Richard Honeydew slowly recovered his curiosity.
‘Are we in Germany yet?’ he asked, nursing the lute.
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor shall we be by nightfall. We will not reach the border until well into tomorrow and there may still be days before we arrive in Cologne.’
‘Will they let us perform there?’
‘We hope so, Dick.’
‘I am afeard they will not like us.’
‘Remember the dictum of Master Firethorn,’ said Ingram. ‘It is the duty of an actor to make an audience like him. As we did in Flushing.’
Honeydew tensed. ‘The audience may have liked us but the townspeople did not. Those Dutch boys hated us. Will it be any different in Cologne?’
‘So we are led to believe,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Emperor himself urged us to visit the city and promised to warn them in advance of our coming. It is not some crowded little seaport like Flushing. Cologne is one of the largest cities in the Empire, famed for its beauty. Is that not true, James?’
Ingram nodded. ‘So I have heard tell.’
‘But we are English,’ observed the boy.
‘That is part of our appeal. Foreigners arouse curiosity.’
‘It goes deeper than that, James,’ said Nicholas. ‘A few English companies have been here before us and made a very favourable impression. Theatre is a serious profession in London. It is not so in Cologne or Frankfurt or any of the other places we visit. The quality of our plays and players sets us well above anything else they may have seen. Only companies from Spain or Italy could compete with us and they do not have an Edmund Hoode to devise wonderful dramas. Nor do they have actors as accomplished as Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill, Owen Elias or James Ingram here.’
‘You over-praise me, Nick,’ said Ingram modestly.
‘Your time will come, James.’
‘My fear was of another kind,’ explained Honeydew.
‘Fear?’
‘Yes. We are English, they are German. We speak one language, they speak another. We follow one religion, they hold to a different faith. Will not all this drive us apart?’
‘Who knows?’ said Nicholas. ‘We must take our hosts as we find them and trust that they will overlook our faults. From what I hear-and that is not much-there has been a great upheaval in Germany over the question of religion. The Pope still rules firmly in some areas, but others have been yielded to the Lutherans, the Calvinists, and sects whose names and creeds I do not even know. It behooves us to tread warily.’
A sound like the report of a musket startled them. Lawrence Firethorn had given a full-throated yell. Bored with the leisurely pace at which they were moving, he seized the reins from Owen Elias and cracked the whip of his voice at the two bay mares pulling his wagon. The vehicle lurched straight into life, swung crazily out to one side of the road and went thundering past its companion. Firethorn roared with laughter and challenged the other wagon to catch him. With a sharp flick of the reins, Nicholas goaded his own horses into a canter and the race was on.
Passengers in both wagons were happy to trade discomfort for exhilaration. Each time a wheel hit one of the frequent potholes, they were violently bounced and shaken, yet they still urged their respective drivers on. Firethorn was in his element, crackling with vitality, laughing madly and handling his horses with the reckless bravery of a Roman charioteer. Nicholas was a more skillful but cautious driver, who was content to keep his wagon within easy reach of his rival’s without endangering his passengers by a foolish attempt to overtake at such speed.
When they saw the two vehicles hurtling towards them, other travellers quickly got out of the way. Three carts were driven off the road, horsemen were scattered, and a group of ambling peasants dived into some bushes for cover. The race continued for well over a mile, until a ford provided a natural finishing post. As his horses splashed through the water, it acted as a brake on the wagon and Firethorn did not need to heave too hard in the reins to bring his animals to a halt on the bank. Nicholas was soon drawing up beside him.
‘We needed to wake ourselves up, Nick,’ said Firethorn, hopping to the ground. ‘The weight of gloom was slowing us down and I sought to cast some of it off.’
‘We proved one thing,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our horses are sound in wind and limb. They enjoyed the race as much as us. I think they deserve a rest.’
‘So do we.’
While the horses were watered, the company jumped out of the wagons to stretch their legs, compare bruises, satisfy the wants of nature and eat some of the fruit which they had brought with them. Richard Honeydew sat with his back against a tree and practised for the first time on his own lute. Two of the other apprentices had a playful fight. Owen Elias went upstream to see if his quick hand could catch a fish or two. Dusting off his doublet and hose, Barnaby Gill wished that he had stayed in London with a certain young musician. James Ingram’s thoughts were still with their murdered colleague.
When it was time to move on, Firethorn first called them together so that he could impart his vision.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said soulfully, ‘we have suffered pain and sadness thus far. We have lost a cherished friend and were forced to leave him behind to be buried in foreign soil. You all know his virtues. Adrian Smallwood will never be forgotten by any of us. But he was first and foremost an actor, and he would not wish his death to leave a lasting grief. Adrian was proud of Westfield’s Men. Let us resolve to justify that pride by giving of our best in the true tradition of this company.’ He struck his Hector of Troy pose. ‘Do not look back. Forward lies our road. Destination is all. Remember where and why we are bound. Westfield’s Men are to be honoured guests at the Court of Emperor Rudolph. Let that inspire you. Do not trudge there with spirits low and heads hung down. March into Prague like conquerors. The city is there for the taking!’ He smiled inwardly. And so, he thought to himself, is the fair maid of Bohemia. She is mine!
***
When they slipped across the German border on the following day, Firethorn’s speech still echoed in their ears and they were excited by the thought that they had just entered the Holy Roman Empire. Most of them took the grandiose name at face value and had no conception of the chaos that lay behind it. It would be some time before they learned that Germany was a bewildering mass of electorates, principalities, duchies and prince-bishoprics, owing their allegiance less to the Emperor than to various religious and political factions. Westfield’s Men were innocent children in an enchanted forest filled with invisible wolves.
Days took on a fixed pattern. They would set out at dawn and vary their speed until noon. After rest and refreshment, they would press on until early evening before taking another break. A final push before nightfall took them to one of the capacious German inns, where food was served in huge quantities and where local inhabitants were often in a state of permanent drunkenness. They slept in large rooms that contained several beds or mattresses, grouped around a central stove of such size and significance that they were grateful they were not there during the winter. Germany in the snow was evidently a traveller’s ordeal.
In the summer, it was a constant delight, with verdant meadows, rolling hills, rich woodland, sparkling streams and sunlit vineyards to catch the eye. Towns and villages were picturesque but solidly built, a compromise between romance and reality that reflected something of the German character. To the gaping visitors, who had never been outside England before, it was enthralling. To Nicholas Bracewell, who had voyaged around the whole world, it was still fascinating.