‘The pain of separation!’ said Firethorn, stroking his beard. ‘I know it full well. I miss Margery and the children as I would miss limbs that have been hacked off. While I enjoy the hospitality of Cologne, they live in the shadow of the plague. I lie awake at night thinking of them. Especially Margery,’ he said with a nostalgic twinkle in his eye. ‘She is a rare creature indeed.’
‘I can vouch for that.’
‘Owen may lust after his eleven thousand virgins, but Margery is worth all of them together. She is the perfection of womanhood-and I pine for her.’
‘Write and tell her so,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘I will, I will.’
‘The friendly Burgomaster will tell us how to send letters back to England.’
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘He is so obliging that he will probably saddle his horse and ride off to deliver the letter for me in person. Is good? Ja?’
Firethorn emptied his own mug with one long swig, then set it down on the table. It was instantly refilled from a jug by a buxom tavern wench. He grinned lasciviously at her and forgot all about his long-suffering wife. As the girl bent over the next table to pour some more beer, he admired the generous proportions of her body with a practised eye. His thoughts flew swiftly to a much finer example of female beauty.
‘Sophia Magdalena,’ he sighed.
‘Edmund is working zealously on the play.’
‘I trust that he will enhance the importance of my role in it. I must dominate the stage as the tormented Earl who searches in vain for his lost child.’
‘The Earl has been changed to an Archduke of Austria.’
‘O happy transition!’
‘And your daughter is brought up by simple shepherds.’
‘My sweet, little, fair maid of Bohemia!’
‘Dick Honeydew will shine in the role.’
‘A pox on the role!’ said Firethorn dismissively. ‘The only person who shines in it is Sophia herself. She is radiant. Her beams are warmer than those of the sun. At the Queen’s Head, she lit up the whole innyard with her presence. That is where I sensed my kinship with her. Sophia Magdalena of Bohemia. My own fair maid. So eager to see me again that she prevailed upon the Emperor to invite us to Prague.’
‘That may not be quite what happened,’ said Nicholas.
‘What other explanation is there? She fell in love with the Grand Master and I lost my heart to her. That is why I will happily ride half-way across the Continent at her behest. She waits in Bohemia for her faithful knight to arrive.’
Nicholas forbore to point out that the knight’s fidelity had been pledged to his wife only minutes earlier. In talking with such fondness and consideration about Margery, the actor-manager had looked back wistfully to London. His gaze was now fixed on Prague and nothing would deflect him. The wayward knight now rode solely under the banner of Sophia Magdalena.
‘Onward!’ said Firethorn, holding an imaginary sword in the air. ‘In the east, my pleasure lies. Onward to Bohemia!’
‘The journey will be a difficult one.’
‘I will swim lakes to reach her. I will hew down whole forests. I will climb the mountains as Hannibal once did in search of conquest. Sophia is distraught without me.’
‘She is not the only person we seek in Prague,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘There are others.’
‘Not for me. Sophia Magdalena is enough. She is Prague.’
‘Emperor Rudolph is our host.’
‘Only because of her.’
‘That may well be, but we must pay due homage to him.’ He felt the pouch inside his jerkin. ‘And we have to deliver the documents to Doctor Talbot Royden.’
‘He has gone right out of my mind.’
‘Bring him back,’ urged Nicholas. ‘Keep his name in your thoughts. These documents have already cost Westfield’s Men dearly. As long as they are in our possession, the company remains in danger.’
‘From whom, Nick? That is what I want to know.’
‘We can but guess.’
‘The worst enemy is one who will not show himself.’
‘I brought him out of hiding this morning.’
‘But you did not see the villain. He remains a phantom.’
‘That is why we must exercise the greatest care,’ stressed Nicholas. ‘You have a burning desire to reach Prague. Let us be sure that the whole company reaches it with you.’
‘I will be Vigilance personified.’
‘We will all need to take that role.’
Firethorn quaffed his beer and leaned closer to him.
‘Who is this Talbot Royden?’ he wondered.
‘What did Lord Westfield tell you about him?’
‘Nothing beyond the fact that he was a doctor of repute. Our patron simply pressed that pouch into my hands and urged me to deliver it to this fellow.’
‘How did he speak the man’s name?’
‘His name?’
‘With pleasure?’ asked Nicholas. ‘With distaste? With familiarity? Can you remember?’
Firethorn was reflective. ‘It seems a long time ago, Nick. I was so thrilled at the idea of travelling to Bohemia that I paid scant attention to this trivial service we were asked to perform.’
‘Because of that trivial service, Adrian Smallwood died.’
‘Secrecy,’ recalled Firethorn. ‘That is what Lord Westfield sought to impress upon me. Above all else, the documents were to be kept secret. As they have been.’
‘Not from the murderer.’
‘How did he know of their existence?’
‘We will find that out in due course. But you have not answered my question. How did our patron say the name of Talbot Royden?’
‘As if he had never laid eyes on the man.’
‘Then all we know about the good doctor is what we may deduce,’ mused Nicholas. ‘If he is employed at the Imperial Court, he must have a high standing in his profession. But in what branch of medicine or science is he most learned? Is he a personal physician to Emperor Rudolph himself? Or does he have some other function? How did he get to Bohemia in the first place?’ He felt the wooden box in his purse. ‘And what links does he maintain with England?’
‘Doctor Talbot Royden is an enigma,’ said Firethorn.
‘Not entirely. He enjoys the favour of the Holy Roman Emperor and he would only do that by dint of some remarkable skills. Of one thing we can be certain.’
‘What is that, Nick?’
‘Talbot Royden is a species of genius.’
***
The laboratory was situated in what had once been the largest apartment at the castle. It was a long, low, narrow room whose ceiling was supported by a series of arches which divided the place into bays. Tallow candles burned with such abundance that the laboratory had the feeling of a chapel, but it was dedicated to a stranger religion than Christianity. Chemical odours of competing pungency mingled with the abiding smell of damp. Spiders flourished in dark corners. Mice and beetles traversed the wooden floor in search of food. A lazy black cat spent most of its time asleep on a wooden stool.
Tables were laden with jars of weird liquids and coloured powders. All kinds of scientific equipment was scattered about. A surgeon’s chest-complete with a gruesome collection of knives, pincers and scissors-stood open on an oak chest. Beside it lay the saw that was used for amputations, its teeth blunted by recent use. Leather-bound tomes, written in many languages, were stacked everywhere. Learning lay cheek-by-jowl with instruments for letting blood.
The two men stood in front of the furnace at the far end of the room. Even with its iron door closed, it gave off a fierce heat.
‘Open it,’ ordered Talbot Royden.
‘Has it had time enough?’
‘Do as I tell you, Casper.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Open the door slowly.’
Royden took a precautionary step backwards. He was an ugly man in his thirties with a bulbous nose and porcine eyes. His compact body was hidden by a long red gown de
corated with the signs of the zodiac. His hat covered his ears, the back of his neck and most of his forehead. He was sweating profusely.
His young assistant wore a leather apron over his shirt and breeches. He put on thick gloves before he reached out to open the door of the furnace. As it swung on its hinges, there was a dramatic surge of heat and light. The whole room seemed to be on fire. Caspar’s intelligent face registered both hope and fear. With a pair of large tongs, he reached into the furnace to pull something out with great tenderness before setting it down on the block of stone beside the furnace.
Both men watched carefully as the small cauldron hissed and glowed. When it began to give off a succession of sparks and peculiar noises, Doctor Talbot Royden clicked his tongue in irritation. It was speaking to him in a language that he understood.
‘It is not yet ready,’ he admitted.
‘We were too hasty,’ said Caspar respectfully. ‘It was my fault, Master. Perhaps I extracted it too quickly from the furnace. Or did not bring the fire to the requisite heat.’
‘No, Caspar. It is my judgement that is awry.’
‘What must we do?’
‘What else?’ said Royden wearily. ‘We try again.’
But they were not allowed to repeat their experiment. Before the assistant could use his tongs again, the door of the laboratory was flung open and four armed soldiers marched in. They surrounded Royden and looked suspiciously down at the sizzling cauldron.
‘Is it a success?’ grunted one of them.
‘Not yet,’ conceded the alchemist.
‘Arrest him.’
‘Stop!’ protested Royden as he was seized by two of the soldiers. ‘I am in the middle of an important experiment.’
‘A failed experiment.’
‘The augmentation process is very tricky.’
‘Take him away!’
‘You will regret this!’ yelled Royden as he was dragged unceremoniously away. ‘I will report you to the Emperor.’
‘We are acting on his orders.’
Caspar was horrified at the sudden change in their fortunes. Years of patient work had been halted in a matter of seconds. It left him utterly bewildered. He turned to the soldier who had barked the orders.
‘Doctor Talbot Royden is a brilliant man,’ he argued.
‘He was.’
‘You cannot treat him in this vile way.’
‘We just did.’
‘He is a scientific genius. His work must go on.’
‘Not at the Emperor’s expense.’
‘Why not?’
‘Ask him.’
‘But we were almost there,’ insisted Caspar.
‘Almost is not good enough.’
‘Doctor Royden simply needs time.’
‘He will have plenty of that now.’
‘Why?’ asked the other. ‘Where have they taken him?’
‘To his new home.’
‘Home?’
The man gave a callous grin before strutting off.
‘Where is this home?’ called Caspar.
‘The castle dungeon.’
Chapter Seven
A persistent drizzle greeted them next morning but it could neither soil memories of their triumph on the previous day nor dampen their enthusiasm for the performance that lay ahead. Rain, sleet or snow would have no effect at all on them. Westfield’s Men were due to play at Court, and that made them impervious to bad weather. When they actually went into the banqueting hall at the palace, their spirits rose even higher. It was the ideal place in which to stage a play.
The hall was long but quite broad and its high ceiling gave an impression of more space than really existed. The floor was polished oak and the walls were covered with a series of portraits in gilt frames. Tall windows allowed light to flood in from both sides. If need be, curtains could be drawn and candelabra used to illumine the stage. All the benefits of an indoor performance were at their beck and call.
There was even a dais at one end of the hall for the regular music recitals that were held there. Nicholas Bracewell had merely to increase its size to accommodate the swirling action of a five-act drama. Doors on both sides of the stage gave access to an ante-chamber which was immediately designated as their tiring-house. The rehearsal was virtually painless and Firethorn only had to upbraid them once. Even George Dart got everything right. Voices and instruments carried beautifully. Everything pointed to another theatrical victory.
But it was not to be. The problems began with the choice of play. After being forced to stage two comedies that would be more accessible to foreign audiences, Lawrence Firethorn asserted his authority and demanded the right to exhibit his talent in a more serious drama. The Corrupt Bargain caused a faint tremor when its selection was first announced.
It was a fine play but the company remembered its last performance only too well. Incapacitated by a raging toothache, Firethorn had been unable to take the leading role. His deputy, Ben Skeat, an old and trusted actor, had suffered a heart attack in the middle of the play and died onstage. Though the company had somehow struggled on without their protagonist, it was an experience which had scarred their souls. Superstition clung tenaciously.
The excellent rehearsal stilled most of their doubts. Even in its attenuated state, Firethorn’s portrayal of the exiled Duke Alonso of Genoa quickened the pulse of all who saw it. He brought a subtle power and a deep pathos that Ben Skeat could never have matched, and the latter’s tragic departure from the text soon faded from memory. Every part he touched, Firethorn made his own, and Duke Alonso was no exception. With such a striking performance at its heart, The Corrupt Bargain became a far more interesting and exciting play. Its author, Edmund Hoode, dared to hope that it could be redeemed from the obscurity into which it had been cast.
Mishaps were only minor at first. James Ingram tore a sleeve as he was putting on his costume, George Dart cut his hand while testing the edge of the executioner’s axe and Richard Honeydew broke a string while practising on the lute. Such normal accidents were taken in their stride, as was Barnaby Gill’s last-minute outburst of pique at the way his preference for Cupid’s Folly had been brutally ignored. By the time of the performance, Nicholas had everything and everyone in the tiring-house completely under control once more.
Unfortunately, his supervision did not extend to the audience. From the sounds which they heard seeping through to them, they knew that they were graced by a large and august assembly. There would be no standees here, no common folk straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the action over the heads of the crowd in front of them. Everyone was seated. The usual hubbub of the Queen’s Head was now a subdued murmur. The Corrupt Bargain would be watched with close attention and reverence.
That, at least, was their conviction as they launched the piece on the placid waters of the Archbishop’s Palace. It floated smoothly at first. Owen Elias earned muted applause for the Prologue and Edmund Hoode impressed as a kindly Provost. Honeydew’s first song drew sighs of contentment from the ladies while their husbands wondered if they really were looking at a boy in female attire and studied his anatomy and movement with fascination. Colorful costumes and clever scenic devices gave the drama an added lift. Understandably nervous at first, the company soon found its rhythm.
Then Firethorn made his entrance and there was a gasp of astonishment. The actor put this down to his extraordinary presence on a stage and he hurled himself into his first speech with gusto. Disguised as a friar, the exiled Duke had returned to Genoa to regain power from his duplicitous younger brother, Don Pedro. Firethorn was busily explaining his plan in rhyming couplets when his eye fell on the noble figures seated in the front row. He had no difficulty in identifying the Archbishop of Cologne in his sacerdotal robes, nor could he fail to notice the splendour of the Duke of Bavaria. It was the man who sat between them who caused him to falter.
Not only was the guest wearing a habit identical to that of Firethorn’s, his swarthy complexion and Mediterranean ca
st of features marked him as an Italian. Bernado of Savona was the Abbot of the Monastery of Saint Peter. Though he spoke no English, he heard his native Genoa mentioned time and again. It persuaded him that Duke Alonso was less of a noble hero than a comic figure who was there primarily to mock him. As the Abbot’s discomfiture grew, consternation spread throughout the audience. The corrupt bargain which they saw was a theatre company in league with the Protestants to subvert the monastic traditions of the Roman Catholic Church.
Once the notion had a hold on the audience, it was very hard to dispel. Firethorn, the putative hero, began to attract glares and hisses. The rest of the company struggled on manfully but the frown remained on the face of Bernado of Savona. Only the inspired clowning of Barnaby Gill brought any relief. His songs amused them and his jigs diverted them, but even he fell foul of a staid gathering when obscene gestures which always won guffaws elsewhere were now met with stony silence. The tiring-house was a place of mourning.
‘They hate us,’ wailed Gill. ‘It is the wrong play.’
‘No!’ insisted Firethorn. ‘It is the right play. We happen to have offered it to the wrong audience.’
‘You have estranged them, Lawrence.’
‘They need a little wooing, that is all.’
‘We are deep into Act Three,’ complained Hoode, ‘and they are still hostile. Clearly, they despise my play.’
‘The Archbishop wrinkled his nose at me,’ said Elias.
‘The Duke of Bavaria yawned during my last song,’ said Gill in a tone of outrage. ‘I blame Lawrence for this.’
‘There is no point in blaming anyone,’ said Nicholas, swiftly interceding. ‘The play must run its course and there is still time to win them over.’
‘Not while my double sits glowering in the front row,’ said Firethorn. ‘He could teach Marwood how to pull faces.’
‘Your appearance offends him.’
‘It has been offending me for years,’ sneered Gill.
‘What can I do, Nick?’ asked Firethorn, ignoring the gibe. ‘Were I the villain, I could understand their dislike of me. But I am the hero, garbed like a holy friar. I am a symbol of all that is good and wholesome. Wherein lies my sin?’
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