Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

The repertoire of songs did nothing to still the troubled waters of the North Sea, and the vessel continued to roll alarmingly as it sailed on. Several of the actors peeled off at intervals to vomit into one of the wooden buckets provided for the purpose and their contribution towards the recital was thereafter muted. But the singing carried on until the company began to fall asleep, one by one, from sheer exhaustion. Adrian Smallwood ended as he began, with a solo performance.

***

It was a rough crossing. Inclement weather throughout the night blew the Peppercorn off course and added hours to their voyage. There was one small advantage for Westfield’s Men. Gathered together in a corner below deck, they were easier to protect from the feared attack, and Nicholas shared the watch under the swinging lanterns with Firethorn, Elias and Smallwood. No threat came. Nicholas surmised that the assassin had either been disabled by the heaving motion of the ship or that Anne Hendrik had misheard him. She herself slept fitfully against the shoulder of her lodger and dear friend.

Dawn revealed billowing waves through a blanket of rain and few passengers ventured up on deck. The members of the company woke sporadically and were surprised to find themselves still alive and unharmed. When they had relieved themselves in one of the fetid privies, some were even able to rediscover their appetite. The worst was definitely over.

Time glided past and the bucking rhythm of the vessel seemed to ease. The yell from the look-out filtered down to them. Land had been sighted. When the weary travellers started to drift up on deck, they learned that the rain had ceased and that the sky was slowly clearing. The swirling wind still played havoc with the rigging and the choppy waves still climbed high enough to scour the deck occasionally, but the sight of their destination helped the passengers to accommodate these discomforts without any sense of panic.

Nicholas escorted Anne to the bulwark to take her first look at the little seaport of Flushing, situated at the mouth of the River Schelde and welcoming them to a harbour where many smaller vessels already bobbed and swayed. The welcome was illusory. When the Peppercorn tried to put in, its captain found the waves too strong and the wind too guileful, so he elected instead to sail on to Rammekins for surer anchorage.

Lawrence Firethorn was outraged by the change of destination. He took his protest across to his book-holder.

‘Our passage was booked to Flushing!’ he roared.

‘We will not be too far away,’ said Nicholas.

‘Order the captain to deliver us to the town that is named on our passport. I will not endure such a hellish voyage and be put down on the wrong part of the Dutch coast.’

‘The captain has no choice. He shows good seamanship. Would you rather stay aboard until the sea decides to calm? That might take a whole day.’

‘Another day on this floating death-trap! Get me off!’

‘Be patient,’ counselled Nicholas, ‘and you will soon have dry land beneath your feet again.’

‘Thank heavens!’

Firethorn’s relief was short-lived. When the company at last disembarked from the Peppercorn , the dry land had been turned to mud by a fortnight’s steady rain. Disenchantment gnawed at the actor-manager. Having envisioned a triumphal arrival at Flushing, he was now limping ashore at Rammekins. Instead of being welcomed like a victorious admiral after a naval battle, he was a complete nonentity forced to lead a bedraggled company on foot across a squelching quagmire.

Supporting Anne by the arm, Nicholas again took the full force of his employer’s ire. Firethorn was incandescent with righteous indignation.

‘Could they not supply us with horses?’ he demanded.

‘We were not expected to land here.’

‘This country is barbaric!’

‘Other passengers must walk as well as us.’

‘This mud almost reaches to my knees.’

‘Flushing is only four miles away.’

‘Four miles of this misery?’

‘Anne fares worse than us,’ noted Nicholas, breaking in on the other’s self-absorption. ‘If we had to struggle through this mire in a dress-as she does-we might have just reason to complain. Yet Anne bears it all with a brave smile. We should learn from her example.’

Firethorn accepted the rebuke with good grace and showered Anne with profuse apologies for the next mile. The rest of the company trudged along behind them in a mood of dejection. Not even the resilient Smallwood could manage a song now. The only person missing was George Dart. Nicholas had no qualms about leaving Dart behind to guard the wicker baskets containing their costumes and properties until a cart could be sent for him from Flushing. It was inconceivable that the diminutive assistant stagekeeper could be the intended victim of the death threat. The murderer-if he existed-would be stalking another member of the company.

***

Flushing was an English possession, a cherished bridgehead on the Continent which to some extent compensated for the disastrous loss of Calais on the eve of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. Ceded by the Dutch in recognition of military support against the Spanish invaders, Flushing showed the influence of English occupation. It had an English church, English settlers, and a permanent garrison of English troops. When the weary, mud-covered travellers reached the town, they saw English faces and fashions at every turn.

But it was by no means a home from home. Dutch inhabitants were cold and hostile, feeling that the English had not merely taken their town away from them. They had changed its name as well. The busy little port of Vlissingen was now the military base of Flushing, full of soldiers on their way to battle or wounded men and corpses returning from it. Overcrowded and insanitary, the place was haunted by profiteers, adventurers, and others who could exploit the wartime situation. The town was inhospitable and there was a pervading sense of unease.

It was Gill’s turn to have a fit of disillusionment. He gazed around with utter disgust and stamped a sodden foot.

‘This whole escapade is a catastrophe!’ he exclaimed.

‘Give it time to unfold, Barnaby,’ said Hoode.

‘It has unfolded far enough, Edmund. I am imprisoned in the hold of a ship, subjected to a voyage of sheer terror, forced to ruin by best shoes and hose by wading through the mud, then confronted with this cesspit!’ He folded his arms and turned away. ‘I expect better, I deserve better, I am owed better!’

‘We all share your disappointment.’

‘It was cruel to inveigle me into this calamity.’

‘You are a calamity in yourself!’ sneered Firethorn.

‘To come here, I turned down some highly tempting offers.’

‘Why?’ mocked the other. ‘What did Clement Islip promise to do to you? Hold you between his thighs and play you like his viol? Be your own fair maid?’

‘There is no point in bickering,’ said Hoode, stepping between the two men. ‘Our first task is to find somewhere to stay in this unfriendly town.’

‘It is already arranged,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is what Lord Westfield gave me to understand. Nick?’

‘Yes?’ asked Nicholas, stepping forward.

‘Be our pathfinder here. Where do we go?’

‘We stay right here.’

‘In the town square?’ said Gill with disdain. ‘We are renowned actors, not street beggars. We demand respect.’

‘I believe that we are about to receive it, Master Gill.’

Nicholas had seen the horseman approaching them at a steady trot. He was a tall, slender young man in neat apparel and he was already composing his features into a polite smile of welcome. The horse came to a halt in front of them. The rider touched his hat deferentially.