The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  ‘Unhappily, it does not.’

  ‘Help me!’

  ‘I am doing my best, Master.’

  The gaoler unlocked the door so that they could have a proper conversation but he stayed close to keep them under observation. Since the man spoke no English, they were able to talk freely. Royden grasped his assistant by the shoulders and gabbled questions at him.

  ‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why have I been cast into this foul pit? Who has turned the Emperor against me? When will they let me out of here? Tell me what you have found out, Caspar. Is there any comfort at all for me? Can I dare to hope? Or will I be left here to rot in perpetuity?’ He tightened his grip. ‘What time of day is it?’

  ‘Not long after noon, Master.’

  ‘It is eternal night down here.’

  ‘How do you fare?’ asked the other considerately.

  ‘I dwindle, Caspar. I dwindle and decay.’

  ‘Bear up.’

  ‘This is the vilest torture.’

  ‘Such affliction cannot last forever.’

  ‘It will break my spirit.’

  He slumped to the floor and sat in the straw. Caspar knelt beside him and tried to offer consolation, but Royden was close to despair. His assistant could see the tears in his eyes.

  ‘There is one tiny ray of hope, Master,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ begged the other. ‘Tell me. Please tell me.’

  ‘They have not touched the laboratory.’

  ‘My materials? My equipment?’

  ‘All safe.’

  ‘My books? My records of our experiments?’

  ‘Untouched.’

  ‘You still have the key?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caspar, patting his purse. ‘I keep the room locked at all times. Nobody else may enter the laboratory. I am looking after it until my master returns.’

  ‘God bless you!’

  ‘The Emperor must relent.’

  ‘What chance is there of that?’

  ‘He is often given to charitable impulse.’

  ‘Bohemia has a madman upon its throne. I have seen so much evidence of his lunacy over the years. My loyalty to him was grossly misplaced. I should have quit Prague a long time ago.’ He spread his palms in supplication. ‘I have done him great service, Caspar. Why will he not even see me?’

  ‘His mind is taken up with the preparations.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The wedding.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ sighed Royden. ‘The wedding.’

  ‘That may have been our downfall,’ said Caspar sadly. ‘The Emperor was counting on us. We were to provide a wedding gift that was quite unique. And we did not.’

  ‘Only because his guards stopped us.’

  ‘Our time ran out, Master.’

  ‘Alchemy will not conform to time.’

  ‘When the wedding is over, he may take pity on you.’

  ‘Will I still be living?’

  ‘Assuredly. Think of your laboratory.’

  ‘I think of nothing else down here.’

  ‘If the Emperor had turned against you, he would have destroyed your work completely. But it has been left quite unmolested for you to resume one day.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After the wedding. That preoccupies him now.’

  ‘Will I have to languish here until then?’

  ‘I fear so, Master.’

  ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

  ‘Not out of my mind,’ promised the other. ‘Nor that of a stranger from England who has been asking after you.’

  ‘A stranger?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell. Does you know him?’

  ‘I have never heard the name before.’

  ‘He travels with Westfield’s Men, a troupe of players from London. They are to play a comedy this afternoon before the whole Court.’

  ‘A comedy!’ Royden gave mirthless laugh. ‘Send them down to my dungeon and they will see a tragedy being performed.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What did this Nicholas Bracewell want?’

  ‘To speak with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He would not say.’

  ‘What manner of man was he?’

  ‘A fine, upstanding fellow, from what I could judge. He is only the book-holder with the company, but he is highly respected by all. A solid man, one not likely to give way if trouble came. Honest and trustworthy.’

  ‘How did he earn such a good opinion from you?’

  ‘I talked to him,’ said Caspar. ‘He impressed me with his strength of purpose. When I offered to bring a message to you on his behalf, he insisted on delivering it himself.’

  ‘What sort of message does he have for me?’

  ‘I have no idea, Master.’

  ‘From whom does it come?’

  ‘Not from Nicholas Bracewell himself, I think.’

  The gaoler grunted to signal that the visit was at an end.

  ‘Let him stay longer!’ implored Royden.

  ‘He has his orders. And I will come again.’

  ‘Soon, Caspar. Soon.’

  ‘As soon as they will let me.’

  ‘And find out more about this Nicholas Bracewell. What possible interest can a book-holder in a theatre company have in a man like me?’

  ‘He mentioned Doctor Mordrake.’

  ‘Mordrake!’ hissed the other, cringing against the wall. ‘If he is an emissary from John Mordrake, keep him away from me. I do not want any message from that doddering old fool.’

  The gaoler stepped forward to tap Caspar on the shoulder. The latter rose to his feet and nodded. Helping Royden up, he embraced his master before turning swiftly away. The prisoner waited until the door had been locked and both men had vanished before he looked down at the gift which his assistant had pressed into his hand during the embrace. Royden was holding three candles. Battle against the creeping darkness could commence.

  ‘Thank you, Caspar,’ he said with deep gratitude.

  Sinking to the floor, he hid the candles beneath the straw until they would be needed, then he reached out to take another apple from the basket. As he bit into it, he discovered that it had already been gnawed by a rat. He flung it away in sheer disgust.

  ‘Rudolph,’ he said grimly, ‘My curse upon you!’

  ***

  Arrayed once more in his coronation robes, the Emperor sat on his throne and played idly with a ring on his left hand. His crown felt heavier than ever as the crushing weight of religion pressed down on his skull. He endured the pain until he could bear it no longer, then removed the crown and set it on the floor. But the headache grew even fiercer now. Religion could not be so easily put aside.

  Rudolph stood up in distress and massaged his throbbing temples with his fingertips. The movement did not disturb the work of the Milanese artist. His portrait of the Emperor continued to take shape beneath his brush. When his subject began to wander distractedly around the room, the artist kept one eye fixed on the throne as if it were still occupied. The pain finally eased. Rudolph sighed with relief. Noticing his companion for the first time, he spoke to him in Italian.

  ‘Do you ever have headaches, my friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Now and again.’

  ‘What do you?’

  ‘I send for my wife to caress the pain away.’

  ‘And if your wife is not at home?’

  ‘I send for my mistress.’

  Rudolph brooded on the problem. He had no wife for whom he could send and his former mistresses evoked some unpleasant memories. No woman could caress away the agony that descended on him. Indeed, he reflected, the Virgin Mary was at least partly responsible for it. He was still meditating on the inadequacy of womankind when the Chamberlain knocked and entered. His long strides brought him across to Rudolph.

  ‘They are ready,’ he announced.

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘The players from England.’

  ‘Have they arrived at last?’

  ‘Yesterday, Your Imperial Highne
ss.’

  ‘Sophia Magdalena will be pleased.’

  ‘You have met two of them,’ reminded the Chamberlain.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You conducted them to my apartment.’

  Rudolph smiled. ‘Ah, yes! Westfield’s Men. Now I remember. What do they intend to perform for us?’

  ‘The Three Sisters of Mantua.’

  ‘A comedy or a tragedy?’

  ‘A comedy,’ said the other briskly. ‘I have looked into the nature of the piece and deem it suitable for performance.’

  ‘Nothing about religious dissension, I hope?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever.’

  ‘Good. Let us meet these three sisters forthwith.’

  The Chamberlain gave a slight bow and followed the Emperor towards the door. The artist, meanwhile, stayed at his easel and painted on. Rudolph swept out into the corridor.

  ‘One question,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Your Imperial Highness?’

  ‘Have my wolves been fed today?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Make certain,’ he ordered.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Raw meat keeps all three contented.’

  ***

  The delay added to the already high tension in the tiring-house. From their position in the adjoining room, Westfield’s Men could hear the hall fill up with spectators. Their last private performance had been in the palace at Cologne before a conservative and rather sombre audience. Prague had a more lively Court. The actors could hear the hubbub and sense the animation. It sharpened their desire to begin the play. But it could not start until Emperor Rudolph was present.

  ‘Where is the fellow?’ complained Lawrence Firethorn.

  ‘I have never been kept waiting this long before,’ said Barnaby Gill in jester’s costume. ‘It is unforgivable.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, ‘in the time that we have been kept dawdling here, he could have ridden to Mantua and back to visit the three sisters in person.’

  ‘Why is he holding us up?’ wondered Edmund Hoode.

  ‘Because it is his privilege,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, trying to calm the tetchy atmosphere. ‘This is no random gathering of spectators in the yard of a London inn. We are playing at the Imperial Court and must abide by its rules. What does it matter if we wait another hour? Our audience waits with us. They will not go away.’

  The book-holder’s philosophical attitude soothed many frayed nerves but Firethorn remained on edge. He prowled the tiring-house until he noticed Stephen Judd, an apprentice, attired as one of the sisters in the play.

  ‘No, no, you imbecile!’ he admonished. ‘Look to your bosom, boy. A woman’s paps come in pairs. And side by side.’ He grabbed the padding which had slipped down inside the lad’s dress and yanked it back into position. ‘Our play is about three sisters of Mantua. Not the one-titted witch of Whitechapel.’

  The laughter helped to ease the tension. Blushing a deep crimson, Stephen Judd used both palms to adjust his bosom to a more seemly and convincing position. A scrape of chairs and a shuffling of feet told them that the spectators had risen out of respect as Emperor Rudolph had finally made his entrance. Accompanied by Sophia Magdalena and the Chamberlain, he strode to the centre of the front row and lowered himself into a high-backed chair with gilded arms. His companions took the padded chairs on either side of him and the spectators were able to resume their seats. The hubbub became an expectant murmur.

  ‘At last!’ said Firethorn. ‘Are we all ready?’

  ‘We have been for hours!’ groaned Gill.

  ‘Take us in hand, Nick. Guide us with care.’

  The book-holder took charge. At his command, four musicians played behind the curtain at the rear of the stage and their courante silenced the audience and set the mood for the play. Elias came out in a black cloak and delivered the Prologue in a bold voice with the exaggerated gestures he had learned to use in Germany. The rippling applause which he gathered was an indication of what was to come. They loved the play.

  The Three Sisters of Mantua was by no means one of the best dramas in their repertoire. Its verse was often banal, its characters lacking in depth and its story too moralistic, but these defects became advantages on this occasion. The verse was largely incomprehensible, the unsubtle characterisation made identification of the dramatis personae much easier and the undertones of a morality play gave it a neatness of shape and meaning. As in Frankfurt, music was used between each of the acts to facilitate changes of costume and scenery.

  It was the visual comedy and the poignant moments of thwarted love which delighted the audience most. When they were not laughing uproariously, they were sighing with one of the three sisters as each in turn was rejected by the Duke of Mantua. Firethorn was at his most commanding, Gill at his most hilarious and they set the standard for the rest of the cast. Richard Honeydew, playing the lute in public for the first time, accompanied the plaintive song with which the three sisters took their farewell of the Duke. Many a sleeve among the spectators was used to dab at moist eyes.

  Emperor Rudolph was transfixed. Nothing as smooth and apparently effortless had ever been played at Court before. Every detail of the performance intrigued him and he scrutinised it with the open-mouthed intensity of a child watching an ingenious clockwork toy. While they took note of his grandeur and his reaction, the company were once again caught up in their admiration for Sophia Magdalena, closer and even more beautiful to them this time, and drawing the best out of them simply by being there.

  Firethorn wooed her shamelessly as the noble Duke and directed the Epilogue to her with moving conviction. When he bowed low to his fair maid of Bohemia, she was so thrilled that she stood up to lead the applause. The whole Court rose to its feet in approbation and the actors luxuriated in the ovation for several minutes. Rudolph remained seated but one palm beat against the arm of his chair in dignified salutation. The Emperor was pleased. Westfield’s Men had been accepted.

  Steps were brought so that Rudolph could be escorted up onto the stage to be introduced to the leading sharers. Gill fawned monstrously and Hoode became tongue-tied in the face of majesty. Neither of them enjoyed the treasured moment which fell to Firethorn. Luminescent with excitement, Sophia Magdalena followed her great-uncle up the steps and offered her hand to the actor-manager. The kiss which he placed upon it was both an act of homage and a promise. His lips tingled for minutes. It was the Emperor who had the last word. When he congratulated Firethorn on his performance as the Duke of Mantua, the latter beamed obsequiously and gave a bow.

  ‘I am your obedient servant!’ he said with humility.

  ‘No, Master Firethorn,’ countered a smirking Rudolph. ‘It is I who was your obedient servant.’

  He went off into such a peal of infectious laughter that everyone joined in and the whole room echoed with wild mirth, even though most of them had no idea what the source of amusement was. Only the Chamberlain and Sophia Magdalena were immune. They were too accustomed to Rudolph’s eccentricities to find them quite so diverting anymore. Wolfgang von Rumpf remained aloof. Sophia Magdalena took quiet enjoyment from watching Firethorn’s huge and uninhibited delight. Like everything else about him, his capacity for exultation was magnificently theatrical.

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell and George Dart were the last to leave. Everything had been cleared off the stage and stored in a room which had been put at their disposal. Nicholas surveyed the empty hall with quiet satisfaction.

  ‘We acquitted ourselves well, George,’ he remarked.

  ‘I never dreamed that I would visit such a palace,’ said Dart, looking around with veneration. ‘It is the most wonderful theatre in which we could ever play.’

  ‘That is not quite true.’

  ‘What could possibly outshine this?’

  ‘The Vladislav Hall,’ said Nicholas, pointing in the direction of the door. ‘Master Firethorn and I were shown it during our visit here yesterday. It is even bigger and more i
mpressive than this hall.’

  Dart gaped. ‘Bigger?’

  ‘Much bigger, George. It is used for coronation feasts and for assembles of Bohemian noblemen. Great matters of state are settled there. In bad weather, they have even held indoor jousting tournaments there, with the knights entering by means of the Riders’ Staircase.’ He smiled at Dart’s expression of utter amazement. ‘But you will see the Vladislav Hall for yourself when we play there.’

  ‘I thought that all our work was to be staged here.’

  ‘All but one of our plays. The Fair Maid of Bohemia.’

  ‘We perform that in this bigger hall?’

  ‘We do, George. That is where the wedding banquet will be served. Westfield’s Men will be one part of an entertainment which will go on throughout the day in celebration of the happy event. We will play before a vast and distinguished audience.’

  ‘My knees are trembling already.’

  ‘They will be steady enough on the day.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Dart, consumed by feelings of inadequacy. ‘Have you finished with me now?’

  ‘One last service.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some of our costumes were left at the Black Eagle for repair and alteration. There is a doublet that Adrian was to have worn in Double Deceit, for instance. It had to be tailored to fit the more slender frame of James Ingram.’

  ‘I miss Adrian horribly,’ confided the other.

  ‘So do we all, George.’

  ‘And will his murderer go scot-free?’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ said Nicholas seriously. ‘But let us concern ourselves with those costumes. Mistress Hendrik will have finished sewing them by now.’

  ‘It is kind of her to take on that task.’

  ‘She is anxious to contribute in some way to our success here, though she has already done that in no small measure.’

  ‘I know that she has helped me and I could not be more thankful. She has been a second mother to me.’

  ‘Go to her now and ask for the costumes.’

  ‘What must I do with them?’

  ‘Bring them back here and put them with the rest of the wardrobe, for we will use most of them tomorrow.’ Dart nodded dutifully. ‘About it straight. Do this last errand and the rest of the day is your own.’

  Given such an incentive, Dart went scampering off down the hall with a mixture of haste and reverence. Nicholas went after him at a more leisurely pace, savouring the beauty of the frescoes and the subtle artistry of the statuary. Wherever he walked, there were new wonders to capture the attention. The royal palace was a continuous marvel. It seemed to him like a fairy-tale creation. Then he remembered the man who was locked up in one of its dungeons. The plight of Doctor Talbot Royden gave him a more critical view of the opulence all around him. He quickened his pace towards the exit.