Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

‘Caspar!’ he called. ‘What is going on? Why have they done this to me? Have you been to the Emperor to protest?’

‘Yes, Master,’ said the other quietly.

‘Well?’

‘He said that I was to give you this.’

‘What is it?’

‘You will see, Master.’

The guard unlocked the door and Caspar stepped into the dungeon. He offered his cargo to Royden with obvious embarrassment, then indicated that he should remove the cloth. When Royden did so, he was stupefied. The gift from the Emperor made no sense at all. In his hands, the prisoner was holding a huge basket of fresh fruit.

The mood of elation in which they left Frankfurt lasted for only a few days. Westfield’s Men were soon weary of the discomforts of travelling over bad roads in changeable weather. Complaints surfaced, bickering developed. On the fourth day, one of the wagons overturned while fording a river. Injuries were minor, but half of the company were soaked to the skin and the wagon itself was badly damaged. Repairs cost them precious time. Because they could not reach the next town by nightfall, they had to sleep under the stars. It was a thoroughly dispirited troupe which set off at dawn next morning.

As setbacks continued to mount, even the placid Edmund Hoode began to grumble. He was seated beside Nicholas Bracewell, who was driving the first wagon. Anne Hendrik was directly behind them, listening to the strains of the lute on which Richard Honeydew was practising. Hoode gazed at the mountains ahead of them.

‘Do we have to climb over those, Nick?’ he moaned.

‘There may be a pass through them.’

‘Not with our luck!’

‘It is bound to change soon.’

‘Yes-for the worse. We have been on the road for a week now and we still seem no closer to our destination. Will we ever get there?’

‘No question but that we will,’ assured Nicholas. ‘And the journey has not been entirely an ordeal. Eisenach was a pretty town and Weimar even more so.’

‘But we only stayed a night at each, Nick. Had we performed at both, I would look back on them with far more pleasure. As it was, they were mere breaks from the tedium of travelling.’

‘There was no time to linger, Edmund.’

‘More’s the pity!’

‘We have to press on as hard as we may,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why we have altered our route. Master Davey urged us to go by way of Leipzig and Dresden, but that would take us in a wide loop. This road-poor as it is-should get us to Prague all the sooner.’

‘I think we have been going around in circles.’

‘Only in your mind.’

Hoode gave a hollow laugh. The horses were ambling along, the wagon was creaking and the passengers were jolted every time they encountered deep ruts or scattered stones. The playwright was irked by their lethargic progress.

‘Do you know what Balthasar Davey told me?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘It was over that delicious meal we were given at the Governor’s house in Flushing. Sir Robert spoke movingly of his late brother. Master Davey was equally complimentary. He told us that Sir Philip Sidney had once ridden all the way from Vienna to Cracow in a mere fourteen days.’

‘Did he tell you what distance was covered?’

‘Over five hundred and fifty miles.’

‘That is extraordinary,’ said Nicholas admiringly. ‘Sir Philip must have been in the saddle for some forty miles a day. That is horsemanship of a high order.’

‘Would that we could emulate him!’ sighed Hoode. ‘At this pace, we will be lucky to manage four miles a day. Do you think that we will reach Prague in time for Christmas?’

‘Be of good cheer, Edmund!’

‘How?’

‘We are closer than you think.’

‘Only another thousand bruising miles to go!’

Nicholas diverted him from his misery by introducing the topic of The Fair Maid of Bohemia . Hoode had now completed all the major changes to the play and only small refinements were left. Discussing his work-and recalling the lovely creature to whom it was dedicated-slowly helped to lift him out of his despondency. The miles drifted past more painlessly.

The second wagon had dropped some distance behind. A malaise had settled on its passengers as well. Taking his turn at the reins, Lawrence Firethorn found that even his optimism was ragged around the edges. They had tried to stave off boredom by changing passengers between the wagons each day but it had not worked. Firethorn was now carrying Owen Elias, George Dart, James Ingram, Barnaby Gill and the other three apprentices. All but Gill were asleep in the rear of the vehicle. He sat beside the driver to groan incessantly about their folly in embarking on the enterprise in the first place. The name of Clement Islip had more than one wistful mention.

The attack came without warning. They were wending their way through a wood at the time. Firethorn was now some fifty yards behind the other wagon and lost sight of it around a sharp bend. The robbers chose their moment to strike. Six of them came charging out of the undergrowth on their horses and surrounded the second wagon. Their yells were indecipherable but the weapons they brandished conveyed a clear message. Dazed passengers awoke to learn that they were being ordered out of the wagon on pain of death.

A seventh member of the band was meanwhile making it impossible for those in the first wagon to render assistance. He came riding out of the trees with a loud whoop and lashed at the rumps of the horses with a whip. They bolted at once and Nicholas suddenly found himself in charge of a runaway wagon. He did not stay on it for long. Cries from behind him told him of the ambush and he reacted with great speed.

Thrusting the reins into Hoode’s hands, he dived head first off the wagon and knocked the rider from his saddle. The fall jarred both of them but Nicholas was the first to recover, pinning the man to the ground and raining blows to his head until he was senseless. He deprived the robber of his sword, then looked after the wagon long enough to see that Hoode was somehow getting the animals under control. Nicholas ran to collect the stray horse and clamber into the saddle. As he kicked his mount into a gallop and went to the aid of his fellows, he could hear the commotion ahead of him.

The three apprentices had leaped out of the wagon in terror and Barnaby Gill was pleading for mercy on his knees. Firethorn, Ingram and Elias were putting up a fight and even Dart was waving a token dagger at the attackers. When a horse came around the bend, the robbers expected an accomplice who would help them overcome the resistance of the actors. Instead, they had to contend with Nicholas in full cry.

He hacked the sword from the hand of the first man he met, then sent a second sprawling to the ground with a blow from his forearm. Nicholas engaged a third in such a fierce duel that the man took fright and swung his horse away. Inspired by the help from their book-holder, the actors fought off their attackers with renewed aggression. The apprentices snatched up twigs and logs to hurl at the robbers. Even Gill found enough courage to draw his dagger and wave it in the air.

As Nicholas wounded another man in the arm, the robbers gave up. Their leader called a retreat. He scooped up the man who had been buffeted to the ground, then led the other horses off through the trees. Nicholas pursued them for a hundred yards, then doubled back to the wagon, gathering the second stray horse on his way. His colleagues were shaken but excited.

‘Thank heaven you came, Nick!’ said Firethorn gratefully.

‘An accomplice made our horses bolt so that you would be isolated.’ Nicholas looked at his dishevelled friends. ‘They chose the second wagon because it seemed less well-defended. They will rue their mistake now. All they collected was a few cuts and bruises while we have gained two horses out of the ambush.’