The Fair Maid of Bohemia

by Edward Marston

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

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

  ‘I know.’

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

  ‘None as yet.’

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

  ‘Master Davey would not give me details.’

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

  ‘That is what I came to discuss.’

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

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

  ‘Very well,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘That is what he was after.’

  ‘Who?’

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

  Firethorn was stunned. ‘How do you know?’

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

  ‘But Adrian did not have the pouch.’

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

  ‘I am quite confused here, Nick.’

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

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

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

  ‘You were the intended victim?’ gasped Firethorn.

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

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

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

  ‘Balthasar Davey?’

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

  ‘You mentioned the secretary.’

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

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

  ‘He knows far more than we.’

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

  ‘You did, I fear.’

  ‘I never breathed a word on the subject.’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What of the killer?’

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

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

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

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

  ‘Something of great value, it seems.’

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

  ‘That is the last thing you must do.’

  ‘Why?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘I will,’ said Nicholas firmly.

  ‘Why?’

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

  ‘Will you invite destruction?’

  ‘I must. I want him.’

  ***

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

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

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

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

  ‘And occupying their town,’ Elias pointed out.

  ‘An army must have a garrison.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Thank you, Master Davey.’

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

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

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

  ‘I miss Adrian.’

  ‘So do we all. Dreadfully.’

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

  ‘You will do so again, Dick.’

  ‘How can I? My tutor is dead.’

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

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

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

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

  ‘Adrian’s lute!’

  ‘He would have wanted you to have it.’

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

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

  ‘And is it really mine?’

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

  ‘Every day!’

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

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

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

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

  Richard Honeydew slowly recovered his curiosity.

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

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

  ‘Will they let us perform there?’

  ‘We hope so, Dick.’

  ‘I am afeard they will not like us.’

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

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

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

  Ingram nodded. ‘So I have heard tell.’

  ‘But we are English,’ observed the boy.

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

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

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

  ‘Your time will come, James.’

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

  ‘Fear?’

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

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

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