The Fair Maid of Bohemia Read online

  ‘I have thought of that already.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Fair Maid of Bohemia.’

  ***

  A perverse contentment had settled on Alexander Marwood. He now had something about which he could be truly unhappy. Instead of circling the Queen’s Head like the lost soul, fearing the worst at every turn and viewing even the intermittent moments of good fortune as warnings of some future evil, he had a genuine cause for grief. Plague had not only emptied his innyard of playgoers, it had drastically reduced the number of visitors to London and thus depleted the traffic which came his way. Stables were bare, ostlers stood idle. Servingmen had little to occupy them in the taproom. Many regular patrons of the inn had either left the city or were keeping away from a public place where the lethal infection might conceivably lurk.

  Personal inconveniences added to Marwood’s professional difficulties. His wife, Sybil, and his daughter, Rose, had joined the flight from London and were staying in Buckingham with his sister-in-law. Sleeping alone was only marginally less painful than sharing a bed with a cold, indifferent partner, but he missed Sybil’s commanding presence in the taproom, where she could quell unruly behaviour with her glare and ensure that nobody consumed ale without paying for it. Rose’s departure caused him greater sorrow because she was the one person in his life who brought him a spectre of pleasure and whose uncritical love stayed him throughout the recurring miseries of his lot.

  He was in the cellar when he heard the commotion above and it sent him scurrying up the stone steps. The taproom was only half-full, but the atmosphere was taut. In the far corner, six or seven men were engaged in a violent argument which just stopped short of blows. They were actors from Westfield’s Men and there was an element of performance in their rowdiness but that did not lessen its potential danger. Such an outburst would never have happened when Sybil Marwood was in control. Lacking her authority, her husband looked around for the one man who could restore calm among his fellows.

  Marwood saw him on the other side of the room. Nicholas Bracewell had his back to him, but the broad shoulders and the long fair hair were unmistakable. The landlord trotted over.

  ‘Stop them, Master Bracewell!’ he bleated, tapping the other man on the arm. ‘Stop them before this turns into a brawl.’

  ‘They would not listen to me, my friend.’

  ‘It is your duty to prevent an affray.’

  ‘I do that best by staying clear of it, sir.’

  The burly figure turned to face him and Marwood realised that it was not Nicholas Bracewell at all. It was Adrian Smallwood, a younger man but with the same sturdy frame and the same weathered face. Smallwood’s vanity led him to trim his beard while Nicholas allowed his own more liberty, and the book-holder’s warm smile was not dimmed by two missing teeth, as was the case with his colleague. Seen together, the two men would never be taken for each other. When apart, however, the resemblance seemed somehow closer.

  Their voices separated them completely. Nicholas had the soft burr of the West Country while Smallwood’s deeper tone had a distinctively northern ring to it.

  ‘Stand aside, sir,’ he advised Marwood. ‘These are only threats they exchange and not punches.’

  ‘I’ll not have fighting in my taproom.’

  ‘Then tell them as much. It is not my office.’

  ‘They are your fellows.’

  ‘They were, sir, but no longer. Our occupation is lost. Hired men such as we were the first to go. That is what this quarrel is about. The company is to sail to the Continent to play before foreigners. Only a few of us will go with them. The rest will be left behind. Each man here thinks that he should be taken on the tour. Attesting their own worth, they feel they must malign that of their rivals.’

  ‘Why do you not join them in their dispute?’

  ‘Because I already know my fate,’ said Smallwood with a philosophical smile. ‘There is no hope that I will travel with the company. I am a newcomer. Some of them—Ralph Groves there, for instance—have been in the employ of Westfield’s Men for years. They have a much better claim than me and I would dare not to gainsay it.’

  Smallwood was now almost shouting to make himself heard above the hubbub. The argument was taking on a new and more reckless note. When the first punch was thrown, others came immediately and the whole group was drawn into the brawl. Marwood emitted a cry of alarm and jumped out of the way of the flailing arms. Adrian Smallwood stood his ground and watched with growing distaste. When one of the combatants fell heavily against him, anger stirred. He could remain apart from it all no longer. Hands which could coax sweet music out of a lute were now put to coarser usage.

  With a single punch, Smallwood felled the man who had cannoned into him. Grabbing two of the others by the scruff of their necks, he banged their heads together so hard that they dropped to the floor in a daze. A fourth man was detached from the mêlée and flung ten yards away. Smallwood snatched up a bench and held it menacingly over the heads of the three actors who were still grappling.

  ‘Stop this!’ he ordered, ‘or I’ll crack open your skulls.’

  The men froze in horror. Normally placid, Smallwood was a fearsome sight when roused. As they cowered beneath the bench, they knew that his threat was a serious one. It was at that precise moment that Nicholas Bracewell came into the taproom. He looked around the scene of carnage with frank disgust. When he saw that Adrian Smallwood was involved, he was gravely disappointed.

  ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded.

  Shamefaced actors turned away in embarrassment and nursed their wounds. Smallwood lowered the bench to the ground. Nicholas turned apologetically to the landlord.

  ‘They’ll pay for any damage that has been caused,’ he promised. ‘And they’ll pay a larger amount in other ways. Westfield’s Men will not have brawling in its ranks.’ He looked at Smallwood. ‘It grieves me to see that you are part of this, Adrian.’

  ‘But he was not,’ Marwood piped up. ‘He refused to be drawn into the quarrel that led to the fight. When you walked in just now, he had just stopped the affray.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘I did what I could,’ said Smallwood.

  ‘He saved my taproom from any real damage,’ said Marwood. ‘Do not blame him for this. He is another Nicholas Bracewell. Had you been here, this would never have happened. I was lucky to have such a man here in your stead.’

  Nicholas looked around the seven actors who had been embroiled in the fight. All were the worse for wear, and a couple slunk out under his stern gaze. When Nicholas studied the tableau with more care, it yielded up a clearer meaning.

  His faith restored, he turned back to Adrian Smallwood.

  ‘Can you be ready to sail in a day?’ he asked.

  The broad grin on Smallwood’s face was an answer in itself.

  ***

  Anne Hendrik went into the workshop to take leave of her employees. They were deeply sorry that she was off on such a sad errand, and the fact that she was visiting their native country made her departure even more poignant for them. After separate farewells to all four, she was conducted outside by Preben van Loew. He pressed a letter into her hand.

  ‘Deliver this to Frans Hendrik,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I will, Preben.’

  ‘Let us hope he is still alive to read it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘We can but pray.’

  ‘Give my warmest regards to Jan and to the rest of the family. They will remember old Preben.’

  ‘With affection.’

  ‘They are always in my thoughts.’

  ‘I will tell them that.’ Anne became brisk. ‘As to my house while I am away—’

  ‘Forget it,’ he interrupted, holding up a blue-veined hand. ‘You will have e
nough to think about in Holland without worrying about your property here. Put it from your mind. It is safe enough in our keeping. So is the workshop. Stay as long as you wish, Anne,’ he urged. ‘We have commissions to keep us busy until Christmas, and more will surely come in. London will not go bare-headed while you are away.’

  She squeezed him by the shoulders and kissed him softly on the cheek. A faint blush attacked his pallor. No more words were needed. With a grateful nod, she turned away from him.

  When she went back into the parlour of her house, she found Nicholas Bracewell sitting pensively on a chair beside their luggage. He was so pre-occupied that he did not even notice her at first. It was only when Anne stood over him that he became aware of her presence.

  ‘Oh!’ He sat up with a start. ‘I did not see you.’

  ‘You were miles away, Nick. We both know where.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Bohemia.’

  ‘No, Anne,’ he explained. ‘You are wrong. My thoughts certainly touched on Bohemia but they had not raced ahead to the country itself. I am still troubled about something much nearer home.’

  ‘Troubled?’

  ‘Sit here and I will tell you all.’

  ‘Do we have time before we leave?’

  ‘This is something for which we must make time. I have tried to talk to Master Firethorn about it but he brushes the matter away. And I may not even mention it to Edmund because I have sworn to divulge the secret to none of the company.’

  ‘Secret?’

  Surrendering his chair to her, Nicholas pulled the stool across so that he could sit beside her. Anne could see from his knotted brow that his mind was vexed. She took his hand.

  ‘Are you not breaking your oath in confiding in me?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are not one of Westfield’s Men and I know that I can trust you implicitly. Besides, I need a pair of sympathetic ears so that I can talk about the problem.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘This tour on which we are about to embark. It arose out of an invitation to visit the Imperial Court in Prague and to play there for two weeks. The invitation came with the suggestion of the route we should take so that we might acquaint others with the work of Westfield’s Men. Hospitality has been arranged for us on the way to these places. Someone has gone to great trouble on our behalf.’

  ‘Is this not a matter for celebration?’

  ‘Indeed, it is.’

  ‘Then where is the problem?’

  ‘Here,’ said Nicholas, taking a pouch from the inside of his buff jerkin. ‘It was given to Master Firethorn by Lord Westfield himself with express orders. It contains documents to be delivered to one Talbot Royden, an English doctor at the Court of Rudolph the Second. We are to be couriers, it seems.’

  ‘That is not unusual, Nick,’ she said. ‘I am a courier myself for Preben. As soon as he heard that I was travelling to Holland, he asked me to bear a letter for him.’

  ‘Did it come with an appreciable amount of money?’

  ‘Not a penny.’

  ‘This did,’ he said, holding up the pouch.

  ‘Payment for carrying the documents.’

  ‘Nobody is that generous,’ he said sceptically. ‘There is enough money here to support us for most of the journey. And when we land in Flushing, two wagons with fresh horses will be put at our disposal. Who is providing all this help?’

  ‘Your host in Bohemia.’

  ‘He makes promise of payment when we arrive, but that will be for the entertainment we provide. Who is ensuring that we will eat well and travel in comfort on the way to Prague?’

  ‘Lord Westfield.’

  Nicholas laughed and shook his head. ‘He is as deep in debt as ever, Anne. Our patron has neither the resources nor the inclination to assist the company so generously. When he handed over this pouch, he did so in someone else’s stead.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘That is what has been exercising my mind.’

  ‘Does Lord Westfield have close friends at Court?’

  ‘Dozens.’

  ‘Could not one of them have supplied the money?’

  ‘Why did he not present it in person?’ asked Nicholas. ‘And what is so important about these documents that their very existence must be kept secret?’ He replaced the pouch inside his jerkin. ‘Why all this mystery?’

  ‘I have no explanation.’

  ‘Nor did I expect one. I merely wished to bring the matter out into the open to see if it really is as curious and alarming as I feared.’

  ‘Alarming?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men are being used, Anne,’ he decided. ‘By whom and for what purpose, I do not yet know. That fact is disturbing enough in itself. But there is another possibility to consider.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Someone is so anxious to see these documents safely delivered to this Talbot Royden in Prague that we are being handsomely paid to take them there. Why hide them in the baggage of a theatre company when they could travel more swiftly by other means?’

  ‘It does not make sense, Nick.’

  ‘Unless letters sent by messenger are intercepted before they reach the person to whom they were directed. Documents which would be confiscated from other couriers may be sneaked through by us. Supposing we are caught in possession of them?’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he confessed, standing up. ‘That is part of the problem, Anne. I am hopelessly in the dark. But I sense danger here. In carrying those documents, we are not just performing a favour for a friend of Lord Westfield. We may be making ourselves a target.’

  ***

  London Bridge was one of the busiest thoroughfares in the City. It was the one means of crossing the broad back of the River Thames on foot or on horseback, and it was also a place where many lived and where people came to buy from the shops that lined both sides of the narrow road. While the plague was claiming its victims from every ward, it seemed unable to touch the inhabitants of the bridge, and this guarantee of safety brought the crowds in their usual abundance. Carts and wagons rolled constantly to and fro to increase the bustle and the general pandemonium.

  From a vantage point on the bridge, it was possible to take in the whole vast panorama of London, a higgledy-piggledy mass of houses, shops, taverns, ordinaries, prisons, civic buildings and churches, held in place by the high City wall, dominated by the soaring magnificence of Saint Paul’s Cathedral and guarded with grim solidity by the impregnable Tower. The multifarious sights and diverse sounds of London were supplemented by the noisome smells of the capital. Billingsgate sent up its abiding stink of fish, but it was mixed with many other pungent aromas and garnished with the sharp odour of the Thames itself.

  Anyone looking down from the bridge that day would have seen one spectacle that was unique. Westfield’s Men were giving an impromptu performance on the wharf below. No stage was set up and no audience had paid to watch, but a dozen minor tragedies were being played out with great intensity. The company was about to set sail for Deptford, where they would transfer to the larger vessel that would cross the sea to Holland. Tearful wives and howling children had come to send their beloved off with a forlorn hug. Distraught mistresses clung to bodies with which they had been entwined throughout the night. Whole families surrounded some of the actors, with parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and even doddering grandparents in attendance for a last sighting.

  No parting was more touching in its sincerity nor more agonising in its pain than that between Lawrence and Margery Firethorn. Both arms around his children, the actor wept bitterly and gave his wife the same advice after each relay of kisses planted upon her upturned face.

  ‘And Margery, my good, sweet wife…’

  ‘Yes, Lawrence?’

>   ‘Keep your house fair and clean, which I know you will.’

  ‘Yes, husband.’

  ‘Every evening, throw water before your door and have in your window a goodly store of rue and herb of grace.’

  ‘I am well-provided with them.’

  ‘They help to purge the air and keep disease at bay.’

  ‘This departure of yours is worse than any disease.’

  Another flurry of kisses stopped her mouth.

  A few friends were there to wave Edmund Hoode off and a bevy of wenches from Bankside were bidding a raucous farewell to Owen Elias. The tall, thin, sensitive Clement Islip was wishing Barnaby Gill a safe voyage, and the bruised Ralph Groves had overcome his disappointment at being left out of the party and arrived to shake hands with Adrian Smallwood and admit that the latter would be a more worthy traveller than he himself.

  Amid the tragic scene, there was one touch of unintentional comedy. George Dart was weeping copiously because nobody had turned up to send him off with a kind word. When he saw Thomas Skillen hobbling towards him, he was so delighted that he burst into hysterical laughter and the old man boxed his ears out of sheer force of habit. Dart backed quickly away from the attack and dropped ridiculously into the cold, dark water of the Thames. As they hauled him ashore again, he did not know whether to cry at the humiliation or laugh with relief, but he did both simultaneously when Skillen enfolded his sodden body in a paternal embrace.

  Nicholas Bracewell was in his accustomed role as the stage manager to the drama, gently detaching the players from their trailing loved ones and easing them aboard the boat one by one. When all but Firethorn had been shepherded away, the book-holder was suddenly accosted by a weird figure who seemed to glide out of the throng of well-wishers.

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell, I think?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the other.

  ‘We have met before.’

  ‘I recognised you at once, sir.’