Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

No natural light came into the dungeon and the bars on the door were the only means of ventilation. Royden was forced to inhale the stink of his own excrement along with the foul stench left behind by his predecessors. There was no way out. Caspar was his only ambassador. He had great faith in his assistant but he knew how perverse the Emperor could be. It would take more than Caspar’s plea to instil some mercy in the wayward Rudolph.

Royden sank down into the straw and wondered what was to become of him. He had been brought to Prague as a brilliant astrologer with the gift of foretelling the future. Even his dreams had borne a mystic significance. Yet now he could not even foresee what would happen in the next hour. The symbols on his gown merged with the stifling gloom. His powers had been taken away from him.

A distant noise concentrated his mind. Someone was unlocking a door to descend the steps. Blowing out the fresh candle, he concealed it in the straw again and relied on the guttering illumination of the candle they had given him. He scrambled to the door in the hope of seeing Caspar again but the gaoler was alone. Torch in one hand, he carried a pitcher of water in the other. He was a slovenly man with a ponderous walk. It took him some moments to find the right key for the lock.

Opening the door, he thrust the pitcher at Royden without comment. The prisoner took it, then jabbered loudly.

‘I should not be here!’ he protested. ‘I am Doctor Talbot Royden and I demand respect for my achievements. Remind the Emperor that I have been his devoted servant. I have cast horoscopes, I have cured diseases, I have set bones. My skills have been of untold value in Bohemia. They have earned me the right to defend myself. Tell him!’ he insisted. ‘Tell the Emperor what I have said. He must hear me.’

‘He does hear you.’

The man looked at him for the first time and Royden saw the familiar face under the soiled cap. Rudolph gave him a sinister smile and stepped back. Before the prisoner could even express his horror, the door slammed inexorably shut.

***

Firethorn looked on in fascination as Nicholas set the pen, parchment and ink on the table. They were alone in the room from which Anne Hendrik had been kidnapped. Having first set the table upright, Nicholas now sat before it on the stool. He unhooked his jerkin to slip a hand inside. When he extracted the pouch, he heard Firethorn step up behind him to peer over his shoulder. Both men were anxious to see what it was that had caused them such tribulation on their journey to Bohemia.

Nicholas broke the elaborate seal and unfolded the sheets of paper. A letter was enclosed with four documents, but all were totally incomprehensible. They looked at the strange words and the mixture of numbers and symbols.

‘Is this some kind of jest, Nick?’ said Firethorn.

‘Far from it.’

‘The letter is not even signed.’

‘I believe it is,’ decided Nicholas. ‘That number at the bottom of the page discloses the sender. Everything is in some kind of code. It will be known to the recipient.’

‘Can Talbot Royden make sense of that gibberish?’

‘I think so.’

‘And was it those squiggles which got Adrian Smallwood killed and Anne Hendrik abducted?’ Firethorn scratched his beard. ‘What does it all mean?’

‘That Doctor Royden is a spy.’

‘For whom?’

‘I do not know,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but I wager that there is espionage afoot here. Hidden in these documents is vital information.’

‘About what?’

‘That will emerge in time.’ He picked up the quill. ‘At least, we know what we are dealing with here.’

‘Arrant nonsense!’

‘Secret orders. Valuable intelligence. Couched in a private language to ensure its safety. This did not come from Lord Westfield. We were couriers for a much higher authority.’

He dipped his pen in the ink and began to copy the letter. Firethorn watched in silence until all the documents had been transposed to the blank parchment. Having completed his task as a scrivener, Nicholas used the point of his dagger to ease off the seal. He melted some wax in a candle flame, folded the original documents, then dropped the hot wax over the marks left by the seal. Firethorn applied the signet ring he had worn in the play that afternoon and their work was complete. Who had sent the documents they did not know, but they now bore the seal of the Duke of Mantua.

‘What will you do now, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Exchange these for Anne.’

‘Let me come to guard your back.’

‘Stay here and guard these instead,’ said Nicholas, giving him the copies he had just made. ‘We will peruse them at our leisure and see what we can deduce from them.’

‘Nothing! This language is worse than Czech.’

‘That is perfectly lucid to those who understand it.’

‘Who is this fiend?’ demanded Firethorn.

‘I will tell you when I have met him.’

‘How did he know we were bearing those documents?’

‘That is one of many things I hope to ask him.’

When the seal had dried, Nicholas put the documents into the pouch and slipped them back inside his jerkin. He removed his sword but kept the dagger at his belt. Firethorn embraced him warmly.

‘Take care, dear heart!’

‘I will.’

‘Give Anne my love.’

Nicholas nodded, then went swiftly out through the door.

***

The Town Square was enormous. Tall, proud, well-maintained burghers’ houses ran along all four sides of it, each house given colour and individuality by its elaborate decorations. The Town Hall itself lent civic authority, while the Church of Saint Nicholas and two monasteries showed the spiritual face of the city. Looming over one side of the square were the massive twin towers and the arresting facade of the Týn Church. Power and prosperity were reflected in the square, which lay on the eastern bank at the very centre of Prague. Hundreds of people were abroad, standing in small groups or crossing in all directions, but there was no sense of clutter or discomfort. The Town Square seemed big enough to accommodate the entire population of the city.

Nicholas arrived well before the stipulated time and strolled around the perimeter of the square to show that he was completely alone. That he was under observation was quite certain but he could not begin to guess from where. Countless windows looked down on the square and there was an endless choice of streets, lanes and alleys in which to lurk unseen. His enemy might be any one of the dozens of people whose shoulders brushed him in the great market-place of Prague.

As the hour approached, Nicholas walked across to the huge tower crowning the Town Hall. The astronomical clock was one of the most celebrated sights in the city, and visitors came from far and wide to view the extraordinary and complex device. It consisted of three distinct parts. The large calendar dial was flanked by statues of the philosopher and the angel on the left side and the astronomer and the chronicler on the right. At its centre was the Prague coat of arms.

Even though he was there on such a grim errand, Nicholas was struck by the twelve turning circles around the edge of the dial. The astronomical clock above was even more intricate. Flanked by figures of the Miser, Vanity, Death and a lute-carrying Turk, it consisted of a series of rings, the outer one bearing Arab numerals, and the inner ones, the signs of the zodiac.

Nicholas was not alone. A small crowd gathered to hear the clock strike and to watch figures emerge from the two doors above the clock. At the first stroke, Nicholas swung round to look more closely at his companions. Some were local inhabitants who stopped out of habit but most were curious visitors. None even spared him a glance. He could not compete with the horological masterpiece.