Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Another tedious hour limped past before he heard the noise from above. Two sets of footsteps were descending towards him. A rush of light came from a burning torch. Royden leaped up and peered hopefully through the bars, shielding his eyes from the glare of the flames. One of the gaolers was bringing a visitor down to the prisoner.

‘Caspar!’ shouted Royden. ‘Am I to be released?’

‘Not yet,’ said his assistant.

‘Have you not spoken with the Emperor?’

‘He refuses to see me.’

‘Does my name count for nothing in Prague?’

‘Unhappily, it does not.’

‘Help me!’

‘I am doing my best, Master.’

The gaoler unlocked the door so that they could have a proper conversation but he stayed close to keep them under observation. Since the man spoke no English, they were able to talk freely. Royden grasped his assistant by the shoulders and gabbled questions at him.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why have I been cast into this foul pit? Who has turned the Emperor against me? When will they let me out of here? Tell me what you have found out, Caspar. Is there any comfort at all for me? Can I dare to hope? Or will I be left here to rot in perpetuity?’ He tightened his grip. ‘What time of day is it?’

‘Not long after noon, Master.’

‘It is eternal night down here.’

‘How do you fare?’ asked the other considerately.

‘I dwindle, Caspar. I dwindle and decay.’

‘Bear up.’

‘This is the vilest torture.’

‘Such affliction cannot last forever.’

‘It will break my spirit.’

He slumped to the floor and sat in the straw. Caspar knelt beside him and tried to offer consolation, but Royden was close to despair. His assistant could see the tears in his eyes.

‘There is one tiny ray of hope, Master,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ begged the other. ‘Tell me. Please tell me.’

‘They have not touched the laboratory.’

‘My materials? My equipment?’

‘All safe.’

‘My books? My records of our experiments?’

‘Untouched.’

‘You still have the key?’

‘Yes,’ said Caspar, patting his purse. ‘I keep the room locked at all times. Nobody else may enter the laboratory. I am looking after it until my master returns.’

‘God bless you!’

‘The Emperor must relent.’

‘What chance is there of that?’

‘He is often given to charitable impulse.’

‘Bohemia has a madman upon its throne. I have seen so much evidence of his lunacy over the years. My loyalty to him was grossly misplaced. I should have quit Prague a long time ago.’ He spread his palms in supplication. ‘I have done him great service, Caspar. Why will he not even see me?’

‘His mind is taken up with the preparations.’

‘For what?’

‘The wedding.’

‘Ah, yes!’ sighed Royden. ‘The wedding.’

‘That may have been our downfall,’ said Caspar sadly. ‘The Emperor was counting on us. We were to provide a wedding gift that was quite unique. And we did not.’

‘Only because his guards stopped us.’

‘Our time ran out, Master.’

‘Alchemy will not conform to time.’

‘When the wedding is over, he may take pity on you.’

‘Will I still be living?’

‘Assuredly. Think of your laboratory.’

‘I think of nothing else down here.’

‘If the Emperor had turned against you, he would have destroyed your work completely. But it has been left quite unmolested for you to resume one day.’

‘When?’

‘After the wedding. That preoccupies him now.’

‘Will I have to languish here until then?’

‘I fear so, Master.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

‘Not out of my mind,’ promised the other. ‘Nor that of a stranger from England who has been asking after you.’

‘A stranger?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell. Does you know him?’

‘I have never heard the name before.’

‘He travels with Westfield’s Men, a troupe of players from London. They are to play a comedy this afternoon before the whole Court.’

‘A comedy!’ Royden gave mirthless laugh. ‘Send them down to my dungeon and they will see a tragedy being performed.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What did this Nicholas Bracewell want?’

‘To speak with you.’

‘Why?’

‘He would not say.’

‘What manner of man was he?’

‘A fine, upstanding fellow, from what I could judge. He is only the book-holder with the company, but he is highly respected by all. A solid man, one not likely to give way if trouble came. Honest and trustworthy.’

‘How did he earn such a good opinion from you?’

‘I talked to him,’ said Caspar. ‘He impressed me with his strength of purpose. When I offered to bring a message to you on his behalf, he insisted on delivering it himself.’

‘What sort of message does he have for me?’

‘I have no idea, Master.’

‘From whom does it come?’

‘Not from Nicholas Bracewell himself, I think.’

The gaoler grunted to signal that the visit was at an end.

‘Let him stay longer!’ implored Royden.

‘He has his orders. And I will come again.’

‘Soon, Caspar. Soon.’

‘As soon as they will let me.’

‘And find out more about this Nicholas Bracewell. What possible interest can a book-holder in a theatre company have in a man like me?’

‘He mentioned Doctor Mordrake.’

‘Mordrake!’ hissed the other, cringing against the wall. ‘If he is an emissary from John Mordrake, keep him away from me. I do not want any message from that doddering old fool.’

The gaoler stepped forward to tap Caspar on the shoulder. The latter rose to his feet and nodded. Helping Royden up, he embraced his master before turning swiftly away. The prisoner waited until the door had been locked and both men had vanished before he looked down at the gift which his assistant had pressed into his hand during the embrace. Royden was holding three candles. Battle against the creeping darkness could commence.

‘Thank you, Caspar,’ he said with deep gratitude.

Sinking to the floor, he hid the candles beneath the straw until they would be needed, then he reached out to take another apple from the basket. As he bit into it, he discovered that it had already been gnawed by a rat. He flung it away in sheer disgust.

‘Rudolph,’ he said grimly, ‘My curse upon you!’

***

Arrayed once more in his coronation robes, the Emperor sat on his throne and played idly with a ring on his left hand. His crown felt heavier than ever as the crushing weight of religion pressed down on his skull. He endured the pain until he could bear it no longer, then removed the crown and set it on the floor. But the headache grew even fiercer now. Religion could not be so easily put aside.

Rudolph stood up in distress and massaged his throbbing temples with his fingertips. The movement did not disturb the work of the Milanese artist. His portrait of the Emperor continued to take shape beneath his brush. When his subject began to wander distractedly around the room, the artist kept one eye fixed on the throne as if it were still occupied. The pain finally eased. Rudolph sighed with relief. Noticing his companion for the first time, he spoke to him in Italian.

‘Do you ever have headaches, my friend?’ he asked.

‘Now and again.’

‘What do you?’

‘I send for my wife to caress the pain away.’

‘And if your wife is not at home?’

‘I send for my mistress.’

Rudolph brooded on the problem. He had no wife for whom he could send and his former mistresses evoked some unpleasant memories. No woman could caress away the agony that descended on him. Indeed, he reflected, the Virgin Mary was at least partly responsible for it. He was still meditating on the inadequacy of womankind when the Chamberlain knocked and entered. His long strides brought him across to Rudolph.