Firethorn did not waste their time on the road. While he savoured with the others the pleasures of the traveller, he kept their mission firmly before their gaze. Every journey was a rehearsal of a play, every wayside stop an opportunity to practice dances or to stage fights. Westfield’s Men worked hard to keep their repertoire in a state of good repair because they knew it would be put under the closest scrutiny.
While rehearsals shaped each day, it was something else which gave them direction. The Rhine was a revelation to the newcomers, a majestic waterway which rose in the Swiss Alps and wended its way for over eight hundred miles until it fed into the North Sea. Like the Thames, it was a main thoroughfare, with sailing ships, barges, ferries, hoys, fishing-smacks and rowing-boats riding on it in profusion. There was a slow, unhurried, timeless quality about the Rhine. Along both banks, at points of scenic beauty or strategic importance, it had a succession of charming little towns and quaint villages. Nicholas felt a pang of regret that Anne Hendrik was not there to share such sights with him.
The river was their guide. Whether looping capriciously or running straight for miles, it eventually took them to their destination. When they got their first sight of the city, they brought the wagons to a halt and stood to marvel at what lay ahead. Nothing had prepared them for the glory that was Cologne. It was dazzling. Built on a graceful curve in the Rhine, it was an ancient city which had once been the largest in Germany and one of the wealthiest in Christendom. Much of its grandeur still clung to it like robes of tissued gold.
London might be bigger, especially now that it was pushing out into ever-widening suburbs, but they only ever saw the capital from the inside. They had absorbed its impact and taken its wonders for granted. Cologne was different. It was a dignified city of high towers, soaring steeples, fine houses and stately civic buildings, standing respectfully in the shadow of a mighty cathedral whose Gothic extravagance made Saint Paul’s look plain and homely and whose spire rose to a height which dwarfed its London counterpart. Westfield’s Men were struck dumb when they saw how much time, energy, money, love and sublime artistry had been dedicated to the service of God. Cologne Cathedral was a monument to centuries of belief.
It was still the centre of a vigorous Christianity and they could hear dozens of bells chiming even at that distance.
‘Cologne is a Roman Catholic city,’ warned Nicholas. ‘We must be very careful what we say and how we behave.’
‘We are here to entertain them,’ stressed Firethorn, ‘and not to convert them. Nor should we let them convert us to their Popish practices.’
‘It is magnificent!’ sighed Hoode, still wide-eyed.
‘Ha!’ snorted Gill.’ All that I see is a crumbling mausoleum of the Old Religion. And are we to debase ourselves by offering them our plays? It is an insult to my faith.
‘The only Superior Being in your life is yourself,’ said Firethorn sharply. ‘When we perform at the Queen’s Head, we share our bounty among Anglicans, Roman Catholics, Huguenots, Calvinists, Jews, Anabaptists, Atheists and creeping Puritans who come to sneer at our work. Theatre serves all religions. Even the God-forsaken will not be turned away by us.’
With Gill silenced, the wagons rolled on once more and they were able to take a closer inventory of Cologne. The city was fronted by several wharves and there were so many craft at anchor that it was almost possible to use them as stepping-stones to the opposite bank. Originally built on the western bank, the capital of the Rhineland had long since outgrown its fortified walls and spread out in an easterly direction. The river both divided the two parts of the city and joined them closely together.
Driving the first wagon, Nicholas led the way through the crowded streets in search of the inn recommended by Balthasar Davey. The secretary’s advice had been trustworthy so far. His choice of the White Cross had to be respected. While the book-holder was concerned with finding a place to stay, the actor-manager wanted to let the whole city know that they had arrived. Standing in his flamboyant apparel in the rear of the second wagon, he declaimed a martial speech to the tallest spires. A drum was beaten, a trumpet blared, the actors went into an elaborate mime and everyone knew that the players had come to Cologne.
The stocky man in the garb of a merchant did not need to be told that they were coming. He was lounging outside the White Cross as the two wagons rumbled around the corner. His presence went completely unnoticed by the newcomers. Nicholas Bracewell had glanced over his shoulder many times during the journey but he never thought to look in front of him.
Someone was waiting for them.
Chapter Six
Fortune favoured them at last. After suffering the rigours of the voyage, the cruel loss of one of their number and the cumulative fatigue of long days on the road, they found some warm consolation awaiting them in Cologne. It was Nicholas Bracewell who made the discovery. Lawrence Firethorn sent him off to the Burgomaster to seek permission for Westfield’s Men to play in the city. Nicholas could not have had a more positive response.
A big, fleshy man with a rubicund face, the Burgomaster wore a resplendent mayoral chain of solid gold which rested on his expansive paunch. Whenever he laughed, the chain bobbed merrily up and down. He oozed wealth and well-being. His command of English was uncertain and his accent guttural but he made himself understood.
‘Willkommen, Herr Bracewell!’ he said, pumping Nicholas’s hand. ‘The English comedians always we like to see in Köln. Lovely city, ja? How long you stay?’
‘Only for a few days, I fear.’
‘Is all?’
‘We have to ride on.’
‘Where you go?’
‘Frankfurt am Main,’ explained Nicholas. ‘After a short stay there, we go on to Eisenach, Weimar and Prague. That is our main destination. Westfield’s Men have been invited to play for two weeks at the Imperial Court.’
‘Wunderbar!’ said the other, chortling with approval and making his chain rattle. ‘Is big honour. You play the comedy for our Emperor, ja? Good.’
‘Did you not know of our visit?’
‘Nein.’
‘In his letter, the Emperor said that he would write to tell you that we were coming here.’
‘Emperor Rudolph,’ said the other with a philosophical shrug, ‘he forgot. Many things he promise, he not remembers. On the fringe of the Empire, Köln is. Prague, long way, ja?’ His chuckle returned to set his chain in motion again. ‘No matter. We pleased here to see Wizzfeld’s Men.’
‘Westfield’s,’ corrected Nicholas politely. ‘Lord Westfield is our patron and he secured our passport to travel abroad and play where we could find an audience.’
‘Here, an audience you have.’
‘We are very grateful.’
‘Köln thanks you. Wizzfeld’s Men is famous. The Emperor invite them. We must see them also, ja?’
‘We are at your disposal,’ said Nicholas deferentially.
‘Natürlich!’
The genial Burgomaster went off into a peal of laughter and his chain bobbed once more. They were in the Council Chamber at the imposing Rathaus, the town hall where civic business was conducted. It was a spacious room with a vast table in it. The Burgomaster was built on the right scale for such a place. A smaller man would have been dwarfed to insignificance. Nicholas was delighted with the cordial reception he had been given. It was a good omen. His host was friendly and willing to help in any way. Nicholas took the opportunity to find out as much as he could about Cologne and its relation to the Empire. The Burgomaster talked fondly about the former but more guardedly about the latter. Nicholas garnered invaluable information.
When the discussion was over, he hastened back through the streets to the White Cross. It was early evening and most of Westfield’s Men were washing down a large meal with mugs of German beer. Owen Elias was making his companions laugh wildly at his anecdotes. Nicholas was pleased to step into a happier atmosphere. They had not forgotten Adrian Smallwood but they had managed to put the horror of his murder behind them. Lawrence Firethorn beckoned his book-holder across to the table he shared with Barnaby Gill. Both men were anxious to hear the tidings.