The two wagons first made their way to the river to take stock of its angry power as it surged along like a gigantic serpent in pursuit of a distant prey. Craft of all kinds were riding on the water in the afternoon sun. Wharves were busy along both banks. The smell of fish gave an added pungency to the city’s abiding reek. People were hurrying to and fro across the Charles Bridge. Prague was a city with a lot of work to do. They saw no sign of laziness or leisure.
Nicholas led the way to the nearest inn so that the thirsty company could refresh themselves and sit on something more comfortable than the heaving boards of a wagon. The Czech landlord gave them a grinning welcome. Anne’s command of German once more came into its own. Leaving them ensconced at the inn, Nicholas made his way up to the castle with Firethorn. The latter was anxious to make direct contact with the Emperor at the earliest opportunity.
‘He will see us at once,’ he predicted.
‘Do not rely on that.’
‘We are honoured guests, Nick. The Emperor has promised us free board and lodging, and all the delights of his Court.’
‘He also promised to send letters to Cologne and Frankfurt on our behalf,’ noted Nicholas, ‘but they never arrived. It might not be wise to expect too much.’
‘I expect everything,’ boomed Firethorn.
As they climbed the hill, Nicholas took stock of the fortifications. Impressive from a distance, they were full of deficiencies at close hand. Ramparts were in need of repair and additional defences were required at the western end of the bridge. The guards who patrolled the castle were few in number and slack in their duties. The two visitors presented themselves at the castle gate and were waved through without any real discussion of their purpose in coming there. When Nicholas produced the letter bearing the Imperial seal, it was enough to gain them admittance.
‘We should have brought Anne with us,’ said Firethorn.
‘Why?’
‘As our interpreter.’
‘She has her hands full back at the inn,’ said Nicholas. ‘Besides, this invitation was written in English, so they must have a translator here. We will find artists and scientists from all over Europe at the Court. Many different languages will be spoken, English among them.’
‘We cannot be certain of that, Nick.’
‘We can. Doctor Talbot Royden resides here.’
‘I was forgetting him.’
‘I have not been allowed to forget him.’
Nicholas was glad that they had arrived unscathed at their destination. When the ambush took place, his first thought had been that it was set up by the man who stalked him. It was something of a relief to learn that they were simply the target of a band of robbers. Now that he was inside the castle where Royden lived, he felt that his mission was accomplished. The secret documents and the wooden box from Doctor Mordrake could be handed over. Nicholas would never part with anything quite so readily.
They went through the first courtyard and into a much larger one. Guards stood about chatting but showed little interest in the visitors. It was only when they stepped through into the third courtyard that someone finally paid any real attention to them.
‘Well met, gentlemen! Welcome to Prague!’
Hugo Usselincx was standing outside the door of Saint Vitus Cathedral when he saw them. Shoulders hunched, he shuffled across to them and waved his hands nervously in the air.
‘I am delighted to see you both again.’
‘It is good to see you, Hugo,’ responded Firethorn.
‘How long have you been here?’ asked Nicholas.
‘A few days.’
‘You must have ridden hard.’
‘I had to make up for lost time.’
‘We had the most devilish journey,’ moaned Firethorn.
‘But we arrived safely,’ said Nicholas, cutting off his memoirs about the ambush. ‘And we are much taken with this lovely city.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘That is what we have come to find out.’
‘And what will you perform while you are here?’
‘The very best plays,’ boasted Firethorn.
‘I will climb over the castle walls to see them.’
‘That may not be too difficult a thing to do,’ observed Nicholas, glancing around. ‘Is Prague not concerned about its defences?’
‘The Emperor has other interests,’ confided Usselincx. ‘But the city may not be as open to attack as it might look. The jest they make here is that Prague is protected from invasion by its smell.’
‘We had noticed it, Hugo,’ said Firethorn with a grimace. ‘We also noticed how many churches there are here. Some are built of wood, most of stone, with roofs of slate and spires that shine like silver. The only church I could not pick out was the one that is made of tin.’
‘Tin?’
‘That is where you are organist, is it not? The Tin Church. Or so I remember you telling us.’
‘I did, I did,’ said Usselincx, suppressing a giggle. ‘But the Týn Church is not made of tin.’
‘What else is it made of?’
‘Solid stone, Master Firethorn. When I said “Týn,” I should have spelled the word for you. T-ý-n. It means a courtyard or an enclosed area, much like the one we are standing in. The Týn Church is in a courtyard behind the main square. Its full name is the Church of Our Lady Before Týn. It is old and beautiful, like so much here. Does that help you to understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.
‘No,’ contradicted Firethorn.
‘I keep you from more important things,’ said Usselincx as he backed away. ‘Enjoy your welcome from the Emperor. I look to see you again before long.’
They exchanged farewells, then headed for the palace which was opposite the south door of the cathedral. Firethorn liked their Dutch friend immensely but Nicholas had reservations about the man. He found his manner a shade too unctuous.
When they entered the palace, Hugo Usselincx went right out of their minds. Armed guards confronted them and demanded to know who they were. Nicholas produced the letter with the Imperial seal but neither man could understand the language in which it was written. One of the guards disappeared down a corridor with the missive and the visitors were forced to wait for several minutes.
The man eventually returned with a servant in tow. It was the latter who now held the invitation and he used it to beckon them after him. Nicholas and Firethorn were led down a long corridor and into a gallery that was festooned with the work of the various Court artists. The servant paused to run a fond eye over the extraordinary collection of paintings. He was a middle-aged man with a striking face and a mischievous smile. Ushering them out of the gallery, he took them to an apartment on the west side of the palace and halted outside the door. He studied both men for a moment, then offered the letter to the actor-manager.
‘Lawrence Firethorn?’ he said in passable English.
‘Yes,’ replied the other, taking the invitation.
‘And you?’ The servant turned to Nicholas. ‘Name, please.’
‘Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘Masters Firethorn and Master Bracewell. Excuse me.’
After tapping on the door, the servant went into the room for a brief moment. When he reappeared, he conducted the two men into a large and well-appointed apartment with an ornate desk at its centre. The servant bowed out and closed the door silently behind him.
The Chamberlain rose from his chair behind the desk and regarded his visitors with solemn curiosity. He knew enough English to negotiate his way through a conversation.
‘You are welcome,’ he said, manufacturing a smile. ‘My name is Wolfgang von Rumpf and I am the Chamberlain. You are,’ he said, pointing to each in turn, ‘Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell. Correct?’
‘That is so, sir,’ confirmed Firethorn.
‘Pray be seated.’
The Chamberlain indicated the chairs in front of the desk and all three men sat down. Anticipating a more gracious reception, Firethorn was somewhat put out by the man’s aloofness. Whoever else had issued the invitation, it had certainly not been Wolfgang von Rumpf. The Chamberlain glanced down at a document in front of him.