The Fair Maid of Bohemia

by Edward Marston

  ‘What is this matter of such urgency?’ he asked.

  ‘We need to see Doctor Talbot Royden,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Out of the question!’

  ‘Why is that, your Highness?’

  ‘He is permitted to see nobody but his assistant.’

  ‘Your Highness,’ pleaded Nicholas. ‘We beg you to make an exception in our case.’

  ‘What is he saying?’ asked Sophia Magdalena, frowning when the request was translated to her. ‘Why must they see him?’

  ‘They will not,’ vowed Rudolph.

  ‘Our petition was to your great-niece,’ said Nicholas with a polite bow to her. ‘We have come a very long way at her behest and withstood many trials to be here. Please explain that to her, your Highness. We hoped that she might be willing to help us.’

  Under pressure from her, Rudolph translated reluctantly. Sophia Magdalena nodded vigorously at the two Englishmen then rounded on the Emperor. She argued with him in voluble German and waved her arms expressively. Having seen her before as a poised and silent madonna, the two visitors were surprised at how animated she had become. Sophia clearly had a mind of her own and a forceful way of expressing it.

  Rudolph resisted her appeal but she did not give up. Throwing a glance of sympathy at the two men, she spoke so powerfully and persuasively on their behalf that the Emperor’s intransigence began to weaken slightly.

  ‘What harm can it do?’ she urged. ‘Doctor Royden was a good and loyal servant to you. Can you not allow him this one small concession?’

  ‘He let me down, Sophia. That is unforgivable.’

  ‘I implore you to think again.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It is such a simple request.’

  ‘I will not grant it, Sophia.’

  ‘Not even to me.’ She saw his resolve flicker. ‘Can I not wrest this one small favour from you? Think what I have done at your bidding. Surely that deserves some recompense.’ She threw another glance at the visitors. ‘These are my personal guests. They have made a huge effort to be here for my wedding. I wish to reward them. They would not make such a request unless it was very important to them.’ She took the Emperor’s arm. ‘Help me to thank them for coming to Prague. Please. Let them see Doctor Royden. For my sake. Grant them permission. It is not much to ask.’

  The Emperor scowled and grew pensive.

  ***

  The food was welcome but the manner in which it was served was very distasteful. After warning her what would happen if she tried to cry out, the man with the hot breath removed the gag. He spoke in English but his accent was German. She was grateful to be able to move her mouth freely again and took several deep breaths. Something was held against her lips.

  ‘Eat it,’ he ordered.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You will find out.’

  She bit into the dried fish and found it dry but edible. When the food was swallowed, he held a cup of water to her mouth and she drank it. Anne was still deeply frightened but she took the meal as a hopeful sign. If they intended to kill her, it was unlikely that they would bother to feed her first.

  ‘Why are you keeping me here?’ she asked.

  ‘We need a hostage.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘To keep your friend, Nicholas Bracewell, at bay,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘As long as we have you, he will not bother us. He cares too much for Anne Hendrik.’

  He stroked her hair and she pulled away in disgust.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ she said.

  ‘I made it my business to find it out.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That does not matter.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I already have that,’ he said complacently. ‘Nicholas was kind enough to hand it over to me. He thought he would be getting you in exchange.’

  ‘How long must I stay here?’

  ‘As long as I deem it necessary.’

  ‘Will you release me then?’

  ‘If you behave yourself.’

  ‘Nicholas will find you,’ she said boldly.

  ‘He does not even know that this place exists.’

  ‘He will track you down somehow.’

  ‘No,’ said the other. ‘He will not need to, Anne. When I am ready, I will go after Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have to kill him.’

  Her scream of fear was muffled by the gag as he tied it back in position. She struggled hard but her bonds were too tight. He caressed the side of her face with his finger.

  ‘Forget Nicholas,’ he advised. ‘You will never see him alive again.’

  ***

  As his cell door was unlocked, Talbot Royden peered at his two visitors in astonishment. The gaoler stepped well back from the trio but stayed within earshot.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Royden.

  ‘My name is Lawrence Firethorn,’ said the actor, ‘and this is Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘We are pleased to meet you at last, Doctor Royden,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I am not sure that I can say the same about you, sir.’

  The prisoner eyed them both suspiciously and wondered how the taller of them had come by his head wound. They had a chance to appraise him. His gown was soiled, his face blotched and his hands filthy. He had removed his hat to reveal short spiky brown hair. Both his ears had been cropped. Royden saw the two of them reaching the same conclusion.

  ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ he confessed, ‘I was arrested in England for coining and had my ears clipped in punishment. It was a false charge, like so many brought against me, but I bore my adversity. I was also accused of digging up dead bodies for use in my experiments but I was never brought to trial for that. I fled from England and came to Bohemia instead.’

  ‘We expected a more flattering pedigree,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Had you come last week, you would have got it from the Emperor himself. He doted on my work. Then.’

  ‘We need your help,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I am hardly in a position to offer that.’

  ‘We think you are. Before we left England, we were given documents to bring to you in secret.’

  ‘From whom? That old charlatan, John Mordrake?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘From an unknown source. I hazard a guess that it may be someone in the Privy Council.’

  Royden stiffened. ‘Why did you act as couriers?’

  ‘That is what we hope you can tell us.’

  ‘Have you brought the documents with you?’

  ‘They were taken from me here in Prague.’

  ‘Nick was attacked and they were stolen,’ explained Firethorn. ‘Someone was extremely anxious to lay hold of those documents. They have already claimed the life of one of our fellows. He was mistaken for Nick and murdered.’

  Royden’s face was composed but his eyes darted about.

  ‘Without the documents, I cannot help you,’ he said.

  ‘I made a fair copy of them,’ said Nicholas, taking them from Firethorn. ‘We have risked a great deal to get these to you and we insist on knowing what they contain.’

  Royden searched both their faces before he took the sheets of parchment from Nicholas. He unfolded the first one.

  ‘A short letter,’ said Firethorn. ‘In gibberish.’

  ‘This will take time.’

  The visitors stood shoulder to shoulder to block Royden from the view of the gaoler. The prisoner held the missive close to the candle and scrutinised it with care. They saw his lips moving as he attempted to translate the code in which it was written. When he had finished, he passed it over the top of the flame, then realised what he was doing and checked himself.

/>   ‘This is of no great moment, sirs,’ he said airily. ‘It is a greeting from a friend at Court. He begs me for news of life here in Prague. I thank you for delivering this to me.’

  ‘Then divulge its contents to us,’ ordered Nicholas.

  ‘I have just done so.’

  ‘A letter from a friend does not need to be written in code. Nor does it require secret delivery.’

  ‘There are some private enquiries in it, which my friend sought to keep between the two of us.’

  Nicholas bristled. ‘You forget, Doctor Royden,’ he said, ‘we belong to a theatre company. We stage plays on this theme. The spies in our dramas also write in cipher code and wave their missives over a flame. You thought, for a moment, that the letter was the original, did you not?’

  ‘No, sir,’ denied the other vehemently. ‘If you wish to know the truth, I was about to burn it. What have I to say about life in Bohemia when I am locked away down here?’

  ‘Enough of this!’ said Nicholas, grabbing him so tightly by his throat that he could not move. ‘Invisible ink can be made with a preparation of milk and lemon juice. Warm the paper and the secret message appears. That is what you were looking for, but it was not there on the copy.’

  ‘You are imagining all this,’ said Royden evasively.

  ‘And am I imagining this,’ demanded Nicholas, pointing to the blood-stained bandage with his other hand. ‘Was it for a letter from your friend that I was attacked and that another man was brutally murdered?’ He pulled him close. ‘Because of these documents, a lady whom I hold dear has been taken as a hostage. You are the only person who can help to rescue her. I will ask you once more, Doctor Royden. Lie to us again and I swear that I will dash your brains out against the wall!’

  ‘No,’ pleaded the other, recoiling in horror.

  ‘What is in that letter?’

  ‘And who sent it?’ hissed Firethorn.

  Royden was cornered. There was no means of escape. He had to trust them. He read the letter again, then flicked through the four sheets of parchment with it. He licked his lips.

  ‘Well?’ said Nicholas. ‘The code used in the first few lines is number substitution. Thirteen occurs three times. What does that number stand for? London? Prague?’

  ‘Flushing,’ admitted Royden.

  ‘What of six?’

  ‘Bohemia.’

  ‘What about those signs of the zodiac?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘They represent people.’

  ‘Which people?’ pressed Nicholas.

  ‘You will not know them. They were agents of mine.’

  ‘What sort of agents?’

  ‘They gathered intelligence for me.’

  ‘And where did that intelligence go?’ As Royden hesitated, Nicholas shook him hard. ‘There is a number at the bottom of the page. One hundred and eighty-three. The sender. Who is he, Doctor Royden? Who used us as his unwitting couriers?’

  ‘It is more than my life is worth to tell you.’

  ‘Deny us this and you will have no life.’

  ‘I’ll call for the guard.’

  ‘You would be dead before he reached you,’ vowed Nicholas, clapping his hand over the prisoner’s mouth. ‘Which is it to be? Do we get the name or do you want your skull cracked open?’

  ‘From what we hear,’ said Firethorn, reinforcing the threat, ‘we would be doing the Emperor a favour. He would probably knight us for services to Bohemia.’

  ‘What was the name?’

  More hesitation. Nicholas pulled his head forward as if to crack it hard against the wall. Royden’s nerve broke. Unable to speak, his eyes rolled and he nodded vigorously. The book-holder let go of him but stood very close.

  ‘One hundred and eighty-three,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Separate the numbers and you may work it out for yourself,’ bleated the other. ‘Eighteen and three. What is the eighteenth letter of the alphabet? What is the third?’

  It took them a moment to count through the alphabet.

  ‘R.C.,’ said Nicholas at length.

  ‘Roman Catholicism!’ announced Firethorn. ‘That must be it. R.C. Roman Catholicism.’

  ‘The Popish religion is involved here,’ decided Nicholas, ‘but these letters stand for a name. R.C. Who is high enough to maintain a network of agents on the Continent? Only one man answers to that description. R.C. Robert Cecil.’ He saw the prisoner wince. ‘We know the sender at last. Sir Robert Cecil. Spymaster to the Queen. At least, we have learned that you are working for the right side, Doctor Royden.’

  ‘But what is the message?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘A grim one, sirs,’ said Royden, electing to confide fully in them. ‘My role here is discovered, my reports intercepted. My agents listed here have all been killed. Someone in Prague has betrayed me and sent good men to their death.’

  ‘Add the name of Adrian Smallwood to that list,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was an innocent victim of all this. But what of the documents we brought?’

  ‘Details of a new and more complex code,’ explained the other. ‘Sir Robert Cecil has devised it. He instructs me to memorise it and destroy the pages. See here, on this page,’ he said, holding it out to them. ‘That T stands for Tuesday. Sir Robert himself. W is for Wednesday. Balthasar Davey. An agent in Flushing. And so on. I am to gather up all the intelligence I can and send it back to London in the new cipher code.’

  ‘Who will carry it?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Not us!’ said Firethorn. ‘We’ve had enough of your cloak-and-dagger work. Deliver it yourself.’

  ‘That was the intention.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Master Bracewell was very observant,’ he confessed. ‘I was trying to read the message in invisible ink. There is no need now. I think that I know what it will say.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Now that I am revealed here, my work is done. Sir Robert is ordering me to quit Prague and return to London with you. Westfield’s Men would be my passport home.’

  ‘Do not trade on that hope,’ warned Firethorn.

  ‘How can I? When you leave, I will still be here. Locked up at the discretion of the Emperor. I may never reach London.’ He sagged against the wall. ‘Tell Sir Robert Cecil why.’

  ‘That lies ahead,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let us look at the immediate situation. Someone has betrayed you. Your agents have been identified and killed. Who was responsible?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You must have. Name those you suspect.’

  ‘It could be anyone.’

  ‘Take us through your day.’

  Coaxed by the visitors, Doctor Talbot Royden talked about his work in Prague and the people with whom it had brought him into contact. Several names were mentioned and Firethorn made a mental note of them all. An actor who could learn a twenty-line speech at one reading had no difficulty remembering eleven names in sequence.

  Nicholas was satisfied. Much was still obscure but a great deal had been learned. Adrian Smallwood’s death and Anne Hendrik’s abduction had now been put in context. The names in Firethorn’s memory were a starting point. It was time to go.

  ‘One fear has gone,’ said Royden with a nervous laugh. ‘I was afraid that you had brought word from John Mordrake.’

  ‘I did,’ said Nicholas, remembering his errand. ‘It is not so much of a message as a gift.’

  ‘He has no cause to send me a gift. What is it?’

  Nicholas took the wooden box from his purse and handed it over. Turning it over in his hands, the prisoner examined it quizzically. He seemed as baffled by it as Nicholas.

  ‘It lacks a key,’ noted the latter, ‘but Doctor Mordrake said that you would know how to open it.’

 
Royden held it nearer the flame to study it. There were some Arabic symbols on it in miniature and he had difficulty reading them. The riddle was at last solved. By placing his thumb-nail at one end and pressing hard, he activated a spring. The lid of the box popped open and Royden took something out. Firethorn looked at what he was holding.

  ‘Two small white feathers? Is that all it contained?’

  ‘They are enough,’ groaned Royden.

  ‘What do they betoken?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Worse news than I can bear to tell you, sirs. Have no fear about my travelling with Westfield’s Men.’ He put the feathers on his palm and blew them into the air, watching them float slowly to the ground. ‘I am done for. After this, I can never go near London again.’

  ***

  Barnaby Gill strolled around the Town Square in the fading light of a balmy summer evening. Back at the Black Eagle, the rest of the company were in a sombre mood. They worried about the disappearance of Anne Hendrik, ordered beer to subdue their anxieties, felt guilty that they were not out searching for her and drank even more heavily to sedate that guilt. But it was not only the prevailing sadness which drove Gill to parade around the city on his own. Westfield’s Men, working actors with simple needs, clung together because they had so much in common. A long tour only intensified their togetherness.

  Gill soon wearied of their habits and their rituals. With them during performances, he preferred to shun them in private. He sought companionship of another kind. In a city as big and as cosmopolitan as Prague, he felt, he would be certain to find what he was looking for, but an hour of preening himself in the square brought no reward. The fashion and bright colours of his doublet and hose attracted immense curiosity from those who passed, and several women pointed with interest at his purple hat with its long ostrich feather. But nobody spoke, nobody signalled. It was a barren pilgrimage.