Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Nicholas kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure that they were not being followed, but there was no shadowing horseman behind the second wagon. He felt a sense of relief. There was safety in numbers and he would not be in danger while he was surrounded by his fellows. At the same time, he sensed that the murderer was too determined a man to give up the search he had undertaken. Sooner or later, he would be back.

What Nicholas did see were the gloomy expressions on the faces of his passengers. Edmund Hoode was so laden with sadness that he might have been meditating on his latest doomed love affair, and the four boisterous apprentices, who chatted incessantly on most days, were strangely silent on this one. Three of them were managing to hold back tears but Richard Honeydew was weeping enough for the whole quartet. His cherubic face was glistening, his mouth agape with despair. Nicholas handed the reins to Ingram and beckoned the boy to come to him. Richard Honeydew was lifted bodily and placed between the two men.

‘Take heart, Dick,’ said Nicholas, an arm around him.

‘I miss Adrian.’

‘So do we all. Dreadfully.’

‘He was kind to me,’ bleated the boy. ‘Like you. He took an interest in me. Adrian was teaching me to play the lute. He was such a gifted musician. Truly, I had so much pleasure from that instrument.’

‘You will do so again, Dick.’

‘How can I? My tutor is dead.’

He succumbed to a fresh burst of tears and Nicholas held him tight for a few minutes. The book-holder then reached into the back of the wagon. He lifted up an object which he had wrapped carefully in soft material. Nicholas set it down in the boy’s lap.

‘Here, lad. Take this to give you some small cheer.’

‘What is it?’

‘See for yourself.’

Honeydew began to remove the material and soon realised what he was holding in his hands. He was overjoyed.

‘Adrian’s lute!’

‘He would have wanted you to have it.’

‘But it is far too costly for me to buy.’

‘It is an heirloom. It carries no price.’

‘And is it really mine?’

‘Only if you promise to practice on it diligently.’

‘Every day!’

‘That is what Adrian would have expected of you.’

The boy was completely overwhelmed by the gift. He held it with the tender care of a mother holding a baby. When he plucked at the strings, he gave a sudden laugh of disbelief. Adrian Smallwood had gone but he would at least have something by which to remember him. His tears began to dry in the sun.

Nicholas was pleased to be able to offer him some solace. A murder which had shaken the hardiest of them had devastated the apprentice. Richard Honeydew was habitually teased by the other three boys because they envied his superior talent. In Smallwood, he had found someone who rescued him from their mockery. Nicholas tried to keep a paternal eye on the lad, but his duties as book-holder consumed much of his time and attention. The lute was a tiny recompense for the loss of its owner but it brought Honeydew unexpected delight. Nicholas made no mention of the blood he had washed off the instrument.

James Ingram was glad to surrender the reins to Nicholas again. Keeping the two horses trotting along at a comfortable pace was not as easy as his friend made it look. The animals took advantage of an inexperienced driver and the wagon swayed all over the road. Nicholas soon imposed his control on them. The landscape was flat and fertile, allowing them to see for miles in all directions. The road was no more than a rutted track but it was dry and hard beneath their wheels.

Richard Honeydew slowly recovered his curiosity.

‘Are we in Germany yet?’ he asked, nursing the lute.

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor shall we be by nightfall. We will not reach the border until well into tomorrow and there may still be days before we arrive in Cologne.’

‘Will they let us perform there?’

‘We hope so, Dick.’

‘I am afeard they will not like us.’

‘Remember the dictum of Master Firethorn,’ said Ingram. ‘It is the duty of an actor to make an audience like him. As we did in Flushing.’

Honeydew tensed. ‘The audience may have liked us but the townspeople did not. Those Dutch boys hated us. Will it be any different in Cologne?’

‘So we are led to believe,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Emperor himself urged us to visit the city and promised to warn them in advance of our coming. It is not some crowded little seaport like Flushing. Cologne is one of the largest cities in the Empire, famed for its beauty. Is that not true, James?’

Ingram nodded. ‘So I have heard tell.’

‘But we are English ,’ observed the boy.

‘That is part of our appeal. Foreigners arouse curiosity.’

‘It goes deeper than that, James,’ said Nicholas. ‘A few English companies have been here before us and made a very favourable impression. Theatre is a serious profession in London. It is not so in Cologne or Frankfurt or any of the other places we visit. The quality of our plays and players sets us well above anything else they may have seen. Only companies from Spain or Italy could compete with us and they do not have an Edmund Hoode to devise wonderful dramas. Nor do they have actors as accomplished as Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill, Owen Elias or James Ingram here.’

‘You over-praise me, Nick,’ said Ingram modestly.

‘Your time will come, James.’

‘My fear was of another kind,’ explained Honeydew.

‘Fear?’

‘Yes. We are English, they are German. We speak one language, they speak another. We follow one religion, they hold to a different faith. Will not all this drive us apart?’

‘Who knows?’ said Nicholas. ‘We must take our hosts as we find them and trust that they will overlook our faults. From what I hear-and that is not much-there has been a great upheaval in Germany over the question of religion. The Pope still rules firmly in some areas, but others have been yielded to the Lutherans, the Calvinists, and sects whose names and creeds I do not even know. It behooves us to tread warily.’

A sound like the report of a musket startled them. Lawrence Firethorn had given a full-throated yell. Bored with the leisurely pace at which they were moving, he seized the reins from Owen Elias and cracked the whip of his voice at the two bay mares pulling his wagon. The vehicle lurched straight into life, swung crazily out to one side of the road and went thundering past its companion. Firethorn roared with laughter and challenged the other wagon to catch him. With a sharp flick of the reins, Nicholas goaded his own horses into a canter and the race was on.

Passengers in both wagons were happy to trade discomfort for exhilaration. Each time a wheel hit one of the frequent potholes, they were violently bounced and shaken, yet they still urged their respective drivers on. Firethorn was in his element, crackling with vitality, laughing madly and handling his horses with the reckless bravery of a Roman charioteer. Nicholas was a more skillful but cautious driver, who was content to keep his wagon within easy reach of his rival’s without endangering his passengers by a foolish attempt to overtake at such speed.

When they saw the two vehicles hurtling towards them, other travellers quickly got out of the way. Three carts were driven off the road, horsemen were scattered, and a group of ambling peasants dived into some bushes for cover. The race continued for well over a mile, until a ford provided a natural finishing post. As his horses splashed through the water, it acted as a brake on the wagon and Firethorn did not need to heave too hard in the reins to bring his animals to a halt on the bank. Nicholas was soon drawing up beside him.