‘Thus ends our play and this the moral is,
That nothing holds more danger than a kiss
Upon the lips. Love’s potion has a taste
That brought three sisters in great haste
From Mantua to seek their hearts’ desire.
Remember how they burned with Cupid’s fire.
Their youthful folly earned them sharp rebuke,
For each one loved the self-same Mantuan Duke,
And while his noble heart was strong and free,
He could not give it to all sisters three.
Choose one, hold fast and stay forever true
Unto your love. That is the only way you
Find real peace and happiness on this earth
And understand what love is truly worth.’
The Duke of Mantua doffed his hat and gave a low bow to the non-existent audience. There was a long pause. It was broken by the most unlikely sound. A single pair of hands began to clap earnestly from the other end of the hall. They looked up in surprise to see the dainty figure of Sophia Magdalena, clad in her finery, acclaiming their performance with ladylike enthusiasm. It was the best accolade they could have wished.
The whole company was lifted by her presence and by her approval of their art. But her eyes were fixed firmly on Lawrence Firethorn as she spoke the two words in English that she had mastered.
‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly. ‘Thank you.’
It was enough. His feelings of betrayal melted away in a flash. Sophia Magdalena had come back to him at last. All was forgiven. As her delicate palms clapped on, Firethorn heard a choir of angels in his ears. He felt transfigured.
He was in love again.
Chapter Nine
Crouched in the corner of his cell, Doctor Talbot Royden munched disconsolately on an apple and listened to the rat snuffling in the clotted straw. There was a savage irony in his predicament. A famous scientist, who strove to push out the frontiers of knowledge, could not even tell whether it was night or day now. A celebrated alchemist, who basked in the glow of his furnace, had only one flickering candle between him and total darkness. An Emperor’s favourite had suddenly become the butt of his cruel humour. Royden spat out a pip, then hurled the apple core angrily at the wall.
Another tedious hour limped past before he heard the noise from above. Two sets of footsteps were descending towards him. A rush of light came from a burning torch. Royden leaped up and peered hopefully through the bars, shielding his eyes from the glare of the flames. One of the gaolers was bringing a visitor down to the prisoner.
‘Caspar!’ shouted Royden. ‘Am I to be released?’
‘Not yet,’ said his assistant.
‘Have you not spoken with the Emperor?’
‘He refuses to see me.’
‘Does my name count for nothing in Prague?’
‘Unhappily, it does not.’
‘Help me!’
‘I am doing my best, Master.’
The gaoler unlocked the door so that they could have a proper conversation but he stayed close to keep them under observation. Since the man spoke no English, they were able to talk freely. Royden grasped his assistant by the shoulders and gabbled questions at him.
‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why have I been cast into this foul pit? Who has turned the Emperor against me? When will they let me out of here? Tell me what you have found out, Caspar. Is there any comfort at all for me? Can I dare to hope? Or will I be left here to rot in perpetuity?’ He tightened his grip. ‘What time of day is it?’
‘Not long after noon, Master.’
‘It is eternal night down here.’
‘How do you fare?’ asked the other considerately.
‘I dwindle, Caspar. I dwindle and decay.’
‘Bear up.’
‘This is the vilest torture.’
‘Such affliction cannot last forever.’
‘It will break my spirit.’
He slumped to the floor and sat in the straw. Caspar knelt beside him and tried to offer consolation, but Royden was close to despair. His assistant could see the tears in his eyes.
‘There is one tiny ray of hope, Master,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ begged the other. ‘Tell me. Please tell me.’
‘They have not touched the laboratory.’
‘My materials? My equipment?’
‘All safe.’
‘My books? My records of our experiments?’
‘Untouched.’
‘You still have the key?’
‘Yes,’ said Caspar, patting his purse. ‘I keep the room locked at all times. Nobody else may enter the laboratory. I am looking after it until my master returns.’
‘God bless you!’
‘The Emperor must relent.’
‘What chance is there of that?’
‘He is often given to charitable impulse.’
‘Bohemia has a madman upon its throne. I have seen so much evidence of his lunacy over the years. My loyalty to him was grossly misplaced. I should have quit Prague a long time ago.’ He spread his palms in supplication. ‘I have done him great service, Caspar. Why will he not even see me?’
‘His mind is taken up with the preparations.’
‘For what?’
‘The wedding.’
‘Ah, yes!’ sighed Royden. ‘The wedding.’
‘That may have been our downfall,’ said Caspar sadly. ‘The Emperor was counting on us. We were to provide a wedding gift that was quite unique. And we did not.’
‘Only because his guards stopped us.’
‘Our time ran out, Master.’
‘Alchemy will not conform to time.’
‘When the wedding is over, he may take pity on you.’
‘Will I still be living?’
‘Assuredly. Think of your laboratory.’
‘I think of nothing else down here.’
‘If the Emperor had turned against you, he would have destroyed your work completely. But it has been left quite unmolested for you to resume one day.’
‘When?’
‘After the wedding. That preoccupies him now.’
‘Will I have to languish here until then?’
‘I fear so, Master.’
‘Out of sight, out of mind.’
‘Not out of my mind,’ promised the other. ‘Nor that of a stranger from England who has been asking after you.’
‘A stranger?’
‘Nicholas Bracewell. Does you know him?’
‘I have never heard the name before.’
‘He travels with Westfield’s Men, a troupe of players from London. They are to play a comedy this afternoon before the whole Court.’
‘A comedy!’ Royden gave mirthless laugh. ‘Send them down to my dungeon and they will see a tragedy being performed.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What did this Nicholas Bracewell want?’
‘To speak with you.’
‘Why?’
‘He would not say.’
‘What manner of man was he?’
‘A fine, upstanding fellow, from what I could judge. He is only the book-holder with the company, but he is highly respected by all. A solid man, one not likely to give way if trouble came. Honest and trustworthy.’
‘How did he earn such a good opinion from you?’
‘I talked to him,’ said Caspar. ‘He impressed me with his strength of purpose. When I offered to bring a message to you on his behalf, he insisted on delivering it himself.’
‘What sort of message does he have for me?’
‘I have no idea, Master.’
‘From whom does it come?’
‘Not from Nicholas Bracewell himself, I think.’
The gaoler grunted to signal that the visit was at an end.
‘Let him stay longer!’ implored Royden.
‘He has his orders. And I will come again.’
‘Soon, Caspar. Soon.’