The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  London might be bigger, especially now that it was pushing out into ever-widening suburbs, but they only ever saw the capital from the inside. They had absorbed its impact and taken its wonders for granted. Cologne was different. It was a dignified city of high towers, soaring steeples, fine houses and stately civic buildings, standing respectfully in the shadow of a mighty cathedral whose Gothic extravagance made Saint Paul’s look plain and homely and whose spire rose to a height which dwarfed its London counterpart. Westfield’s Men were struck dumb when they saw how much time, energy, money, love and sublime artistry had been dedicated to the service of God. Cologne Cathedral was a monument to centuries of belief.

  It was still the centre of a vigorous Christianity and they could hear dozens of bells chiming even at that distance.

  ‘Cologne is a Roman Catholic city,’ warned Nicholas. ‘We must be very careful what we say and how we behave.’

  ‘We are here to entertain them,’ stressed Firethorn, ‘and not to convert them. Nor should we let them convert us to their Popish practices.’

  ‘It is magnificent!’ sighed Hoode, still wide-eyed.

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Gill.’ All that I see is a crumbling mausoleum of the Old Religion. And are we to debase ourselves by offering them our plays? It is an insult to my faith.

  ‘The only Superior Being in your life is yourself,’ said Firethorn sharply. ‘When we perform at the Queen’s Head, we share our bounty among Anglicans, Roman Catholics, Huguenots, Calvinists, Jews, Anabaptists, Atheists and creeping Puritans who come to sneer at our work. Theatre serves all religions. Even the God-forsaken will not be turned away by us.’

  With Gill silenced, the wagons rolled on once more and they were able to take a closer inventory of Cologne. The city was fronted by several wharves and there were so many craft at anchor that it was almost possible to use them as stepping-stones to the opposite bank. Originally built on the western bank, the capital of the Rhineland had long since outgrown its fortified walls and spread out in an easterly direction. The river both divided the two parts of the city and joined them closely together.

  Driving the first wagon, Nicholas led the way through the crowded streets in search of the inn recommended by Balthasar Davey. The secretary’s advice had been trustworthy so far. His choice of the White Cross had to be respected. While the book-holder was concerned with finding a place to stay, the actor-manager wanted to let the whole city know that they had arrived. Standing in his flamboyant apparel in the rear of the second wagon, he declaimed a martial speech to the tallest spires. A drum was beaten, a trumpet blared, the actors went into an elaborate mime and everyone knew that the players had come to Cologne.

  The stocky man in the garb of a merchant did not need to be told that they were coming. He was lounging outside the White Cross as the two wagons rumbled around the corner. His presence went completely unnoticed by the newcomers. Nicholas Bracewell had glanced over his shoulder many times during the journey but he never thought to look in front of him.

  Someone was waiting for them.

  Chapter Six

  Fortune favoured them at last. After suffering the rigours of the voyage, the cruel loss of one of their number and the cumulative fatigue of long days on the road, they found some warm consolation awaiting them in Cologne. It was Nicholas Bracewell who made the discovery. Lawrence Firethorn sent him off to the Burgomaster to seek permission for Westfield’s Men to play in the city. Nicholas could not have had a more positive response.

  A big, fleshy man with a rubicund face, the Burgomaster wore a resplendent mayoral chain of solid gold which rested on his expansive paunch. Whenever he laughed, the chain bobbed merrily up and down. He oozed wealth and well-being. His command of English was uncertain and his accent guttural but he made himself understood.

  ‘Willkommen, Herr Bracewell!’ he said, pumping Nicholas’s hand. ‘The English comedians always we like to see in Köln. Lovely city, ja? How long you stay?’

  ‘Only for a few days, I fear.’

  ‘Is all?’

  ‘We have to ride on.’

  ‘Where you go?’

  ‘Frankfurt am Main,’ explained Nicholas. ‘After a short stay there, we go on to Eisenach, Weimar and Prague. That is our main destination. Westfield’s Men have been invited to play for two weeks at the Imperial Court.’

  ‘Wunderbar!’ said the other, chortling with approval and making his chain rattle. ‘Is big honour. You play the comedy for our Emperor, ja? Good.’

  ‘Did you not know of our visit?’

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘In his letter, the Emperor said that he would write to tell you that we were coming here.’

  ‘Emperor Rudolph,’ said the other with a philosophical shrug, ‘he forgot. Many things he promise, he not remembers. On the fringe of the Empire, Köln is. Prague, long way, ja?’ His chuckle returned to set his chain in motion again. ‘No matter. We pleased here to see Wizzfeld’s Men.’

  ‘Westfield’s,’ corrected Nicholas politely. ‘Lord Westfield is our patron and he secured our passport to travel abroad and play where we could find an audience.’

  ‘Here, an audience you have.’

  ‘We are very grateful.’

  ‘Köln thanks you. Wizzfeld’s Men is famous. The Emperor invite them. We must see them also, ja?’

  ‘We are at your disposal,’ said Nicholas deferentially.

  ‘Natürlich!’

  The genial Burgomaster went off into a peal of laughter and his chain bobbed once more. They were in the Council Chamber at the imposing Rathaus, the town hall where civic business was conducted. It was a spacious room with a vast table in it. The Burgomaster was built on the right scale for such a place. A smaller man would have been dwarfed to insignificance. Nicholas was delighted with the cordial reception he had been given. It was a good omen. His host was friendly and willing to help in any way. Nicholas took the opportunity to find out as much as he could about Cologne and its relation to the Empire. The Burgomaster talked fondly about the former but more guardedly about the latter. Nicholas garnered invaluable information.

  When the discussion was over, he hastened back through the streets to the White Cross. It was early evening and most of Westfield’s Men were washing down a large meal with mugs of German beer. Owen Elias was making his companions laugh wildly at his anecdotes. Nicholas was pleased to step into a happier atmosphere. They had not forgotten Adrian Smallwood but they had managed to put the horror of his murder behind them. Lawrence Firethorn beckoned his book-holder across to the table he shared with Barnaby Gill. Both men were anxious to hear the tidings.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Firethorn. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men are welcome in Cologne.’

  ‘Did you mention my name, Nick?’

  ‘Several times,’ lied the other.

  ‘And mine, I trust?’ asked Gill.

  ‘Of course. We are to give two performances here.’

  ‘Where?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘The first will be in a public place and the Burgomaster himself will be there with the entire Council and their wives. The audience could be of considerable size.’

  ‘Was payment mentioned?’

  ‘We are allowed to charge admission.’

  ‘This is excellent news!’

  ‘The second performance will be at the palace,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Duke of Bavaria and other important guests are visiting Cologne, so we will have distinguished spectators. It pleased the Burgomaster that we gave him first call on the services of Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Gill.

  ‘Cologne is ruled by the Archbishop. He is also the Elector and thus wields temporal as well as spiritual power. The Burgomaster feels that he and his Council are the true government. There is great rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop. The spirit of Hermann Grein lives on.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hermann Grein,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘He lived hundreds of years ago but the Burgom
aster talked about him as if he were still alive. When he was himself Burgomaster, this Hermann Grein won a victory over one Archbishop Engelbert here in Cologne. The Archbishop wanted revenge. Burgomaster Grein was invited to the monastery for a conference. The monks kept various wild animals there, including a lion. Two canons trapped the Burgomaster in a courtyard with the lion. If the man had not been wearing his sword, he would have been torn to pieces. He fought bravely enough to kill the animal but was savagely mauled and nearly died.’

  ‘Did the poor wretch survive?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘By the grace of God, he did. The citizens of Cologne rescued him. Growing suspicious, they forced their way into the monastery and recovered their Burgomaster in time. The two canons involved in the plot were hanged at the monastery gate and Hermann Grein was slowly nursed back to health.’

  ‘An amusing-enough story,’ said Gill with a yawn, ‘but what bearing does it have on us?’

  ‘A fair amount,’ replied Nicholas levelly. ‘It helps to dictate our choice of play. The rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop may not be as deadly as in the days of Burgomaster Grein, but it is still there. We would be foolish to stage a play which sets Church against Commonalty, and there are two or three in our repertoire.’

  ‘A timely warning, Nick,’ said Firethorn gratefully. ‘We do not wish to fan the flames of any dispute in the city. ‘Tis a pity we lack the actors to play The Knights of Malta. That would delight both citizens and Archbishop.’

  ‘Bore them, rather,’ said Gill contemptuously. ‘Your Grand Master would send the whole of Cologne to sleep.’

  ‘I will send you to sleep in a moment,’ retorted the other, fingering his dagger. ‘For all eternity.’

  ‘The Knights of Malta will not serve here,’ argued Nicholas quietly. ‘A play about the Turkish menace would not be the wisest choice. It is too close to the truth. The Turks are attacking the eastern border of the Empire even though they have signed a peace treaty. The people of Cologne may not wish to be reminded of that distant threat. Comedy is in request yet again, I think.’

  ‘And so do I,’ added Gill. ‘Cupid’s Folly, it must be.’

  ‘That would be folly indeed!’ sneered Firethorn.

  ‘They want laughter, song, dance. They want me.’

  ‘Even drunken Germans cannot be that misguided!’

  The familiar bickering began again and Nicholas left them to it. Stealing away from the table, he walked towards the figure he had noticed on his own in the far corner. It was Edmund Hoode, crouched over a sheet of parchment with a quill in his hand. The pen was hovering indecisively.

  ‘How now, Edmund?’ said his friend, lowering himself onto the stool opposite. ‘Is your teeming brain at work on The Fair Maid of Bohemia?’

  ‘If only it were, Nick!’ sighed the other.

  ‘What is amiss?’

  ‘My Muse has deserted me.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘This time, it is true. My mind is empty. The storehouse of my imagination is bare. The mice scamper around in there, unable to find even the tiniest crumbs.’

  ‘You are tired, that is all,’ reassured Nicholas. ‘The journey has taxed each one of us. A good night’s sleep will soon revive you and fill that storehouse until it bursts apart with fresh ideas.’

  ‘No, Nick. I have written my last play.’

  ‘Those words, too, have often been on your lips.’

  ‘Never with more conviction.’ He lifted both hands up in a gesture of despair. ‘I have nothing new to say.’

  ‘Novelty is not expected. All you have to do is to take an old play by Edmund Hoode and dress it in a clever disguise. You have fashioned such costumes a hundred times.’

  ‘I have lost my needle and thread. Look,’ he said, lifting the sheet of parchment in front of him, ‘this is the fruit of two hours’ work. All I have contrived to write is the title and the name of its misbegotten author. The chaste maid refuses to leave Wapping. She’ll have none of Bohemia!’

  He tossed the sheet over his shoulder with disgust and buried his face in his hands. Nicholas consoled him gently. It was a service he had often rendered and his touch was delicate. Hoode was slowly weaned away from his crippling melancholy. Nicholas waited until he had coaxed the first faint smile out of his friend before he made his offer.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he suggested.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Not as your co-author, that would be far too great a presumption on my part. I only wish to be a servant, who fetches and carries things for my master. I bring the bones of ideas, you put flesh upon them.’

  ‘You do not know The Chaste Maid of Wapping well enough.’

  ‘I know it as well as its author,’ said Nicholas. ‘Better than he at this moment. You forget how often I have seen it rehearsed and played. The first scene, for instance, could be transported to Bohemia with one simple device.’

  ‘One?’

  ‘If you are bold enough to use it.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Hoode, interested at last.

  ‘Pick up your pen and I will tell you.’

  The drooping playwright took up his quill and dipped it into the inkwell before him. Once he began to write, his hand never paused for a second as a stream of ideas, images and daring concepts poured from Nicholas. Though not an author in his own right, he had a grasp of narrative and of theatrical effect that was the equal of any. Hoode’s enthusiasm was brought quickly back to life again. Instead of simply listing his friend’s comments about the play, he started to challenge, to criticise, to amend, to refine.

  It was only a matter of time before his own creative juices flowed freely again. When he replaced the first page with a second, it was his imagination which made the pen dance across it. Nicholas was no longer needed. Hoode was talking to himself and hearing nobody else. The book-holder retrieved the discarded sheet of parchment from the floor and gazed around the room. Firethorn and Gill were still squabbling cheerfully, Elias was still carousing with the others, George Dart was slumbering over his beer again and the resident poet with Westfield’s Men had been rescued from a pit of misery and filled with brimming confidence. It was once more the company he knew and loved. Nicholas was content.

  ***

  When the actors eventually tumbled into their beds, they needed no lullaby to ease them asleep. They had spent several hours celebrating their arrival in Cologne and collapsed instantly beneath the joyous weight of their over-indulgence. As he lay awake in the darkness, Nicholas heard their individual snores merging into a general drone. While his companions sank into oblivion, he had too much to keep him awake.

  Adrian Smallwood remained at the forefront of his mind. He had not only lost a staunch friend, he had seen a highly talented actor cut down in his prime. The sense of waste was overpowering. Nicholas was also distressed by his inability to do anything by way of recompense. Back in England, he could at least attempt to trace Smallwood’s family in York and pass on the sad tidings, but it might be months before he was home in London again. Finding the killer was the only thing which would assuage his feelings of guilt and helplessness. That would take time, patience and a degree of sheer luck.

  Anne Hendrik was another source of anxiety. She was an able woman with a good working knowledge of Dutch, but she was still a foreigner in a land not wholly amicable towards the English. Nicholas was certain that she would be welcomed in Amsterdam by the family into which she had been married, but how and with whom would she return to Flushing? What sort of return voyage would she have? Was she missing him as painfully as he was now missing her? Where was she?

  Nicholas was still asking that question when his eyelids finally closed for the night. He dozed peacefully but lightly. Sharing a bedchamber with seven of his fellows did not make him feel totally secure. Smallwood had been murdered while scores of people were at hand. The same killer would not be deterred by the presence of two apprentices and five snoring actors. Nicholas kept the dagger in his h
and throughout the night. But it was not needed.

  He awoke at dawn to the sound of carts and wagons rattling past in the street on their way to market. Cologne was a noisy city. Bells were soon ringing, voices were raised, dogs were barking and yelping. His companions slept untroubled through the morning’s pandemonium but Nicholas was wide awake. He grappled with his concerns over the death of Adrian Smallwood and the safety of Anne Hendrik until a third person glided gently into his thoughts.

  Doctor John Mordrake had entrusted him with a curious commission. Nicholas was employed to deliver a small wooden box to the very man to whom the secret documents were being sent. What connection did Mordrake have with the mysterious Talbot Royden? Why was he prepared to pay so handsomely to have his gift put into the latter’s hands in Prague? Nicholas sat up with a start as a new consideration arose. He believed that Smallwood had been murdered in error by a man in search of the documents that he himself was carrying. Balthasar Davey shared that belief.

  Supposing that they were both wrong? What if the killer was really after the wooden box? Mordrake’s gift was also a form of secret document. Would someone commit a murder in order to seize it? Nicholas reached into his purse for the object and examined it in the half-dark. It looked so small and innocuous. Did it really have the power to kill one man and put the life of another in danger? Were its contents so lethal? The box suddenly felt like a lead weight in his palm. He put it quickly away.

  With a performance due that afternoon, there was an immense amount of work for the book-holder to do. Fair weather was a crucial factor in an outdoor performance. Light was poking its fingers in through the cracks in the shutters, but that told him little about their chances of a fine day. Taking care not to disturb the others, he dressed in silence and crept out of the chamber. When he stepped into the stableyard, he saw that they had been blessed with dry weather. The sky was clear and only a faint breeze was trying to brush the wisps of straw across the ground.