‘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 be
trayal 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.
Chapter Nine
Crouched in the corner of his cell, Doctor Talbot Royden munched disconsolately on an apple and listened to the rat snuffling in the clotted straw. There was a savage irony in his predicament. A famous scientist, who strove to push out the frontiers of knowledge, could not even tell whether it was night or day now. A celebrated alchemist, who basked in the glow of his furnace, had only one flickering candle between him and total darkness. An Emperor’s favourite had suddenly become the butt of his cruel humour. Royden spat out a pip, then hurled the apple core angrily at the wall.
Another tedious hour limped past before he heard the noise from above. Two sets of footsteps were descending towards him. A rush of light came from a burning torch. Royden leaped up and peered hopefully through the bars, shielding his eyes from the glare of the flames. One of the gaolers was bringing a visitor down to the prisoner.
‘Caspar!’ shouted Royden. ‘Am I to be released?’
‘Not yet,’ said his assistant.
‘Have you not spoken with the Emperor?’
‘He refuses to see me.’
‘Does my name count for nothing in Prague?’
‘Unhappily, it does not.’
‘Help me!’
‘I am doing my best, Master.’
The gaoler unlocked the door so that they could have a proper conversation but he stayed close to keep them under observation. Since the man spoke no English, they were able to talk freely. Royden grasped his assistant by the shoulders and gabbled questions at him.
‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why have I been cast into this foul pit? Who has turned the Emperor against me? When will they let me out of here? Tell me what you have found out, Caspar. Is there any comfort at all for me? Can I dare to hope? Or will I be left here to rot in perpetuity?’ He tightened his grip. ‘What time of day is it?’
‘Not long after noon, Master.’
‘It is eternal night down here.’
‘How do you fare?’ asked the other considerately.
‘I dwindle, Caspar. I dwindle and decay.’
‘Bear up.’
‘This is the vilest torture.’
‘Such affliction cannot last forever.’
‘It will break my spirit.’
He slumped to the floor and sat in the straw. Caspar knelt beside him and tried to offer consolation, but Royden was close to despair. His assistant could see the tears in his eyes.
‘There is one tiny ray of hope, Master,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ begged the other. ‘Tell me. Please tell me.’
‘They have not touched the laboratory.’
‘My materials? My equipment?’
‘All safe.’
‘My books? My records of our experiments?’
‘Untouched.’
‘You still have the key?’
‘Yes,’ said Caspar, patting his purse. ‘I keep the room locked at all times. Nobody else may enter the laboratory. I am looking after it until my master returns.’
‘God bless you!’
‘The Emperor must relent.’
‘What chance is there of that?’
‘He is often given to charitable impulse.’
‘Bohemia has a madman upon its throne. I have seen so much evidence of his lunacy over the years. My loyalty to him was grossly misplaced. I should have quit Prague a long time ago.’ He spread his palms in supplication. ‘I have done him great service, Caspar. Why will he not even see me?’
‘His mind is taken up with the preparations.’
‘For what?’
‘The wedding.’
‘Ah, yes!’ sighed Royden. ‘The wedding.’
‘That may have been our downfall,’ said Caspar sadly. ‘The Emperor was counting on us. We were to provide a wedding gift that was quite unique. And we did not.’
‘Only because his guards stopped us.’
‘Our time ran out, Master.’
‘Alchemy will not conform to time.’
‘When the wedding is over, he may take pity on you.’
‘Will I still be living?’
‘Assuredly. Think of your laboratory.’
‘I think of nothing else down here.’
‘If the Emperor had turned against you, he would have destroyed your work completely. But it has been left quite unmolested for you to resume one day.’
‘When?’
‘After the wedding. That preoccupies him now.’
‘Will I have to languish here until then?’
‘I fear so, Master.’
‘Out of sight, out of mind.’
‘Not out of my mind,’ promised the other. ‘Nor that of a stranger from England who has been asking after you.’
‘A stranger?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell. Does you know him?’
‘I have never heard the name before.’
‘He travels with Westfield’s Men, a troupe of players from London. They are to play a comedy this afternoon before the whole Court.’
‘A comedy!’ Royden gave mirthless laugh. ‘Send them down to my dungeon and they will see a tragedy being performed.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What did this Nicholas Bracewell want?’
‘To speak with you.’
‘Why?’
‘He would not say.’
‘What manner of man was he?’
‘A fine, upstanding fellow, from what I could judge. He is only the book-holder with the company, but he is highly respected by all. A solid man, one not likely to give way if trouble came. Honest and trustworthy.’
‘How did he earn such a good opinion from you?’
‘I talked to him,’ said Caspar. ‘He impressed me with his strength of purpose. When I offered to bring a message to you on his behalf, he insisted on delivering it himself.’
‘What sort of message does he have for me?’
‘I have no idea, Master.’
‘From whom does it come?’
‘Not from Nicholas Bracewell himself, I think.’
The gaoler grunted to signal that the visit was at an end.
‘Let him stay longer!’ implored Royden.
‘He has his orders. And I will come again.’
‘Soon, Caspar. Soon.’
‘As soon as they will let me.’
‘And find out more about this Nicholas Bracewell. What possible interest can a book-holder in a theatre company have in a man like me?’
‘He mentioned Doctor Mordrake.’
‘Mordrake!’ hissed the other, cringing against the wall. ‘If he is an emissary from John Mordrake, keep him away from me. I do not want any message from that doddering old fool.’
The gaoler stepped forward to tap Caspar on the shoulder. The latter rose to his feet and nodded. Helping Royden up, he embraced his master before turning swiftly away. The prisoner waited until the door had been locked and both men had vanished before he looked down at the gift which his assistant had pressed into his hand during the embrace. Royden was holding three candles. Battle against the creeping darkness could commence.
‘Thank you, Caspar,’ he said with deep gratitude.
Sinking to the floor, he hid the candles beneath the straw until they would be needed, then he reached out to take another apple from the basket. As he bit into it, he discovered that it had already been gnawed by a rat. He flung it away in sheer disgust.
‘Rudolph,’ he said grimly, ‘My curse upon you!’
***
Arrayed once more in
his coronation robes, the Emperor sat on his throne and played idly with a ring on his left hand. His crown felt heavier than ever as the crushing weight of religion pressed down on his skull. He endured the pain until he could bear it no longer, then removed the crown and set it on the floor. But the headache grew even fiercer now. Religion could not be so easily put aside.
Rudolph stood up in distress and massaged his throbbing temples with his fingertips. The movement did not disturb the work of the Milanese artist. His portrait of the Emperor continued to take shape beneath his brush. When his subject began to wander distractedly around the room, the artist kept one eye fixed on the throne as if it were still occupied. The pain finally eased. Rudolph sighed with relief. Noticing his companion for the first time, he spoke to him in Italian.
‘Do you ever have headaches, my friend?’ he asked.
‘Now and again.’
‘What do you?’
‘I send for my wife to caress the pain away.’
‘And if your wife is not at home?’
‘I send for my mistress.’
Rudolph brooded on the problem. He had no wife for whom he could send and his former mistresses evoked some unpleasant memories. No woman could caress away the agony that descended on him. Indeed, he reflected, the Virgin Mary was at least partly responsible for it. He was still meditating on the inadequacy of womankind when the Chamberlain knocked and entered. His long strides brought him across to Rudolph.
‘They are ready,’ he announced.
‘Who are?’
‘The players from England.’
‘Have they arrived at last?’
‘Yesterday, Your Imperial Highness.’
‘Sophia Magdalena will be pleased.’
‘You have met two of them,’ reminded the Chamberlain.
‘Did I?’
‘You conducted them to my apartment.’
Rudolph smiled. ‘Ah, yes! Westfield’s Men. Now I remember. What do they intend to perform for us?’
‘The Three Sisters of Mantua.’
‘A comedy or a tragedy?’
‘A comedy,’ said the other briskly. ‘I have looked into the nature of the piece and deem it suitable for performance.’
The Fair Maid of Bohemia Page 20
