The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  ‘From what we hear,’ said Firethorn, reinforcing the threat, ‘we would be doing the Emperor a favour. He would probably knight us for services to Bohemia.’

  ‘What was the name?’

  More hesitation. Nicholas pulled his head forward as if to crack it hard against the wall. Royden’s nerve broke. Unable to speak, his eyes rolled and he nodded vigorously. The book-holder let go of him but stood very close.

  ‘One hundred and eighty-three,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Separate the numbers and you may work it out for yourself,’ bleated the other. ‘Eighteen and three. What is the eighteenth letter of the alphabet? What is the third?’

  It took them a moment to count through the alphabet.

  ‘R.C.,’ said Nicholas at length.

  ‘Roman Catholicism!’ announced Firethorn. ‘That must be it. R.C. Roman Catholicism.’

  ‘The Popish religion is involved here,’ decided Nicholas, ‘but these letters stand for a name. R.C. Who is high enough to maintain a network of agents on the Continent? Only one man answers to that description. R.C. Robert Cecil.’ He saw the prisoner wince. ‘We know the sender at last. Sir Robert Cecil. Spymaster to the Queen. At least, we have learned that you are working for the right side, Doctor Royden.’

  ‘But what is the message?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘A grim one, sirs,’ said Royden, electing to confide fully in them. ‘My role here is discovered, my reports intercepted. My agents listed here have all been killed. Someone in Prague has betrayed me and sent good men to their death.’

  ‘Add the name of Adrian Smallwood to that list,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was an innocent victim of all this. But what of the documents we brought?’

  ‘Details of a new and more complex code,’ explained the other. ‘Sir Robert Cecil has devised it. He instructs me to memorise it and destroy the pages. See here, on this page,’ he said, holding it out to them. ‘That T stands for Tuesday. Sir Robert himself. W is for Wednesday. Balthasar Davey. An agent in Flushing. And so on. I am to gather up all the intelligence I can and send it back to London in the new cipher code.’

  ‘Who will carry it?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Not us!’ said Firethorn. ‘We’ve had enough of your cloak-and-dagger work. Deliver it yourself.’

  ‘That was the intention.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Master Bracewell was very observant,’ he confessed. ‘I was trying to read the message in invisible ink. There is no need now. I think that I know what it will say.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Now that I am revealed here, my work is done. Sir Robert is ordering me to quit Prague and return to London with you. Westfield’s Men would be my passport home.’

  ‘Do not trade on that hope,’ warned Firethorn.

  ‘How can I? When you leave, I will still be here. Locked up at the discretion of the Emperor. I may never reach London.’ He sagged against the wall. ‘Tell Sir Robert Cecil why.’

  ‘That lies ahead,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let us look at the immediate situation. Someone has betrayed you. Your agents have been identified and killed. Who was responsible?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You must have. Name those you suspect.’

  ‘It could be anyone.’

  ‘Take us through your day.’

  Coaxed by the visitors, Doctor Talbot Royden talked about his work in Prague and the people with whom it had brought him into contact. Several names were mentioned and Firethorn made a mental note of them all. An actor who could learn a twenty-line speech at one reading had no difficulty remembering eleven names in sequence.

  Nicholas was satisfied. Much was still obscure but a great deal had been learned. Adrian Smallwood’s death and Anne Hendrik’s abduction had now been put in context. The names in Firethorn’s memory were a starting point. It was time to go.

  ‘One fear has gone,’ said Royden with a nervous laugh. ‘I was afraid that you had brought word from John Mordrake.’

  ‘I did,’ said Nicholas, remembering his errand. ‘It is not so much of a message as a gift.’

  ‘He has no cause to send me a gift. What is it?’

  Nicholas took the wooden box from his purse and handed it over. Turning it over in his hands, the prisoner examined it quizzically. He seemed as baffled by it as Nicholas.

  ‘It lacks a key,’ noted the latter, ‘but Doctor Mordrake said that you would know how to open it.’

  Royden held it nearer the flame to study it. There were some Arabic symbols on it in miniature and he had difficulty reading them. The riddle was at last solved. By placing his thumb-nail at one end and pressing hard, he activated a spring. The lid of the box popped open and Royden took something out. Firethorn looked at what he was holding.

  ‘Two small white feathers? Is that all it contained?’

  ‘They are enough,’ groaned Royden.

  ‘What do they betoken?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Worse news than I can bear to tell you, sirs. Have no fear about my travelling with Westfield’s Men.’ He put the feathers on his palm and blew them into the air, watching them float slowly to the ground. ‘I am done for. After this, I can never go near London again.’

  ***

  Barnaby Gill strolled around the Town Square in the fading light of a balmy summer evening. Back at the Black Eagle, the rest of the company were in a sombre mood. They worried about the disappearance of Anne Hendrik, ordered beer to subdue their anxieties, felt guilty that they were not out searching for her and drank even more heavily to sedate that guilt. But it was not only the prevailing sadness which drove Gill to parade around the city on his own. Westfield’s Men, working actors with simple needs, clung together because they had so much in common. A long tour only intensified their togetherness.

  Gill soon wearied of their habits and their rituals. With them during performances, he preferred to shun them in private. He sought companionship of another kind. In a city as big and as cosmopolitan as Prague, he felt, he would be certain to find what he was looking for, but an hour of preening himself in the square brought no reward. The fashion and bright colours of his doublet and hose attracted immense curiosity from those who passed, and several women pointed with interest at his purple hat with its long ostrich feather. But nobody spoke, nobody signalled. It was a barren pilgrimage.

  After pausing beneath the astronomical clock for the fifth time, he decided to search for a congenial inn and walked back across the square. The Týn Church was directly ahead of him, its sixteen spires silhouetted against the darkening sky to give it a ghostly quality. As he got nearer, someone came out of the street ahead and hurried across his path. Gill recognised him at once.

  ‘Hugo!’ he called. ‘Hold there!’

  Hugo Usselincx stopped in his tracks and smiled when he saw Barnaby Gill bearing down on him. Before the latter could even speak, Usselincx had showered him with more praise for his exquisite performance in Cupid’s Folly. The actor revelled in the flattery.

  ‘But what brings you here, Master Gill?’ he said.

  ‘I was looking at the sights of the city.’

  ‘It will soon be dark.’

  ‘Then I must find other sights to interest me,’ said Gill casually. ‘Can you commend any to me?’

  ‘What sights did you have in mind?’

  ‘Come, sir. You have travelled Europe and worked in many churches. Even celibate clergy have desires at times. Where might a lonely man satisfy those desires in Prague?’

  ‘I do not share that predilection myself,’ said the other with a sheepish grin, ‘so I am no sure guide. But I have heard an acquaintance of mine mention an inn that lies behind the Týn Church. It is called the Three Kings and you will know it by its yellow sign. I fancy you will be made welcome there.’

  ‘I am obliged to you, Hugo.’

  ‘It is small payment for all the pleasure you have given me. Westfield’s Men have made my journey to Prague a delight.’
>
  ‘That is good to hear. The name again?’

  ‘The Three Kings.’

  ‘I remember. The yellow sign.’

  Usselincx bobbed his head and moved away. Gill strode off in the other direction and turned down the street that led to the Týn Church. Imposing from a distance, it was overwhelming at close quarters and he paused to take in its splendour, staring up at its multiple spires until his neck ached. Since the front door was open, he was tempted to take a peep inside. The interior was dark and gloomy, with pools of light created by a series of altar candles. His eye fell first on the ornate pulpit but a loud noise took his attention elsewhere.

  Scaffolding was set up in the chancel and workmen were scrambling over it. He went down the aisle to make a closer inspection. One man was hammering nails, another was winching up some large pipes. Two more were carrying in lengths of wood. When Gill realised what they were doing, he was quite alarmed. The Three Kings did not enjoy his custom that night.

  ***

  Nicholas and Firethorn spent a long time discussing what they had been told by Doctor Talbot Royden. The latter’s position at the Bohemian Court was a convenient cover for his other activities. Royden was at the centre of a web of Protestant agents who reported back to Sir Robert Cecil in London. Prague was a centre for Catholic exiles and Jesuit extremists. It was Royden’s task to observe who came and went, to recruit and train new agents, and to keep his master informed of any suspicious developments. Nicholas now understood where the money had come from to fund their travels.

  ‘What did you think of him, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘I thought he was odious,’ said Nicholas, ‘but that does not mean he failed in his work. Sir Robert Cecil is too astute a man to employ someone who could not discharge his duties properly. Doctor Royden is a peculiar mixture.’

  ‘Forger, fraud and downright liar.’

  ‘He has a high reputation as an astrologer.’

  ‘He did have until the Emperor found him out. And what was all that business with the two white feathers? Why should a paltry gift from this Doctor Mordrake vex him so?’

  ‘It obviously had great significance for him.’

  ‘But what, Nick?’ complained Firethorn. ‘Number codes, ciphers, white feathers, German and Czech. This city is a complete riddle to me. I can understand nothing.’

  ‘It all comes down to translation.’

  ‘Anne served us in that office.’

  ‘And will do again when we find her,’ said Nicholas with confidence. ‘To do that, we may need the help of someone else who can speak both English and German.’

  ‘What of Hugo Usselincx? He can give us Dutch as well.’

  ‘So could Anne.’

  ‘Shall we try to engage him?’

  ‘I think not. There is somebody closer at hand, here in the castle itself. All we have to do is to find him.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Caspar Hilliard.’

  ‘Royden’s assistant. Is he more than that, I wonder?’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Sorcerer’s apprentice and spy.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘I do not believe he was involved in that aspect of Doctor Royden’s work at all. We would certainly have been told if he had. Caspar will probably have no idea of his master’s secret mission. All he wishes to do is to work with a man he reveres. Keep him ignorant of the truth. And say nothing of our visit to his employer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We must let Caspar do all the talking. He was willing enough to do so when he called on us at the Black Eagle. He resides here at the castle-but where?’

  ‘Royden spoke of his laboratory.’

  ‘Let us start there.’

  During the long search, they got completely lost on more than one occasion but they stuck to their task and finally managed to get directions from a servant with a smattering of English. Under his guidance, they came at last to the laboratory where Doctor Talbot Royden had laboured with such distinction until the Emperor’s patience had snapped. The door was locked but a faint light under it suggested that it might be occupied. Firethorn banged on it uncompromisingly with his fist but got no response. A second, louder attack on the timber produced no result.

  The two men made their way back down to the courtyard. Firethorn had a list of names in his head but those people were beyond their reach until they had an interpreter. It made them feel Anne’s loss even more keenly.

  ‘Why are they still keeping her hostage, Nick?’

  ‘To retain a hold over us.’

  ‘We need to widen the search. Bring in more people to help. Owen spoke true. The whole company loves Anne. Let us call on them to help to save her.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘This must be done privily or we will imperil Anne. Stealth must be our watchword.’

  ‘They have the documents,’ said Firethorn bitterly. ‘Why did they not release her? What else are they after?’

  ‘Me.’

  As they stepped into the courtyard, they heard a voice from above and looked up to see Caspar Hilliard descending the steps at speed. His manner was as amenable as before.

  ‘Good even, good sirs,’ he said. ‘Did you knock upon the door of the laboratory a few minutes ago?’

  ‘We did,’ said Firethorn. ‘Were you within?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I dare not answer. I have sworn to my master to protect his laboratory at all costs. It contains his books, his materials, his equipment. Thus far-thank God-it has been left alone. But when I heard that thunderous knocking, I feared it might be soldiers sent from the Emperor.’

  ‘Is he still so angry with Doctor Royden?’

  ‘He shifts between rage and remorse,’ said Caspar with a sigh. ‘Emperor Rudolph is at the mercy of his moods. This morning, he relented enough to let my master have light, books and fresh straw for his cell. This evening, he could just as easily order the laboratory to be ransacked.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What exactly was Doctor Royden’s crime?’ said Nicholas.

  Caspar pondered. ‘I can give no details,’ he said. ‘The process must remain a secret between myself and my master. But this you may know. Doctor Royden has realised the alchemist’s dream. He has found the way to turn base metal into gold. The Emperor extracted a promise from him. When the first piece of pure gold came out of the furnace, it was to be fashioned into a wedding gift for Sophia Magdalena. A small casket, surmounted by figures of the bride and groom. The goldsmith has been standing by for weeks.’

  ‘But the gold was not forthcoming,’ guessed Nicholas.

  ‘We were almost there,’ said Caspar in exasperation. ‘Another day and all would have been well. But that was too late for the Emperor. The goldsmith would not have had time before the wedding to make the casket.’

  ‘Had the Emperor set his heart on this gift?’

  ‘Yes, Master Bracewell. He is man of deep obsessions. If his wishes are flouted, he will turn vengeful. That is how my master came to be humiliated thus. For failing to provide a wedding gift for Sophia Magdalena.’

  ‘Is he so besotted with her?’

  ‘I know that I am,’ murmured Firethorn.

  ‘She has always been his favourite,’ explained Caspar, ‘but there is more to it than that. Or so I have gathered from the gossip that I pick up. Rudolph has a vast Empire but it is very restive. Many battles have been waged in the past and more turbulence is feared. If you travelled through Germany, you will have seen something of the problem.’

  ‘We did,’ said Nicholas. ‘Religious differences abound. We saw Catholic cities, Lutheran communities and principalities where Calvinism held sway. There was uneasiness between them all. How does the Emperor hold them all together?’

  ‘He does not,’ said Caspar with some asperity. ‘He turns his back on it all and busies himself with his Court. The Emperor has failed to give a lead. Until now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘This wedding, sirs. It was all his doing. And
it has caused no small upheaval.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Many people are offended by the marriage. I cannot say who they are,’ he added quickly, ‘but I hear there has been disquiet. Sophia Magdalena comes from a Roman Catholic family. Conrad of Brunswick is a Protestant. The Emperor hopes that a marriage of the two will be an act of reconciliation.’ He shrugged sadly. ‘We were set to make our contribution. The gold casket was to have been a symbol of the union.’

  They began to understand the significance of the wedding. Sophia Magdalena was marrying less out of love than out of policy. She was obeying Emperor Rudolph’s command. To show his profound gratitude, he had not only commissioned a unique wedding gift-a beautiful casket, made from gold which had been provided by his own alchemist-but he had acceded to her request to have an English theatre company as part of the wedding celebrations. In their own small way, Westfield’s Men were a factor in the attempted reconciliation. As a result, they had been caught between two hostile factions.

  ‘Does that answer your question?’ asked Caspar.

  ‘One of them,’ said Firethorn, ‘but we have several more.’

  ‘They can wait,’ decided Nicholas.

  ‘But we need an interpreter.’

  ‘At a later date.’

  ‘Call on me at any time,’ offered Caspar. ‘I have only a menial position at the castle, but I have come to know everyone of consequence here. If you need information, I am here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas.

  Firethorn was baffled by the change of plan but he had the sense to keep quiet. He took his cue from Nicholas and traded farewells with Caspar. The two men strode towards the exit. Firethorn waited until they were outside the main gate before he spoke in a baffled tone.

  ‘Why did you tear us away like that?’ he asked. ‘He was keen to help. He could have told us something useful about the eleven names on Doctor Royden’s list.’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Eleven, Nick. I memorised them.’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Who is the twelfth?’

  ‘Caspar Hilliard. His master forgot his own assistant.’