***
Rudolph II, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia, sat on his throne in full regalia. His vestments were embroidered with gold thread and his heavy crown resembled a bishop’s mitre which had been turned sideways to reveal a band of gold surmounted by a tiny cross. Held in his left hand, the massive sword of state rested on its point. The sceptre of office was held in his other hand and rested on his shoulder. He exuded a sense of quiet power and majesty. In outward appearance, he was an archetypal Defender of the Faith. All that Rudolph needed to do was to decide exactly which faith he was defending.
The distinctive Hapsburg face was devoid of expression. Large, protruding eyes gazed unseeing into the distance. The nose was like the beak of a bird, the undershot chin was the family signature. The drooping lower lip moved imperceptibly as he talked to himself. Rudolph was now in his fortieth year, but the weight of his melancholia made him seem older. His attitude suggested a man who was rueful about the years which had passed and fearful about those to come.
Studying him intently, the Milanese artist was undeterred by his subject’s mood of dejection. He saw what he wished to see and his brush transposed his vision to the canvas. Short, fat and amiable, he offered a complete contrast to the sad, motionless figure on the throne. The artist was bristling with nervous energy and constantly shifted his feet or shrugged his expressive shoulders. They were alone in the Presence Chamber at the castle. The portrait was slowly taking shape.
A staff rapped on the door, then it swung open to admit the tall, spare figure of the Chamberlain. He padded across the marble floor to take up a position at the Emperor’s right ear. Rudolph gave no indication that he was aware of his visitor. The arrival of the Chamberlain in no way distracted the artist. His brush worked away at the same busy pace as before.
Clearing his throat noisily, the newcomer spoke in German with a mixture of deference and irritation. It was difficult to hold a conversation with a man who had absented himself from the world and its immediate responsibilities.
‘The Papal Nuncio is here,’ he announced.
‘Why?’ mumbled Rudolph.
‘He has an appointment to see you.’
‘Cancel it.’
‘You have already cancelled two appointments with him,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He comes on important business.’
‘From the Pope?’
‘Of course, Your Imperial Highness.’
‘Then we know what he is going to say.’
‘It would be a kindness to hear him say it.’
‘I will. In time.’
‘When? Later today? Tomorrow? The day after?’
‘When I feel able to face him.’
‘The Papal Nuncio grows impatient.’
‘That is his privilege.’
‘You cannot go on refusing to see visitors.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is not politic, Your Imperial Highness.’
‘I am not a political animal.’
Rudolph set the sword and sceptre aside before lifting the crown from his head and setting it on his lap. He turned his wondering eyes on the Chamberlain.
‘What else have you come to tell me?’
‘You have several other appointments today.’
‘Cancel them.’
‘We must not keep doing that.’
‘Postpone them instead. I am not ready for them.’
‘When will you be ready?’
‘You will be told.’
The Chamberlain pursed his lips in annoyance but made no comment. He was about to move away when he remembered something else he had to report.
‘Doctor Talbot Royden has been arrested.’
Rudolph blinked. ‘On whose orders?’
‘Yours.’
‘Why did I have him arrested?’
‘He has failed yet again.’
‘But he promised me that he would succeed this time.’
‘He did not.’
‘This is intolerable!’ said Rudolph, rising to his feet. ‘I need men around me who can keep their word. I want a Court that is the envy of the civilised world. I demand success and achievement in every branch of the sciences and the arts. Has Doctor Talbot Royden been told that?’
‘Many times.’
‘Send him to the dungeons.’
‘He is already under lock and key.’
‘What further punishment should I inflict upon him?’
‘That is up to you, your Imperial Highness.’
Rudolph sat down on his throne to consider the question. His anger slowly ebbed and it gave way to a sudden outburst of manic laughter. The Chamberlain edged away from him. Rudolph clapped his hands together with glee.
‘I know what I will do for the good doctor!’ he said.
‘What is that?’
‘Send him a basket of fruit.’
The Chamberlain was mystified. ‘Fruit? A basket of fruit?’
‘The perfect gift,’ insisted the other before turning to the artist and translating his edict into fluent Italian. ‘I am sending my prisoner a basket of fruit.’
‘Fruit?’ said the other with a giggle.
‘From the Emperor!’
As the two of them went off into another peal of wild and inexplicable laughter, the Chamberlain made a dignified exit.
***
The journey to Frankfurt took two days longer than they had anticipated. When they left the Rhine Valley and headed east, they came up against topographical problems of all kinds. Hills, mountains, woodland and waterways slowed them down, and the appalling condition of the roads was another delaying factor. One of the wagons lost a wheel when it hit a boulder at speed and precious hours were taken up by the repair.
Westfield’s Men soldiered on bravely and Firethorn kept up their spirits by leading rehearsals of plays from their repertoire. By common consent, The Corrupt Bargain had been eliminated from the list they would offer to their audiences. Robbed of one of his plays, Edmund Hoode was determined to make amends with another. He worked conscientiously on The Fair Maid of Bohemia, sitting beside Nicholas Bracewell so that he could profit from the book-holder’s advice. It was not the first time a play had been written on the hoof. During a tour to the West Country, the two friends had collaborated on ideas which eventually grew into The Merchant of Calais. Hoode was keen to revive that fertile partnership.
‘Barnaby is calling for an extra song,’ he said.
‘He already has enough,’ argued Nicholas. ‘The play can carry two more songs but they should be given to Owen and to Dick Honeydew.’
‘That was my feeling as well.’
‘It will lend more variety to the singing.’
‘That was the joy of Adrian’s voice,’ observed Hoode sadly. ‘It was such a welcome contrast. This play cries out for an actor like Adrian Smallwood.’
‘I know. But you have made good progress, Edmund.’
‘Thanks to you.’
‘All that I have done is to make a few suggestions.’
‘You fired my imagination, Nick. Whenever I faltered, I took fresh inspiration from her.’
‘Her?’
‘Sophia Magdalena. The fair maid who arranged for us to be invited to Bohemia. The least I can offer her by way of thanks is a play in her honour. It is an expression of my deep and lasting devotion to her.’
‘But you only saw her that once.’
‘It was enough.’
‘She struck a chord with the whole company.’
‘You, too, will fall in love with her, Nick.’
‘I am already spoken for,’ said the other softly. ‘You pursue your fair maid of Bohemia and I will hold fast to my fine lady of Bankside.’
‘It may be a long while before you are together again.’
‘We are resigned to that.’
‘Absence serves to whet the appetite.’
‘True.’ He flicked the reins to goad the horses into a trot. ‘Tell me more about the play. What other changes have you made to it?’
Hoode needed no more encouragement. He talked at length and with enthusiasm about the heroine’s translation from Wapping to Bohemia. Nicholas was pleased to hear that some of his own ideas had been incorporated and developed. It was evident that, by the time they reached Prague, the revisions would be complete and the play fit for rehearsal. After the harrowing experience at the Palace in Cologne, the playwright was in sore need of a triumph to restore his morale.