Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

‘Not from the murderer.’

‘How did he know of their existence?’

‘We will find that out in due course. But you have not answered my question. How did our patron say the name of Talbot Royden?’

‘As if he had never laid eyes on the man.’

‘Then all we know about the good doctor is what we may deduce,’ mused Nicholas. ‘If he is employed at the Imperial Court, he must have a high standing in his profession. But in what branch of medicine or science is he most learned? Is he a personal physician to Emperor Rudolph himself? Or does he have some other function? How did he get to Bohemia in the first place?’ He felt the wooden box in his purse. ‘And what links does he maintain with England?’

‘Doctor Talbot Royden is an enigma,’ said Firethorn.

‘Not entirely. He enjoys the favour of the Holy Roman Emperor and he would only do that by dint of some remarkable skills. Of one thing we can be certain.’

‘What is that, Nick?’

‘Talbot Royden is a species of genius.’

***

The laboratory was situated in what had once been the largest apartment at the castle. It was a long, low, narrow room whose ceiling was supported by a series of arches which divided the place into bays. Tallow candles burned with such abundance that the laboratory had the feeling of a chapel, but it was dedicated to a stranger religion than Christianity. Chemical odours of competing pungency mingled with the abiding smell of damp. Spiders flourished in dark corners. Mice and beetles traversed the wooden floor in search of food. A lazy black cat spent most of its time asleep on a wooden stool.

Tables were laden with jars of weird liquids and coloured powders. All kinds of scientific equipment was scattered about. A surgeon’s chest-complete with a gruesome collection of knives, pincers and scissors-stood open on an oak chest. Beside it lay the saw that was used for amputations, its teeth blunted by recent use. Leather-bound tomes, written in many languages, were stacked everywhere. Learning lay cheek-by-jowl with instruments for letting blood.

The two men stood in front of the furnace at the far end of the room. Even with its iron door closed, it gave off a fierce heat.

‘Open it,’ ordered Talbot Royden.

‘Has it had time enough?’

‘Do as I tell you, Casper.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Open the door slowly.’

Royden took a precautionary step backwards. He was an ugly man in his thirties with a bulbous nose and porcine eyes. His compact body was hidden by a long red gown decorated with the signs of the zodiac. His hat covered his ears, the back of his neck and most of his forehead. He was sweating profusely.

His young assistant wore a leather apron over his shirt and breeches. He put on thick gloves before he reached out to open the door of the furnace. As it swung on its hinges, there was a dramatic surge of heat and light. The whole room seemed to be on fire. Caspar’s intelligent face registered both hope and fear. With a pair of large tongs, he reached into the furnace to pull something out with great tenderness before setting it down on the block of stone beside the furnace.

Both men watched carefully as the small cauldron hissed and glowed. When it began to give off a succession of sparks and peculiar noises, Doctor Talbot Royden clicked his tongue in irritation. It was speaking to him in a language that he understood.

‘It is not yet ready,’ he admitted.

‘We were too hasty,’ said Caspar respectfully. ‘It was my fault, Master. Perhaps I extracted it too quickly from the furnace. Or did not bring the fire to the requisite heat.’

‘No, Caspar. It is my judgement that is awry.’

‘What must we do?’

‘What else?’ said Royden wearily. ‘We try again.’

But they were not allowed to repeat their experiment. Before the assistant could use his tongs again, the door of the laboratory was flung open and four armed soldiers marched in. They surrounded Royden and looked suspiciously down at the sizzling cauldron.

‘Is it a success?’ grunted one of them.

‘Not yet,’ conceded the alchemist.

‘Arrest him.’

‘Stop!’ protested Royden as he was seized by two of the soldiers. ‘I am in the middle of an important experiment.’

‘A failed experiment.’

‘The augmentation process is very tricky.’

‘Take him away!’

‘You will regret this!’ yelled Royden as he was dragged unceremoniously away. ‘I will report you to the Emperor.’

‘We are acting on his orders.’

Caspar was horrified at the sudden change in their fortunes. Years of patient work had been halted in a matter of seconds. It left him utterly bewildered. He turned to the soldier who had barked the orders.

‘Doctor Talbot Royden is a brilliant man,’ he argued.

‘He was.’

‘You cannot treat him in this vile way.’

‘We just did.’

‘He is a scientific genius. His work must go on.’

‘Not at the Emperor’s expense.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ask him.’

‘But we were almost there ,’ insisted Caspar.

‘Almost is not good enough.’

‘Doctor Royden simply needs time.’

‘He will have plenty of that now.’

‘Why?’ asked the other. ‘Where have they taken him?’

‘To his new home.’

‘Home?’

The man gave a callous grin before strutting off.

‘Where is this home?’ called Caspar.

‘The castle dungeon.’

A persistent drizzle greeted them next morning but it could neither soil memories of their triumph on the previous day nor dampen their enthusiasm for the performance that lay ahead. Rain, sleet or snow would have no effect at all on them. Westfield’s Men were due to play at Court, and that made them impervious to bad weather. When they actually went into the banqueting hall at the palace, their spirits rose even higher. It was the ideal place in which to stage a play.

The hall was long but quite broad and its high ceiling gave an impression of more space than really existed. The floor was polished oak and the walls were covered with a series of portraits in gilt frames. Tall windows allowed light to flood in from both sides. If need be, curtains could be drawn and candelabra used to illumine the stage. All the benefits of an indoor performance were at their beck and call.

There was even a dais at one end of the hall for the regular music recitals that were held there. Nicholas Bracewell had merely to increase its size to accommodate the swirling action of a five-act drama. Doors on both sides of the stage gave access to an ante-chamber which was immediately designated as their tiring-house. The rehearsal was virtually painless and Firethorn only had to upbraid them once. Even George Dart got everything right. Voices and instruments carried beautifully. Everything pointed to another theatrical victory.

But it was not to be. The problems began with the choice of play. After being forced to stage two comedies that would be more accessible to foreign audiences, Lawrence Firethorn asserted his authority and demanded the right to exhibit his talent in a more serious drama. The Corrupt Bargain caused a faint tremor when its selection was first announced.

It was a fine play but the company remembered its last performance only too well. Incapacitated by a raging toothache, Firethorn had been unable to take the leading role. His deputy, Ben Skeat, an old and trusted actor, had suffered a heart attack in the middle of the play and died onstage. Though the company had somehow struggled on without their protagonist, it was an experience which had scarred their souls. Superstition clung tenaciously.

The excellent rehearsal stilled most of their doubts. Even in its attenuated state, Firethorn’s portrayal of the exiled Duke Alonso of Genoa quickened the pulse of all who saw it. He brought a subtle power and a deep pathos that Ben Skeat could never have matched, and the latter’s tragic departure from the text soon faded from memory. Every part he touched, Firethorn made his own, and Duke Alonso was no exception. With such a striking performance at its heart, The Corrupt Bargain became a far more interesting and exciting play. Its author, Edmund Hoode, dared to hope that it could be redeemed from the obscurity into which it had been cast.