Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

They went through the first courtyard and into a much larger one. Guards stood about chatting but showed little interest in the visitors. It was only when they stepped through into the third courtyard that someone finally paid any real attention to them.

‘Well met, gentlemen! Welcome to Prague!’

Hugo Usselincx was standing outside the door of Saint Vitus Cathedral when he saw them. Shoulders hunched, he shuffled across to them and waved his hands nervously in the air.

‘I am delighted to see you both again.’

‘It is good to see you, Hugo,’ responded Firethorn.

‘How long have you been here?’ asked Nicholas.

‘A few days.’

‘You must have ridden hard.’

‘I had to make up for lost time.’

‘We had the most devilish journey,’ moaned Firethorn.

‘But we arrived safely,’ said Nicholas, cutting off his memoirs about the ambush. ‘And we are much taken with this lovely city.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘That is what we have come to find out.’

‘And what will you perform while you are here?’

‘The very best plays,’ boasted Firethorn.

‘I will climb over the castle walls to see them.’

‘That may not be too difficult a thing to do,’ observed Nicholas, glancing around. ‘Is Prague not concerned about its defences?’

‘The Emperor has other interests,’ confided Usselincx. ‘But the city may not be as open to attack as it might look. The jest they make here is that Prague is protected from invasion by its smell.’

‘We had noticed it, Hugo,’ said Firethorn with a grimace. ‘We also noticed how many churches there are here. Some are built of wood, most of stone, with roofs of slate and spires that shine like silver. The only church I could not pick out was the one that is made of tin.’

‘Tin?’

‘That is where you are organist, is it not? The Tin Church. Or so I remember you telling us.’

‘I did, I did,’ said Usselincx, suppressing a giggle. ‘But the Týn Church is not made of tin.’

‘What else is it made of?’

‘Solid stone, Master Firethorn. When I said “Týn,” I should have spelled the word for you. T-ý-n. It means a courtyard or an enclosed area, much like the one we are standing in. The Týn Church is in a courtyard behind the main square. Its full name is the Church of Our Lady Before Týn. It is old and beautiful, like so much here. Does that help you to understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.

‘No,’ contradicted Firethorn.

‘I keep you from more important things,’ said Usselincx as he backed away. ‘Enjoy your welcome from the Emperor. I look to see you again before long.’

They exchanged farewells, then headed for the palace which was opposite the south door of the cathedral. Firethorn liked their Dutch friend immensely but Nicholas had reservations about the man. He found his manner a shade too unctuous.

When they entered the palace, Hugo Usselincx went right out of their minds. Armed guards confronted them and demanded to know who they were. Nicholas produced the letter with the Imperial seal but neither man could understand the language in which it was written. One of the guards disappeared down a corridor with the missive and the visitors were forced to wait for several minutes.

The man eventually returned with a servant in tow. It was the latter who now held the invitation and he used it to beckon them after him. Nicholas and Firethorn were led down a long corridor and into a gallery that was festooned with the work of the various Court artists. The servant paused to run a fond eye over the extraordinary collection of paintings. He was a middle-aged man with a striking face and a mischievous smile. Ushering them out of the gallery, he took them to an apartment on the west side of the palace and halted outside the door. He studied both men for a moment, then offered the letter to the actor-manager.

‘Lawrence Firethorn?’ he said in passable English.

‘Yes,’ replied the other, taking the invitation.

‘And you?’ The servant turned to Nicholas. ‘Name, please.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Masters Firethorn and Master Bracewell. Excuse me.’

After tapping on the door, the servant went into the room for a brief moment. When he reappeared, he conducted the two men into a large and well-appointed apartment with an ornate desk at its centre. The servant bowed out and closed the door silently behind him.

The Chamberlain rose from his chair behind the desk and regarded his visitors with solemn curiosity. He knew enough English to negotiate his way through a conversation.

‘You are welcome,’ he said, manufacturing a smile. ‘My name is Wolfgang von Rumpf and I am the Chamberlain. You are,’ he said, pointing to each in turn, ‘Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell. Correct?’

‘That is so, sir,’ confirmed Firethorn.

‘Pray be seated.’

The Chamberlain indicated the chairs in front of the desk and all three men sat down. Anticipating a more gracious reception, Firethorn was somewhat put out by the man’s aloofness. Whoever else had issued the invitation, it had certainly not been Wolfgang von Rumpf. The Chamberlain glanced down at a document in front of him.

‘We expected you a few days ago,’ he chided.

‘Unforeseen delays on the road,’ explained Nicholas. ‘One of our wagons broke down and we were ambushed by robbers.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Not on our side,’ said Firethorn, ‘but we swinged them soundly. Nicholas fought off three of them himself.’

‘I see,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘I am sorry to hear about this. The Emperor had intended to arrange an armed escort for you, but…’ He paused to choose his words with care. ‘He was led astray by other matters. You reached Prague. That is the main thing. We are deeply grateful to Westfield’s Men.’

‘It is an honour to be here, sir.’

‘Where and when do we perform?’ asked Nicholas politely.

‘We will come to that in a moment,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘First, we must accommodate our guests. The palace itself is full at the moment, alas, so we have lodged you at an inn. I am told that the Black Eagle will meet your needs.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No cost will be incurred by you. We will settle any bills. Westfield’s Men will want for nothing.’

‘That is very heartening,’ said Firethorn with a grin.

‘In due course, I will get someone to show you the hall where you will perform. When you choose a play, I would like to know its subject before I give my approval. We are in a sensitive situation here. I cannot allow any drama that is critical of our government or discourteous to our religion.’

‘We understand,’ said Nicholas.

‘Good.’ He sat back and looked from one to the other. ‘Now, gentlemen. Is there anything you wish to ask me?’

Nicholas had several questions but the main one was dictated by the bulge beneath his jerkin. Ever since the secret documents he carried had led to the murder of Adrian Smallwood, he had been anxious to deliver them to the man to whom they were sent. He put a hand to his cargo.

‘I believe that a Doctor Talbot Royden is at Court.’

‘He was,’ said the Chamberlain levelly.

‘He is not here any longer?’

‘Oh, he is still at the castle, Master Bracewell. But he is no longer in the hallowed position he once held.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘Doctor Royden is an astrologer and an alchemist. He was retained to provide personal services to Emperor Rudolph.’

‘Personal services?’

‘It matters not what they were,’ said the other coldly, ‘because he is no longer free to offer them. Doctor Royden has been arrested and thrown into the castle dungeon.’