Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

‘He will not lack for English companions.’

‘What of his friends, his family?’

‘Write to them with these dread tidings,’ said Davey. ‘I will see that the letters are speedily dispatched. We are all too accustomed to sending bad news back to England.’ He saw the doubt in the other’s face. ‘Sir Robert has asked me to give you his assurance that every effort will be made to find the villain who committed this heinous crime. And I give you my promise that your unlucky friend will have a Christian burial here in Flushing.’

Nicholas studied the secretary for a moment. Balthasar Davey was an elegant young man with an intelligent face which had been schooled to hide his true feelings. He had been gracious with Anne Hendrik and unfailingly helpful to Westfield’s Men, yet there was something about him which troubled Nicholas. The secretary was holding something back. It was time to find out what it was.

‘Why did you lodge us here?’ asked Nicholas.

‘It seemed the best choice. They serve imported ale here. I thought that a thirsty troupe of players would prefer to drink English ale out of pewter tankards rather than quaff Dutch beer out of ceramic mugs.’

‘You misunderstand me. I wondered why you took such trouble on our behalf when you must have far more important things to do. Why did you not leave us to fend for ourselves?’

‘That would have been ungentlemanly.’

‘How did you even know that we were coming?’

‘We are well-informed about any notable visitors.’

‘We are a humble theatre company, passing through the town. Yet someone pays for our lodging and three of our sharers are invited to the Governor’s table.’

‘Sir Robert is fond of the theatre.’

‘Did he order you to look after us?’

‘Acting on a request from someone else.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Lord Westfield,’ said Davey easily. ‘Who else?’

‘I was hoping that you might tell me that.’

There was a long pause. Nicholas searched his face but it remained impassive. One thing was clear. Balthasar Davey was not responding to any request from Lord Westfield. Their patron’s wishes carried no weight in Flushing. Inside his jerkin, Nicholas still had the pouch which had been entrusted to him. He suspected that his companion might have some idea what it contained.

‘You will enjoy your time in Bohemia,’ said Davey, trying to inject a note of optimism. ‘I am sure that Westfield’s Men will be a resounding success at the Imperial Court.’

‘Have you been to Prague?’

‘Indeed, I have. Some years ago, with Sir Robert. We both have fond memories of Bohemia. You will be well-received there. All the more reason why you should not linger here. It will be a very long journey.’

‘We are braced against that,’ said Nicholas. ‘And this is by no means our first tour. We are used to travelling along endless roads in England.’

‘You will find this expedition far more taxing,’ warned Davey. ‘And you will stop to give performances on the way. Even with sturdy horses pulling the wagons, it will take you weeks to reach Bohemia.’

‘We are very grateful to you for providing such good transport. Why have you done so?’

‘It was requested.’

‘By Lord Westfield?’

‘Who else?’ said the other without a trace of irony.

Nicholas glanced towards the taproom. ‘I talked with some of the English soldiers in there last night. They were very bitter about this war.’

‘Not without cause, alas.’

‘Their main complaint was a shortage of food and money. They also railed against a lack of munitions. They were hired to join the garrison here but arrived to find no quarters. My question is this, Master Davey. If the situation here is so desperate, how can you find the money to furnish us with a comfortable lodging before sending us on our way with wagons and horses that could be more profitably engaged in moving supplies?’

The secretary weighed his words carefully before replying.

‘You are a perceptive man, Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘We are not entirely ignorant of what has been going on here. Word trickles back to England. London hears all the rumours.’

‘That’s all most of them are. Rumours. False reports.’

‘You have not answered my question.’

‘Westfield’s Men answered it for you this afternoon.’

‘Did they?’

‘You heard those same soldiers,’ recalled Davey. ‘They had real pleasure for the first time in months. Your play was a feast of entertainment which helped them to forget the war completely for a couple of hours.’

‘That was our intention when we chose Mirth and Madness .’

‘You are not the first to offer such distraction.’

‘The first?’

‘I served in the household of the Earl of Leicester for a time,’ said Davey wistfully. ‘It was an honour that I will always treasure. That is how I first came to Flushing. When the Earl arrived here to lead the army, I was part of a train which included lawyers, secretaries, chaplains, musicians, and acrobats. Yes, and players, too. Will Kempe among them.’

‘Kempe?’ said Nicholas in surprise.

‘You know his pedigree.’

‘All of London is aware of it.’

‘Kempe is the equal of your own Barnaby Gill. A born jester who could raise laughter on a battlefield, if need be, with one of his jigs. He played his part in this war.’

‘So did we, Master Davey, and we were proud to do so. But we were only briefly your guests. No host has ever spent so much money and care on us as you have done. I ask again. Why?’

‘I was obeying a request.’

‘Still from Lord Westfield?’

‘Who else?’

Nicholas gave up. The secretary was too elusive for him. Balthasar Davey could play games with words all day long and he would always best Nicholas. The visitor rose to leave.

‘I will return early tomorrow to bid you farewell.’

‘How do you know that we will go?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Because you know the folly of staying. I will bring a map with me. It will be very crude because I am no artist, but it will show you the route you must take.’

‘Thank you.’

Davey offered his hand and Nicholas stood up to shake it. There was a hint of genuine regret in the former’s eye.

‘I am sorry this had to happen,’ he said.

‘We held Adrian Smallwood in high regard.’

‘Mourn him accordingly.’

‘We will.’

Davey regarded the other shrewdly. ‘It is a pity that you have to depart from the town, Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I should like to have known you better.’ He moved away but a sudden thought detained him at the door. ‘Your chambers here were searched during the performance.’

‘That is so.’

‘Was anything taken?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So the thief searched for something he could not find.’

‘Apparently.’

‘It is still in your possession, therefore?’

‘What are you talking about, Master Davey?’

‘You are the ablest man in the company. It must be you. One more reason for you to ride out of Flushing tomorrow.’

‘One more reason?’

‘To save your life,’ said Davey softly. ‘I believe that the villain made a mistake. He did not intend to kill Adrian Smallwood at all. Your friend died because of his unfortunate resemblance to someone else. The murderer was really stalking Nicholas Bracewell.’

***

Westfield’s Men sat around a table strewn with pitchers of ale and traded maudlin reminiscences of their dead colleague. Adrian Smallwood had been snatched away from them just as they were coming to appreciate his qualities as a member of the company. Notwithstanding his egoism, Lawrence Firethorn did notice the performances around him on stage and he was ready to pay generous tribute where he felt it was deserved.