‘We are to be guests of honour at the Imperial Court,’ said Firethorn. ‘By personal invitation of the Emperor.’
‘No honour could be higher.’ He peered at Nicholas. ‘I hope that our paths may cross again. If there is some way that I may watch you play in Prague, I will find it.’
‘You will be most welcome, Hugo,’ said Firethorn. ‘But if you go by the same route, why not travel in company with us?’
‘That would be an imposition. Besides, I am days behind now. I must ride hard to make up lost time.’ He rose to his feet and offered his hand to Firethorn. ‘Farewell-and thank you for this pleasure.’
‘We are always pleased to see a friendly face, Hugo.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘We wish you Godspeed!’
Usselincx took his hand between both palms and shook it. As he backed away, the Dutchman plucked a small purse from his belt and tossed it to Firethorn.
‘Spend that for me in celebration of your triumph.’
When Firethorn shook out the coins, he was surprised at the man’s generosity. Before he could thank him, however, Hugo Usselincx had given a simpering smile and disappeared.
‘Frankfurt is a city of wonders!’ said Firethorn. ‘Money drops out of the sky.’
‘We would do well to save it against harsher times,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Shall I take charge of it?’
‘No, Nick. It is ours to spend and that is what we will do with it. We’ll drink the health of Hugo Usselincx.’ He put an arm around his friend. ‘Do not look so disapproving. This money may be spent, but plenty more will fall into our laps. We may find that it grows on trees in Bohemia.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘So will I when I am sober again. But tonight I will get as gloriously drunk as a lord. Then I will fall into my bed and dream sweetly of Sophia Magdalena. The fair maid herself.’ He smacked his friend between the shoulder-blades. ‘Come, Nick. Be honest. You long to see her again yourself.’
‘I do,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but my first task will be to seek out someone else in Prague.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Doctor Talbot Royden.’
***
He was still not used to the noisome stench of the dungeon or to its chilling coldness. Talbot Royden sat in the straw in a corner, huddled over the single candle they had allowed him. Since he had been thrown in there, he had been given no food or drink. Were they intent on starving him to death? His head was still spinning at the speed of what had happened. Instead of being the respected Doctor Royden, he was one more miserable prisoner in the castle dungeons. Why had Rudolph turned against him so suddenly and unaccountably?
Distant footsteps raised a faint glimmer of hope and he scrambled to the door. A guard came down the steps, lighting the way with a flaming torch that gave off an acrid smell. Peering through the bars, Royden rallied when he saw that his assistant was following the guard. Caspar was carrying a large basket that was covered with a cloth. His assistant was as confused as his master by what had happened, but at least he had retained his freedom. He was Royden’s one link with the outside world.
‘Caspar!’ he called. ‘What is going on? Why have they done this to me? Have you been to the Emperor to protest?’
‘Yes, Master,’ said the other quietly.
‘Well?’
‘He said that I was to give you this.’
‘What is it?’
‘You will see, Master.’
The guard unlocked the door and Caspar stepped into the dungeon. He offered his cargo to Royden with obvious embarrassment, then indicated that he should remove the cloth. When Royden did so, he was stupefied. The gift from the Emperor made no sense at all. In his hands, the prisoner was holding a huge basket of fresh fruit.
Chapter Eight
The mood of elation in which they left Frankfurt lasted for only a few days. Westfield’s Men were soon weary of the discomforts of travelling over bad roads in changeable weather. Complaints surfaced, bickering developed. On the fourth day, one of the wagons overturned while fording a river. Injuries were minor, but half of the company were soaked to the skin and the wagon itself was badly damaged. Repairs cost them precious time. Because they could not reach the next town by nightfall, they had to sleep under the stars. It was a thoroughly dispirited troupe which set off at dawn next morning.
As setbacks continued to mount, even the placid Edmund Hoode began to grumble. He was seated beside Nicholas Bracewell, who was driving the first wagon. Anne Hendrik was directly behind them, listening to the strains of the lute on which Richard Honeydew was practising. Hoode gazed at the mountains ahead of them.
‘Do we have to climb over those, Nick?’ he moaned.
‘There may be a pass through them.’
‘Not with our luck!’
‘It is bound to change soon.’
‘Yes-for the worse. We have been on the road for a week now and we still seem no closer to our destination. Will we ever get there?’
‘No question but that we will,’ assured Nicholas. ‘And the journey has not been entirely an ordeal. Eisenach was a pretty town and Weimar even more so.’
‘But we only stayed a night at each, Nick. Had we performed at both, I would look back on them with far more pleasure. As it was, they were mere breaks from the tedium of travelling.’
‘There was no time to linger, Edmund.’
‘More’s the pity!’
‘We have to press on as hard as we may,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why we have altered our route. Master Davey urged us to go by way of Leipzig and Dresden, but that would take us in a wide loop. This road-poor as it is-should get us to Prague all the sooner.’
‘I think we have been going around in circles.’
‘Only in your mind.’
Hoode gave a hollow laugh. The horses were ambling along, the wagon was creaking and the passengers were jolted every time they encountered deep ruts or scattered stones. The playwright was irked by their lethargic progress.
‘Do you know what Balthasar Davey told me?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘It was over that delicious meal we were given at the Governor’s house in Flushing. Sir Robert spoke movingly of his late brother. Master Davey was equally complimentary. He told us that Sir Philip Sidney had once ridden all the way from Vienna to Cracow in a mere fourteen days.’
‘Did he tell you what distance was covered?’
‘Over five hundred and fifty miles.’
‘That is extraordinary,’ said Nicholas admiringly. ‘Sir Philip must have been in the saddle for some forty miles a day. That is horsemanship of a high order.’
‘Would that we could emulate him!’ sighed Hoode. ‘At this pace, we will be lucky to manage four miles a day. Do you think that we will reach Prague in time for Christmas?’
‘Be of good cheer, Edmund!’
‘How?’
‘We are closer than you think.’
‘Only another thousand bruising miles to go!’
Nicholas diverted him from his misery by introducing the topic of The Fair Maid of Bohemia. Hoode had now completed all the major changes to the play and only small refinements were left. Discussing his work-and recalling the lovely creature to whom it was dedicated-slowly helped to lift him out of his despondency. The miles drifted past more painlessly.
The second wagon had dropped some distance behind. A malaise had settled on its passengers as well. Taking his turn at the reins, Lawrence Firethorn found that even his optimism was ragged around the edges. They had tried to stave off boredom by changing passengers between the wagons each day but it had not worked. Firethorn was now carrying Owen Elias, George Dart, James Ingram, Barnaby Gill and the other three apprentices. All but Gill were asleep in the rear of the vehicle. He sat beside the driver to groan incessantly about their folly in embarking on the enterprise in the first place. The name of Clement Islip had more than one wistful mention.
The attack came without warning. They were wending their way through a wood at the time. Firethorn was now some fifty yards behind the other wagon and lost sight of it around a sharp bend. The robbers chose their moment to strike. Six of them came charging out of the undergrowth on their horses and surrounded the second wagon. Their yells were indecipherable but the weapons they brandished conveyed a clear message. Dazed passengers awoke to learn that they were being ordered out of the wagon on pain of death.