The Fair Maid of Bohemia

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 menag
erie 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 wit
h 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?’