The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  ‘Your disguise,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘It is the only way that Alonso may return to Genoa.’

  ‘Discard it in the next scene.’

  ‘But I only reveal myself in the last act.’

  ‘Do so earlier.’

  ‘That would ruin my play!’ protested Hoode.

  ‘No, Edmund,’ said the book-holder. ‘It may rescue it.’

  Firethorn was baffled. ‘How do I maintain my disguise?’

  ‘Wear a hat and a cloak. Hug the corners of the stage. Turn your face away from people who might recognise you. As long as you pose as a friar, The Corrupt Bargain is doomed. Abandon the cowl and show them who you really are.’

  ‘Madness!’ opined Gill.

  ‘A betrayal of my work!’ exclaimed Hoode.

  ‘It may well be both,’ said Firethorn, frantically weighing the implications. ‘But it may also be our only salvation. What is more important? The fate of one paltry drama or the standing of Westfield’s Men?’

  ‘It is not a paltry drama, Lawrence!’

  ‘Perform it as written and we sink into further ignominy. Amend the play and we may hang on to our reputation.’ He heard the music which introduced his next scene. ‘It is decided. I am sorry, Edmund. We must all make sacrifices for our art.’

  Leaving Hoode in tears, he charged back onstage, to be met by the same wall of antagonism. The Archbishop of Cologne was glaring at him, the Duke of Bavaria was curling his lip and Abbot Bernado looked as if he was about to excommunicate the actor. Firethorn took them all by surprise. Striding to the very edge of the dais, he tore off his cowl to reveal his ducal attire and stood before the audience in his true character. The measured voice of a friar now became the mighty roar of a dispossessed ruler. In the space of one glorious minute, he transformed a room full of grumbling enemies into an appreciative audience. At the end of his speech, it was the Italian Abbot who first put his tentative palms together to applaud.

  Not all of the damage could be repaired, and vestigial doubts remained in the minds of the spectators. But the emergence of Duke Alonso into the light of day helped to salvage a great deal. The plot was now clarified, the hero identified and the embattled heroine-the winsome Richard Honeydew-able to reap her full harvest of sympathy as she was confronted with a stark choice between yielding her body to the tyrant or watching her brother die. The Corrupt Bargain was at last allowed to work its spell upon the audience.

  Behind the scenes, its author was quite inconsolable.

  ‘This play has a curse upon it, Nick!’ he moaned.

  ‘That curse has just been lifted,’ said Nicholas as another round of applause rang out in the hall. ‘Listen to them, Edmund. They are hailing your work.’

  ‘What they are clapping is a travesty of my play. When Lawrence flung off his disguise, he altered the whole direction of the piece. We have had to improvise in every scene.’

  ‘With great success.’

  ‘But at a hideous cost.’

  ‘Be comforted,’ said Nicholas. ‘It remains a fine play.’

  ‘Not when it is savaged like this,’ retorted Hoode. ‘I do not know which is worse. Ben Skeat dying in the middle of The Corrupt Bargain or Lawrence Firethorn coming to life as the Duke of Alonso two acts before he is due to do so. The play is bewitched.’

  ‘So-at last-is our noble audience.’

  ‘Not by my art. They watch dribbling idiocy out there.’

  Nicholas felt sorry for his friend, but the book-holder’s main concern was to keep the action moving. He signalled to George Dart to carry a bench onstage, then waved Owen Elias and James Ingram into position for the next scene. Actors who had been coming into the tiring-house with sad faces now showed a smiling eagerness to go back onstage. They knew that the tide of disapproval had at last been turned.

  Success was modified by the earlier failure of the play. There was still a lingering suspicion in some minds that Roman Catholicism had been ridiculed. When they came out to take their bows, the actors were given pleasant smiles and polite applause. After their sustained ovation on the previous day, this was a decidedly tepid response, but at least they had won their audience over. Their cherished reputation had been partially vindicated.

  Disappointment ensued. Expecting to be presented to the dignitaries, Firethorn and his company were dismayed to find themselves paid off and ushered out of the Palace. Instead of being treated as distinguished players, they were summarily dismissed like unwanted servants. As they made their disgruntled way to the inn, Firethorn sat in the first wagon beside Nicholas. The actor-manager was seething.

  ‘That was shameful!’ he railed. ‘We gave our all and they turned their aristocratic backs on us.’

  ‘Only to avoid embarrassment,’ suggested Nicholas.

  ‘Embarrassment?’

  ‘We caused unwitting offence with our play.’

  ‘How was I to know that my twin would be sitting in the front row? And from Genoa! What greater misfortune could we have faced? My performance must have seemed like a personal attack on him.’

  ‘You retrieved the situation superbly.’

  ‘Only at your instigation, Nick. If I’d kept that damnable cowl on until the final scene, I’d probably have been hanged from the rafters by now! Did they not recognise great acting when it was offered to them?’

  ‘They were overcome by it,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You were too convincing in the habit of a friar. That is why your portrayal had such an effect on them.’

  ‘I never thought of it that way,’ said Firethorn, his ire cooling somewhat. ‘You may be right. I was the victim of my own brilliance in the role. That is some recompense. And there is more in that purse they gave us. What did it hold?’

  ‘Several florins.’

  ‘Money is the best kind of applause.’

  While Firethorn slowly rallied, the rest of the company was still morose and Hoode was almost suicidal. For the second time in succession, his play had been hacked to pieces in the name of expediency. It was a dispirited troupe which trickled back into the White Cross. A familiar face awaited them.

  The Burgomaster swooped with a beaming smile.

  ‘Wizzfeld’s Men!’ he gushed. ‘Danke! Danke vielmals!’

  ‘What is he saying?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘He is thanking us,’ explained Nicholas.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Visit to the Palace,’ said the Burgomaster. ‘The play, they no like very much. I hear, I have friends in Palace. Our play, we love. You give the city the best. Thank you, my good friends. This I give to Wizzfeld’s Men.’

  And he pressed a bag of coins into Firethorn’s hand.

  ‘What have we done to earn this?’ said the actor.

  ‘Put the city of Köln first. We love you. Danke.’

  He embraced Firethorn, kissed him on both cheeks, gave a cheery wave to the rest of the company, then went out, chuckling happily. The Burgomaster was delighted with their setback at the Palace. He believed that the company had deliberately chosen its finest play to offer to the city while reserving an inferior one for the Archbishop and his guests. Firethorn used the unexpected bounty in the most practical way.

  ‘Order a feast!’ he said, tossing the money to Elias. ‘We will spend our last night here in revelry. And do not be downhearted,’ he told his company. ‘We have only been rebuffed by an Archbishop, a Duke, and a mere Abbot today. They are of no significance to a company which will soon be winning plaudits from an Emperor.’

  ***

  Rudolph II, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia, sat on his throne in full regalia. His vestments were embroidered with gold thread and his heavy crown resembled a bishop’s mitre which had been turned sideways to reveal a band of gold surmounted by a tiny cross. Held in his left hand, the massive sword of state rested on its point. The sceptre of office was held in his other hand and rested on his shoulder. He exuded a sense of quiet power and majesty. In outward appearance, he was an archetypal Defender of
the Faith. All that Rudolph needed to do was to decide exactly which faith he was defending.

  The distinctive Hapsburg face was devoid of expression. Large, protruding eyes gazed unseeing into the distance. The nose was like the beak of a bird, the undershot chin was the family signature. The drooping lower lip moved imperceptibly as he talked to himself. Rudolph was now in his fortieth year, but the weight of his melancholia made him seem older. His attitude suggested a man who was rueful about the years which had passed and fearful about those to come.

  Studying him intently, the Milanese artist was undeterred by his subject’s mood of dejection. He saw what he wished to see and his brush transposed his vision to the canvas. Short, fat and amiable, he offered a complete contrast to the sad, motionless figure on the throne. The artist was bristling with nervous energy and constantly shifted his feet or shrugged his expressive shoulders. They were alone in the Presence Chamber at the castle. The portrait was slowly taking shape.

  A staff rapped on the door, then it swung open to admit the tall, spare figure of the Chamberlain. He padded across the marble floor to take up a position at the Emperor’s right ear. Rudolph gave no indication that he was aware of his visitor. The arrival of the Chamberlain in no way distracted the artist. His brush worked away at the same busy pace as before.

  Clearing his throat noisily, the newcomer spoke in German with a mixture of deference and irritation. It was difficult to hold a conversation with a man who had absented himself from the world and its immediate responsibilities.

  ‘The Papal Nuncio is here,’ he announced.

  ‘Why?’ mumbled Rudolph.

  ‘He has an appointment to see you.’

  ‘Cancel it.’

  ‘You have already cancelled two appointments with him,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He comes on important business.’

  ‘From the Pope?’

  ‘Of course, Your Imperial Highness.’

  ‘Then we know what he is going to say.’

  ‘It would be a kindness to hear him say it.’

  ‘I will. In time.’

  ‘When? Later today? Tomorrow? The day after?’

  ‘When I feel able to face him.’

  ‘The Papal Nuncio grows impatient.’

  ‘That is his privilege.’

  ‘You cannot go on refusing to see visitors.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is not politic, Your Imperial Highness.’

  ‘I am not a political animal.’

  Rudolph set the sword and sceptre aside before lifting the crown from his head and setting it on his lap. He turned his wondering eyes on the Chamberlain.

  ‘What else have you come to tell me?’

  ‘You have several other appointments today.’

  ‘Cancel them.’

  ‘We must not keep doing that.’

  ‘Postpone them instead. I am not ready for them.’

  ‘When will you be ready?’

  ‘You will be told.’

  The Chamberlain pursed his lips in annoyance but made no comment. He was about to move away when he remembered something else he had to report.

  ‘Doctor Talbot Royden has been arrested.’

  Rudolph blinked. ‘On whose orders?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Why did I have him arrested?’

  ‘He has failed yet again.’

  ‘But he promised me that he would succeed this time.’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘This is intolerable!’ said Rudolph, rising to his feet. ‘I need men around me who can keep their word. I want a Court that is the envy of the civilised world. I demand success and achievement in every branch of the sciences and the arts. Has Doctor Talbot Royden been told that?’

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘Send him to the dungeons.’

  ‘He is already under lock and key.’

  ‘What further punishment should I inflict upon him?’

  ‘That is up to you, your Imperial Highness.’

  Rudolph sat down on his throne to consider the question. His anger slowly ebbed and it gave way to a sudden outburst of manic laughter. The Chamberlain edged away from him. Rudolph clapped his hands together with glee.

  ‘I know what I will do for the good doctor!’ he said.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Send him a basket of fruit.’

  The Chamberlain was mystified. ‘Fruit? A basket of fruit?’

  ‘The perfect gift,’ insisted the other before turning to the artist and translating his edict into fluent Italian. ‘I am sending my prisoner a basket of fruit.’

  ‘Fruit?’ said the other with a giggle.

  ‘From the Emperor!’

  As the two of them went off into another peal of wild and inexplicable laughter, the Chamberlain made a dignified exit.

  ***

  The journey to Frankfurt took two days longer than they had anticipated. When they left the Rhine Valley and headed east, they came up against topographical problems of all kinds. Hills, mountains, woodland and waterways slowed them down, and the appalling condition of the roads was another delaying factor. One of the wagons lost a wheel when it hit a boulder at speed and precious hours were taken up by the repair.

  Westfield’s Men soldiered on bravely and Firethorn kept up their spirits by leading rehearsals of plays from their repertoire. By common consent, The Corrupt Bargain had been eliminated from the list they would offer to their audiences. Robbed of one of his plays, Edmund Hoode was determined to make amends with another. He worked conscientiously on The Fair Maid of Bohemia, sitting beside Nicholas Bracewell so that he could profit from the book-holder’s advice. It was not the first time a play had been written on the hoof. During a tour to the West Country, the two friends had collaborated on ideas which eventually grew into The Merchant of Calais. Hoode was keen to revive that fertile partnership.

  ‘Barnaby is calling for an extra song,’ he said.

  ‘He already has enough,’ argued Nicholas. ‘The play can carry two more songs but they should be given to Owen and to Dick Honeydew.’

  ‘That was my feeling as well.’

  ‘It will lend more variety to the singing.’

  ‘That was the joy of Adrian’s voice,’ observed Hoode sadly. ‘It was such a welcome contrast. This play cries out for an actor like Adrian Smallwood.’

  ‘I know. But you have made good progress, Edmund.’

  ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘All that I have done is to make a few suggestions.’

  ‘You fired my imagination, Nick. Whenever I faltered, I took fresh inspiration from her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Sophia Magdalena. The fair maid who arranged for us to be invited to Bohemia. The least I can offer her by way of thanks is a play in her honour. It is an expression of my deep and lasting devotion to her.’

  ‘But you only saw her that once.’

  ‘It was enough.’

  ‘She struck a chord with the whole company.’

  ‘You, too, will fall in love with her, Nick.’

  ‘I am already spoken for,’ said the other softly. ‘You pursue your fair maid of Bohemia and I will hold fast to my fine lady of Bankside.’

  ‘It may be a long while before you are together again.’

  ‘We are resigned to that.’

  ‘Absence serves to whet the appetite.’

  ‘True.’ He flicked the reins to goad the horses into a trot. ‘Tell me more about the play. What other changes have you made to it?’

  Hoode needed no more encouragement. He talked at length and with enthusiasm about the heroine’s translation from Wapping to Bohemia. Nicholas was pleased to hear that some of his own ideas had been incorporated and developed. It was evident that, by the time they reached Prague, the revisions would be complete and the play fit for rehearsal. After the harrowing experience at the Palace in Cologne, the playwright was in sore need of a triumph to restore his morale.

  Absorbed by what he heard, Nicholas did not lose
sight of caution. He knew that they were being followed. Ever since they left Cologne, he sensed that they were being trailed even though he never laid eyes on the man in their wake. When he saw a copse ahead, he decided to take a more positive step. Handing the reins to Hoode, he waited until the wagon merged with the overhanging branches, then jumped to the ground. The others assumed that he was going to relieve himself and a few good-natured jeers followed him behind a tree.

  Secure in his hiding-place, Nicholas waited for ten minutes or so but no following horseman came by. When he stepped out into the road, all that he could see behind them were a few peasants travelling on foot. The wagons had halted on the other side of the copse for him. As Nicholas hurried after them, he decided that the man was either too clever to be caught in the trap or had somehow got ahead of them again. They could not afford to lower their guard for a second.

  He was still there.

  ***

  The Taunus offered a stern challenge and slowed them down even more. Wrapped in thick forests, it rose to a greater height than any of the other Rhineland Schist Massifs, and they had to struggle up mountain tracks and through narrow passes. At one point, the road was so steep that the passengers had to leap off the wagons and help to push them from behind. They were grateful when they met the downward gradient. Their efforts were eventually rewarded with a first sighting of their next destination.

  Frankfurt was another beautiful city, steeped in tradition and occupying a strategic point on a major river. For over seven centuries, Germany had elected its rulers there and emperors were now crowned in its majestic cathedral before being honoured at a coronation banquet in the palatial Kaisersaal. Frankfurt had developed into one of the most thriving commercial centres in Europe. So closely interwoven had its past been with the great events in German history that it could lay claim to being an unofficial capital.

  Impressed by the size and the location of the city, the visitors could see from a distance the soaring cathedral tower, ornamented in the Gothic style and topped by a dome and lantern-tower. It reached up to heaven with a multitude of churches and tall buildings scrabbling after it. Westfield’s Men were by no means the only travellers on the road. The closer they got to Frankfurt, the thicker became the traffic. They were soon part of sizeable crowd converging on the city.