The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  Before he could go back into the inn, Nicholas experienced the sensation he had felt on the drive from Rammekins. He was being watched. He sensed that it was a hostile gaze. Instead of swinging around sharply to catch a glimpse of the man, he pretended to have noticed nothing untoward. He sauntered across to the pump in the middle of the yard and worked its arm to fill a bucket with water. Then he casually removed his jerkin to hang it on the corner of a wagon. With his back to the wagon, he dipped both hands into the cold water to sluice his face and beard. He made sure that he took longer than usual over his ablutions. After drying himself on a piece of sacking, he retrieved his jerkin and ambled into the building.

  ***

  The stocky figure dodged the market traders in the street outside and hurried across to the Cardinal’s Hat, a commodious inn chosen for its proximity to the White Cross. As he went upstairs, he congratulated himself on his opportunism. It had taken only a second to remove the document from the pocket which had been sewn inside the jerkin. His objective had been achieved without the need for more bloodshed.

  Once inside his chamber, he locked the door and crossed to the window to get the best of the light. He tore the ribbon from the parchment and unfolded it eagerly. As he read the words on the paper, he reached into his pocket for the little notebook which he always carried with him. It listed a wide range of codes and ciphers. He was confident that he could soon unveil the secret message that lay behind the scrawled words. Then he read the document again and blenched.

  THE FAIR MAID OF BOHEMIA

  a comedy in five acts

  by Edmund Hoode

  Newly amended, corrected and enlarged from the tale of Nell Drayton, a chaste maid from Wrapping, stolen from her cradle at birth and forced into a life of drudgery until reunited with her noble family, thus showing the triumph of true love over setback and adversity.

  Beneath the title of the play was a failed attempt to write a Prologue for it. The author was so dismayed with the poverty of his verse that he had slashed through every line with a vengeful quill. No secret message could be unlocked because it did not exist. What the man was holding was the sheet of paper which Edmund Hoode had discarded in a fit of self-disgust at the White Cross.

  The fair maid now took even fouler punishment. Tearing the parchment to pieces, the man flung them to the floor and ground them beneath his heel as if killing some loathsome insects. His rage was short-lived. Realisation froze him to the spot. He had been duped. Nicholas Bracewell had deliberately allowed him to steal the document in order to draw him out of cover. The man was left empty-handed while the book-holder had gained two valuable pieces of information. He now knew for certain that he was being followed and that his shadow was after one thing.

  The man smiled, then chuckled, then laughed at his own folly. He had been completely taken in by the ruse. Nicholas won a new respect from him. In the resourceful book-holder, the man had a worthy adversary. It would add more spice to his assignment. Westfield’s Men would need to be trailed in a very different way from now on. Nicholas would be more wary than ever and the rest of the company would be alerted.

  As he thought about the sturdy figure who had washed himself in the stableyard, the man’s laughter took on a darker note. Instead of jeering at his own folly, he was savouring the pleasure of a duel with an able opponent. There would be no swift dagger-work in an empty stable this time. He wanted the utmost enjoyment from the death of Nicholas Bracewell.

  ***

  The play which was set before the citizens of Cologne that afternoon was Love and Fortune. It was a compromise. Lawrence Firethorn was desperate to portray one of his gallery of tragic heroes and Barnaby Gill argued vehemently for Cupid’s Folly because he took the leading role of Rigormortis in that pastoral comedy. Nicholas imposed a truce on the warring actors and guided them towards common ground. Love and Fortune gave Firethorn a part in which he could unleash both his thunder and his comic brilliance while Gill was appeased by his generous haul of songs and dances. As it was another staple drama of Westfield’s Men, it needed no exhaustive rehearsal. They donned it like familiar apparel.

  A stage was erected against the building which stood at right angles to the town hall. Curtains hung from horizontal poles along the other two sides to screen off the rectangle. Chairs and benches were laid out in rows at the front, with standing room behind them for the bulk of the audience. Seats were also placed in the upper windows of the town hall so that the Burgomaster, his Council and their wives could view the entertainment from a privileged position.

  As in Flushing, curtains at the rear of the stage hid the tiring-house from view. It was in the hallway of the building. A stout wooden box below the stage enabled actors to mount it with ease before bursting between the curtains to make an entrance. When not doubling as characters in the play, the musicians could make use of an upper room as their minstrels’ gallery. Nicholas had been diligent in his preparations. Since Nathan Curtis, their master carpenter, had been left behind in London, it was the book-holder who devised and built the cunning trapdoor through which a number of surprise appearances would be made.

  The beaming Burgomaster had been as good as his word. He had provided Nicholas with four able-bodied servants, who took some of the massive load from the inadequate shoulders of George Dart, and he persuaded every citizen of distinction to attend the performance. Market-day had swelled the numbers in the city, and many from the surrounding areas decided to avail themselves of the rare treat to see a performance by an English theatrical troupe.

  Nicholas converted his German assistants to gatherers and placed them at strategic points to collect money for admission. Four albus was an attractively low price to pay. Westfield’s Men had an audience three times the size of that in Flushing. It flattered their vanity and stimulated their desire to give of their best.

  Owen Elias could not resist peering through the curtains.

  ‘The whole city is out there!’ he said.

  ‘Let them see you during the play,’ advised Nicholas at his shoulder, ‘and not before. The time to appraise the spectators is when you stand before them.’

  ‘I know, Nick. But my curiosity was whetted.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I had to see if they were in the audience.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Some of those eleven thousand virgins.’ Nicholas’s smile threw the Welshman on the defensive. ‘They do exist,’ he claimed. ‘We drank with a German watchmaker last night. His English sounded more like double Dutch, but one thing he did make clear was that there are eleven thousand virgins in Cologne. The city is famous for them.’ He grinned with frank lechery. ‘There’ll be a few less in number by the time I quit this place.’

  ‘You are centuries too late,’ said Nicholas, taking the curtain from his hand to close it again. ‘Your watchmaker forgot to tell you that the eleven thousand virgins existed in Cologne a long time ago. They accompanied Princess Ursula on a pilgrimage to Rome. When Ursula was martyred by Attila the Hun, she was made into the patron saint of Cologne.’

  Elias was deflated. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘The Burgomaster gave me a history of the city.’

  ‘There are no virgins here?’

  ‘Not in the numbers you hope for, Owen.’

  ‘I have been cruelly misled.’

  ‘Only by the heat of your desire.’

  ‘You speak true, Nick,’ admitted the other with a wry grin. ‘We Celts are too goatish. When I first heard about those virgins, I thought my cod-piece would burst asunder.’

  ‘Save your strength for the play.’

  He led the disappointed actor back to the tiring-house. Spirits were high among the rest of the cast. A substantial audience was awaiting them in a state of anticipatory delight. This was no routine assignment in their calendar. Westfield’s Men were making their debut before German spectators and were not quite sure how their work would be received. They needed an unqualified success in order t
o purge the sad memories of their last presentation. Love and Fortune would be a shroud to lay over the corpse of Adrian Smallwood.

  Nicholas juggled his many responsibilities with the composure that was typical of him. His outward calm concealed his deep anxiety. He was being stalked by a man who would have no compunction about killing him in order to lay hands on the documents he was carrying. Nicholas had told Firethorn of his discovery and they had decided to take Owen Elias and James Ingram into their confidence. Four of them were now on guard against possible attack, but it was not enough. As long as his identity was unknown, the advantage would always lie with an assassin who could choose when and where to strike.

  ‘Stand by!’ Nicholas called, marshalling the company.

  ‘Speak up and follow me!’ ordered Firethorn. ‘And spare a thought for dear Adrian. This performance is for him.’

  Music played, then Elias went out to deliver the Prologue. The ovation he collected raised the general excitement even higher. Firethorn and Gill virtually ran onto the stage to play the first scene together. They struck sparks off each other which ignited the whole cast. Love and Fortune had never been played with more attack and commitment.

  Cologne adored it. Whether laughing at the wild antics or sighing with the forlorn lovers, they were in their element. They understood only half of the plot and less than a quarter of the dialogue, but that did not dim their appreciation one bit. Movement and gesture were eloquent interpreters. Songs and dances were self-explanatory. And Firethorn’s storming performance in the central role was stunning. Gill’s clown was the perfect foil for him. Whenever the two of them came together, the play took on an extra bite and richness.

  What kept them enthralled was the overall quality of the company. Westfield’s Men were undoubted professionals. With Nicholas at the helm behind the scenes, the play was like a seamless web that grew larger and more ornate with each minute. The spectators thought of their own strolling players and winced. The performance of Love and Fortune made their homespun actors look like raw beginners. Two hours flew past in two magical minutes, then applause came in an irresistible avalanche.

  It was led by the Burgomaster, standing in a window with his wife and family, cheering loudly and laughing until tears of joy trickled down his cheeks. The cast were kept onstage for ten minutes or more before the acclaim began to show signs of abating. When he led his troupe back into the tiring-house, Firethorn embraced each one of them with gratitude. Even Gill got a spontaneous hug of thanks.

  ‘That performance had everything!’ declared Firethorn. ‘We were at the height of our powers and the audience worshipped us. What more could we want?’

  ‘A few of those eleven thousand virgins,’ said Elias.

  ‘The city is ours. Tomorrow, we storm the Palace.’

  ‘Not with Love and Fortune,’ warned Nicholas.

  ‘It is our greatest weapon, Nick. You saw its power.’

  ‘Over the good citizens of Cologne, yes. But there will be a very different audience at the Palace. You play in front of prelates and nobles. The Archbishop may prefer something less full of noise and bawdy humour. Meat for the commonalty may stick in the throat of the Church.’

  Barnaby Gill agreed and pushed forward the claims of Cupid’s Folly yet again. Firethorn countered angrily with Hector of Troy. They wielded the two plays like broadswords and the others backed out of range. The issue was still undecided when the Burgomaster sailed into the tiring-house. His eyes were glistening, his mouth was locked in a permanent grin and his cheeks were like two giant red apples left out in the rain.

  ‘Wunderbar!’ he announced. ‘Wizzfeld’s Men! Wunderbar!’

  ‘We thank you, sir,’ said Firethorn, giving his most obsequious bow. ‘We are humble players whose only wish is to serve our masters. It has been an honour, Herr Burgomaster.’

  ‘Magnificent, you are, Lurrence Feuertorn.’

  ‘Firethorn,’ enunciated the other. ‘Lawrence Firethorn.’

  ‘You please us. I help.’

  His hand went towards his midriff and Firethorn hoped that he was about to open his purse. Instead, the Burgomaster plucked a letter from his belt and proffered it.

  ‘To Frankfurt, you go. Ja?’

  ‘We do, sir.’

  ‘You take.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Firethorn, taking the letter but handing it straight to Nicholas with a bitter aside. ‘Is that what he calls help? Turning us into his couriers’?

  ‘You read. Ja?’ urged the Burgomaster. ‘In German, I write, and that letter sent to Frankfurt. Emperor Rudolph, he forgets. Frankfurt not been told you come, maybe. Now they know. My letter tell them. Written by Wizzfeld’s Men.’

  ‘But we wrote no letter,’ protested Firethorn.

  ‘I do for you, to help,’ said the Burgomaster with a gleeful chuckle. He turned to Nicholas. ‘Read. For all.’

  When he unfolded the letter, Nicholas realised that what he held was an English translation. The Burgomaster had taken great pains on their behalf. His application for permission to play in Frankfurt was couched in the language of deference. Nicholas read it out to the whole company in a firm voice.

  ‘High Honourable, Respectable, Praiseworthy, Highly Learned Lords, Herr Burgomaster and the Council. Particularly Praiseworthy, Gracious and Ruling Lords, our company of players has stayed briefly in Cologne, where we were well-received, and we set out now towards Prague, where, by grace of the Most High Emperor, we are to display our talents at the Imperial Court. As our journey takes us close to your illustrious city, we did not wish to neglect to visit such a famous and praiseworthy place, and to present our plays to the High Council, according to its will. This is why we submit this most humble request to the Council, and ask it for the great honour of graciously allowing us to play in Frankfurt for a short time: for we are experienced players, trained as actors from our youth, commended for our performances before Her Gracious Majesty, Elizabeth, Queen of England, and renowned for our plays, wherein we present no vices or condemnable tricks, only things appropriate to decency and decorum, in addition to charming English music and excellent dances, which will the better increase the pleasure of the spectators and the listeners. Accordingly, we hope that the High Council will not refuse our humble request but will most kindly permit us to engage in theatrical performances for the entertainment of your justly celebrated city. Forever grateful. Your humble servants.’

  There was dead silence. Annoyed to learn that a letter had been sent on their behalf without his knowledge, Firethorn speedily adapted to the idea. His problem was to contain his mirth at the cringing humility of the missive’s tone. As he glanced around, he saw that the rest of the company felt the same way. They were struggling to hold in their amusement.

  The Burgomaster beamed. ‘Is good. Ja?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Firethorn.

  Then the dam burst. Laughter poured out of him in a torrent and it set of a dozen minor tributaries. The whole company was soon rocking helplessly. A Burgomaster in Cologne would know how a Burgomaster in Frankfurt wished to be addressed and his letter would no doubt win them a favourable hearing, but that took nothing away from its submissive crawling and its essential ridiculousness. As the laughter built to a crescendo, Nicholas was afraid that the Burgomaster would be offended by such a reaction to his help but the latter readily joined in the wild cachinnation. It never occurred to their affable host that they were laughing at him.

  ‘Is good. Ja?’ he shouted.

  The whole company gave its reply in unison.

  ‘Is very good. Ja! Ja! Ja!’

  ***

  Hours later, some of them were still draining the dregs of the joke. As they sat around a table at the White Cross, they revelled in their triumph and giggled at the memory of the Burgomaster’s letter.

  ‘Did you ever hear such stuff?’ howled Elias with a mug of beer in his hand. ‘That letter did everything but get down on its knees to lick the arse of the Burgomaster of Frankfurt.’
>
  ‘Do you speak of the Particularly Praiseworthy, Gracious and Ruling Herr Burgomaster?’ teased Ingram.

  ‘I do, James. Most humbly and cravenly.’ said Elias.

  ‘And do you really believe that our plays are free from all vices and condemnable tricks?’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘They are full to the brim with both,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Thank heaven!’ added Elias.

  And the table roared again. Nicholas gave only a token smile. His amusement at the wording of the letter had soon faded and he was struck by the extraordinary benevolence that lay behind it. On the strength of his long interview with Nicholas-and before he had seen Westfield’s Men perform Love and Fortune-the Burgomaster had taken it upon himself to smooth their passage across Germany by writing to his counterpart in Frankfurt. He would no doubt have sent a covering letter of his own to reinforce the request to be allowed to play in the city.

  Firethorn read the mind of his book-holder and moved him aside.

  ‘Do not blame them, Nick. They needed this laughter.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Besides,’ said the actor-manager, ‘that letter may not have sounded quite so obnoxious in German. Then again, it may have been far worse.’ He gave a chuckle, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You are missing Anne, I think.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Very much. I fear for her.’

  ‘There is no need.’

  ‘She is alone in a foreign country.’

  ‘Anne is a capable woman. She will survive.’

  ‘Adrian was a capable man. He did not.’

  ‘That was different, Nick.’

  ‘I know, and it is wrong of me to fret. She will have arrived safely in Amsterdam by now, where she will be looked after by the entire Hendrik family. They will be delighted that she has put herself to such trouble and expense in order to see her father-in-law once more.’ He took a meditative sip of his beer. ‘But I do miss her.’