The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  ***

  The Black Eagle was situated in one of the labyrinthine streets of the Malá Strana, the Little Side of the river. Most of the inhabitants lived in the larger part of the city on the eastern bank and Westfield’s Men had already walked across the bridge to acquaint themselves with its many wonders. However, they found the Malá Strana more to their taste. It had a secretiveness that appealed to them. None of them could read the Czech name on the inn sign, but the crudely painted black bird of prey left them in no doubt where they were.

  The inn was small but comfortable and their hostess was the image of hospitality. A big, bosomy woman with a roguish eye, she was thrilled to have been chosen to look after a famous English theatre troupe. After a regular diet of sausages and bacon in Germany, the visitors were pleased to find more fish and poultry being served. The local beer was dark and strong. An hour in its congenial company soon won them over.

  While his fellows caroused, Firethorn stared blankly at the table and mused on the fickleness of destiny. The others might be toasting their arrival in Prague but it had so far brought him nothing but heartache and rejection. Three imperatives had taken them to the palace. A doctor, a maid and an Emperor. They had not made meaningful contact with any of them. Doctor Talbot Royden was locked away in a dungeon. Sophia Magdalena would soon be incarcerated in a marriage. And Emperor Rudolph seemed to be trapped in some weird and childlike prison of the mind. Three totally inaccessible people. Firethorn emitted a low moan. Prague was failure writ large across his soul.

  Something warm and tender touched his left shoulder. It was one of the ample breasts of the hostess, resting casually on him as she bent over to refill his mug from a pitcher of beer. When he looked up, he was met with a grin as wide and wilful as the Vltava. It was not a handsome face. She had the high cheekbones of the Slav race and a flattish nose, but Firethorn was uncritical. At that moment in time, she seemed accessible. It was enough to stir his manhood. As she moved away, she let her other breast caress the side of his face. He supped his beer with beaming relish.

  Anne Hendrik sat alone with Nicholas Bracewell on the other side of the room. She had learned to mix well with an exclusively male group and had shown a motherly concern for the apprentices and for the waif-like George Dart. Her pleasant manner, and her refusal to expect any special favours for being a woman, made her popular with the actors. But her real purpose in being there was to spend time with Nicholas, and Westfield’s Men understood this.

  Anne sipped a cup of sweet wine and nodded approvingly.

  ‘This is quite delicious.’

  ‘Drink as much as you wish,’ he said airily. ‘The wine will be paid for by the Chamberlain.’

  ‘My needs are moderate, Nick. A cup or two will suffice.’

  ‘Free beer is too great a temptation for the others. They will be roistering here until they drop from drunkenness or exhaustion or a mixture of both.’

  ‘They have earned it after that journey.’

  ‘You suffered everything that they did.’

  ‘I have my reward,’ she said quietly.

  Nicholas acknowledged the compliment with a smile. Unlike the rest of the company, he could not relax so easily into their new home. Unfinished business irked him. As long as the documents were still on his person, he felt vulnerable. Nobody had appeared to trail him from Frankfurt, but that did not mean the danger had passed. He remained watchful.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

  ‘How much more pleasant a place like this is with you here.’

  ‘I am not in the way, then?’

  ‘The company have taken you to their heart.’

  ‘Do you grow jealous?’

  ‘Yes,’ he teased. ‘But sorrowful, too. I am sad that you have to share me with Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘I am used to that, Nick.’

  ‘They rely on me.’

  ‘So do I.’

  They chatted amiably about how her business would be faring during her absence. She had no qualms about her deputy. Anne had not wasted her time in Germany. She had made sketches of all the unfamiliar fashions in hats she saw and intended to collect inspiration from Bohemia as well. What she was also keen to do was to be of more practical use to the company.

  ‘Make me your tireman, Nick.’

  ‘We are in sore need of one,’ he admitted.

  ‘If you have torn costumes, or need them adapted to fit more snugly, I am skilled with needle and thread.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I do not wish to feel I am only here to speak German.’

  ‘You are not, Anne. I can vouch for that.’

  She answered his smile with one of her own and their voices dropped to a more intimate level. They were so engrossed in each other’s company that they did not see the young man who came into the inn and went to the table where the actors were lolling and drinking. After making enquiry, he crossed over to the couple.

  ‘Pray excuse me,’ he said courteously. ‘They tell me that you are Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘That is so,’ said the other, appraising him.

  ‘My name is Caspar Hilliard. I crave a word with you, sir.’

  ‘You may have it willingly.’

  ‘It is a private matter,’ said Caspar, with a glance at Anne. ‘I would value a moment alone with you.’

  ‘You may speak freely in front of Mistress Hendrik,’ said Nicholas. ‘She is a close and trusted friend. I’ll hear nothing that requires her to quit my company.’

  The young man weighed her up carefully before reaching his decision. He sat on the bench beside Nicholas and spoke in a whisper, his eyes flicking from the book-holder to Anne.

  ‘I heard that you were asking after Doctor Royden.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I reside at the castle. Word spreads.’

  ‘Only the Chamberlain knew of my interest.’

  ‘It is one that I share, sir,’ explained Caspar. ‘I am Doctor Royden’s assistant. At least, I held that office until he was cruelly and unjustly taken away from his laboratory.’

  ‘His assistant?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I have worked for him this three and a half years. Ever since Doctor Mordrake left Prague. My father was English but my mother hailed from Koblenz, so I learned German from birth. It was one of the things which recommended me to Doctor Talbot Royden. That and my knowledge of science.’

  ‘Science?’

  ‘I studied medicine at Padua.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Nicholas was quickly warming to him. Caspar Hilliard had a long, intelligent, open face and a smooth-shaven chin. His suit was neat but not costly and he bore himself with modesty. He was patently worried about the fate of his employer.

  ‘Why did you wish to see Doctor Royden?’ he asked.

  ‘I have something to discuss with him,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘No visitors are allowed.’

  ‘So we were told.’

  ‘Save one.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Me. I am allowed to take his food to him.’ Another cautionary glance at Anne. ‘If you wish to get a message to my master, I will gladly carry it for you.’

  ‘I need to see him myself, Master Hilliard.’

  ‘That may prove impossible.’

  ‘Why?’ wondered Anne. ‘For what reason is he imprisoned?’

  ‘It is a cruel whim of the Emperor’s,’ said Caspar with a shake of his head. ‘He is a capricious man and subject to such moods. The harsh treatment is certainly undeserved. Doctor Royden and I have been working twelve hours a day on the experiment.’

  ‘What experiment?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘I am not at liberty to discuss it, sir.’

  ‘Some branch of alchemy, perhaps?’

  ‘Doctor Royden is an astrologer as well as an alchemist,’ conceded the other. ‘And he is learned in other disciplines as well. It has been a labour of love to serve him.’

  ‘You talked of an experime
nt.’

  ‘It was nearing success,’ insisted the other. ‘Time was all that we needed. Time and understanding. Emperor Rudolph denied both to us. My master was summarily arrested and dragged off to the castle dungeon. It was disgraceful.’

  ‘Does he have no means of appeal?’

  ‘The Emperor will not hear him. Nor me. I have begged for an audience to plead my master’s case but I have been turned away. The Emperor pays no attention to a humble assistant.’

  Nicholas sympathised with the young man’s dilemma. Caspar Hilliard was a loyal servant to a master who had apparently been treated very shabbily. If Royden’s fate lay in the hands of the strange Emperor, then his assistant had good cause for alarm. Nicholas thought of the servant who had escorted them at the palace to the Chamberlain. Rudolph was clearly a man of disturbing idiosyncrasies.

  ‘I am glad to have made your acquaintance,’ said Caspar with a nod at each of them. ‘May I at least tell Doctor Royden that you were asking after him?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘And you may give him my best wishes for an early release.’

  ‘No further message?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You mentioned Doctor Mordrake earlier on.’

  ‘That is so, sir.’

  ‘What connection did he have with your master?’

  ‘They worked in the laboratory together. Doctor Mordrake was one of the Court physicians for a while but his interests extended well beyond medicine. It was at his suggestion that my master was invited here.’

  ‘Did they work well together?’

  ‘Extremely well,’ said Caspar. ‘At first.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Professional differences. That is all I can tell you.’

  ‘Have they kept in touch with each other?’

  ‘From time to time. Doctor Royden was in England the best part of a year ago. I know that they met up again.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To talk about old times.’

  ‘Even though they had fallen out?’

  ‘They still had some things in common.’

  ‘What were they?’ pressed Nicholas.

  ‘I really cannot tell you,’ said Caspar with a slight hint of embarrassment. ‘My master does not confide everything in me. I am only his assistant and not his father-confessor. They met in London. They talked. That is all I can say.’ He cocked a head to one side as he studied Nicholas. ‘Why are you so interested in Doctor Mordrake?’

  ‘I met him once. At his house in Knightrider Street.’

  ‘Then you will know what a remarkable man he is.’

  ‘That was self-evident.’

  ‘My master is even more remarkable,’ said the other with pride. ‘He will be grateful to hear that he may have another friend in Prague apart from me.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for giving me your time. I bid you both adieu!’

  ‘Farewell!’ said Nicholas. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir.’

  Anne watched him leave before turning to Nicholas again.

  ‘Why did you not entrust him with the message?’ she said.

  ‘Because I had no proof that he was who he said he was.’

  ‘He was plainly honest.’

  ‘I needed more than honesty, Anne.’

  ‘But this was your one chance of getting those documents to Doctor Royden and you refused to take it.’

  ‘I want to deliver them in person,’ he asserted. ‘I have not brought them all this way to hand them over to a young assistant, however charming and helpful he may be. Remember that the documents robbed Adrian Smallwood of his life. I wish to know why.’ His manner softened. ‘Besides,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘after what we were told about Doctor Mordrake, I cannot wait to put something from him into the hands of his old colleague and mark his response. It should be very revealing.’

  ***

  Westfield’s Men were initially overcome by the opulence of the palace. They wandered in a daze past an unending series of fine paintings, arresting sculpture, ornate tapestries, ancient books, rare maps and assorted curiosities from every corner of the known world. The collection of jewellery and ornaments alone must have cost an immense fortune. Emperor Rudolph might have his personal eccentricities but his patronage of the arts was unrivalled in Europe. His whole palace was a monument to his long and generous commitment.

  When they were shown into the hall where the plays were to be performed, the actors were cowed by its splendour. Frescoes adorned its walls, statuary stood in alcoves and the high ceiling was a work of art. While most of them were still awe-struck by the sumptuous surroundings, Nicholas was surveying the practicalities of the space. He chose the end of the room which afforded them entrances through two doors and which would give them the best of the afternoon light.

  Performances of one kind or another were fairly frequent and the palace carpenters had constructed a series of small platforms which could be fitted together to form a stage. When servants carried them into the hall, Nicholas was relieved to see that the Emperor himself was not among them. The stage was large enough but too low. Nicholas called for a second tier of platforms to be laid upon the first, giving the players the height they needed to dominate the room and to project their voices to best effect. Curtains were hung at the rear of the stage. Steps were placed behind them to assist the cast up onto the raised platform.

  By the time that the puffing George Dart had dragged the last scenic device into place-an oak tree, expertly made by Nathan Curtis from a much baser wood-they were eager to begin the rehearsal. The Three Sisters of Mantua would be their first offering in the short season of plays at the Imperial Court. It was a light comedy with a simple plot and a clear distinction between its shining heroes and its dark villains. It also afforded three of the apprentices an early opportunity to shine in the title roles. Experience had taught them the inestimable value of music, dance and mime to a foreign audience. The Three Sisters of Mantua was liberally stuffed with them.

  The company made heavy weather of an undemanding play. Fatigue, nerves and a late night at the Black Eagle conspired to produce all kinds of serious errors and disastrous lapses of memory. Firethorn brought them to a halt after Act Three.

  ‘Shame on you!’ he cried, stamping a foot to make the whole stage shudder beneath them. ‘Shame on you and shame on me! For I am as big a culprit as any here. This performance is not fit for an empty room, let alone for an Emperor. Wake up, sirs. Stir yourselves. Remember who we are and why we are here. First impressions are crucial. Fail today and we will lose much of the goodwill we have built up. We must sweep the audience off its feet with our vitality and not lull it to sleep with our plodding delivery. Gird your loins and fight like men!’

  Nicholas added his own strictures in the tiring-house. Delivered quietly to individual actors, they had even more impact than Firethorn’s public blast. The actors writhed under the joint chastisement, but it was well-deserved. They were now keyed up to exonerate themselves. The improvement was instant, and The Three Sisters of Mantua began to live and breathe on the stage. As the performance gathered momentum, a new spirit coursed through them. A clever play started to look like a comic masterpiece. As the Duke of Mantua, the now superb Firethorn brought the piece to a close with the epilogue.

  ‘Thus ends our play and this the moral is,

  That nothing holds more danger than a kiss

  Upon the lips. Love’s potion has a taste

  That brought three sisters in great haste

  From Mantua to seek their hearts’ desire.

  Remember how they burned with Cupid’s fire.

  Their youthful folly earned them sharp rebuke,

  For each one loved the self-same Mantuan Duke,

  And while his noble heart was strong and free,

  He could not give it to all sisters three.

  Choose one, hold fast and stay forever true

  Unto your love.
That is the only way you

  Find real peace and happiness on this earth

  And understand what love is truly worth.’

  The Duke of Mantua doffed his hat and gave a low bow to the non-existent audience. There was a long pause. It was broken by the most unlikely sound. A single pair of hands began to clap earnestly from the other end of the hall. They looked up in surprise to see the dainty figure of Sophia Magdalena, clad in her finery, acclaiming their performance with ladylike enthusiasm. It was the best accolade they could have wished.

  The whole company was lifted by her presence and by her approval of their art. But her eyes were fixed firmly on Lawrence Firethorn as she spoke the two words in English that she had mastered.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly. ‘Thank you.’

  It was enough. His feelings of betrayal melted away in a flash. Sophia Magdalena had come back to him at last. All was forgiven. As her delicate palms clapped on, Firethorn heard a choir of angels in his ears. He felt transfigured.

  He was in love again.

  Chapter Nine

  Crouched in the corner of his cell, Doctor Talbot Royden munched disconsolately on an apple and listened to the rat snuffling in the clotted straw. There was a savage irony in his predicament. A famous scientist, who strove to push out the frontiers of knowledge, could not even tell whether it was night or day now. A celebrated alchemist, who basked in the glow of his furnace, had only one flickering candle between him and total darkness. An Emperor’s favourite had suddenly become the butt of his cruel humour. Royden spat out a pip, then hurled the apple core angrily at the wall.

  Another tedious hour limped past before he heard the noise from above. Two sets of footsteps were descending towards him. A rush of light came from a burning torch. Royden leaped up and peered hopefully through the bars, shielding his eyes from the glare of the flames. One of the gaolers was bringing a visitor down to the prisoner.

  ‘Caspar!’ shouted Royden. ‘Am I to be released?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said his assistant.

  ‘Have you not spoken with the Emperor?’

  ‘He refuses to see me.’

  ‘Does my name count for nothing in Prague?’