‘O happy transition!’
‘And your daughter is brought up by simple shepherds.’
‘My sweet, little, fair maid of Bohemia!’
‘Dick Honeydew will shine in the role.’
‘A pox on the role!’ said Firethorn dismissively. ‘The only person who shines in it is Sophia herself. She is radiant. Her beams are warmer than those of the sun. At the Queen’s Head, she lit up the whole innyard with her presence. That is where I sensed my kinship with her. Sophia Magdalena of Bohemia. My own fair maid. So eager to see me again that she prevailed upon the Emperor to invite us to Prague.’
‘That may not be quite what happened,’ said Nicholas.
‘What other explanation is there? She fell in love with the Grand Master and I lost my heart to her. That is why I will happily ride half-way across the Continent at her behest. She waits in Bohemia for her faithful knight to arrive.’
Nicholas forbore to point out that the knight’s fidelity had been pledged to his wife only minutes earlier. In talking with such fondness and consideration about Margery, the actor-manager had looked back wistfully to London. His gaze was now fixed on Prague and nothing would deflect him. The wayward knight now rode solely under the banner of Sophia Magdalena.
‘Onward!’ said Firethorn, holding an imaginary sword in the air. ‘In the east, my pleasure lies. Onward to Bohemia!’
‘The journey will be a difficult one.’
‘I will swim lakes to reach her. I will hew down whole forests. I will climb the mountains as Hannibal once did in search of conquest. Sophia is distraught without me.’
‘She is not the only person we seek in Prague,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘There are others.’
‘Not for me. Sophia Magdalena is enough. She is Prague.’
‘Emperor Rudolph is our host.’
‘Only because of her.’
‘That may well be, but we must pay due homage to him.’ He felt the pouch inside his jerkin. ‘And we have to deliver the documents to Doctor Talbot Royden.’
‘He has gone right out of my mind.’
‘Bring him back,’ urged Nicholas. ‘Keep his name in your thoughts. These documents have already cost Westfield’s Men dearly. As long as they are in our possession, the company remains in danger.’
‘From whom, Nick? That is what I want to know.’
‘We can but guess.’
‘The worst enemy is one who will not show himself.’
‘I brought him out of hiding this morning.’
‘But you did not see the villain. He remains a phantom.’
‘That is why we must exercise the greatest care,’ stressed Nicholas. ‘You have a burning desire to reach Prague. Let us be sure that the whole company reaches it with you.’
‘I will be Vigilance personified.’
‘We will all need to take that role.’
Firethorn quaffed his beer and leaned closer to him.
‘Who is this Talbot Royden?’ he wondered.
‘What did Lord Westfield tell you about him?’
‘Nothing beyond the fact that he was a doctor of repute. Our patron simply pressed that pouch into my hands and urged me to deliver it to this fellow.’
‘How did he speak the man’s name?’
‘His name?’
‘With pleasure?’ asked Nicholas. ‘With distaste? With familiarity? Can you remember?’
Firethorn was reflective. ‘It seems a long time ago, Nick. I was so thrilled at the idea of travelling to Bohemia that I paid scant attention to this trivial service we were asked to perform.’
‘Because of that trivial service, Adrian Smallwood died.’
‘Secrecy,’ recalled Firethorn. ‘That is what Lord Westfield sought to impress upon me. Above all else, the documents were to be kept secret. As they have been.’
‘Not from the murderer.’
‘How did he know of their existence?’
‘We will find that out in due course. But you have not answered my question. How did our patron say the name of Talbot Royden?’
‘As if he had never laid eyes on the man.’
‘Then all we know about the good doctor is what we may deduce,’ mused Nicholas. ‘If he is employed at the Imperial Court, he must have a high standing in his profession. But in what branch of medicine or science is he most learned? Is he a personal physician to Emperor Rudolph himself? Or does he have some other function? How did he get to Bohemia in the first place?’ He felt the wooden box in his purse. ‘And what links does he maintain with England?’
‘Doctor Talbot Royden is an enigma,’ said Firethorn.
‘Not entirely. He enjoys the favour of the Holy Roman Emperor and he would only do that by dint of some remarkable skills. Of one thing we can be certain.’
‘What is that, Nick?’
‘Talbot Royden is a species of genius.’
***
The laboratory was situated in what had once been the largest apartment at the castle. It was a long, low, narrow room whose ceiling was supported by a series of arches which divided the place into bays. Tallow candles burned with such abundance that the laboratory had the feeling of a chapel, but it was dedicated to a stranger religion than Christianity. Chemical odours of competing pungency mingled with the abiding smell of damp. Spiders flourished in dark corners. Mice and beetles traversed the wooden floor in search of food. A lazy black cat spent most of its time asleep on a wooden stool.
Tables were laden with jars of weird liquids and coloured powders. All kinds of scientific equipment was scattered about. A surgeon’s chest-complete with a gruesome collection of knives, pincers and scissors-stood open on an oak chest. Beside it lay the saw that was used for amputations, its teeth blunted by recent use. Leather-bound tomes, written in many languages, were stacked everywhere. Learning lay cheek-by-jowl with instruments for letting blood.
The two men stood in front of the furnace at the far end of the room. Even with its iron door closed, it gave off a fierce heat.
‘Open it,’ ordered Talbot Royden.
‘Has it had time enough?’
‘Do as I tell you, Casper.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Open the door slowly.’
Royden took a precautionary step backwards. He was an ugly man in his thirties with a bulbous nose and porcine eyes. His compact body was hidden by a long red gown decorated with the signs of the zodiac. His hat covered his ears, the back of his neck and most of his forehead. He was sweating profusely.
His young assistant wore a leather apron over his shirt and breeches. He put on thick gloves before he reached out to open the door of the furnace. As it swung on its hinges, there was a dramatic surge of heat and light. The whole room seemed to be on fire. Caspar’s intelligent face registered both hope and fear. With a pair of large tongs, he reached into the furnace to pull something out with great tenderness before setting it down on the block of stone beside the furnace.
Both men watched carefully as the small cauldron hissed and glowed. When it began to give off a succession of sparks and peculiar noises, Doctor Talbot Royden clicked his tongue in irritation. It was speaking to him in a language that he understood.
‘It is not yet ready,’ he admitted.
‘We were too hasty,’ said Caspar respectfully. ‘It was my fault, Master. Perhaps I extracted it too quickly from the furnace. Or did not bring the fire to the requisite heat.’
‘No, Caspar. It is my judgement that is awry.’
‘What must we do?’
‘What else?’ said Royden wearily. ‘We try again.’
But they were not allowed to repeat their experiment. Before the assistant could use his tongs again, the door of the laboratory was flung open and four armed soldiers marched in. They surrounded Royden and looked suspiciously down at the sizzling cauldron.
‘Is it a success?’ grunted one of them.
‘Not yet,’ conceded the alchemist.
‘Arrest him.’
‘Stop!’ protested Royden as he was seized by two of the soldiers. ‘I am in the middle of an important experiment.’
‘A failed experiment.’
‘The augmentation process is very tricky.’