The Fair Maid of Bohemia

by Edward Marston

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

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

  ‘Magnificent, you are, Lurrence Feuertorn.’

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

  ‘You please us. I help.’

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

  ‘To Frankfurt, you go. Ja?’

  ‘We do, sir.’

  ‘You take.’

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

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

  ‘But we wrote no letter,’ protested Firethorn.

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

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

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

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

  The Burgomaster beamed. ‘Is good. Ja?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Firethorn.

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

  ‘Is good. Ja?’ he shouted.

  The whole company gave its reply in unison.

  ‘Is very good. Ja! Ja! Ja!’

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘No, I do not.’

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

  ‘Thank heaven!’ added Elias.

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

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

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

  ‘I know.’

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

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

  ‘There is no need.’

  ‘She is alone in a foreign country.’

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

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

  ‘That was different, Nick.’

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

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

  ‘I can vouch for that.’

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

  ‘Write and tell her so,’ suggested Nicholas.

  ‘I will, I will.’

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

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

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

  ‘Sophia Magdalena,’ he sighed.

  ‘Edmund is working zealously on the play.’


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

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

  ‘O happy transition!’

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

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

  ‘Dick Honeydew will shine in the role.’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘The journey will be a difficult one.’

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

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

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

  ‘Emperor Rudolph is our host.’

  ‘Only because of her.’

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

  ‘He has gone right out of my mind.’

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

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

  ‘We can but guess.’

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

  ‘I brought him out of hiding this morning.’

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

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

  ‘I will be Vigilance personified.’

  ‘We will all need to take that role.’

  Firethorn quaffed his beer and leaned closer to him.

  ‘Who is this Talbot Royden?’ he wondered.

  ‘What did Lord Westfield tell you about him?’

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

  ‘How did he speak the man’s name?’

  ‘His name?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Not from the murderer.’

  ‘How did he know of their existence?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What is that, Nick?’

  ‘Talbot Royden is a species of genius.’

  ***

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

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

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

  ‘Open it,’ ordered Talbot Royden.

  ‘Has it had time enough?’

  ‘Do as I tell you, Casper.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Open the door slowly.’

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

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

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

  ‘It is not yet ready,’ he admitted.

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

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

  ‘What must we do?’

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

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

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

  ‘Not yet,’ conceded the alchemist.

  ‘Arrest him.’

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

  ‘A failed experiment.’

  ‘The augmentation process is very tricky.’

  ‘Take him away!’

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

  ‘We are acting on his orders.’

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

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

  ‘He was.’

  ‘You cannot treat him in this vile way.’

  ‘We just did.’

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

  ‘Not at the Emperor’s expense.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘But we were almost there,’ insisted Caspar.

  ‘Almost is not good enough.’

  ‘Doctor Royden simply needs time.’

  ‘He will have plenty of that now.’

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

  ‘To his new home.’

  ‘Home?’

  The man gave a callous grin before strutting off.

  ‘Where is this home?’ called Caspar.

  ‘The castle dungeon.’

  Chapter Seven