Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

‘Save your strength for the play.’

He led the disappointed actor back to the tiring-house. Spirits were high among the rest of the cast. A substantial audience was awaiting them in a state of anticipatory delight. This was no routine assignment in their calendar. Westfield’s Men were making their debut before German spectators and were not quite sure how their work would be received. They needed an unqualified success in order to purge the sad memories of their last presentation. Love and Fortune would be a shroud to lay over the corpse of Adrian Smallwood.

Nicholas juggled his many responsibilities with the composure that was typical of him. His outward calm concealed his deep anxiety. He was being stalked by a man who would have no compunction about killing him in order to lay hands on the documents he was carrying. Nicholas had told Firethorn of his discovery and they had decided to take Owen Elias and James Ingram into their confidence. Four of them were now on guard against possible attack, but it was not enough. As long as his identity was unknown, the advantage would always lie with an assassin who could choose when and where to strike.

‘Stand by!’ Nicholas called, marshalling the company.

‘Speak up and follow me!’ ordered Firethorn. ‘And spare a thought for dear Adrian. This performance is for him.’

Music played, then Elias went out to deliver the Prologue. The ovation he collected raised the general excitement even higher. Firethorn and Gill virtually ran onto the stage to play the first scene together. They struck sparks off each other which ignited the whole cast. Love and Fortune had never been played with more attack and commitment.

Cologne adored it. Whether laughing at the wild antics or sighing with the forlorn lovers, they were in their element. They understood only half of the plot and less than a quarter of the dialogue, but that did not dim their appreciation one bit. Movement and gesture were eloquent interpreters. Songs and dances were self-explanatory. And Firethorn’s storming performance in the central role was stunning. Gill’s clown was the perfect foil for him. Whenever the two of them came together, the play took on an extra bite and richness.

What kept them enthralled was the overall quality of the company. Westfield’s Men were undoubted professionals. With Nicholas at the helm behind the scenes, the play was like a seamless web that grew larger and more ornate with each minute. The spectators thought of their own strolling players and winced. The performance of Love and Fortune made their homespun actors look like raw beginners. Two hours flew past in two magical minutes, then applause came in an irresistible avalanche.

It was led by the Burgomaster, standing in a window with his wife and family, cheering loudly and laughing until tears of joy trickled down his cheeks. The cast were kept onstage for ten minutes or more before the acclaim began to show signs of abating. When he led his troupe back into the tiring-house, Firethorn embraced each one of them with gratitude. Even Gill got a spontaneous hug of thanks.

‘That performance had everything!’ declared Firethorn. ‘We were at the height of our powers and the audience worshipped us. What more could we want?’

‘A few of those eleven thousand virgins,’ said Elias.

‘The city is ours. Tomorrow, we storm the Palace.’

‘Not with Love and Fortune ,’ warned Nicholas.

‘It is our greatest weapon, Nick. You saw its power.’

‘Over the good citizens of Cologne, yes. But there will be a very different audience at the Palace. You play in front of prelates and nobles. The Archbishop may prefer something less full of noise and bawdy humour. Meat for the commonalty may stick in the throat of the Church.’

Barnaby Gill agreed and pushed forward the claims of Cupid’s Folly yet again. Firethorn countered angrily with Hector of Troy . They wielded the two plays like broadswords and the others backed out of range. The issue was still undecided when the Burgomaster sailed into the tiring-house. His eyes were glistening, his mouth was locked in a permanent grin and his cheeks were like two giant red apples left out in the rain.

‘Wunderbar!’ he announced. ‘Wizzfeld’s Men! Wunderbar!’

‘We thank you, sir,’ said Firethorn, giving his most obsequious bow. ‘We are humble players whose only wish is to serve our masters. It has been an honour, Herr Burgomaster.’

‘Magnificent, you are, Lurrence Feuertorn.’

‘Firethorn,’ enunciated the other. ‘Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘You please us. I help.’

His hand went towards his midriff and Firethorn hoped that he was about to open his purse. Instead, the Burgomaster plucked a letter from his belt and proffered it.

‘To Frankfurt, you go. Ja?’

‘We do, sir.’

‘You take.’

‘Thank you,’ said Firethorn, taking the letter but handing it straight to Nicholas with a bitter aside. ‘Is that what he calls help? Turning us into his couriers’?

‘You read. Ja?’ urged the Burgomaster. ‘In German, I write, and that letter sent to Frankfurt. Emperor Rudolph, he forgets. Frankfurt not been told you come, maybe. Now they know. My letter tell them. Written by Wizzfeld’s Men.’

‘But we wrote no letter,’ protested Firethorn.

‘I do for you, to help,’ said the Burgomaster with a gleeful chuckle. He turned to Nicholas. ‘Read. For all.’

When he unfolded the letter, Nicholas realised that what he held was an English translation. The Burgomaster had taken great pains on their behalf. His application for permission to play in Frankfurt was couched in the language of deference. Nicholas read it out to the whole company in a firm voice.

‘High Honourable, Respectable, Praiseworthy, Highly Learned Lords, Herr Burgomaster and the Council. Particularly Praiseworthy, Gracious and Ruling Lords, our company of players has stayed briefly in Cologne, where we were well-received, and we set out now towards Prague, where, by grace of the Most High Emperor, we are to display our talents at the Imperial Court. As our journey takes us close to your illustrious city, we did not wish to neglect to visit such a famous and praiseworthy place, and to present our plays to the High Council, according to its will. This is why we submit this most humble request to the Council, and ask it for the great honour of graciously allowing us to play in Frankfurt for a short time: for we are experienced players, trained as actors from our youth, commended for our performances before Her Gracious Majesty, Elizabeth, Queen of England, and renowned for our plays, wherein we present no vices or condemnable tricks, only things appropriate to decency and decorum, in addition to charming English music and excellent dances, which will the better increase the pleasure of the spectators and the listeners. Accordingly, we hope that the High Council will not refuse our humble request but will most kindly permit us to engage in theatrical performances for the entertainment of your justly celebrated city. Forever grateful. Your humble servants.’

There was dead silence. Annoyed to learn that a letter had been sent on their behalf without his knowledge, Firethorn speedily adapted to the idea. His problem was to contain his mirth at the cringing humility of the missive’s tone. As he glanced around, he saw that the rest of the company felt the same way. They were struggling to hold in their amusement.

The Burgomaster beamed. ‘Is good. Ja?’

‘Very good,’ said Firethorn.

Then the dam burst. Laughter poured out of him in a torrent and it set of a dozen minor tributaries. The whole company was soon rocking helplessly. A Burgomaster in Cologne would know how a Burgomaster in Frankfurt wished to be addressed and his letter would no doubt win them a favourable hearing, but that took nothing away from its submissive crawling and its essential ridiculousness. As the laughter built to a crescendo, Nicholas was afraid that the Burgomaster would be offended by such a reaction to his help but the latter readily joined in the wild cachinnation. It never occurred to their affable host that they were laughing at him.