into the banqueting hall at the palace, their spirits rose even higher. It was the ideal place in which to stage a play.

The hall was long but quite broad and its high ceiling gave an impression of more space than really existed. The floor was polished oak and the walls were covered with a series of portraits in gilt frames. Tall windows allowed light to flood in from both sides. If need be, curtains could be drawn and candelabra used to illumine the stage. All the benefits of an indoor performance were at their beck and call.

There was even a dais at one end of the hall for the regular music recitals that were held there. Nicholas Bracewell had merely to increase its size to accommodate the swirling action of a five-act drama. Doors on both sides of the stage gave access to an ante-chamber which was immediately designated as their tiring-house. The rehearsal was virtually painless and Firethorn only had to upbraid them once. Even George Dart got everything right. Voices and instruments carried beautifully. Everything pointed to another theatrical victory.

But it was not to be. The problems began with the choice of play. After being forced to stage two comedies that would be more accessible to foreign audiences, Lawrence Firethorn asserted his authority and demanded the right to exhibit his talent in a more serious drama. The Corrupt Bargain caused a faint tremor when its selection was first announced.

It was a fine play but the company remembered its last performance only too well. Incapacitated by a raging toothache, Firethorn had been unable to take the leading role. His deputy, Ben Skeat, an old and trusted actor, had suffered a heart attack in the middle of the play and died onstage. Though the company had somehow struggled on without their protagonist, it was an experience which had scarred their souls. Superstition clung tenaciously.

The excellent rehearsal stilled most of their doubts. Even in its attenuated state, Firethorn’s portrayal of the exiled Duke Alonso of Genoa quickened the pulse of all who saw it. He brought a subtle power and a deep pathos that Ben Skeat could never have matched, and the latter’s tragic departure from the text soon faded from memory. Every part he touched, Firethorn made his own, and Duke Alonso was no exception. With such a striking performance at its heart, The Corrupt Bargain became a far more interesting and exciting play. Its author, Edmund Hoode, dared to hope that it could be redeemed from the obscurity into which it had been cast.

Mishaps were only minor at first. James Ingram tore a sleeve as he was putting on his costume, George Dart cut his hand while testing the edge of the executioner’s axe and Richard Honeydew broke a string while practising on the lute. Such normal accidents were taken in their stride, as was Barnaby Gill’s last-minute outburst of pique at the way his preference for Cupid’s Folly had been brutally ignored. By the time of the performance, Nicholas had everything and everyone in the tiring-house completely under control once more.

Unfortunately, his supervision did not extend to the audience. From the sounds which they heard seeping through to them, they knew that they were graced by a large and august assembly. There would be no standees here, no common folk straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the action over the heads of the crowd in front of them. Everyone was seated. The usual hubbub of the Queen’s Head was now a subdued murmur. The Corrupt Bargain would be watched with close attention and reverence.

That, at least, was their conviction as they launched the piece on the placid waters of the Archbishop’s Palace. It floated smoothly at first. Owen Elias earned muted applause for the Prologue and Edmund Hoode impressed as a kindly Provost. Honeydew’s first song drew sighs of contentment from the ladies while their husbands wondered if they really were looking at a boy in female attire and studied his anatomy and movement with fascination. Colorful costumes and clever scenic devices gave the drama an added lift. Understandably nervous at first, the company soon found its rhythm.

Then Firethorn made his entrance and there was a gasp of astonishment. The actor put this down to his extraordinary presence on a stage and he hurled himself into his first speech with gusto. Disguised as a friar, the exiled Duke had returned to Genoa to regain power from his duplicitous younger brother, Don Pedro. Firethorn was busily explaining his plan in rhyming couplets when his eye fell on the noble figures seated in the front row. He had no difficulty in identifying the Archbishop of Cologne in his sacerdotal robes, nor could he fail to notice the splendour of the Duke of Bavaria. It was the man who sat between them who caused him to falter.

Not only was the guest wearing a habit identical to that of Firethorn’s, his swarthy complexion and Mediterranean cast of features marked him as an Italian. Bernado of Savona was the Abbot of the Monastery of Saint Peter. Though he spoke no English, he heard his native Genoa mentioned time and again. It persuaded him that Duke Alonso was less of a noble hero than a comic figure who was there primarily to mock him. As the Abbot’s discomfiture grew, consternation spread throughout the audience. The corrupt bargain which they saw was a theatre company in league with the Protestants to subvert the monastic traditions of the Roman Catholic Church.

Once the notion had a hold on the audience, it was very hard to dispel. Firethorn, the putative hero, began to attract glares and hisses. The rest of the company struggled on manfully but the frown remained on the face of Bernado of Savona. Only the inspired clowning of Barnaby Gill brought any relief. His songs amused them and his jigs diverted them, but even he fell foul of a staid gathering when obscene gestures which always won guffaws elsewhere were now met with stony silence. The tiring-house was a place of mourning.

‘They hate us,’ wailed Gill. ‘It is the wrong play.’

‘No!’ insisted Firethorn. ‘It is the right play. We happen to have offered it to the wrong audience.’

‘You have estranged them, Lawrence.’

‘They need a little wooing, that is all.’

‘We are deep into Act Three,’ complained Hoode, ‘and they are still hostile. Clearly, they despise my play.’

‘The Archbishop wrinkled his nose at me,’ said Elias.

‘The Duke of Bavaria yawned during my last song,’ said Gill in a tone of outrage. ‘I blame Lawrence for this.’

‘There is no point in blaming anyone,’ said Nicholas, swiftly interceding. ‘The play must run its course and there is still time to win them over.’

‘Not while my double sits glowering in the front row,’ said Firethorn. ‘He could teach Marwood how to pull faces.’

‘Your appearance offends him.’

‘It has been offending me for years,’ sneered Gill.

‘What can I do, Nick?’ asked Firethorn, ignoring the gibe. ‘Were I the villain, I could understand their dislike of me. But I am the hero, garbed like a holy friar. I am a symbol of all that is good and wholesome. Wherein lies my sin?’

‘Your disguise,’ said Nicholas.

‘It is the only way that Alonso may return to Genoa.’

‘Discard it in the next scene.’

‘But I only reveal myself in the last act.’

‘Do so earlier.’

‘That would ruin my play!’ protested Hoode.

‘No, Edmund,’ said the book-holder. ‘It may rescue it.’

Firethorn was baffled. ‘How do I maintain my disguise?’

‘Wear a hat and a cloak. Hug the corners of the stage. Turn your face away from people who might recognise you. As long as you pose as a friar, The Corrupt Bargain is doomed. Abandon the cowl and show them who you really are.’

‘Madness!’ opined Gill.

‘A betrayal of my work!’ exclaimed Hoode.

‘It may well be both,’ said Firethorn, frantically weighing the implications. ‘But it may also be our only salvation. What is more important? The fate of one paltry drama or the standing of Westfield’s Men?’

‘It is not a paltry drama, Lawrence!’

‘Perform it as written and we sink into further ignominy. Amend the play and we may hang on to our reputation.’ He heard the music which introduced his next scene. ‘It is decided. I am sorry, Edmund. We must all make sacrifices for our art.’

Leaving Hoode in tears, he charged back onstage, to be met by the same wall of antagonism. The Archbishop of Cologne was glaring at him, the Duke of Bavaria was curling his lip and Abbot Bernado looked as if he was about to excommunicate the actor. Firethorn took them all by surprise. Striding to the very edge of the dais, he tore off his cowl to reveal his ducal attire and stood before the audience in his true character. The measured voice of a friar now became the mighty roar of a dispossessed ruler. In the space of one glorious minute, he transformed a room full of grumbling enemies into an appreciative audience. At the end of his speech, it was the Italian Abbot who first put his tentative palms together to applaud.

Not all of the damage could be repaired, and vestigial doubts remained in the minds of the spectators. But the emergence of Duke Alonso into the light of day helped to salvage a great deal. The plot was now clarified, the hero identified and the embattled heroine-the winsome Richard Honeydew-able to reap her full harvest of sympathy as she was confronted with a stark choice between yielding her body to the tyrant or watching her brother die. The Corrupt Bargain was at last allowed to work its spell upon the audience.

Behind the scenes, its author was quite inconsolable.

‘This play has a curse upon it, Nick!’ he moaned.

‘That curse has just been lifted,’ said Nicholas as another round of applause rang out in the hall. ‘Listen to them, Edmund. They are hailing your work.’

‘What they are clapping is a travesty of my play. When Lawrence flung off his disguise, he altered the whole direction of the piece. We have had to improvise in every scene.’

‘With great success.’

‘But at a hideous cost.’

‘Be comforted,’ said Nicholas. ‘It remains a fine play.’

‘Not when it is savaged like this,’ retorted Hoode. ‘I do not know which is worse. Ben Skeat dying in the middle of The Corrupt Bargain or Lawrence Firethorn coming to life as the Duke of Alonso two acts before he is due to do so. The play is bewitched.’

‘So-at last-is our noble audience.’

‘Not by my art. They watch dribbling idiocy out there.’

Nicholas felt sorry for his friend, but the book-holder’s main concern was to keep the action moving. He signalled to George Dart to carry a bench onstage, then waved Owen Elias and James Ingram into position for the next scene. Actors who had been coming into the tiring-house with sad faces now showed a smiling eagerness to go back onstage. They knew that the tide of disapproval had at last been turned.

Success was modified by the earlier failure of the play. There was still a lingering suspicion in some minds that Roman Catholicism had been ridiculed. When they came out to take their bows, the actors were given pleasant smiles and polite applause. After their sustained ovation on the previous day, this was a decidedly tepid response, but at least they had won their audience over. Their cherished reputation had been partially vindicated.

Disappointment ensued. Expecting to be presented to the dignitaries, Firethorn and his company were dismayed to find themselves paid off and ushered out of the Palace. Instead of being treated as distinguished players, they were summarily dismissed like unwanted servants. As they made their disgruntled way to the inn, Firethorn sat in the first wagon beside Nicholas. The actor-manager was seething.

‘That was shameful!’ he railed. ‘We gave our all and they turned their aristocratic backs on us.’

‘Only to avoid embarrassment,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘Embarrassment?’

‘We caused unwitting offence with our play.’

‘How was I to know that my twin would be sitting in the front row? And from Genoa! What greater misfortune could we have faced? My performance must have seemed like a personal attack on him.’

‘You retrieved the situation superbly.’

‘Only at your instigation, Nick. If I’d kept that damnable cowl on until the final scene, I’d probably have been hanged from the rafters by now! Did they not recognise great acting when it was offered to them?’

‘They were overcome by it,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You were too convincing in the habit of a friar. That is why your portrayal had such an effect on them.’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ said Firethorn, his ire cooling somewhat. ‘You may be right. I was the victim of my own brilliance in the role. That is some recompense. And there is more in that purse they gave us. What did it hold?’

‘Several florins.’

‘Money is the best kind of applause.’

While Firethorn slowly rallied, the rest of the company was still morose and Hoode was almost suicidal. For the second time in succession, his play had been hacked to pieces in the name of expediency. It was a dispirited troupe which trickled back into the White Cross. A familiar face awaited them.

The Burgomaster swooped with a beaming smile.

‘Wizzfeld’s Men!’ he gushed. ‘Danke! Danke vielmals!’

‘What is he saying?’ asked Firethorn.

‘He is thanking us,’ explained Nicholas.

‘For what?’

‘Visit to the Palace,’ said the Burgomaster. ‘The play, they no like very much. I hear, I have friends in Palace. Our play, we love. You give the city the best. Thank you, my good friends. This I give to Wizzfeld’s Men.’

And he pressed a bag of coins into Firethorn’s hand.

‘What have we done to earn this?’ said the actor.

‘Put the city of Köln first. We love you. Danke.’

He embraced Firethorn, kissed him on both cheeks, gave a cheery wave to the rest of the company, then went out, chuckling happily. The Burgomaster was delighted with their setback at the Palace. He believed that the company had deliberately chosen its finest play to offer to the city while reserving an inferior one for the Archbishop and his guests. Firethorn used the unexpected bounty in the most practical way.

‘Order a feast!’ he said, tossing the money to Elias. ‘We will spend our last night here in revelry. And do not be downhearted,’ he told his company. ‘We have only been rebuffed by an Archbishop, a Duke, and a mere Abbot today. They are of no significance to a company which will soon be winning plaudits from an Emperor.’

***

Rudolph II, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia, sat on his throne in full regalia. His vestments were embroidered with gold thread and his heavy crown resembled a bishop’s mitre which had been turned sideways to reveal a band of gold surmounted by a tiny cross. Held in his left hand, the massive sword of state rested on its point. The sceptre of office was held in his other hand and rested on his shoulder. He exuded a sense of quiet power and majesty. In outward appearance, he was an archetypal Defender of the Faith. All that Rudolph needed to do was to decide exactly which faith he was defending.

The distinctive Hapsburg face was devoid of expression. Large, protruding eyes gazed unseeing into the distance. The nose was like the beak of a bird, the undershot chin was the family signature. The drooping lower lip moved imperceptibly as he talked to himself. Rudolph was now in his fortieth year, but the weight of his melancholia made him seem older. His attitude suggested a man who was rueful about the years which had passed and fearful about those to come.

Studying him intently, the Milanese artist was undeterred by his subject’s mood of dejection. He saw what he wished to see and his brush transposed his vision to the canvas. Short, fat and amiable, he offered a complete contrast to the sad, motionless figure on the throne. The artist was bristling with nervous energy and constantly shifted his feet or shrugged his expressive shoulders. They were alone in the Presence Chamber at the castle. The portrait was slowly taking shape.

A staff rapped on the door, then it swung open to admit the tall, spare figure of the Chamberlain. He padded across the marble floor to take up a position at the Emperor’s right ear. Rudolph gave no indication that he was aware of his visitor. The arrival of the Chamberlain in no way distracted the artist. His brush worked away at the same busy pace as before.

Clearing his throat noisily, the newcomer spoke in German with a mixture of deference and irritation. It was difficult to hold a conversation with a man who had absented himself from the world and its immediate responsibilities.

‘The Papal Nuncio is here,’ he announced.

‘Why?’ mumbled Rudolph.

‘He has an appointment to see you.’

‘Cancel it.’

‘You have already cancelled two appointments with him,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He comes on important business.’

‘From the Pope?’

‘Of course, Your Imperial Highness.’

‘Then we know what he is going to say.’

‘It would be a kindness to hear him say it.’

‘I will. In time.’

‘When? Later today? Tomorrow? The day after?’

‘When I feel able to face him.’

‘The Papal Nuncio grows impatient.’

‘That is his privilege.’

‘You cannot go on refusing to see visitors.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is not politic, Your Imperial Highness.’

‘I am not a political animal.’

Rudolph set the sword and sceptre aside before lifting the crown from his head and setting it on his lap. He turned his wondering eyes on the Chamberlain.

‘What else have you come to tell me?’

‘You have several other appointments today.’

‘Cancel them.’

‘We must not keep doing that.’

‘Postpone them instead. I am not ready for them.’

‘When will you be ready?’

‘You will be told.’

The Chamberlain pursed his lips in annoyance but made no comment. He was about to move away when he remembered something else he had to report.

‘Doctor Talbot Royden has been arrested.’

Rudolph blinked. ‘On whose orders?’

‘Yours.’

‘Why did I have him arrested?’

‘He has failed yet again.’

‘But he promised me that he would succeed this time.’

‘He did not.’

‘This is intolerable!’ said Rudolph, rising to his feet. ‘I need men around me who can keep their word. I want a Court that is the envy of the civilised world. I demand success and achievement in every branch of the sciences and the arts. Has Doctor Talbot Royden been told that?’

‘Many times.’

‘Send him to the dungeons.’

‘He is already under lock and key.’

‘What further punishment should I inflict upon him?’

‘That is up to you, your Imperial Highness.’

Rudolph sat down on his throne to consider the question. His anger slowly ebbed and it gave way to a sudden outburst of manic laughter. The Chamberlain edged away from him. Rudolph clapped his hands together with glee.

‘I know what I will do for the good doctor!’ he said.

‘What is that?’

‘Send him a basket of fruit.’

The Chamberlain was mystified. ‘Fruit? A basket of fruit?’

‘The perfect gift,’ insisted the other before turning to the artist and translating his edict into fluent Italian. ‘I am sending my prisoner a basket of fruit.’

‘Fruit?’ said the other with a giggle.

‘From the Emperor!’

As the two of them went off into another peal of wild and inexplicable laughter, the Chamberlain made a dignified exit.

***

The journey to Frankfurt took two days longer than they had anticipated. When they left the Rhine Valley and headed east, they came up against topographical problems of all kinds. Hills, mountains, woodland and waterways slowed them down, and the appalling condition of the roads was another delaying factor. One of the wagons lost a wheel when it hit a boulder at speed and precious hours were taken up by the repair.

Westfield’s Men soldiered on bravely and Firethorn kept up their spirits by leading rehearsals of plays from their repertoire. By common consent, The Corrupt Bargain had been eliminated from the list they would offer to their audiences. Robbed of one of his plays, Edmund Hoode was determined to make amends with another. He worked conscientiously on The Fair Maid of Bohemia, sitting beside Nicholas Bracewell so that he could profit from the book-holder’s advice. It was not the first time a play had been written on the hoof. During a tour to the West Country, the two friends had collaborated on ideas which eventually grew into The Merchant of Calais. Hoode was keen to revive that fertile partnership.

‘Barnaby is calling for an extra song,’ he said.

‘He already has enough,’ argued Nicholas. ‘The play can carry two more songs but they should be given to Owen and to Dick Honeydew.’

‘That was my feeling as well.’

‘It will lend more variety to the singing.’

‘That was the joy of Adrian’s voice,’ observed Hoode sadly. ‘It was such a welcome contrast. This play cries out for an actor like Adrian Smallwood.’

‘I know. But you have made good progress, Edmund.’

‘Thanks to you.’

‘All that I have done is to make a few suggestions.’

‘You fired my imagination, Nick. Whenever I faltered, I took fresh inspiration from her.’

‘Her?’

‘Sophia Magdalena. The fair maid who arranged for us to be invited to Bohemia. The least I can offer her by way of thanks is a play in her honour. It is an expression of my deep and lasting devotion to her.’

‘But you only saw her that once.’

‘It was enough.’

‘She struck a chord with the whole company.’

‘You, too, will fall in love with her, Nick.’

‘I am already spoken for,’ said the other softly. ‘You pursue your fair maid of Bohemia and I will hold fast to my fine lady of Bankside.’

‘It may be a long while before you are together again.’

‘We are resigned to that.’

‘Absence serves to whet the appetite.’

‘True.’ He flicked the reins to goad the horses into a trot. ‘Tell me more about the play. What other changes have you made to it?’

Hoode needed no more encouragement. He talked at length and with enthusiasm about the heroine’s translation from Wapping to Bohemia. Nicholas was pleased to hear that some of his own ideas had been incorporated and developed. It was evident that, by the time they reached Prague, the revisions would be complete and the play fit for rehearsal. After the harrowing experience at the Palace in Cologne, the playwright was in sore need of a triumph to restore his morale.

Absorbed by what he heard, Nicholas did not lose sight of caution. He knew that they were being followed. Ever since they left Cologne, he sensed that they were being trailed even though he never laid eyes on the man in their wake. When he saw a copse ahead, he decided to take a more positive step. Handing the reins to Hoode, he waited until the wagon merged with the overhanging branches, then jumped to the ground. The others assumed that he was going to relieve himself and a few good-natured jeers followed him behind a tree.

Secure in his hiding-place, Nicholas waited for ten minutes or so but no following horseman came by. When he stepped out into the road, all that he could see behind them were a few peasants travelling on foot. The wagons had halted on the other side of the copse for him. As Nicholas hurried after them, he decided that the man was either too clever to be caught in the trap or had somehow got ahead of them again. They could not afford to lower their guard for a second.

He was still there.

***

The Taunus offered a stern challenge and slowed them down even more. Wrapped in thick forests, it rose to a greater height than any of the other Rhineland Schist Massifs, and they had to struggle up mountain tracks and through narrow passes. At one point, the road was so steep that the passengers had to leap off the wagons and help to push them from behind. They were grateful when they met the downward gradient. Their efforts were eventually rewarded with a first sighting of their next destination.

Frankfurt was another beautiful city, steeped in tradition and occupying a strategic point on a major river. For over seven centuries, Germany had elected its rulers there and emperors were now crowned in its majestic cathedral before being honoured at a coronation banquet in the palatial Kaisersaal. Frankfurt had developed into one of the most thriving commercial centres in Europe. So closely interwoven had its past been with the great events in German history that it could lay claim to being an unofficial capital.

Impressed by the size and the location of the city, the visitors could see from a distance the soaring cathedral tower, ornamented in the Gothic style and topped by a dome and lantern-tower. It reached up to heaven with a multitude of churches and tall buildings scrabbling after it. Westfield’s Men were by no means the only travellers on the road. The closer they got to Frankfurt, the thicker became the traffic. They were soon part of sizeable crowd converging on the city.

When they entered through the gates, they were carried along by the stream of heavily laden carts and riders towing pack-horses. Over the general clamour, they could hear music being played ahead of them. Sporadic applause and laughter broke out. It was only when they reached the main square and saw it awash with stalls that they realised how timely their arrival was. Frankfurt was holding one of its bi-annual fairs. Merchants had poured in from all parts of Europe to buy, sell or borrow from the city’s banks. Acrobats, jugglers, musicians and other itinerant entertainers were offering their wares.

Lawrence Firethorn took one look at the seething mass of people and responded in the true spirit of an actor. Arms outstretched, he stood up in the wagon and shouted with joy.

‘An audience!’

The huge influx of visitors meant that accommodation was difficult to find. The inn recommended by Balthasar Davey was already full and they had to trawl through the city for an hour before they finally found somewhere to lay their heads. As soon as the company was safely bestowed at the Golden Lion, its book-holder was sent off to the city hall to see if their written request for permission to perform in Frankfurt had been accepted by the Burgomaster and his Council. Since a long walk through crowded streets exposed him to possible danger, Nicholas asked Owen Elias to act as a trailing bodyguard. The Welshman kept ten or fifteen yards behind him but his strong arm was not needed in his friend’s defence.

The city hall was another tall, arresting building of Gothic proportions and extravagance. Leaving Elias to keep watch at the doorway, Nicholas went in alone. Everyone had mocked the obsequious letter from the Burgomaster of Cologne, but at least it had prepared their way. Westfield’s Men would not arrive in Frankfurt as unexpected strangers. Nicholas had every reason to expect a courteous welcome from the city. As he stepped into the hallway, he got something infinitely better.

‘Nick!’

Anne Hendrik leaped up from the bench and ran to fling herself into his arms. His amazement gave way to delight and he hugged her to him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Waiting for you.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’

She kissed him on the cheek, then led him across to the bench. Holding her hands, he sank down beside her. They were so excited at seeing each other again that they gabbled simultaneously. Nicholas held up a palm to silence her, then took a deep breath before speaking.

‘I thought that you were in Amsterdam,’ he said.

‘I was, Nick.’

‘How did you find your father-in-law?’

‘I arrived too late,’ she said with a rueful shake of her head. ‘He died a week earlier. I missed the funeral by a few days. But it was not a wasted journey,’ she continued with a brave smile. ‘The family were very pleased to see me and I was able to pay my respects beside his grave. Jacob could have expected no more of me. I loved his father as my own.’

‘It must have been a grievous shock to you.’

‘It was, Nick. To go all that way and find him gone. I was desolate. The thought of a long, lonely journey back home was too much for me. So I gave way to impulse and came here.’

‘Why to Frankfurt?’

‘Because you told me that Westfield’s Men would visit the city after you had been to Cologne. I hoped that I might get here in time to meet up with you. I have been sitting on this bench for two whole days.’

‘Why come to the city hall?’

‘I knew that it was the first place you would visit on your arrival. The company cannot perform without a licence from the Burgomaster and his Council.’ She squeezed his hands and gave a smile. ‘So here I am, Nick.’

‘I could not be more delighted to see you,’ he said with a grin of disbelief. ‘But how did you get to Frankfurt? How did you travel all the way here from Amsterdam?’

‘The Hendrik family knew some Dutch merchants who were coming to the fair here to sell their goods. They agreed to take me along as their passenger.’

‘How was the journey?’

‘Long and uncomfortable.’

He was touched. ‘You endured all that just to see me?’

‘To be with you.’

‘In what way?’

‘I did not come here to exchange a brief greeting,’ she explained. ‘When I fell to thinking about it, I decided that you needed me. A group of English actors, roaming a country whose language they do not speak, is in want of an interpreter. I flatter myself that I might fill that office.’

‘You mean that you will stay with us for a while?’ he said in surprise. ‘Lodge with us here in Frankfurt?’

‘And ride on to Bohemia.’

‘Bohemia!’

‘If you will have me.’

‘Nothing would please me more, Anne. This is manna from heaven. I never dared to expect such a miracle.’

‘Would the company accept my help?’

‘They will be overjoyed by your offer.’

‘Good. It is settled.’

‘But what about England? What about your business?’

‘What about them?’

‘How will Preben fare while you are away?’

‘Exceeding well,’ she said. ‘He will fill my place with ease. I sent a letter from Amsterdam to explain that I might be out of the country longer than I planned. Preben will understand. I have no worries on that score.’ She ran a hand through his beard. ‘The truth is, I could not bear to be parted from you for that length of time.’

‘Nor I from you.’

‘Then you approve of my idea?’

‘I revel in it. You have lifted a burden from my heart.’

‘You are not the only person I wanted to see,’ she teased. ‘I missed Lawrence Firethorn as well. And Barnaby. And dear Edmund, of course. James Ingram, too. The other person I am eager to meet again is Adrian Smallwood. I have not forgotten how he piloted us through that terrible storm.’ She saw his face darken. ‘What is wrong, Nick?’

‘We suffered a dreadful loss in Flushing,’ he said.

‘Adrian?’

‘He is no longer with us, Anne.’

‘I cannot believe that he left the company.’

‘It was not of his own free will.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was murdered.’

Anne’s jaw dropped and she gave an involuntary shiver. He put a steadying arm around her as she tried to assimilate the horror of what she had just been told.

‘Adrian murdered?’ she whispered. ‘By whom?’

‘That remains a mystery,’ he confessed. ‘But let me give you the full details. It is only fair that you should know how we stand. When you do, you may have second thoughts about travelling with a company that is under such severe threat.’

***

Westfield’s Men were not merely welcomed in Frankfurt, they were feted. Their request to play in the city-sent on their behalf by the obliging Burgomaster of Cologne-was unanimously approved by the Council, one of whom, a wealthy mercer, had visited England the previous summer and actually seen the company perform at the Queen’s Head. When his colleagues heard him singing the praises of Westfield’s Men, they wanted the actors to stay for ten days, but that was not possible if they were to reach Prague by the stipulated date. It was agreed that they would give performances on three successive afternoons before continuing on their way.

Anne Hendrik’s appearance on the scene was viewed as a boon by most of the company. However, not every voice was raised in her favour. Barnaby Gill made sure that Nicholas was out of earshot before he gave vent to his complaint.

‘We do not want her meddling in our affairs,’ he said.

‘Anne is not a meddler,’ asserted Firethorn.

‘She is a woman. That says all.’

‘She is a lady, Barnaby. Though I do not expect you to know the difference. A gracious lady whom we all respect.’

‘That is so,’ agreed Hoode.

‘Anne speaks German like a native of the country, and that is more than any of us can boast. She is a godsend to us.’

‘Speak for yourself, Lawrence,’ said Gill.

‘I speak for my whole company.’

It was the morning after their arrival and the three sharers were watching the makeshift stage being erected in a corner of the square under the supervision of Nicholas Bracewell. Trestles had been provided by order of the Council, along with the poles and material necessary for screening off the temporary theatre. Accustomed to public performance in the open air, the actors were not troubled by the constant din all around them. If they could out-shout the multiple bells of London, they could cope with the tumult of the Frankfurt fair. Anne Hendrik was also surveying the preparations. Gill let his jaundiced eye fall on her.

‘There is no place in the theatre for a woman,’ he said.

‘A lady,’ corrected Firethorn. ‘A lady.’

‘Woman, lady, widow or maid. They are all anathema.’

‘Not to any man with red blood in his veins.’

‘I came into the profession to escape womankind.’

‘You came in search of Clement Islip and his kind,’ said Firethorn scornfully. ‘Pretty boys with a pair of bewitching buttocks. That is all a theatre company means to you.’

Gill fumed. ‘I came to exercise my art,’ he said.

‘Corrupting innocent youths.’

‘Mistress Hendrik will hinder our work!’

‘That is not true, Barnaby,’ said Hoode reasonably. ‘Anne’s presence will curb some of the bawdier talk and that is all to the good. Obscenities are too readily exchanged when drink is taken. I am with Lawrence here. Anne will be a great benefit to us in a number of ways.’

‘Name me one,’ challenged Gill.

‘Dignity. She will lend us some dignity.’

‘There is no gainsaying that,’ added Firethorn.

A full rehearsal of Love and Fortune was not deemed necessary. It was fresh in their minds from Cologne and was a proven success in front of a German audience. Firethorn contented himself with making the company walk through the piece in order to get used to the feel of the stage and to assess the conditions in which they would perform. A large booth had been commandeered for use as the tiring-house. Beside it was a smaller tent in which scenic devices and properties could be kept.

Nicholas suggested an improvement which Firethorn readily embraced. Music was to be played between each of the five acts of the play to enable costumes and scenery to be changed, and to allow the audience time to absorb what they had just seen. The action of the play would be slowed but this was outweighed by the gains. Even without Adrian Smallwood, the company had four actor-musicians, and the quartet were pleased to be featured much more in the revival of Love and Fortune.

Chairs and benches were set out on raised platforms down at the rear of the auditorium. Complimentary seats were offered to the Burgomaster and his Council, but others paid four albus to watch the play from a sitting position. Standees were charged half that price. The day’s takings would be subject to a ten per-cent city tax but that did not alarm Westfield’s Men. When they saw the best part of a thousand people crowding into their theatre, they knew that they would make a tidy profit out of two hours’ strutting on a stage.

Minutes before the performance was due to begin, Firethorn spoke to his company like a general addressing his troops on the eve of a decisive battle.

‘Gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘it is time to show a German audience the true worth of English actors. We delighted with this play in Cologne but we must go beyond delight today. We must woo, we must ensnare, we must excite, we must captivate. Frankfurt has never seen players of our quality before. Let us scorch vivid memories in their minds and leave them gasping in astonishment. Remember, friends,’ he said, wagging a finger, ‘that we have two more performances to give here. If we distinguish ourselves today, we shall have even more people coming to see us tomorrow and the day after. Think of England, think of reputation.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Think of money!’

He had them straining to get out on the stage.

Anne Hendrik sat near the back and watched it all with fascination. She had seen the play more than once at the Queen’s Head, but this version was very different. It was played at a more measured pace and included additional songs and dances. Most of the wit and word-play was lost on the audience but they were entranced by the visual aspects of the production. Musical interludes allowed them time to discuss the plot before new twists were introduced to it. Moments of crude farce sent them into hysterics. Anne found herself studying the audience more closely than the play.

Frankfurt cheered the performance to the echo and all but drowned out the rival hullabaloo of the fair. The Burgomaster was thrilled by what he had seen and insisted on meeting the entire company. Since he spoke no English at all, Anne came into her own as an interpreter. Enthusiastic in his praise of everyone, the Burgomaster was especially taken by Barnaby Gill’s brilliant mimes. He talked excitedly to the clown for five minutes.

‘What on earth is the fool saying?’ asked Gill.

‘He says that you were splendid,’ translated Anne. ‘He and his wife have never laughed so much in their life.’

‘Oh!’ said Gill, basking in the commendation. ‘It is good to know that the city is run by a man of such discernment. What else did he say about me? I want to hear every word.’

Anne paraphrased freely and he lapped up the flattery. Nicholas looked on with amusement. She was already proving her value to the company. Even Gill was coming to appreciate that. Firethorn could not resist a gibe at the clown.

‘Who said that a lady had no place in the theatre?’

‘I did,’ affirmed Gill. ‘And I hold to that view.’

‘After all that Anne has just done for us?’

‘Drama is the domain of men.’

‘Translate that into German.’

Gill conceded a unique smile of self-deprecation.

‘Even I have my limitations,’ he said.

***

Three days in Frankfurt helped to erase ugly memories of Flushing and uneasy recollections of The Corrupt Bargain in Cologne. Westfield’s Men could do no wrong. Marriage and Mischief won them countless new friends at their second performance and Cupid’s Folly extended their fame even further on the final afternoon. As they returned to the Golden Lion to celebrate their achievements, they were in a buoyant mood.

‘I begin to love this country,’ said Owen Elias.

‘It is growing on me as well,’ agreed James Ingram.

‘I still do not like the beer,’ said George Dart timidly. ‘It is too strong for my stomach.’ His face brightened. ‘But I like the sausages. They are wonderful. Wunderbar!’

‘You are not the only person to like them, George,’ said Elias. ‘Do you know what a German’s idea of happiness is?’

‘No, Owen.’

‘Lange Würste, Kurz Predigen.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Long sausages, short sermons.’

‘Food before faith,’ observed Ingram. ‘They’re a practical people, the Germans.’

‘Their women have a similar motto,’ said Elias.

‘Do they?’

‘A long sausage, twice a night.’

Dart was puzzled. ‘The women eat sausages at night?’

‘If their menfolk are lucky!’

The jest produced ribald laughter from some of the others but its meaning was way beyond Dart. He turned his attention to the monster sausage before him. As he popped the end into his mouth, his fellows gave him a mocking cheer. None the wiser, he chewed away contentedly.

Nicholas was at a table with Firethorn, Hoode and Anne Hendrik. While the actors were toasting their success on the stage, the book-holder was reflecting on the financial benefits of their visit. Part of his job was to collect, count and look after all the money paid for admission to the performances. In addition to what the gatherers had taken, there was a generous donation from the City Council. Three days in Frankfurt had brought in as much as three weeks at the Queen’s Head. It made Firethorn think fondly of home once more.

‘Margery must share in this good fortune,’ he said. ‘I must find a way to send money back to her in Shoreditch.’

‘She will surely be grateful,’ said Anne.

‘There will be others of the same mind,’ added Nicholas. ‘They have wives and families as well.’

‘So much money in such a short time!’ said Firethorn, rubbing his palms together. ‘Germany has enriched us.’

‘And ennobled us,’ Hoode pointed out. ‘We came here as threadbare players and they treat us like minor aristocrats. In England, we are reviled as shiftless actors. Here, we are gentlemen of a company.’

‘It is no more than we deserve, Edmund. Wait until we get to Bohemia. The Emperor will probably give us knighthoods.’

Evening soon merged with night and the atmosphere at the inn grew steadily rowdier. Westfield’s Men were not the only roisterers. Other travellers were staying there and the Golden Lion also had its regular customers from the locality. It was only a matter of time before the drinking songs began in lusty German. Anne decided that it was time to retire to bed. They were leaving at dawn next morning and she needed her sleep. Nicholas escorted her away from the revelry before it took on an even more boisterous note. After taking a fond farewell outside her bedchamber, he urged her to lock her door and open it to nobody. Anne gave a wan smile.

‘I would feel safer if you were with me,’ she said.

‘It is where I would love to be, Anne, but…’ He glanced downstairs. ‘It is awkward. I have other duties.’

‘I understand.’

‘They are envious enough of me, as it is.’

She nodded. What they could easily do in the privacy of her house became trickier when he was with the whole company. Nicholas did not want to expose Anne to lewd gossip or himself to the knowing looks of his colleagues. Discretion was the first priority.

‘There will be time,’ he promised. ‘One day.’

‘I will wait.’

She blew him another kiss and retreated behind the door. When he heard the bolt being slipped home, he went downstairs to the taproom. Firethorn and Hoode had moved to the main table to be with the rest of the company. Nicholas saw that a stranger had joined them.

‘Come and sit here, Nick,’ said Firethorn, making room on the bench. ‘Meet our new friend. I’ll call him plain Hugo because my tongue cannot get round his other name.’

‘Usselincx,’ said the stranger. ‘Hugo Usselincx.’

‘This is Nick Bracewell. The mainstay of the company.’

Nicholas exchanged greetings with the newcomer and sat opposite him. Usselincx was a well-built man of short stature, but his shoulders were so rounded and his manner so diffident that he seemed even smaller than he was. He was soberly dressed in the Dutch fashion with a cap that was pulled down over his forehead. A nervous smile hung around the wide mouth. His English was good but overlaid with a Dutch accent.

‘I came to congratulate you,’ he said softly.

‘You saw the performance this afternoon?’

‘Hugo saw all three performances, Nick,’ said Firethorn with a hearty chuckle. ‘He is a stauncher patron than Lord Westfield.’

‘I only found out this evening where the company was staying,’ explained Usselincx. ‘I would not normally have come. I am very shy. But I had to make the effort this time.’

‘That is very gratifying, Master Usselincx,’ said Nicholas.

‘Please. Call me Hugo. It is easier.’

Nicholas was trying to weigh up the man. Frankfurt was full of merchants-many from Holland-but Hugo Usselincx was not one of them. He had none of the assertiveness of a man who lives to haggle. The dark attire suggested a religious affiliation of some kind. Having been appraised himself, the Dutchman was carrying out his own shrewd scrutiny of Nicholas.

‘Master Firethorn was right to call you the mainstay.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you kept the company together,’ said Usselincx. ‘You are the book-holder, are you not?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘Because you do not look like an actor and you are the only member of the company who did not appear onstage. You were behind the scenes, Nicholas Bracewell. Working hard to make the play flow from scene to scene. The book-holder is an important man. Especially in a company like yours.’

‘You have seen English players before?’

‘Many times. I lived in London for a while.’

‘Oh?’

‘I saw you wondering if I was in holy orders,’ said the other with a smile. ‘You were close. I am an organist. I have worked in churches and cathedrals all over Europe. Earlier this year, I was in London. I heard much about Westfield’s Men and saw you perform Black Antonio at the Queen’s Head.’

‘I hope you enjoyed it, Hugo,’ said Nicholas, warming to him. ‘What brings you to Frankfurt?’

‘I am on my way to Prague to take up a post there. The Týn Church. It is very famous.’ He looked around the actors. ‘I could not believe my luck when I discovered that Westfield’s Men were here. I should have left two days ago but I stayed on so that I did not miss a single performance.’

‘We are bound for Prague ourselves.’

‘So Master Firethorn was telling me.’

‘We are to be guests of honour at the Imperial Court,’ said Firethorn. ‘By personal invitation of the Emperor.’

‘No honour could be higher.’ He peered at Nicholas. ‘I hope that our paths may cross again. If there is some way that I may watch you play in Prague, I will find it.’

‘You will be most welcome, Hugo,’ said Firethorn. ‘But if you go by the same route, why not travel in company with us?’

‘That would be an imposition. Besides, I am days behind now. I must ride hard to make up lost time.’ He rose to his feet and offered his hand to Firethorn. ‘Farewell-and thank you for this pleasure.’

‘We are always pleased to see a friendly face, Hugo.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘We wish you Godspeed!’

Usselincx took his hand between both palms and shook it. As he backed away, the Dutchman plucked a small purse from his belt and tossed it to Firethorn.

‘Spend that for me in celebration of your triumph.’

When Firethorn shook out the coins, he was surprised at the man’s generosity. Before he could thank him, however, Hugo Usselincx had given a simpering smile and disappeared.

‘Frankfurt is a city of wonders!’ said Firethorn. ‘Money drops out of the sky.’

‘We would do well to save it against harsher times,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Shall I take charge of it?’

‘No, Nick. It is ours to spend and that is what we will do with it. We’ll drink the health of Hugo Usselincx.’ He put an arm around his friend. ‘Do not look so disapproving. This money may be spent, but plenty more will fall into our laps. We may find that it grows on trees in Bohemia.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘So will I when I am sober again. But tonight I will get as gloriously drunk as a lord. Then I will fall into my bed and dream sweetly of Sophia Magdalena. The fair maid herself.’ He smacked his friend between the shoulder-blades. ‘Come, Nick. Be honest. You long to see her again yourself.’

‘I do,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but my first task will be to seek out someone else in Prague.’

‘And who is that?’

‘Doctor Talbot Royden.’

***

He was still not used to the noisome stench of the dungeon or to its chilling coldness. Talbot Royden sat in the straw in a corner, huddled over the single candle they had allowed him. Since he had been thrown in there, he had been given no food or drink. Were they intent on starving him to death? His head was still spinning at the speed of what had happened. Instead of being the respected Doctor Royden, he was one more miserable prisoner in the castle dungeons. Why had Rudolph turned against him so suddenly and unaccountably?

Distant footsteps raised a faint glimmer of hope and he scrambled to the door. A guard came down the steps, lighting the way with a flaming torch that gave off an acrid smell. Peering through the bars, Royden rallied when he saw that his assistant was following the guard. Caspar was carrying a large basket that was covered with a cloth. His assistant was as confused as his master by what had happened, but at least he had retained his freedom. He was Royden’s one link with the outside world.

‘Caspar!’ he called. ‘What is going on? Why have they done this to me? Have you been to the Emperor to protest?’

‘Yes, Master,’ said the other quietly.

‘Well?’

‘He said that I was to give you this.’

‘What is it?’

‘You will see, Master.’

The guard unlocked the door and Caspar stepped into the dungeon. He offered his cargo to Royden with obvious embarrassment, then indicated that he should remove the cloth. When Royden did so, he was stupefied. The gift from the Emperor made no sense at all. In his hands, the prisoner was holding a huge basket of fresh fruit.