The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Chapter Eight

The mood of elation in which they left Frankfurt lasted for only a few days. Westfield’s Men were soon weary of the discomforts of travelling over bad roads in changeable weather. Complaints surfaced, bickering developed. On the fourth day, one of the wagons overturned while fording a river. Injuries were minor, but half of the company were soaked to the skin and the wagon itself was badly damaged. Repairs cost them precious time. Because they could not reach the next town by nightfall, they had to sleep under the stars. It was a thoroughly dispirited troupe which set off at dawn next morning.

As setbacks continued to mount, even the placid Edmund Hoode began to grumble. He was seated beside Nicholas Bracewell, who was driving the first wagon. Anne Hendrik was directly behind them, listening to the strains of the lute on which Richard Honeydew was practising. Hoode gazed at the mountains ahead of them.

‘Do we have to climb over those, Nick?’ he moaned.

‘There may be a pass through them.’

‘Not with our luck!’

‘It is bound to change soon.’

‘Yes-for the worse. We have been on the road for a week now and we still seem no closer to our destination. Will we ever get there?’

‘No question but that we will,’ assured Nicholas. ‘And the journey has not been entirely an ordeal. Eisenach was a pretty town and Weimar even more so.’

‘But we only stayed a night at each, Nick. Had we performed at both, I would look back on them with far more pleasure. As it was, they were mere breaks from the tedium of travelling.’

‘There was no time to linger, Edmund.’

‘More’s the pity!’

‘We have to press on as hard as we may,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why we have altered our route. Master Davey urged us to go by way of Leipzig and Dresden, but that would take us in a wide loop. This road-poor as it is-should get us to Prague all the sooner.’

‘I think we have been going around in circles.’

‘Only in your mind.’

Hoode gave a hollow laugh. The horses were ambling along, the wagon was creaking and the passengers were jolted every time they encountered deep ruts or scattered stones. The playwright was irked by their lethargic progress.

‘Do you know what Balthasar Davey told me?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘It was over that delicious meal we were given at the Governor’s house in Flushing. Sir Robert spoke movingly of his late brother. Master Davey was equally complimentary. He told us that Sir Philip Sidney had once ridden all the way from Vienna to Cracow in a mere fourteen days.’

‘Did he tell you what distance was covered?’

‘Over five hundred and fifty miles.’

‘That is extraordinary,’ said Nicholas admiringly. ‘Sir Philip must have been in the saddle for some forty miles a day. That is horsemanship of a high order.’

‘Would that we could emulate him!’ sighed Hoode. ‘At this pace, we will be lucky to manage four miles a day. Do you think that we will reach Prague in time for Christmas?’

‘Be of good cheer, Edmund!’

‘How?’

‘We are closer than you think.’

‘Only another thousand bruising miles to go!’

Nicholas diverted him from his misery by introducing the topic of The Fair Maid of Bohemia. Hoode had now completed all the major changes to the play and only small refinements were left. Discussing his work-and recalling the lovely creature to whom it was dedicated-slowly helped to lift him out of his despondency. The miles drifted past more painlessly.

The second wagon had dropped some distance behind. A malaise had settled on its passengers as well. Taking his turn at the reins, Lawrence Firethorn found that even his optimism was ragged around the edges. They had tried to stave off boredom by changing passengers between the wagons each day but it had not worked. Firethorn was now carrying Owen Elias, George Dart, James Ingram, Barnaby Gill and the other three apprentices. All but Gill were asleep in the rear of the vehicle. He sat beside the driver to groan incessantly about their folly in embarking on the enterprise in the first place. The name of Clement Islip had more than one wistful mention.

The attack came without warning. They were wending their way through a wood at the time. Firethorn was now some fifty yards behind the other wagon and lost sight of it around a sharp bend. The robbers chose their moment to strike. Six of them came charging out of the undergrowth on their horses and surrounded the second wagon. Their yells were indecipherable but the weapons they brandished conveyed a clear message. Dazed passengers awoke to learn that they were being ordered out of the wagon on pain of death.

A seventh member of the band was meanwhile making it impossible for those in the first wagon to render assistance. He came riding out of the trees with a loud whoop and lashed at the rumps of the horses with a whip. They bolted at once and Nicholas suddenly found himself in charge of a runaway wagon. He did not stay on it for long. Cries from behind him told him of the ambush and he reacted with great speed.

Thrusting the reins into Hoode’s hands, he dived head first off the wagon and knocked the rider from his saddle. The fall jarred both of them but Nicholas was the first to recover, pinning the man to the ground and raining blows to his head until he was senseless. He deprived the robber of his sword, then looked after the wagon long enough to see that Hoode was somehow getting the animals under control. Nicholas ran to collect the stray horse and clamber into the saddle. As he kicked his mount into a gallop and went to the aid of his fellows, he could hear the commotion ahead of him.

The three apprentices had leaped out of the wagon in terror and Barnaby Gill was pleading for mercy on his knees. Firethorn, Ingram and Elias were putting up a fight and even Dart was waving a token dagger at the attackers. When a horse came around the bend, the robbers expected an accomplice who would help them overcome the resistance of the actors. Instead, they had to contend with Nicholas in full cry.

He hacked the sword from the hand of the first man he met, then sent a second sprawling to the ground with a blow from his forearm. Nicholas engaged a third in such a fierce duel that the man took fright and swung his horse away. Inspired by the help from their book-holder, the actors fought off their attackers with renewed aggression. The apprentices snatched up twigs and logs to hurl at the robbers. Even Gill found enough courage to draw his dagger and wave it in the air.

As Nicholas wounded another man in the arm, the robbers gave up. Their leader called a retreat. He scooped up the man who had been buffeted to the ground, then led the other horses off through the trees. Nicholas pursued them for a hundred yards, then doubled back to the wagon, gathering the second stray horse on his way. His colleagues were shaken but excited.

‘Thank heaven you came, Nick!’ said Firethorn gratefully.

‘An accomplice made our horses bolt so that you would be isolated.’ Nicholas looked at his dishevelled friends. ‘They chose the second wagon because it seemed less well-defended. They will rue their mistake now. All they collected was a few cuts and bruises while we have gained two horses out of the ambush.’

With Hoode at the reins, the other wagon came rumbling around the bend towards them. The modest playwright was astounded at his own heroism, having mastered the runaway horses and saved his passengers from any injury. When Nicholas saw that Anne was quite safe, he looked up thankfully at the panting driver.

‘Well done, Edmund!’ he congratulated. ‘But what of the man I unseated from his horse?’

‘He has fled into the trees,’ said Hoode. ‘When we rode past, he was limping away with his hands to his head, groaning piteously. He will remember his encounter with Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘We must remember to be more alert,’ warned the other. ‘If the wagons had been closer together, that attack might never have occurred. Our safety lies in staying together.’

‘From now on, we will be inches behind you,’ promised Gill. ‘That was the most terrifying experience of my life. We might all have been killed.’

‘They were after your wagon and your valuables,’ said Nicholas. ‘You protected both bravely.’

‘Yes,’ added Firethorn with heavy sarcasm. ‘Barnaby distracted them so cunningly when he begged for mercy like that. His knees were every bit as effective as our swords.’ He let out a cry of triumph. ‘We beat them, lads! We gave them a taste of English steel and sent the rogues packing. Nick has spoken true. Together, we survive-apart, we perish! Let us go forth as a united band of brothers. Nobody will then break us asunder. We are gentlemen of a company and gallant soldiers of fortune.’

***

Bohemia was disappointing. Nourished by fantasies on their interminable trek through Germany, they expected to cross the border into Bohemia and be met by stunning vistas of that fabled country. Nothing seemed to change. The same landscape rolled out before them, the same cows and sheep grazed in the fields, the same herds of pigs and flocks of geese obstructed them in villages and hamlets. They even got the same curious stares from the peasants as they passed, though the occasional words they overheard were now in Czech rather than German. Disenchantment swept through both wagons.

When they finally had struggled all the way to Prague, they needed something truly phenomenal to restore their faith and at first they believed that they were seeing it.

‘Look at it!’

‘Remarkable!’

‘Wonderful!’

‘Astonishing.’

‘Incredible!’

‘Have you ever seen such a city?’

‘It is better than Cologne!’

‘Or Frankfurt!’

‘Or even London!’

‘This is no earthly city,’ decided Firethorn, hungrily devouring every morsel of the joyous vision before him. ‘We have been travelling on a highway to Heaven itself!’

Wagons which had halted in awe now set off with urgency as Westfield’s Men sought to enter the sacred portals. Exhausted actors were now throbbing with life. Drooping spirits were lifted to soaring heights. Bohemia was at last yielding up its celestial heart to them. Prague was a paradise.

It was a huge, gold-embossed galleon riding upon the back of the mighty River Vltava as it surged irresistibly through the very heart of the city. Castle and cathedral dominated Prague from their lofty eminence on the western hill and gazed down at the Karlov Most, the Charles Bridge, which spanned the river with sixteen vast but graceful arches. Built almost two centuries earlier by Emperor Charles IV, the bridge was the lifeline between the two halves of the city. Westfield’s Men had never seen anything so immense and so ornately decorated. London Bridge was one of the finest sights of their own city but it had nothing like the scale and statuary of this.

The nearer they got, the more entranced they became.

‘It is heaven!’ argued Firethorn. ‘The only place fit for an angel like Sophia Magdalena.’

‘Count those spires,’ said Hoode in wonder. ‘Every church in Bohemia must be encircled by the city walls.’

‘It has been a grim journey,’ said Nicholas, turning to Anne. ‘Do you regret now that you came with us?’

‘Not after seeing this, Nick,’ she affirmed. ‘It beggars all description. I would have come twice as far and endured much worse privations in order to view this Elysium.’

‘It is beautiful.’

‘Beyond compare.’

‘Let us hope it lives up to its appearance.’

Paradise was not without its problems. They caught the first whiff of one of them when they were still a few hundred yards away. The pervading stench of Prague was carried on the wind. It was caused by the piles of filth and excrement in the narrow streets. Flies buzzed everywhere. Dogs scavenged and fought. As they plunged into the city, its stink and squalor reminded them hideously of London.

Prague was an optical illusion. Seen from afar, it was indeed a golden city. Closer inspection revealed it to have rows of decrepit timber-framed cottages alongside stone hovels that were scarcely bigger than huts. Emperor Rudolph might live in a sumptuous abode up on the hill, but many of his subjects eked out a wretched existence in houses that were little more than kennels. The juxtaposition of magnificence and misery was every bit as grotesque as in London.

The two wagons first made their way to the river to take stock of its angry power as it surged along like a gigantic serpent in pursuit of a distant prey. Craft of all kinds were riding on the water in the afternoon sun. Wharves were busy along both banks. The smell of fish gave an added pungency to the city’s abiding reek. People were hurrying to and fro across the Charles Bridge. Prague was a city with a lot of work to do. They saw no sign of laziness or leisure.

Nicholas led the way to the nearest inn so that the thirsty company could refresh themselves and sit on something more comfortable than the heaving boards of a wagon. The Czech landlord gave them a grinning welcome. Anne’s command of German once more came into its own. Leaving them ensconced at the inn, Nicholas made his way up to the castle with Firethorn. The latter was anxious to make direct contact with the Emperor at the earliest opportunity.

‘He will see us at once,’ he predicted.

‘Do not rely on that.’

‘We are honoured guests, Nick. The Emperor has promised us free board and lodging, and all the delights of his Court.’

‘He also promised to send letters to Cologne and Frankfurt on our behalf,’ noted Nicholas, ‘but they never arrived. It might not be wise to expect too much.’

‘I expect everything,’ boomed Firethorn.

As they climbed the hill, Nicholas took stock of the fortifications. Impressive from a distance, they were full of deficiencies at close hand. Ramparts were in need of repair and additional defences were required at the western end of the bridge. The guards who patrolled the castle were few in number and slack in their duties. The two visitors presented themselves at the castle gate and were waved through without any real discussion of their purpose in coming there. When Nicholas produced the letter bearing the Imperial seal, it was enough to gain them admittance.

‘We should have brought Anne with us,’ said Firethorn.

‘Why?’

‘As our interpreter.’

‘She has her hands full back at the inn,’ said Nicholas. ‘Besides, this invitation was written in English, so they must have a translator here. We will find artists and scientists from all over Europe at the Court. Many different languages will be spoken, English among them.’

‘We cannot be certain of that, Nick.’

‘We can. Doctor Talbot Royden resides here.’

‘I was forgetting him.’

‘I have not been allowed to forget him.’

Nicholas was glad that they had arrived unscathed at their destination. When the ambush took place, his first thought had been that it was set up by the man who stalked him. It was something of a relief to learn that they were simply the target of a band of robbers. Now that he was inside the castle where Royden lived, he felt that his mission was accomplished. The secret documents and the wooden box from Doctor Mordrake could be handed over. Nicholas would never part with anything quite so readily.

They went through the first courtyard and into a much larger one. Guards stood about chatting but showed little interest in the visitors. It was only when they stepped through into the third courtyard that someone finally paid any real attention to them.

‘Well met, gentlemen! Welcome to Prague!’

Hugo Usselincx was standing outside the door of Saint Vitus Cathedral when he saw them. Shoulders hunched, he shuffled across to them and waved his hands nervously in the air.

‘I am delighted to see you both again.’

‘It is good to see you, Hugo,’ responded Firethorn.

‘How long have you been here?’ asked Nicholas.

‘A few days.’

‘You must have ridden hard.’

‘I had to make up for lost time.’

‘We had the most devilish journey,’ moaned Firethorn.

‘But we arrived safely,’ said Nicholas, cutting off his memoirs about the ambush. ‘And we are much taken with this lovely city.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘That is what we have come to find out.’

‘And what will you perform while you are here?’

‘The very best plays,’ boasted Firethorn.

‘I will climb over the castle walls to see them.’

‘That may not be too difficult a thing to do,’ observed Nicholas, glancing around. ‘Is Prague not concerned about its defences?’

‘The Emperor has other interests,’ confided Usselincx. ‘But the city may not be as open to attack as it might look. The jest they make here is that Prague is protected from invasion by its smell.’

‘We had noticed it, Hugo,’ said Firethorn with a grimace. ‘We also noticed how many churches there are here. Some are built of wood, most of stone, with roofs of slate and spires that shine like silver. The only church I could not pick out was the one that is made of tin.’

‘Tin?’

‘That is where you are organist, is it not? The Tin Church. Or so I remember you telling us.’

‘I did, I did,’ said Usselincx, suppressing a giggle. ‘But the Týn Church is not made of tin.’

‘What else is it made of?’

‘Solid stone, Master Firethorn. When I said “Týn,” I should have spelled the word for you. T-ý-n. It means a courtyard or an enclosed area, much like the one we are standing in. The Týn Church is in a courtyard behind the main square. Its full name is the Church of Our Lady Before Týn. It is old and beautiful, like so much here. Does that help you to understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.

‘No,’ contradicted Firethorn.

‘I keep you from more important things,’ said Usselincx as he backed away. ‘Enjoy your welcome from the Emperor. I look to see you again before long.’

They exchanged farewells, then headed for the palace which was opposite the south door of the cathedral. Firethorn liked their Dutch friend immensely but Nicholas had reservations about the man. He found his manner a shade too unctuous.

When they entered the palace, Hugo Usselincx went right out of their minds. Armed guards confronted them and demanded to know who they were. Nicholas produced the letter with the Imperial seal but neither man could understand the language in which it was written. One of the guards disappeared down a corridor with the missive and the visitors were forced to wait for several minutes.

The man eventually returned with a servant in tow. It was the latter who now held the invitation and he used it to beckon them after him. Nicholas and Firethorn were led down a long corridor and into a gallery that was festooned with the work of the various Court artists. The servant paused to run a fond eye over the extraordinary collection of paintings. He was a middle-aged man with a striking face and a mischievous smile. Ushering them out of the gallery, he took them to an apartment on the west side of the palace and halted outside the door. He studied both men for a moment, then offered the letter to the actor-manager.

‘Lawrence Firethorn?’ he said in passable English.

‘Yes,’ replied the other, taking the invitation.

‘And you?’ The servant turned to Nicholas. ‘Name, please.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Masters Firethorn and Master Bracewell. Excuse me.’

After tapping on the door, the servant went into the room for a brief moment. When he reappeared, he conducted the two men into a large and well-appointed apartment with an ornate desk at its centre. The servant bowed out and closed the door silently behind him.

The Chamberlain rose from his chair behind the desk and regarded his visitors with solemn curiosity. He knew enough English to negotiate his way through a conversation.

‘You are welcome,’ he said, manufacturing a smile. ‘My name is Wolfgang von Rumpf and I am the Chamberlain. You are,’ he said, pointing to each in turn, ‘Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell. Correct?’

‘That is so, sir,’ confirmed Firethorn.

‘Pray be seated.’

The Chamberlain indicated the chairs in front of the desk and all three men sat down. Anticipating a more gracious reception, Firethorn was somewhat put out by the man’s aloofness. Whoever else had issued the invitation, it had certainly not been Wolfgang von Rumpf. The Chamberlain glanced down at a document in front of him.

‘We expected you a few days ago,’ he chided.

‘Unforeseen delays on the road,’ explained Nicholas. ‘One of our wagons broke down and we were ambushed by robbers.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Not on our side,’ said Firethorn, ‘but we swinged them soundly. Nicholas fought off three of them himself.’

‘I see,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘I am sorry to hear about this. The Emperor had intended to arrange an armed escort for you, but…’ He paused to choose his words with care. ‘He was led astray by other matters. You reached Prague. That is the main thing. We are deeply grateful to Westfield’s Men.’

‘It is an honour to be here, sir.’

‘Where and when do we perform?’ asked Nicholas politely.

‘We will come to that in a moment,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘First, we must accommodate our guests. The palace itself is full at the moment, alas, so we have lodged you at an inn. I am told that the Black Eagle will meet your needs.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No cost will be incurred by you. We will settle any bills. Westfield’s Men will want for nothing.’

‘That is very heartening,’ said Firethorn with a grin.

‘In due course, I will get someone to show you the hall where you will perform. When you choose a play, I would like to know its subject before I give my approval. We are in a sensitive situation here. I cannot allow any drama that is critical of our government or discourteous to our religion.’

‘We understand,’ said Nicholas.

‘Good.’ He sat back and looked from one to the other. ‘Now, gentlemen. Is there anything you wish to ask me?’

Nicholas had several questions but the main one was dictated by the bulge beneath his jerkin. Ever since the secret documents he carried had led to the murder of Adrian Smallwood, he had been anxious to deliver them to the man to whom they were sent. He put a hand to his cargo.

‘I believe that a Doctor Talbot Royden is at Court.’

‘He was,’ said the Chamberlain levelly.

‘He is not here any longer?’

‘Oh, he is still at the castle, Master Bracewell. But he is no longer in the hallowed position he once held.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘Doctor Royden is an astrologer and an alchemist. He was retained to provide personal services to Emperor Rudolph.’

‘Personal services?’

‘It matters not what they were,’ said the other coldly, ‘because he is no longer free to offer them. Doctor Royden has been arrested and thrown into the castle dungeon.’

‘Why?’

‘That is of no concern to you.’

‘But it is,’ said Nicholas earnestly. ‘I must speak with him in order to pass on a message from England.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘Is he not allowed visitors?’

‘No,’ came the crisp reply. ‘He is in disgrace.’

‘Can we at least know why?’

The Chamberlain was peremptory. ‘That is the end of the matter. Doctor Royden is being held on the Emperor’s orders.’ He glanced at Firethorn. ‘Did you have a question?’

‘A number, sir,’ replied the actor. ‘The first concerns the lady whose interest in Westfield’s Men brought us here. The Emperor sent the invitation but we know that she must have encouraged him to do so.’

‘That is so, Master Firethorn. Sophia Magdalena watched your company in London and was overwhelmed. She insisted that you were brought here.’

‘She has been our guiding star.’

‘Lawrence Firethorn was mentioned many times.’

‘She wanted me!’

‘Sophia Magdalena says you are a wonderful actor.’

‘Ecstasy!’

‘She will be pleased that you got here in time.’

‘Not as pleased as I am,’ said Firethorn, leaning forward with a chuckle. ‘When may I see the fair maid herself?’

‘At the wedding. Naturally.’

Firethorn gulped. ‘The wedding?’

‘That is why you are here,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘In a few days’ time, Sophia Magdalena of Jankau is to marry the son of the Duke of Brunswick. The marriage will take place in the cathedral. Banquets will be held for a week thereafter. Your plays will be part of the wedding celebrations. Did you not realise that?’

Nicholas adjusted to the news with ease but Firethorn was staggered. Libidinous desires which had sustained him through fatigue and adversity now crumbled into dust. Imagining that Sophia Magdalena had-like so many gorgeous young women before her-fallen hopelessly in love with him during one of his monumental performances, the actor had never paused to wonder if there might be another man in her life. He was at once incensed at the magnitude of his own folly and shaken by what he saw as her betrayal of him.

‘Sophia Magdalena?’ he said under his breath. ‘Rather would I call her Mary Magdalena. The sinful creature!’

The Chamberlain gave a pale smile. ‘We look to you to select plays which are suitable for such an occasion.’

‘We will be happy to do so,’ said Nicholas, covering his companion’s evident exasperation. ‘By way of a wedding gift, we have brought a new play for the bride.’

‘Excellent! What is it called?’

‘The Whore of Prague!’ mumbled Firethorn.

‘The Fair Maid of Bohemia,’ said Nicholas quickly. ‘Our playwright, Edmund Hoode, has fashioned it with care for this joyful event. He will also take part in the play.’

‘We look forward to seeing its first performance.’

‘It will also be its last!’ said Firethorn.

‘Oh?’

‘What Master Firethorn means,’ intervened Nicholas, ‘is that the play is new-minted for Sophia Magdalena. It belongs solely to her and will not be offered elsewhere. Beyond the confines of Bohemia, it would not have the same value or inner meaning.’ He shot the actor a reproving glance. ‘Was not that the decision you reached?’

‘Indeed, it was,’ said Firethorn, regaining his composure and smothering his frustration beneath a fawning smile. ‘Westfield’s Men offer the bride a wedding gift which will sing sweetly in her memory forever.’

‘Sophia Magdalena will be duly grateful,’ said the Chamberlain brusquely. ‘But you will no doubt wish to view the hall where this piece will be staged.’ He reached for a bell. ‘I will have someone conduct you there directly.’

‘One moment,’ said Firethorn, intent on propping up his sagging pride in some way. ‘There is something else we wish to do before that. We are the guests of Emperor Rudolph. His letter of invitation expressly requested us to seek him out as soon as we reached Prague.’ He sat up straight in the chair. ‘Let him know that Lawrence Firethorn has arrived and is desirous of meeting the Emperor.’

Wolfgang von Rumpf spoke quietly through gritted teeth.

‘You have already done so,’ he said.

‘I fear that you are mistaken, sir.’

‘Believe me, I am not.’

‘The only people we have met since we arrived have been a Dutch acquaintance of ours, Hugo Usselincx, and your good self. When are we supposed to have met Emperor Rudolph?’

‘On your way to this apartment.’

Firethorn exchanged a look of amazement with Nicholas.

‘The servant?’

‘That was the Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia.’

‘An underling in his own palace?’

The Chamberlain winced. He spoke with the distaste of a parent who is forced to acknowledge an obstreperous child as his own. He nodded wearily.

‘The Emperor is somewhat eccentric,’ he said.

***

Dressed in the garb of a keeper and carrying a large hunk of fresh meat, Rudolph strolled past the cages in his menagerie and waved familiarly at their snarling denizens. He paused to watch two white doves, perched side by side in their little domed prison, nestling up to each other with cooing affection. Touched by the sight of love in a place of such roaring anger, he moved on until he came to one of the largest cages. Three wolves were padding restlessly around, checking the perimeter of their limited territory in an endless search for escape. They paid no heed to the curious onlooker.

The animals were a gift from Russia and had white-tufted fur. Their feline grace concealed a deep and vengeful rage. When Rudolph tossed the meat through the bars, they pounced on it as if it were the man who had stolen their freedom. As they fought noisily and viciously over the meat, a profound sadness descended on their keeper. He was no longer feeding his beloved animals. He was watching his empire being torn apart by wanton brutality. His hands rested forlornly on the bars.

‘Catholic, Protestant, Hussite,’ he sighed, nodding at each animal in turn. ‘Which wolf will devour the biggest portion?’

The sight soon appalled him. Turning sharply away, he went off quickly to seek the solace of his botanical gardens.

***

The Black Eagle was situated in one of the labyrinthine streets of the Malá Strana, the Little Side of the river. Most of the inhabitants lived in the larger part of the city on the eastern bank and Westfield’s Men had already walked across the bridge to acquaint themselves with its many wonders. However, they found the Malá Strana more to their taste. It had a secretiveness that appealed to them. None of them could read the Czech name on the inn sign, but the crudely painted black bird of prey left them in no doubt where they were.

The inn was small but comfortable and their hostess was the image of hospitality. A big, bosomy woman with a roguish eye, she was thrilled to have been chosen to look after a famous English theatre troupe. After a regular diet of sausages and bacon in Germany, the visitors were pleased to find more fish and poultry being served. The local beer was dark and strong. An hour in its congenial company soon won them over.

While his fellows caroused, Firethorn stared blankly at the table and mused on the fickleness of destiny. The others might be toasting their arrival in Prague but it had so far brought him nothing but heartache and rejection. Three imperatives had taken them to the palace. A doctor, a maid and an Emperor. They had not made meaningful contact with any of them. Doctor Talbot Royden was locked away in a dungeon. Sophia Magdalena would soon be incarcerated in a marriage. And Emperor Rudolph seemed to be trapped in some weird and childlike prison of the mind. Three totally inaccessible people. Firethorn emitted a low moan. Prague was failure writ large across his soul.

Something warm and tender touched his left shoulder. It was one of the ample breasts of the hostess, resting casually on him as she bent over to refill his mug from a pitcher of beer. When he looked up, he was met with a grin as wide and wilful as the Vltava. It was not a handsome face. She had the high cheekbones of the Slav race and a flattish nose, but Firethorn was uncritical. At that moment in time, she seemed accessible. It was enough to stir his manhood. As she moved away, she let her other breast caress the side of his face. He supped his beer with beaming relish.

Anne Hendrik sat alone with Nicholas Bracewell on the other side of the room. She had learned to mix well with an exclusively male group and had shown a motherly concern for the apprentices and for the waif-like George Dart. Her pleasant manner, and her refusal to expect any special favours for being a woman, made her popular with the actors. But her real purpose in being there was to spend time with Nicholas, and Westfield’s Men understood this.

Anne sipped a cup of sweet wine and nodded approvingly.

‘This is quite delicious.’

‘Drink as much as you wish,’ he said airily. ‘The wine will be paid for by the Chamberlain.’

‘My needs are moderate, Nick. A cup or two will suffice.’

‘Free beer is too great a temptation for the others. They will be roistering here until they drop from drunkenness or exhaustion or a mixture of both.’

‘They have earned it after that journey.’

‘You suffered everything that they did.’

‘I have my reward,’ she said quietly.

Nicholas acknowledged the compliment with a smile. Unlike the rest of the company, he could not relax so easily into their new home. Unfinished business irked him. As long as the documents were still on his person, he felt vulnerable. Nobody had appeared to trail him from Frankfurt, but that did not mean the danger had passed. He remained watchful.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘How much more pleasant a place like this is with you here.’

‘I am not in the way, then?’

‘The company have taken you to their heart.’

‘Do you grow jealous?’

‘Yes,’ he teased. ‘But sorrowful, too. I am sad that you have to share me with Westfield’s Men.’

‘I am used to that, Nick.’

‘They rely on me.’

‘So do I.’

They chatted amiably about how her business would be faring during her absence. She had no qualms about her deputy. Anne had not wasted her time in Germany. She had made sketches of all the unfamiliar fashions in hats she saw and intended to collect inspiration from Bohemia as well. What she was also keen to do was to be of more practical use to the company.

‘Make me your tireman, Nick.’

‘We are in sore need of one,’ he admitted.

‘If you have torn costumes, or need them adapted to fit more snugly, I am skilled with needle and thread.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I do not wish to feel I am only here to speak German.’

‘You are not, Anne. I can vouch for that.’

She answered his smile with one of her own and their voices dropped to a more intimate level. They were so engrossed in each other’s company that they did not see the young man who came into the inn and went to the table where the actors were lolling and drinking. After making enquiry, he crossed over to the couple.

‘Pray excuse me,’ he said courteously. ‘They tell me that you are Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘That is so,’ said the other, appraising him.

‘My name is Caspar Hilliard. I crave a word with you, sir.’

‘You may have it willingly.’

‘It is a private matter,’ said Caspar, with a glance at Anne. ‘I would value a moment alone with you.’

‘You may speak freely in front of Mistress Hendrik,’ said Nicholas. ‘She is a close and trusted friend. I’ll hear nothing that requires her to quit my company.’

The young man weighed her up carefully before reaching his decision. He sat on the bench beside Nicholas and spoke in a whisper, his eyes flicking from the book-holder to Anne.

‘I heard that you were asking after Doctor Royden.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I reside at the castle. Word spreads.’

‘Only the Chamberlain knew of my interest.’

‘It is one that I share, sir,’ explained Caspar. ‘I am Doctor Royden’s assistant. At least, I held that office until he was cruelly and unjustly taken away from his laboratory.’

‘His assistant?’ said Nicholas.

‘I have worked for him this three and a half years. Ever since Doctor Mordrake left Prague. My father was English but my mother hailed from Koblenz, so I learned German from birth. It was one of the things which recommended me to Doctor Talbot Royden. That and my knowledge of science.’

‘Science?’

‘I studied medicine at Padua.’

‘Indeed?’

Nicholas was quickly warming to him. Caspar Hilliard had a long, intelligent, open face and a smooth-shaven chin. His suit was neat but not costly and he bore himself with modesty. He was patently worried about the fate of his employer.

‘Why did you wish to see Doctor Royden?’ he asked.

‘I have something to discuss with him,’ said Nicholas.

‘No visitors are allowed.’

‘So we were told.’

‘Save one.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Me. I am allowed to take his food to him.’ Another cautionary glance at Anne. ‘If you wish to get a message to my master, I will gladly carry it for you.’

‘I need to see him myself, Master Hilliard.’

‘That may prove impossible.’

‘Why?’ wondered Anne. ‘For what reason is he imprisoned?’

‘It is a cruel whim of the Emperor’s,’ said Caspar with a shake of his head. ‘He is a capricious man and subject to such moods. The harsh treatment is certainly undeserved. Doctor Royden and I have been working twelve hours a day on the experiment.’

‘What experiment?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I am not at liberty to discuss it, sir.’

‘Some branch of alchemy, perhaps?’

‘Doctor Royden is an astrologer as well as an alchemist,’ conceded the other. ‘And he is learned in other disciplines as well. It has been a labour of love to serve him.’

‘You talked of an experiment.’

‘It was nearing success,’ insisted the other. ‘Time was all that we needed. Time and understanding. Emperor Rudolph denied both to us. My master was summarily arrested and dragged off to the castle dungeon. It was disgraceful.’

‘Does he have no means of appeal?’

‘The Emperor will not hear him. Nor me. I have begged for an audience to plead my master’s case but I have been turned away. The Emperor pays no attention to a humble assistant.’

Nicholas sympathised with the young man’s dilemma. Caspar Hilliard was a loyal servant to a master who had apparently been treated very shabbily. If Royden’s fate lay in the hands of the strange Emperor, then his assistant had good cause for alarm. Nicholas thought of the servant who had escorted them at the palace to the Chamberlain. Rudolph was clearly a man of disturbing idiosyncrasies.

‘I am glad to have made your acquaintance,’ said Caspar with a nod at each of them. ‘May I at least tell Doctor Royden that you were asking after him?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘And you may give him my best wishes for an early release.’

‘No further message?’

‘None.’

‘I see.’

‘You mentioned Doctor Mordrake earlier on.’

‘That is so, sir.’

‘What connection did he have with your master?’

‘They worked in the laboratory together. Doctor Mordrake was one of the Court physicians for a while but his interests extended well beyond medicine. It was at his suggestion that my master was invited here.’

‘Did they work well together?’

‘Extremely well,’ said Caspar. ‘At first.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Professional differences. That is all I can tell you.’

‘Have they kept in touch with each other?’

‘From time to time. Doctor Royden was in England the best part of a year ago. I know that they met up again.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘To talk about old times.’

‘Even though they had fallen out?’

‘They still had some things in common.’

‘What were they?’ pressed Nicholas.

‘I really cannot tell you,’ said Caspar with a slight hint of embarrassment. ‘My master does not confide everything in me. I am only his assistant and not his father-confessor. They met in London. They talked. That is all I can say.’ He cocked a head to one side as he studied Nicholas. ‘Why are you so interested in Doctor Mordrake?’

‘I met him once. At his house in Knightrider Street.’

‘Then you will know what a remarkable man he is.’

‘That was self-evident.’

‘My master is even more remarkable,’ said the other with pride. ‘He will be grateful to hear that he may have another friend in Prague apart from me.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for giving me your time. I bid you both adieu!’

‘Farewell!’ said Nicholas. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘My pleasure, sir.’

Anne watched him leave before turning to Nicholas again.

‘Why did you not entrust him with the message?’ she said.

‘Because I had no proof that he was who he said he was.’

‘He was plainly honest.’

‘I needed more than honesty, Anne.’

‘But this was your one chance of getting those documents to Doctor Royden and you refused to take it.’

‘I want to deliver them in person,’ he asserted. ‘I have not brought them all this way to hand them over to a young assistant, however charming and helpful he may be. Remember that the documents robbed Adrian Smallwood of his life. I wish to know why.’ His manner softened. ‘Besides,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘after what we were told about Doctor Mordrake, I cannot wait to put something from him into the hands of his old colleague and mark his response. It should be very revealing.’

***

Westfield’s Men were initially overcome by the opulence of the palace. They wandered in a daze past an unending series of fine paintings, arresting sculpture, ornate tapestries, ancient books, rare maps and assorted curiosities from every corner of the known world. The collection of jewellery and ornaments alone must have cost an immense fortune. Emperor Rudolph might have his personal eccentricities but his patronage of the arts was unrivalled in Europe. His whole palace was a monument to his long and generous commitment.

When they were shown into the hall where the plays were to be performed, the actors were cowed by its splendour. Frescoes adorned its walls, statuary stood in alcoves and the high ceiling was a work of art. While most of them were still awe-struck by the sumptuous surroundings, Nicholas was surveying the practicalities of the space. He chose the end of the room which afforded them entrances through two doors and which would give them the best of the afternoon light.

Performances of one kind or another were fairly frequent and the palace carpenters had constructed a series of small platforms which could be fitted together to form a stage. When servants carried them into the hall, Nicholas was relieved to see that the Emperor himself was not among them. The stage was large enough but too low. Nicholas called for a second tier of platforms to be laid upon the first, giving the players the height they needed to dominate the room and to project their voices to best effect. Curtains were hung at the rear of the stage. Steps were placed behind them to assist the cast up onto the raised platform.

By the time that the puffing George Dart had dragged the last scenic device into place-an oak tree, expertly made by Nathan Curtis from a much baser wood-they were eager to begin the rehearsal. The Three Sisters of Mantua would be their first offering in the short season of plays at the Imperial Court. It was a light comedy with a simple plot and a clear distinction between its shining heroes and its dark villains. It also afforded three of the apprentices an early opportunity to shine in the title roles. Experience had taught them the inestimable value of music, dance and mime to a foreign audience. The Three Sisters of Mantua was liberally stuffed with them.

The company made heavy weather of an undemanding play. Fatigue, nerves and a late night at the Black Eagle conspired to produce all kinds of serious errors and disastrous lapses of memory. Firethorn brought them to a halt after Act Three.

‘Shame on you!’ he cried, stamping a foot to make the whole stage shudder beneath them. ‘Shame on you and shame on me! For I am as big a culprit as any here. This performance is not fit for an empty room, let alone for an Emperor. Wake up, sirs. Stir yourselves. Remember who we are and why we are here. First impressions are crucial. Fail today and we will lose much of the goodwill we have built up. We must sweep the audience off its feet with our vitality and not lull it to sleep with our plodding delivery. Gird your loins and fight like men!’

Nicholas added his own strictures in the tiring-house. Delivered quietly to individual actors, they had even more impact than Firethorn’s public blast. The actors writhed under the joint chastisement, but it was well-deserved. They were now keyed up to exonerate themselves. The improvement was instant, and The Three Sisters of Mantua began to live and breathe on the stage. As the performance gathered momentum, a new spirit coursed through them. A clever play started to look like a comic masterpiece. As the Duke of Mantua, the now superb Firethorn brought the piece to a close with the epilogue.

‘Thus ends our play and this the moral is,

That nothing holds more danger than a kiss

Upon the lips. Love’s potion has a taste

That brought three sisters in great haste

From Mantua to seek their hearts’ desire.

Remember how they burned with Cupid’s fire.

Their youthful folly earned them sharp rebuke,

For each one loved the self-same Mantuan Duke,

And while his noble heart was strong and free,

He could not give it to all sisters three.

Choose one, hold fast and stay forever true

Unto your love. That is the only way you

Find real peace and happiness on this earth

And understand what love is truly worth.’

The Duke of Mantua doffed his hat and gave a low bow to the non-existent audience. There was a long pause. It was broken by the most unlikely sound. A single pair of hands began to clap earnestly from the other end of the hall. They looked up in surprise to see the dainty figure of Sophia Magdalena, clad in her finery, acclaiming their performance with ladylike enthusiasm. It was the best accolade they could have wished.

The whole company was lifted by her presence and by her approval of their art. But her eyes were fixed firmly on Lawrence Firethorn as she spoke the two words in English that she had mastered.

‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly. ‘Thank you.’

It was enough. His feelings of betrayal melted away in a flash. Sophia Magdalena had come back to him at last. All was forgiven. As her delicate palms clapped on, Firethorn heard a choir of angels in his ears. He felt transfigured.

He was in love again.