She blew him another kiss and retreated behind the door. When he heard the bolt being slipped home, he went downstairs to the taproom. Firethorn and Hoode had moved to the main table to be with the rest of the company. Nicholas saw that a stranger had joined them.
‘Come and sit here, Nick,’ said Firethorn, making room on the bench. ‘Meet our new friend. I’ll call him plain Hugo because my tongue cannot get round his other name.’
‘Usselincx,’ said the stranger. ‘Hugo Usselincx.’
‘This is Nick Bracewell. The mainstay of the company.’
Nicholas exchanged greetings with the newcomer and sat opposite him. Usselincx was a well-built man of short stature, but his shoulders were so rounded and his manner so diffident that he seemed even smaller than he was. He was soberly dressed in the Dutch fashion with a cap that was pulled down over his forehead. A nervous smile hung around the wide mouth. His English was good but overlaid with a Dutch accent.
‘I came to congratulate you,’ he said softly.
‘You saw the performance this afternoon?’
‘Hugo saw all three performances, Nick,’ said Firethorn with a hearty chuckle. ‘He is a stauncher patron than Lord Westfield.’
‘I only found out this evening where the company was staying,’ explained Usselincx. ‘I would not normally have come. I am very shy. But I had to make the effort this time.’
‘That is very gratifying, Master Usselincx,’ said Nicholas.
‘Please. Call me Hugo. It is easier.’
Nicholas was trying to weigh up the man. Frankfurt was full of merchants-many from Holland-but Hugo Usselincx was not one of them. He had none of the assertiveness of a man who lives to haggle. The dark attire suggested a religious affiliation of some kind. Having been appraised himself, the Dutchman was carrying out his own shrewd scrutiny of Nicholas.
‘Master Firethorn was right to call you the mainstay.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you kept the company together,’ said Usselincx. ‘You are the book-holder, are you not?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Because you do not look like an actor and you are the only member of the company who did not appear onstage. You were behind the scenes, Nicholas Bracewell. Working hard to make the play flow from scene to scene. The book-holder is an important man. Especially in a company like yours.’
‘You have seen English players before?’
‘Many times. I lived in London for a while.’
‘Oh?’
‘I saw you wondering if I was in holy orders,’ said the other with a smile. ‘You were close. I am an organist. I have worked in churches and cathedrals all over Europe. Earlier this year, I was in London. I heard much about Westfield’s Men and saw you perform Black Antonio at the Queen’s Head.’
‘I hope you enjoyed it, Hugo,’ said Nicholas, warming to him. ‘What brings you to Frankfurt?’
‘I am on my way to Prague to take up a post there. The Týn Church. It is very famous.’ He looked around the actors. ‘I could not believe my luck when I discovered that Westfield’s Men were here. I should have left two days ago but I stayed on so that I did not miss a single performance.’
‘We are bound for Prague ourselves.’
‘So Master Firethorn was telling me.’
‘We are to be guests of honour at the Imperial Court,’ said Firethorn. ‘By personal invitation of the Emperor.’
‘No honour could be higher.’ He peered at Nicholas. ‘I hope that our paths may cross again. If there is some way that I may watch you play in Prague, I will find it.’
‘You will be most welcome, Hugo,’ said Firethorn. ‘But if you go by the same route, why not travel in company with us?’
‘That would be an imposition. Besides, I am days behind now. I must ride hard to make up lost time.’ He rose to his feet and offered his hand to Firethorn. ‘Farewell-and thank you for this pleasure.’
‘We are always pleased to see a friendly face, Hugo.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘We wish you Godspeed!’
Usselincx took his hand between both palms and shook it. As he backed away, the Dutchman plucked a small purse from his belt and tossed it to Firethorn.
‘Spend that for me in celebration of your triumph.’
When Firethorn shook out the coins, he was surprised at the man’s generosity. Before he could thank him, however, Hugo Usselincx had given a simpering smile and disappeared.
‘Frankfurt is a city of wonders!’ said Firethorn. ‘Money drops out of the sky.’
‘We would do well to save it against harsher times,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Shall I take charge of it?’
‘No, Nick. It is ours to spend and that is what we will do with it. We’ll drink the health of Hugo Usselincx.’ He put an arm around his friend. ‘Do not look so disapproving. This money may be spent, but plenty more will fall into our laps. We may find that it grows on trees in Bohemia.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘So will I when I am sober again. But tonight I will get as gloriously drunk as a lord. Then I will fall into my bed and dream sweetly of Sophia Magdalena. The fair maid herself.’ He smacked his friend between the shoulder-blades. ‘Come, Nick. Be honest. You long to see her again yourself.’
‘I do,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but my first task will be to seek out someone else in Prague.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Doctor Talbot Royden.’
***
He was still not used to the noisome stench of the dungeon or to its chilling coldness. Talbot Royden sat in the straw in a corner, huddled over the single candle they had allowed him. Since he had been thrown in there, he had been given no food or drink. Were they intent on starving him to death? His head was still spinning at the speed of what had happened. Instead of being the respected Doctor Royden, he was one more miserable prisoner in the castle dungeons. Why had Rudolph turned against him so suddenly and unaccountably?
Distant footsteps raised a faint glimmer of hope and he scrambled to the door. A guard came down the steps, lighting the way with a flaming torch that gave off an acrid smell. Peering through the bars, Royden rallied when he saw that his assistant was following the guard. Caspar was carrying a large basket that was covered with a cloth. His assistant was as confused as his master by what had happened, but at least he had retained his freedom. He was Royden’s one link with the outside world.
‘Caspar!’ he called. ‘What is going on? Why have they done this to me? Have you been to the Emperor to protest?’
‘Yes, Master,’ said the other quietly.
‘Well?’
‘He said that I was to give you this.’
‘What is it?’
‘You will see, Master.’
The guard unlocked the door and Caspar stepped into the dungeon. He offered his cargo to Royden with obvious embarrassment, then indicated that he should remove the cloth. When Royden did so, he was stupefied. The gift from the Emperor made no sense at all. In his hands, the prisoner was holding a huge basket of fresh fruit.
Chapter Eight
The mood of elation in which they left Frankfurt lasted for only a few days. Westfield’s Men were soon weary of the discomforts of travelling over bad roads in changeable weather. Complaints surfaced, bickering developed. On the fourth day, one of the wagons overturned while fording a river. Injuries were minor, but half of the company were soaked to the skin and the wagon itself was badly damaged. Repairs cost them precious time. Because they could not reach the next town by nightfall, they had to sleep under the stars. It was a thoroughly dispirited troupe which set off at dawn next morning.
As setbacks continued to mount, even the placid Edmund Hoode began to grumble. He was seated beside Nicholas Bracewell, who was driving the first wagon. Anne Hendrik was directly behind them, listening to the strains of the lute on which Richard Honeydew was practising. Hoode gazed at the mountains ahead of them.
‘Do we have to climb over those, Nick?�
�� he moaned.
‘There may be a pass through them.’
‘Not with our luck!’
‘It is bound to change soon.’
‘Yes-for the worse. We have been on the road for a week now and we still seem no closer to our destination. Will we ever get there?’
‘No question but that we will,’ assured Nicholas. ‘And the journey has not been entirely an ordeal. Eisenach was a pretty town and Weimar even more so.’
‘But we only stayed a night at each, Nick. Had we performed at both, I would look back on them with far more pleasure. As it was, they were mere breaks from the tedium of travelling.’
‘There was no time to linger, Edmund.’
‘More’s the pity!’
‘We have to press on as hard as we may,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why we have altered our route. Master Davey urged us to go by way of Leipzig and Dresden, but that would take us in a wide loop. This road-poor as it is-should get us to Prague all the sooner.’
‘I think we have been going around in circles.’
‘Only in your mind.’
Hoode gave a hollow laugh. The horses were ambling along, the wagon was creaking and the passengers were jolted every time they encountered deep ruts or scattered stones. The playwright was irked by their lethargic progress.
‘Do you know what Balthasar Davey told me?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘It was over that delicious meal we were given at the Governor’s house in Flushing. Sir Robert spoke movingly of his late brother. Master Davey was equally complimentary. He told us that Sir Philip Sidney had once ridden all the way from Vienna to Cracow in a mere fourteen days.’
‘Did he tell you what distance was covered?’
‘Over five hundred and fifty miles.’
‘That is extraordinary,’ said Nicholas admiringly. ‘Sir Philip must have been in the saddle for some forty miles a day. That is horsemanship of a high order.’
‘Would that we could emulate him!’ sighed Hoode. ‘At this pace, we will be lucky to manage four miles a day. Do you think that we will reach Prague in time for Christmas?’
‘Be of good cheer, Edmund!’
‘How?’
‘We are closer than you think.’
‘Only another thousand bruising miles to go!’
Nicholas diverted him from his misery by introducing the topic of The Fair Maid of Bohemia. Hoode had now completed all the major changes to the play and only small refinements were left. Discussing his work-and recalling the lovely creature to whom it was dedicated-slowly helped to lift him out of his despondency. The miles drifted past more painlessly.
The second wagon had dropped some distance behind. A malaise had settled on its passengers as well. Taking his turn at the reins, Lawrence Firethorn found that even his optimism was ragged around the edges. They had tried to stave off boredom by changing passengers between the wagons each day but it had not worked. Firethorn was now carrying Owen Elias, George Dart, James Ingram, Barnaby Gill and the other three apprentices. All but Gill were asleep in the rear of the vehicle. He sat beside the driver to groan incessantly about their folly in embarking on the enterprise in the first place. The name of Clement Islip had more than one wistful mention.
The attack came without warning. They were wending their way through a wood at the time. Firethorn was now some fifty yards behind the other wagon and lost sight of it around a sharp bend. The robbers chose their moment to strike. Six of them came charging out of the undergrowth on their horses and surrounded the second wagon. Their yells were indecipherable but the weapons they brandished conveyed a clear message. Dazed passengers awoke to learn that they were being ordered out of the wagon on pain of death.
A seventh member of the band was meanwhile making it impossible for those in the first wagon to render assistance. He came riding out of the trees with a loud whoop and lashed at the rumps of the horses with a whip. They bolted at once and Nicholas suddenly found himself in charge of a runaway wagon. He did not stay on it for long. Cries from behind him told him of the ambush and he reacted with great speed.
Thrusting the reins into Hoode’s hands, he dived head first off the wagon and knocked the rider from his saddle. The fall jarred both of them but Nicholas was the first to recover, pinning the man to the ground and raining blows to his head until he was senseless. He deprived the robber of his sword, then looked after the wagon long enough to see that Hoode was somehow getting the animals under control. Nicholas ran to collect the stray horse and clamber into the saddle. As he kicked his mount into a gallop and went to the aid of his fellows, he could hear the commotion ahead of him.
The three apprentices had leaped out of the wagon in terror and Barnaby Gill was pleading for mercy on his knees. Firethorn, Ingram and Elias were putting up a fight and even Dart was waving a token dagger at the attackers. When a horse came around the bend, the robbers expected an accomplice who would help them overcome the resistance of the actors. Instead, they had to contend with Nicholas in full cry.
He hacked the sword from the hand of the first man he met, then sent a second sprawling to the ground with a blow from his forearm. Nicholas engaged a third in such a fierce duel that the man took fright and swung his horse away. Inspired by the help from their book-holder, the actors fought off their attackers with renewed aggression. The apprentices snatched up twigs and logs to hurl at the robbers. Even Gill found enough courage to draw his dagger and wave it in the air.
As Nicholas wounded another man in the arm, the robbers gave up. Their leader called a retreat. He scooped up the man who had been buffeted to the ground, then led the other horses off through the trees. Nicholas pursued them for a hundred yards, then doubled back to the wagon, gathering the second stray horse on his way. His colleagues were shaken but excited.
‘Thank heaven you came, Nick!’ said Firethorn gratefully.
‘An accomplice made our horses bolt so that you would be isolated.’ Nicholas looked at his dishevelled friends. ‘They chose the second wagon because it seemed less well-defended. They will rue their mistake now. All they collected was a few cuts and bruises while we have gained two horses out of the ambush.’
With Hoode at the reins, the other wagon came rumbling around the bend towards them. The modest playwright was astounded at his own heroism, having mastered the runaway horses and saved his passengers from any injury. When Nicholas saw that Anne was quite safe, he looked up thankfully at the panting driver.
‘Well done, Edmund!’ he congratulated. ‘But what of the man I unseated from his horse?’
‘He has fled into the trees,’ said Hoode. ‘When we rode past, he was limping away with his hands to his head, groaning piteously. He will remember his encounter with Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘We must remember to be more alert,’ warned the other. ‘If the wagons had been closer together, that attack might never have occurred. Our safety lies in staying together.’
‘From now on, we will be inches behind you,’ promised Gill. ‘That was the most terrifying experience of my life. We might all have been killed.’
‘They were after your wagon and your valuables,’ said Nicholas. ‘You protected both bravely.’
‘Yes,’ added Firethorn with heavy sarcasm. ‘Barnaby distracted them so cunningly when he begged for mercy like that. His knees were every bit as effective as our swords.’ He let out a cry of triumph. ‘We beat them, lads! We gave them a taste of English steel and sent the rogues packing. Nick has spoken true. Together, we survive-apart, we perish! Let us go forth as a united band of brothers. Nobody will then break us asunder. We are gentlemen of a company and gallant soldiers of fortune.’
***
Bohemia was disappointing. Nourished by fantasies on their interminable trek through Germany, they expected to cross the border into Bohemia and be met by stunning vistas of that fabled country. Nothing seemed to change. The same landscape rolled out before them, the same cows and sheep grazed in the fields, the same herds of pig
s and flocks of geese obstructed them in villages and hamlets. They even got the same curious stares from the peasants as they passed, though the occasional words they overheard were now in Czech rather than German. Disenchantment swept through both wagons.
When they finally had struggled all the way to Prague, they needed something truly phenomenal to restore their faith and at first they believed that they were seeing it.
‘Look at it!’
‘Remarkable!’
‘Wonderful!’
‘Astonishing.’
‘Incredible!’
‘Have you ever seen such a city?’
‘It is better than Cologne!’
‘Or Frankfurt!’
‘Or even London!’
‘This is no earthly city,’ decided Firethorn, hungrily devouring every morsel of the joyous vision before him. ‘We have been travelling on a highway to Heaven itself!’
Wagons which had halted in awe now set off with urgency as Westfield’s Men sought to enter the sacred portals. Exhausted actors were now throbbing with life. Drooping spirits were lifted to soaring heights. Bohemia was at last yielding up its celestial heart to them. Prague was a paradise.
It was a huge, gold-embossed galleon riding upon the back of the mighty River Vltava as it surged irresistibly through the very heart of the city. Castle and cathedral dominated Prague from their lofty eminence on the western hill and gazed down at the Karlov Most, the Charles Bridge, which spanned the river with sixteen vast but graceful arches. Built almost two centuries earlier by Emperor Charles IV, the bridge was the lifeline between the two halves of the city. Westfield’s Men had never seen anything so immense and so ornately decorated. London Bridge was one of the finest sights of their own city but it had nothing like the scale and statuary of this.
The nearer they got, the more entranced they became.
‘It is heaven!’ argued Firethorn. ‘The only place fit for an angel like Sophia Magdalena.’
‘Count those spires,’ said Hoode in wonder. ‘Every church in Bohemia must be encircled by the city walls.’
‘It has been a grim journey,’ said Nicholas, turning to Anne. ‘Do you regret now that you came with us?’
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