‘How to win his way into your affections.’
‘Caspar was so conscientious and sincere.’
‘He was well-trained in the arts of spying. One more thing,’ added Nicholas. ‘When Caspar could not get the documents from me by deceit, they abducted Mistress Hendrik to force my hand. You see this wound? I was struck down with one of the loose stones from the castle rampart. That pointed to a culprit here.’
‘Caspar Hilliard!’
‘Do you believe me now, sir?’
‘I do, indeed!’ yelled Royden, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Let me at the traitor! I’ll murder him for what he has done!’
‘You are trapped down here,’ said Nicholas, restraining him. ‘This is work for me. I, too, have a personal stake in this. Caspar will not go unpunished, I assure you. What I need from you, Doctor Royden, is your help.’
‘Help? What help can I give?’
‘The key to the laboratory.’
‘Caspar has it.’
‘There is no duplicate?’
‘None.’
‘Could the door be easily forced?’
‘No,’ said Royden. ‘It has been strengthened. The laboratory contains things of great value. They need to be protected. A battering ram would be needed on that door.’
‘Is there no other way in?’
‘Not without that key.’
‘Think hard, sir,’ urged Nicholas. ‘If that key were lost, if you and Caspar were locked out and had somehow to get back into the room-how would you do it?’
Royden ran a pensive hand through his spiky hair.
‘There is one way, I suppose. But only a brave man would even attempt it. A very brave and very foolish man.’
***
His silence was disconcerting. In its own way, it was as frightening as the other’s speech. Anne Hendrik knew that her captor was in the room but she could not draw a single word out of him. He had given her food and left the gag off her mouth. Was he himself eating? Was he close? Was he at the far end of the room? Or was he simply watching her?
‘I know that you’re there,’ she said.
No answer. Was he sitting or standing?
‘Don’t you understand English?’
Still no response. Had he been ordered to say nothing?
‘Where am I?’ she asked. ‘At least, tell me that.’
There was a creaking sound as he shifted his position on a chair. It was barely a yard away. Anne was unsettled by the idea that he was so near to her, then a new thought struck her. The other man had done all the talking. His accomplice had been careful not to speak to her directly. The conversation between the two men had taken place some distance away, so that she could not hear him properly. There was a reason for that.
‘Do I know you?’ she challenged.
Words at last came but they were not from him.
‘What ho! Within there!’
It was the voice of Lawrence Firethorn, accompanied by a banging on the door. Before she could cry out, the gag was back in place, tied tighter than ever. Firethorn knocked harder.
‘We need your help, sir! Are you there?’
She heard him walk down the room towards the door. There was a third shout from Firethorn, then he seemed to give up. A full minute passed before the door was unlocked, opened and locked again from the outside. Anne was in despair. Help had been within reach and she had been unable to call for it. She struggled hard against her bonds, but the ropes were too secure. A scraping sound drifted into her ear. She stopped to listen. It was coming from outside the room and getting closer.
***
Nicholas Bracewell had borrowed the rope from one of the ostlers in the castle stables. The bribe had been too generous for the man to refuse. Up on the roof of the palace, Nicholas tied one end to the pole which bore the Bohemian flag and let the rest of the rope hang down the front of the building. He was at the highest point in the city. A fall would mean certain death, but he did not hesitate. Taking the rope in both hands and pushing himself out with his feet, he began the perilous descent.
The secret, he knew, was not to look down. Three years at sea with Drake had taught him how to swarm up the rigging and stay aloft even in bad weather. There was no swell to contend with here, no rocking movement of the mast to make a climb more hazardous. At the same time, he realised, there was no sea to break his fall if he was hurled off, no swirling waves from which he could be retrieved by helpful shipmates. As he inched his way down the front of the building, there was no margin for error. Darkness was an enemy.
When his foot slipped, he was left dangling in mid-air for a few moments and had to adjust his position quickly. Sweat broke out on his brow and his weight began to tax his muscles. The slow descent continued. As befitted a man who, among many other things, was a skilled mathematician, Royden’s instructions had been extremely precise. He had told Nicholas where to tie the rope and exactly how far down the window of the laboratory would be. After hanging in space for what seemed like an age, the climber was relieved when one foot made contact with the sill. It allowed him to pause, to rest, to take stock.
Reaching the window was only half of the battle. He still had to gain entry. The shutters were locked firmly from the inside. With both feet on the sill, Nicholas kept one hand on the rope and used the other to take out the dagger which had been lent to him by Firethorn. Its blade was long and thin but it could still not be inserted between the shutters to flick up the catch. There was only one means of entry and that was by brute force.
Nicholas slipped the dagger back into his sheath and took a firm grip on the rope with both hands. Then he pushed himself off and swung away from the building. For a split second, he was suspended in the middle of a black void, then he swung back towards the window and kicked hard at the moment of impact. The catch broke, the shutters burst open and he was into the laboratory in a flash. Candle-light illumined the captive.
‘Anne!’ he exclaimed.
She wriggled in her chair and made what sound she could.
Nicholas moved quickly. Checking that they were alone, he raced across to embrace her before tearing off the blindfold and the gag. His dagger started to cut through her bonds.
‘Thank God!’ she said through tears of relief.
‘Have they harmed you?’
‘Only by taking me away from you. Where am I?’
‘In Doctor Royden’s laboratory.’
‘Why here?’ she said, looking around.
‘I will explain later,’ he said, slicing through the ropes around her ankles. ‘There-you are free.’
Anne tried to stand but almost keeled over. Nicholas held her in his arms, then lowered her gently back into the chair. He looked furtively around.
‘How many of them are there?’ he asked.
‘Two. One was left to guard me.’
‘Caspar Hilliard.’
‘That young man we met?’ she said in disbelief.
‘I fear so, Anne.’
‘But he was so pleasant and helpful when he met us.’
‘What better way to throw suspicion away from himself?’
‘The other man is German,’ she said. ‘I recognised his voice. It was the one I overheard on the Peppercorn.’
‘Let us worry about Caspar first,’ said Nicholas, as he moved to the door. ‘He will be back soon. Lawrence Firethorn was to distract him while I found a way in. He will not be able to keep him away for long.’
Even as he spoke, they heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Waving Anne away, Nicholas darted across to the door and stood behind it. Caspar came in and gaped when he saw the open shutters. Nicholas was on him at once, grabbing him by the shoulders to run him across the room and dash him against the opposite wall. All the breath was knocked out of him. Before he knew what was happening, the young assistant was turned around and flung down on his back. Nicholas pinned him to the floor and held a dagger at his throat.
‘Remember me?’ he asked.
***
He threw himself at the iron bars in the door and tried to shake them, but he was far too puny. His energy was soon spent. He flung himself to the floor in despair, but even that worked against him. As he hit the straw with a thud, the sudden displacement of air made two white feathers rise up and float teasingly. Royden saw them out of the corner of his eye and groaned. Even in a dungeon, he was not safe from Doctor John Mordrake.
An explosion of noise brought him to his feet again. A door opened above, voices were raised, many feet descended. This was no social visit. When he heard chains clank, he feared the worst. Rudolph had ordered his execution. The prisoner would be fettered and dragged off to meet his fate. Royden buried his face in his hands and awaited damnation. When the door of his cell was unlocked, he began praying furiously. But the touch on his arm was light and courteous.
‘Come this way,’ said Nicholas, ‘you are released.’
‘Released?’ Royden lowered his hands. ‘Can this be so?’
‘You are set free and exonerated.’
‘By whose order?’
‘That of the Emperor.’
‘But he put me in here in the first place.’
‘He repents of that folly,’ said Nicholas. ‘Besides, the cell is needed for another occupant.’
Nicholas gathered up his books for him, then led him out. When Royden saw who would replace him in the cell, his anger returned. Caspar Hilliard was manacled and held between two soldiers. Before his former master could attack him, he was hurled into the cell and the door was slammed behind him. Royden yelled at him through the bars until his throat was hoarse. He turned to Nicholas for enlightenment.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I found a way into your laboratory.’
***
The marriage between Conrad of Brunswick and Sophia Magdalena of Jankau was an event of great diplomatic and religious significance. Eminent guests converged on Prague from every part of the Empire. Archdukes and dukes, electors and princes, margraves and landgraves, archbishops, bishops and counts would be there to witness what Rudolph hoped would be part of a healing process in his ailing dominions. Protestant and Catholic were to be joined together in holy matrimony.
Such an important ceremony could not be improvised. Careful rehearsal was needed. On the eve of the wedding, therefore, the couple went into the cathedral to be instructed in how they should conduct themselves during the long and complicated service. The couple harboured no illusions. Theirs was not a love match. They were marrying out of duty and expediency. They had met only once before. Conrad marvelled at her beauty and Sophia Magdalena was impressed by his forthrightness, but neither sought the other as a partner throughout life. Obedience was all. For the good of the Empire, they were doing what they were told.
As they entered the Cathedral of Saint Vitus, their footsteps echoed in the cavernous interior. Sepulchral music played. Apart from the Archbishop, the organist and the two monks who attended the couple, the bride and bridegroom were alone. They neither touched nor looked at each other. Conrad wore his finery with great poise but Sophia Magdalena was not in her wedding gown. That would be saved until the morrow. She was dressed in blue for the rehearsal, with the veil shielding her face from her future husband.
They had come in through the Golden Gate, the main entrance to the cathedral, walking beneath the mosaic which depicted the Last Judgement. Ahead of them was the organ, a massive structure whose pipes cascaded down from above like a waterfall and whose sonorous notes reverberated around the entire building. Bent over his instrument, with his back to them, the organist coaxed deeper notes still to mark their arrival.
They turned right and paused at the entry to the chancel. The monks took up their position several paces behind them. There was no hurry. Dignity and ostentation went side by side. A slow procession would enable all to see and savour. Far ahead of them, the Archbishop waited at the steps of the main altar in his cope and mitre. On the following day, Sophia Magdalena would be led to the altar rail on the arm of the Emperor, but he was absent from the rehearsal. Conrad was allowed the privilege of walking beside his future bride to the archbishop.
The music stopped and there was dead silence. When the couple began to walk off again, Hugo Usselincx slipped gently off the organist’s stool and glided up to the bridegroom. When he took him by the sleeve, it seemed as if the organist was about to offer a word of congratulation, but a dagger was now in the palm of his other hand. He struck quickly.
Nicholas Bracewell was ready for him. Garbed as Conrad of Brunswick, he had walked with the measured tread of a nobleman. He now burst into life. He grabbed his attacker’s wrist and twisted with such power that the knife fell from Usselincx’s grasp. Nicholas punched him hard but took some solid blows himself. As they grappled, Usselincx tried everything to dislodge him. He kicked, spat, bit at Nicholas’s cheek and went for his eye with a thumb. The frenetic scuffle turned the cathedral into a gigantic echo chamber.
Usselincx was a strong and experienced fighter, but Nicholas burned with a deeper passion. He remembered the murder of Adrian Smallwood and the abduction of Anne Hendrik. Those memories put extra power in his muscles and greater determination in his mind. When Usselincx finally began to tire, Nicholas had a surge of energy, lifting him bodily into the air above his head and spinning around several times before hurling him to the marble floor. Usselincx was dazed by the force of the impact.
By the time he began to recover, he found himself surrounded by four drawn swords. Owen Elias and James Ingram had shed their monastic habits, and Archbishop Lawrence Firethorn had joined them to produce a weapon from beneath his cope. Nicholas had also drawn a sword. Even Richard Honeydew-in a dress borrowed from Sophia Magdalena-was armed. His trembling hand held a poniard.
Firethorn stood over the cringing figure and gloated.
‘You praised Westfield’s Men so much,’ he said, ‘that we decided to give you a private performance. It will be something for you to think about on your way to your execution.’
‘How ever did you know?’ hissed Usselincx.
‘From your hostage,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mistress Hendrik was blindfolded and gagged, but you did not stop her ears. She understands German. When you talked with Caspar Hilliard, she heard enough to know that a plot was being hatched. We guessed the rest.’
‘Yes,’ added Firethorn, ‘your sense of theatre gave you away, Hugo. We knew that you would strike during the wedding. Since escape would have been more difficult at the actual ceremony, it had to be during the rehearsal.’
Usselincx sat up and grinned. Without irony, he started to clap his hands. It had been a convincing performance. Intent on playing his own role as the organist, he had not had time to look closely at the principals in the tableau. They had made him show his hand and caught him. He got up on one knee.
‘What is your real name?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Christian Dorsch.’
‘We can see why you changed it,’ said Elias. ‘Murder sits ill with a name like Christian.’
‘I have several names,’ boasted the other. ‘Usselincx has been useful before and, as you see, I can play the organ.’ He looked around. ‘Well done, gentlemen. A fine performance. I own myself privileged to have had a play written for me by so famous a company.’
He began to chuckle, then put his head back to laugh his fill. Nicholas was not fooled. Without warning, the prisoner suddenly produced another dagge
r from under his surplice and lunged at the book-holder. The latter moved even swifter and raised his swordpoint at precisely the right moment. His adversary’s surge was his own downfall. Impaled on the weapon, he could only scream in agony and squirm impotently. When Nicholas extracted the sword with a decisive pull, the German fell dead at his feet.
Richard Honeydew burst into tears at the shock. Firethorn took the boy in his arms to comfort him. He looked across at Nicholas’s resplendent attire.
‘Next time,’ he said. ‘I will play Conrad of Brunswick. It is the only way I will marry my fair maid of Bohemia.’
Restored to favour and clad in a new gown, Doctor Talbot Royden was permitted to attend the wedding after all. He had a seat at the very rear of the cathedral and could see nothing of the ceremony itself, but that did not matter. He was there. Honour had been satisfied. When the organ swelled in celebration and the couple came down the aisle as man and wife, Royden got only the merest glimpse of them, but it was enough for him to make his prediction about their marriage.
Floating on the wishes of the Emperor and the goodwill of the congregation, Conrad of Brunswick and Sophia Magdalena of Jankau were filled with happiness and optimism at that moment. Royden wished that he could share it. But his work as an agent had given him too close an insight into the lethal religious undercurrents in the Empire. Rudolph had contrived to wed a handsome Protestant with a beautiful Bohemian maid, but it would achieve little in the way of permanent reconciliation. A man who had alternately ignored or exacerbated the schism in the Empire could not really hope that a two-hour ceremony in the Cathedral of Saint Vitus would solve the problem.
During the magnificent banquet in the Vladislav Hall, Royden kept his cynical reservations to himself. The Emperor was beaming, Sophia Magdalena was an angel in white and her husband was lovingly attentive. Rich wine and plentiful beer achieved a temporary amity between Protestant and Catholic. Every stage of the endless repast was accompanied by some kind of entertainment. Singers, dancers, musicians, tumblers, clowns, performing animals and conjurers were brought in to delight and divert. The portrait of the Emperor as a selection of fruit was borne aloft proudly by its artist. Royden at last understood the meaning of the fruit basket sent to his cell.
The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9 Page 26
