Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

The stocky man in the garb of a merchant did not need to be told that they were coming. He was lounging outside the White Cross as the two wagons rumbled around the corner. His presence went completely unnoticed by the newcomers. Nicholas Bracewell had glanced over his shoulder many times during the journey but he never thought to look in front of him.

Someone was waiting for them.

Fortune favoured them at last. After suffering the rigours of the voyage, the cruel loss of one of their number and the cumulative fatigue of long days on the road, they found some warm consolation awaiting them in Cologne. It was Nicholas Bracewell who made the discovery. Lawrence Firethorn sent him off to the Burgomaster to seek permission for Westfield’s Men to play in the city. Nicholas could not have had a more positive response.

A big, fleshy man with a rubicund face, the Burgomaster wore a resplendent mayoral chain of solid gold which rested on his expansive paunch. Whenever he laughed, the chain bobbed merrily up and down. He oozed wealth and well-being. His command of English was uncertain and his accent guttural but he made himself understood.

‘Willkommen, Herr Bracewell!’ he said, pumping Nicholas’s hand. ‘The English comedians always we like to see in Köln. Lovely city, ja? How long you stay?’

‘Only for a few days, I fear.’

‘Is all?’

‘We have to ride on.’

‘Where you go?’

‘Frankfurt am Main,’ explained Nicholas. ‘After a short stay there, we go on to Eisenach, Weimar and Prague. That is our main destination. Westfield’s Men have been invited to play for two weeks at the Imperial Court.’

‘Wunderbar!’ said the other, chortling with approval and making his chain rattle. ‘Is big honour. You play the comedy for our Emperor, ja? Good.’

‘Did you not know of our visit?’

‘Nein.’

‘In his letter, the Emperor said that he would write to tell you that we were coming here.’

‘Emperor Rudolph,’ said the other with a philosophical shrug, ‘he forgot. Many things he promise, he not remembers. On the fringe of the Empire, Köln is. Prague, long way, ja?’ His chuckle returned to set his chain in motion again. ‘No matter. We pleased here to see Wizzfeld’s Men.’

‘Westfield’s,’ corrected Nicholas politely. ‘Lord Westfield is our patron and he secured our passport to travel abroad and play where we could find an audience.’

‘Here, an audience you have.’

‘We are very grateful.’

‘Köln thanks you. Wizzfeld’s Men is famous. The Emperor invite them. We must see them also, ja?’

‘We are at your disposal,’ said Nicholas deferentially.

‘Natürlich!’

The genial Burgomaster went off into a peal of laughter and his chain bobbed once more. They were in the Council Chamber at the imposing Rathaus, the town hall where civic business was conducted. It was a spacious room with a vast table in it. The Burgomaster was built on the right scale for such a place. A smaller man would have been dwarfed to insignificance. Nicholas was delighted with the cordial reception he had been given. It was a good omen. His host was friendly and willing to help in any way. Nicholas took the opportunity to find out as much as he could about Cologne and its relation to the Empire. The Burgomaster talked fondly about the former but more guardedly about the latter. Nicholas garnered invaluable information.

When the discussion was over, he hastened back through the streets to the White Cross. It was early evening and most of Westfield’s Men were washing down a large meal with mugs of German beer. Owen Elias was making his companions laugh wildly at his anecdotes. Nicholas was pleased to step into a happier atmosphere. They had not forgotten Adrian Smallwood but they had managed to put the horror of his murder behind them. Lawrence Firethorn beckoned his book-holder across to the table he shared with Barnaby Gill. Both men were anxious to hear the tidings.

‘Well?’ prompted Firethorn. ‘What happened?’

‘Westfield’s Men are welcome in Cologne.’

‘Did you mention my name, Nick?’

‘Several times,’ lied the other.

‘And mine, I trust?’ asked Gill.

‘Of course. We are to give two performances here.’

‘Where?’ said Firethorn.

‘The first will be in a public place and the Burgomaster himself will be there with the entire Council and their wives. The audience could be of considerable size.’

‘Was payment mentioned?’

‘We are allowed to charge admission.’

‘This is excellent news!’

‘The second performance will be at the palace,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Duke of Bavaria and other important guests are visiting Cologne, so we will have distinguished spectators. It pleased the Burgomaster that we gave him first call on the services of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Why?’ asked Gill.

‘Cologne is ruled by the Archbishop. He is also the Elector and thus wields temporal as well as spiritual power. The Burgomaster feels that he and his Council are the true government. There is great rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop. The spirit of Hermann Grein lives on.’

‘Who?’

‘Hermann Grein,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘He lived hundreds of years ago but the Burgomaster talked about him as if he were still alive. When he was himself Burgomaster, this Hermann Grein won a victory over one Archbishop Engelbert here in Cologne. The Archbishop wanted revenge. Burgomaster Grein was invited to the monastery for a conference. The monks kept various wild animals there, including a lion. Two canons trapped the Burgomaster in a courtyard with the lion. If the man had not been wearing his sword, he would have been torn to pieces. He fought bravely enough to kill the animal but was savagely mauled and nearly died.’

‘Did the poor wretch survive?’ said Firethorn.

‘By the grace of God, he did. The citizens of Cologne rescued him. Growing suspicious, they forced their way into the monastery and recovered their Burgomaster in time. The two canons involved in the plot were hanged at the monastery gate and Hermann Grein was slowly nursed back to health.’

‘An amusing-enough story,’ said Gill with a yawn, ‘but what bearing does it have on us?’

‘A fair amount,’ replied Nicholas levelly. ‘It helps to dictate our choice of play. The rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop may not be as deadly as in the days of Burgomaster Grein, but it is still there. We would be foolish to stage a play which sets Church against Commonalty, and there are two or three in our repertoire.’

‘A timely warning, Nick,’ said Firethorn gratefully. ‘We do not wish to fan the flames of any dispute in the city. ‘Tis a pity we lack the actors to play The Knights of Malta . That would delight both citizens and Archbishop.’

‘Bore them, rather,’ said Gill contemptuously. ‘Your Grand Master would send the whole of Cologne to sleep.’

‘I will send you to sleep in a moment,’ retorted the other, fingering his dagger. ‘For all eternity.’

‘ The Knights of Malta will not serve here,’ argued Nicholas quietly. ‘A play about the Turkish menace would not be the wisest choice. It is too close to the truth. The Turks are attacking the eastern border of the Empire even though they have signed a peace treaty. The people of Cologne may not wish to be reminded of that distant threat. Comedy is in request yet again, I think.’

‘And so do I,’ added Gill. ‘ Cupid’s Folly , it must be.’

‘That would be folly indeed!’ sneered Firethorn.

‘They want laughter, song, dance. They want me .’

‘Even drunken Germans cannot be that misguided!’