Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

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.’

‘Doctor John Mordrake. Come to crave a boon.’

‘Of me?’

‘You are the only man who can serve me. Step aside.’

Mordrake was a big, heavy, round-shouldered man, his spine curved by a lifetime bent over his experiments. He had long, lank silver hair and a wispy beard. The gold chain around his neck was thrown into relief by his black gown. Nicholas was familiar with his reputation. He was both hailed as a master-physician and denounced as a necromancer, but the balance of opinion tipped heavily in favour of the former. Not only had Mordrake been retained to treat Queen Elizabeth herself on occasion, he had also outwitted the plague.

The old man ushered Nicholas aside for a private conference.

‘You are journeying to Prague, I hear,’ said Mordrake.

‘That is our farthest destination.’

‘Could you carry something with you for a friend?’

‘We already have cargo enough,’ said Nicholas pleasantly.

‘This will take up no room at all and may be lodged in your purse without anyone knowing that it is there.’ He slipped an object into the other’s hand. ‘Carry that to its rightful owner and you will be well-rewarded.’

‘What is it that I am to carry?’

Nicholas held out his palm and examined the small wooden box which had been put there. It was exquisitely carved. When he tried to ease up the lid, he found the box locked.

‘There is no key,’ he observed.

‘He will know how to open it.’

‘Who will?’

‘The man to whom I send it-if you accept my charge.’

Nicholas hesitated. ‘I need to know its contents.’

‘They would be meaningless to you. Here,’ said Mordrake as he dropped two crowns into Nicholas’s other hand. ‘There’s proof of how important it is for that to reach Prague. Two more crowns await you on your return if you do me this kindness.’

Nicholas looked into the watery blue eyes. Their keen intelligence was dimmed by a wistfulness and a sense of pleading. Doctor John Mordrake was a distinguished man of science, yet he was imploring a humble book-holder from a theatre company to do him a favour. The reward seemed absurdly out of proportion to what Nicholas was being asked to do.

‘You do not even know me,’ he protested.

‘We met once before,’ said Mordrake. ‘That told me much about you. I made enquiries. Nicholas Bracewell is a man of good repute. I know that I may trust him.’

‘Who is the fellow?’ asked Nicholas.

‘You’ll help me?’ gasped Mordrake with a glint of joy.

‘If I am able to find the man.’

‘Oh, you will find him easily enough, Nicholas. If you play at the Imperial Court, you are bound to meet him, for he serves the Emperor just as I once served him myself.’ Mordrake pointed to the box. ‘Put that into his hand and your errand is done. No more remains, I do assure you.’

‘What is the man’s name, sir?’

‘Come close and I will whisper it.’

Nicholas inclined his ear. ‘Well?’

‘Talbot Royden.’

‘Royden?’

‘Do not forget the name. Doctor Talbot Royden.’

Nicholas mastered his surprise and nodded his head.

‘There is no chance of that, sir.’

***

As the craft edged its way slowly downriver, the passengers waved until the figures on the wharf were dwarfed in size and obscured by other traffic on the water. There was no sense of adventure to spur them on. That would come later. They were still too caught up in their personal griefs and regrets. Firethorn tried to enliven them with fulsome boasts about the triumphs that beckoned them, but even he was only half-hearted in his enthusiasm. It was left to Nicholas to move quietly among his fellows, talking to each one in turn and reminding them that they had abandoned one family in order to be part of another. They were all children of the company now.

Anne Hendrik waited patiently until he had done his rounds. She was never short of companionship. Years of watching Westfield’s Men at the Queen’s Head had helped to forge a number of friendships with its members. She was especially fond of Edmund Hoode and Owen Elias, but it was with the personable young James Ingram that she was talking when Nicholas finally rejoined her. After exchanging a few token niceties, Ingram slipped away to leave them on their own.

‘There is a lot of sorrow aboard this vessel,’ she said.

‘It will lift in time, Anne.’

‘Who was that man with whom you spoke at the quayside?’

‘I spoke to several.’

‘This one drew you apart. An old man in a black cloak.’

‘That was Doctor John Mordrake.’

‘You speak his name with a sense of wonder.’

‘So I should,’ said Nicholas. ‘He has wondrous gifts.’