Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

‘So-at last-is our noble audience.’

‘Not by my art. They watch dribbling idiocy out there.’

Nicholas felt sorry for his friend, but the book-holder’s main concern was to keep the action moving. He signalled to George Dart to carry a bench onstage, then waved Owen Elias and James Ingram into position for the next scene. Actors who had been coming into the tiring-house with sad faces now showed a smiling eagerness to go back onstage. They knew that the tide of disapproval had at last been turned.

Success was modified by the earlier failure of the play. There was still a lingering suspicion in some minds that Roman Catholicism had been ridiculed. When they came out to take their bows, the actors were given pleasant smiles and polite applause. After their sustained ovation on the previous day, this was a decidedly tepid response, but at least they had won their audience over. Their cherished reputation had been partially vindicated.

Disappointment ensued. Expecting to be presented to the dignitaries, Firethorn and his company were dismayed to find themselves paid off and ushered out of the Palace. Instead of being treated as distinguished players, they were summarily dismissed like unwanted servants. As they made their disgruntled way to the inn, Firethorn sat in the first wagon beside Nicholas. The actor-manager was seething.

‘That was shameful!’ he railed. ‘We gave our all and they turned their aristocratic backs on us.’

‘Only to avoid embarrassment,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘Embarrassment?’

‘We caused unwitting offence with our play.’

‘How was I to know that my twin would be sitting in the front row? And from Genoa! What greater misfortune could we have faced? My performance must have seemed like a personal attack on him.’

‘You retrieved the situation superbly.’

‘Only at your instigation, Nick. If I’d kept that damnable cowl on until the final scene, I’d probably have been hanged from the rafters by now! Did they not recognise great acting when it was offered to them?’

‘They were overcome by it,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You were too convincing in the habit of a friar. That is why your portrayal had such an effect on them.’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ said Firethorn, his ire cooling somewhat. ‘You may be right. I was the victim of my own brilliance in the role. That is some recompense. And there is more in that purse they gave us. What did it hold?’

‘Several florins.’

‘Money is the best kind of applause.’

While Firethorn slowly rallied, the rest of the company was still morose and Hoode was almost suicidal. For the second time in succession, his play had been hacked to pieces in the name of expediency. It was a dispirited troupe which trickled back into the White Cross. A familiar face awaited them.

The Burgomaster swooped with a beaming smile.

‘Wizzfeld’s Men!’ he gushed. ‘Danke! Danke vielmals!’

‘What is he saying?’ asked Firethorn.

‘He is thanking us,’ explained Nicholas.

‘For what?’

‘Visit to the Palace,’ said the Burgomaster. ‘The play, they no like very much. I hear, I have friends in Palace. Our play, we love. You give the city the best. Thank you, my good friends. This I give to Wizzfeld’s Men.’

And he pressed a bag of coins into Firethorn’s hand.

‘What have we done to earn this?’ said the actor.

‘Put the city of Köln first. We love you. Danke.’

He embraced Firethorn, kissed him on both cheeks, gave a cheery wave to the rest of the company, then went out, chuckling happily. The Burgomaster was delighted with their setback at the Palace. He believed that the company had deliberately chosen its finest play to offer to the city while reserving an inferior one for the Archbishop and his guests. Firethorn used the unexpected bounty in the most practical way.

‘Order a feast!’ he said, tossing the money to Elias. ‘We will spend our last night here in revelry. And do not be downhearted,’ he told his company. ‘We have only been rebuffed by an Archbishop, a Duke, and a mere Abbot today. They are of no significance to a company which will soon be winning plaudits from an Emperor.’

***

Rudolph II, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia, sat on his throne in full regalia. His vestments were embroidered with gold thread and his heavy crown resembled a bishop’s mitre which had been turned sideways to reveal a band of gold surmounted by a tiny cross. Held in his left hand, the massive sword of state rested on its point. The sceptre of office was held in his other hand and rested on his shoulder. He exuded a sense of quiet power and majesty. In outward appearance, he was an archetypal Defender of the Faith. All that Rudolph needed to do was to decide exactly which faith he was defending.

The distinctive Hapsburg face was devoid of expression. Large, protruding eyes gazed unseeing into the distance. The nose was like the beak of a bird, the undershot chin was the family signature. The drooping lower lip moved imperceptibly as he talked to himself. Rudolph was now in his fortieth year, but the weight of his melancholia made him seem older. His attitude suggested a man who was rueful about the years which had passed and fearful about those to come.

Studying him intently, the Milanese artist was undeterred by his subject’s mood of dejection. He saw what he wished to see and his brush transposed his vision to the canvas. Short, fat and amiable, he offered a complete contrast to the sad, motionless figure on the throne. The artist was bristling with nervous energy and constantly shifted his feet or shrugged his expressive shoulders. They were alone in the Presence Chamber at the castle. The portrait was slowly taking shape.

A staff rapped on the door, then it swung open to admit the tall, spare figure of the Chamberlain. He padded across the marble floor to take up a position at the Emperor’s right ear. Rudolph gave no indication that he was aware of his visitor. The arrival of the Chamberlain in no way distracted the artist. His brush worked away at the same busy pace as before.

Clearing his throat noisily, the newcomer spoke in German with a mixture of deference and irritation. It was difficult to hold a conversation with a man who had absented himself from the world and its immediate responsibilities.

‘The Papal Nuncio is here,’ he announced.

‘Why?’ mumbled Rudolph.

‘He has an appointment to see you.’

‘Cancel it.’

‘You have already cancelled two appointments with him,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He comes on important business.’

‘From the Pope?’

‘Of course, Your Imperial Highness.’

‘Then we know what he is going to say.’

‘It would be a kindness to hear him say it.’

‘I will. In time.’

‘When? Later today? Tomorrow? The day after?’

‘When I feel able to face him.’

‘The Papal Nuncio grows impatient.’

‘That is his privilege.’

‘You cannot go on refusing to see visitors.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is not politic, Your Imperial Highness.’

‘I am not a political animal.’

Rudolph set the sword and sceptre aside before lifting the crown from his head and setting it on his lap. He turned his wondering eyes on the Chamberlain.

‘What else have you come to tell me?’

‘You have several other appointments today.’

‘Cancel them.’

‘We must not keep doing that.’

‘Postpone them instead. I am not ready for them.’

‘When will you be ready?’

‘You will be told.’

The Chamberlain pursed his lips in annoyance but made no comment. He was about to move away when he remembered something else he had to report.

‘Doctor Talbot Royden has been arrested.’