The Fair Maid of Bohemia

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 lang
uage 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.