The Fair Maid of Bohemia

by Edward Marston

  Firethorn eventually accepted his advice. While the actor-manager went off to round up the company, Nicholas looked down again at the night-dress. It was a message in itself. The dagger which had rent it apart would be used on Anne Hendrik without compunction. That could not be allowed to happen.

  When he went back downstairs, Nicholas saw that George Dart was seated at a table weeping piteously, and being comforted by Hugo Usselincx. The book-holder’s first task was to confine the problem to the company. Though trying to help, the Dutchman was an intruder. Nicholas bore down on them.

  ‘Calm down, George,’ he soothed. ‘There might yet be a simple explanation for all this.’

  ‘Might there?’ sobbed the other.

  ‘I think that you were misled.’

  ‘Was I? How?’

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Usselincx solicitously.

  ‘Nothing that we cannot deal with ourselves,’ said Nicholas, guiding him to the door. ‘I am sorry that you were caught up in this wild excitement. It was a misunderstanding on George’s part.’

  ‘Why all this commotion?’

  ‘Unnecessary panic.’ They were back in the street now. ‘Actors thrive on drama. On- and offstage. It is all over now.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Yes, Hugo. We do not need to keep you.’

  ‘But I want to offer what help I can.’

  ‘None is required.’

  There was a pause. ‘I see that I am in the way,’ said Usselincx, moving away. ‘Forgive me. It was wrong of me to trespass on your privacy. Adieu!’

  He turned on his heel and scuttled apologetically away.

  Nicholas went back into the inn. Firethorn had gathered the whole company into a room at the rear where they could be alone. A tearful Dart joined them to hear Nicholas. The book-holder spoke with far more confidence than he felt.

  ‘There is no cause for alarm,’ he said firmly. ‘Mistress Hendrik is indisposed. We have the matter well in hand. She will be back with us very soon. Meanwhile, you may rest easy. This confusion was unfortunate and took you away from a more proper purpose. We performed at the Imperial Court today with resounding success. You should be celebrating that triumph. Go to it now and forget this unwarranted agitation.’

  It took time to persuade the actors, but they eventually began to trickle back into the taproom to compare their theories over a mug of beer. George Dart hovered, wanting to believe Nicholas but prevented from doing so by his memory of the ravaged bedchamber. When he began to gibber his dissent, he was lifted bodily by Firethorn and carried off to join the others. Only Owen Elias and James Ingram stayed behind. Neither of them was convinced by the book-holder’s attempt at reassurance.

  ‘Where is she, Nick?’ asked the Welshman.

  ‘You have heard what I had to say, Owen.’

  ‘We are more interested in what lay behind your words.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Ingram. ‘You must have your reasons and we respect them. But do not forget us. You may not need us now, but our swords are always there at your command.’

  ‘Thank you, James.’

  ‘Swords, daggers and bare fists,’ emphasized Elias, as he held up both hands. ‘Put them to some use.’

  ‘If the bare fists could sew a fine seam, I would. We have costumes to repair and another play to stage tomorrow. Think on those problems. Leave all else to me.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Elias, ‘but Anne will be ever in our minds. Sooner or later, we must learn the truth, Nick.’

  Nicholas gave a soulful nod. As the two men went out to join the others, Firethorn came back into the room. He knew that they had only bought themselves a temporary respite. If Anne was missing for much longer, the company would be asking more urgently about her.

  ‘What of the hostess?’ wondered Nicholas.

  ‘She has been no use at all to us.’

  ‘Did she see nothing, hear nothing?’

  ‘Who knows?’ asked Firethorn. ‘The woman has no English and we have less than one word in Czech between us. Anne was the only person who could get a coherent sentence out of her and that by dint of talking in German.’

  ‘The servingmen?’

  ‘Complete idiots!’

  ‘Do any of them understand English?’

  ‘Not a jot.’

  ‘Someone at the inn must be able to help us.’

  ‘They are all blind and deaf, Nick. They saw nobody go up to Anne’s chamber and they heard no struggle. You saw the condition of the room. She must have fought like a demon. The noise would have been heard all over the inn.’

  Nicholas gazed pensively up at the floor above.

  ***

  Doctor Talbot Royden used one of the fresh candles to take a full inventory of his cell. It was an uninspiring task. The walls were stained by the passage of time and scored with marks from previous guests. Names had been scratched in the stone. A date had been patiently gouged out. Parallel lines of dried blood on one wall suggested that someone had tried to claw his way out of his prison. Royden wondered how long it would be before he sank to the same level of desperation.

  No natural light came into the dungeon and the bars on the door were the only means of ventilation. Royden was forced to inhale the stink of his own excrement along with the foul stench left behind by his predecessors. There was no way out. Caspar was his only ambassador. He had great faith in his assistant but he knew how perverse the Emperor could be. It would take more than Caspar’s plea to instil some mercy in the wayward Rudolph.

  Royden sank down into the straw and wondered what was to become of him. He had been brought to Prague as a brilliant astrologer with the gift of foretelling the future. Even his dreams had borne a mystic significance. Yet now he could not even foresee what would happen in the next hour. The symbols on his gown merged with the stifling gloom. His powers had been taken away from him.

  A distant noise concentrated his mind. Someone was unlocking a door to descend the steps. Blowing out the fresh candle, he concealed it in the straw again and relied on the guttering illumination of the candle they had given him. He scrambled to the door in the hope of seeing Caspar again but the gaoler was alone. Torch in one hand, he carried a pitcher of water in the other. He was a slovenly man with a ponderous walk. It took him some moments to find the right key for the lock.

  Opening the door, he thrust the pitcher at Royden without comment. The prisoner took it, then jabbered loudly.

  ‘I should not be here!’ he protested. ‘I am Doctor Talbot Royden and I demand respect for my achievements. Remind the Emperor that I have been his devoted servant. I have cast horoscopes, I have cured diseases, I have set bones. My skills have been of untold value in Bohemia. They have earned me the right to defend myself. Tell him!’ he insisted. ‘Tell the Emperor what I have said. He must hear me.’

  ‘He does hear you.’

  The man looked at him for the first time and Royden saw the familiar face under the soiled cap. Rudolph gave him a sinister smile and stepped back. Before the prisoner could even express his horror, the door slammed inexorably shut.

  ***

  Firethorn looked on in fascination as Nicholas set the pen, parchment and ink on the table. They were alone in the room from which Anne Hendrik had been kidnapped. Having first set the table upright, Nicholas now sat before it on the stool. He unhooked his jerkin to slip a hand inside. When he extracted the pouch, he heard Firethorn step up behind him to peer over his shoulder. Both men were anxious to see what it was that had caused them such tribulation on their journey to Bohemia.

  Nicholas broke the elaborate seal and unfolded the sheets of paper. A letter was enclosed with four documents, but all were totally incomprehensible. They looked at the strange words and the mixture of numbers and symbols.

  ‘Is this some kind of j
est, Nick?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Far from it.’

  ‘The letter is not even signed.’

  ‘I believe it is,’ decided Nicholas. ‘That number at the bottom of the page discloses the sender. Everything is in some kind of code. It will be known to the recipient.’

  ‘Can Talbot Royden make sense of that gibberish?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And was it those squiggles which got Adrian Smallwood killed and Anne Hendrik abducted?’ Firethorn scratched his beard. ‘What does it all mean?’

  ‘That Doctor Royden is a spy.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘I do not know,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but I wager that there is espionage afoot here. Hidden in these documents is vital information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That will emerge in time.’ He picked up the quill. ‘At least, we know what we are dealing with here.’

  ‘Arrant nonsense!’

  ‘Secret orders. Valuable intelligence. Couched in a private language to ensure its safety. This did not come from Lord Westfield. We were couriers for a much higher authority.’

  He dipped his pen in the ink and began to copy the letter. Firethorn watched in silence until all the documents had been transposed to the blank parchment. Having completed his task as a scrivener, Nicholas used the point of his dagger to ease off the seal. He melted some wax in a candle flame, folded the original documents, then dropped the hot wax over the marks left by the seal. Firethorn applied the signet ring he had worn in the play that afternoon and their work was complete. Who had sent the documents they did not know, but they now bore the seal of the Duke of Mantua.

  ‘What will you do now, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘Exchange these for Anne.’

  ‘Let me come to guard your back.’

  ‘Stay here and guard these instead,’ said Nicholas, giving him the copies he had just made. ‘We will peruse them at our leisure and see what we can deduce from them.’

  ‘Nothing! This language is worse than Czech.’

  ‘That is perfectly lucid to those who understand it.’

  ‘Who is this fiend?’ demanded Firethorn.

  ‘I will tell you when I have met him.’

  ‘How did he know we were bearing those documents?’

  ‘That is one of many things I hope to ask him.’

  When the seal had dried, Nicholas put the documents into the pouch and slipped them back inside his jerkin. He removed his sword but kept the dagger at his belt. Firethorn embraced him warmly.

  ‘Take care, dear heart!’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Give Anne my love.’

  Nicholas nodded, then went swiftly out through the door.

  ***

  The Town Square was enormous. Tall, proud, well-maintained burghers’ houses ran along all four sides of it, each house given colour and individuality by its elaborate decorations. The Town Hall itself lent civic authority, while the Church of Saint Nicholas and two monasteries showed the spiritual face of the city. Looming over one side of the square were the massive twin towers and the arresting facade of the Týn Church. Power and prosperity were reflected in the square, which lay on the eastern bank at the very centre of Prague. Hundreds of people were abroad, standing in small groups or crossing in all directions, but there was no sense of clutter or discomfort. The Town Square seemed big enough to accommodate the entire population of the city.

  Nicholas arrived well before the stipulated time and strolled around the perimeter of the square to show that he was completely alone. That he was under observation was quite certain but he could not begin to guess from where. Countless windows looked down on the square and there was an endless choice of streets, lanes and alleys in which to lurk unseen. His enemy might be any one of the dozens of people whose shoulders brushed him in the great market-place of Prague.

  As the hour approached, Nicholas walked across to the huge tower crowning the Town Hall. The astronomical clock was one of the most celebrated sights in the city, and visitors came from far and wide to view the extraordinary and complex device. It consisted of three distinct parts. The large calendar dial was flanked by statues of the philosopher and the angel on the left side and the astronomer and the chronicler on the right. At its centre was the Prague coat of arms.

  Even though he was there on such a grim errand, Nicholas was struck by the twelve turning circles around the edge of the dial. The astronomical clock above was even more intricate. Flanked by figures of the Miser, Vanity, Death and a lute-carrying Turk, it consisted of a series of rings, the outer one bearing Arab numerals, and the inner ones, the signs of the zodiac.

  Nicholas was not alone. A small crowd gathered to hear the clock strike and to watch figures emerge from the two doors above the clock. At the first stroke, Nicholas swung round to look more closely at his companions. Some were local inhabitants who stopped out of habit but most were curious visitors. None even spared him a glance. He could not compete with the horological masterpiece.

  Detaching himself from them, he scanned the square for a sign that did not come. As the astronomical clock finished its performance, the crowd drifted away and Nicholas was left alone beneath the tower. When fifteen minutes had rolled past, he began to wonder if he was the object of some unkind jest. Had someone brought him there simply to mock him? Another fifteen minutes sapped his patience.

  He was about to move away when a figure appeared in a corner of the square diagonally opposite. Clad in a dark gown and a large hat, the man was unidentifiable at that distance but he was able to send a clear message. He put a hand to his breast and brought it away again, as if removing something from inside his doublet. Nicholas understood. He took out the pouch from inside his own doublet and held it up. The man beckoned him forward, watching carefully to make sure that nobody was with him.

  As Nicholas got closer, the man slipped into a lane and gestured for him to follow. Their transaction would clearly take place in a more private venue. Walking with a steady gait, Nicholas kept one hand close to his dagger. He left the bustle of the crowd and plunged into the lane. Three people were strolling towards him. Over their shoulders, he could see the man waiting for him some thirty yards away. Nicholas continued to follow him until his guide turned down a narrow alley-way. Instinct made Nicholas slow down and slip the dagger into his palm.

  He put his head cautiously around the corner and saw two figures waiting for him now. One was the man who had led him there and the other was a woman, wearing a cloak with its hood up. From the grip which the man had on her wrist, Nicholas decided that it was Anne. The bargain had been kept. He hurried forward with the pouch held high, eager to trade it for her safe return. But he never got anywhere near her. As he went past a shop doorway, someone stepped out behind him and clubbed him to the ground with a heavy stone.

  Nicholas sank into oblivion. The man who had enticed him into the alley-way paid the woman for her help before sending her quickly on her way. Then he sauntered towards the inert body of Nicholas Bracewell and, with a grin of triumph, took the pouch from the hands of his accomplice.

  ***

  Anne Hendrik sat in a high-backed chair with her hands tied to its arms and her feet to its legs. A blindfold blocked out all vision and a gag prevented her from calling out for help. She had no idea where she was but the room felt large and warm. Distant voices drifted up to her but she could not pick out what they were saying. For the first few hours, her main problem had been to fight off hysteria.

  At least, they had now left her alone. She was no longer being looked at and gloated over by the two men who had brought her there. They had said nothing but she could sense their eyes caressing her. Anne could still feel the hot breath of the one as he had bent over her to check her bonds before quitting the room. When the key had turned in the lock,
she had felt a measure of relief for the first time. But she knew that it was only temporary. They would be back.

  Her chances of rescue depended entirely on Nicholas Bracewell. She could imagine how disturbed he would be by her abduction and how determined to track her down, but the city was a complete enigma to him. Nicholas would not know where to begin. Anne had no doubts about why she had been kidnapped. She was the weak point in his armour. Unable to wrest the documents from him directly, they had opted for a different means. Fear for her would persuade him to hand over the secret pouch, but what would happen then? Hysteria threatened again and she shook her head vigorously. For her own sake, she had to remain calm.

  Anne went back over the series of events that brought her to the room, searching for any clue that might give her some indication of where she was and who was holding her captive. Were the voices coming up from a street or from the river? How far had they brought her from the Black Eagle? Why had she been foolish enough to open the door of her chamber to them? As she assailed herself with questions over and over again, one came to dominate all the rest.

  Where was Nicholas Bracewell?

  The sound of a key in the lock banished all other thoughts from her mind. She heard the door open, shut and get locked again. Only one man had come this time. Anne counted his footsteps as he walked towards her. The door was at least fifteen yards away. He tested her bonds and adjusted her blindfold. His breath was hotter than ever but he had not come to gloat over her this time.

  Something far more important claimed his attention. She heard him sit down and unfold some parchment. He gave a low chuckle and talked to himself in German.

  ‘Now, then. Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’

  Anne’s blood congealed. It was the voice she had heard on the Peppercorn. She was held captive by a murderer.

  Chapter Ten

  Nicholas Bracewell slowly regained consciousness to find that he was surrounded by a clutch of sympathetic faces. Someone had propped him up in a sitting position and was dabbing at the wound on the back of his head with a damp cloth. A blood-stained cap lay on the ground beside him and it took him a moment to realise that it was his. The pain then hit him with the force of a blow and he reeled. His kind surgeon steadied him with both hands.