Nicholas arrived well before the stipulated time and strolled around the perimeter of the square to show that he was completely alone. That he was under observation was quite certain but he could not begin to guess from where. Countless windows looked down on the square and there was an endless choice of streets, lanes and alleys in which to lurk unseen. His enemy might be any one of the dozens of people whose shoulders brushed him in the great market-place of Prague.
As the hour approached, Nicholas walked across to the huge tower crowning the Town Hall. The astronomical clock was one of the most celebrated sights in the city, and visitors came from far and wide to view the extraordinary and complex device. It consisted of three distinct parts. The large calendar dial was flanked by statues of the philosopher and the angel on the left side and the astronomer and the chronicler on the right. At its centre was the Prague coat of arms.
Even though he was there on such a grim errand, Nicholas was struck by the twelve turning circles around the edge of the dial. The astronomical clock above was even more intricate. Flanked by figures of the Miser, Vanity, Death and a lute-carrying Turk, it consisted of a series of rings, the outer one bearing Arab numerals, and the inner ones, the signs of the zodiac.
Nicholas was not alone. A small crowd gathered to hear the clock strike and to watch figures emerge from the two doors above the clock. At the first stroke, Nicholas swung round to look more closely at his companions. Some were local inhabitants who stopped out of habit but most were curious visitors. None even spared him a glance. He could not compete with the horological masterpiece.
Detaching himself from them, he scanned the square for a sign that did not come. As the astronomical clock finished its performance, the crowd drifted away and Nicholas was left alone beneath the tower. When fifteen minutes had rolled past, he began to wonder if he was the object of some unkind jest. Had someone brought him there simply to mock him? Another fifteen minutes sapped his patience.
He was about to move away when a figure appeared in a corner of the square diagonally opposite. Clad in a dark gown and a large hat, the man was unidentifiable at that distance but he was able to send a clear message. He put a hand to his breast and brought it away again, as if removing something from inside his doublet. Nicholas understood. He took out the pouch from inside his own doublet and held it up. The man beckoned him forward, watching carefully to make sure that nobody was with him.
As Nicholas got closer, the man slipped into a lane and gestured for him to follow. Their transaction would clearly take place in a more private venue. Walking with a steady gait, Nicholas kept one hand close to his dagger. He left the bustle of the crowd and plunged into the lane. Three people were strolling towards him. Over their shoulders, he could see the man waiting for him some thirty yards away. Nicholas continued to follow him until his guide turned down a narrow alley-way. Instinct made Nicholas slow down and slip the dagger into his palm.
He put his head cautiously around the corner and saw two figures waiting for him now. One was the man who had led him there and the other was a woman, wearing a cloak with its hood up. From the grip which the man had on her wrist, Nicholas decided that it was Anne. The bargain had been kept. He hurried forward with the pouch held high, eager to trade it for her safe return. But he never got anywhere near her. As he went past a shop doorway, someone stepped out behind him and clubbed him to the ground with a heavy stone.
Nicholas sank into oblivion. The man who had enticed him into the alley-way paid the woman for her help before sending her quickly on her way. Then he sauntered towards the inert body of Nicholas Bracewell and, with a grin of triumph, took the pouch from the hands of his accomplice.
***
Anne Hendrik sat in a high-backed chair with her hands tied to its arms and her feet to its legs. A blindfold blocked out all vision and a gag prevented her from calling out for help. She had no idea where she was but the room felt large and warm. Distant voices drifted up to her but she could not pick out what they were saying. For the first few hours, her main problem had been to fight off hysteria.
At least, they had now left her alone. She was no longer being looked at and gloated over by the two men who had brought her there. They had said nothing but she could sense their eyes caressing her. Anne could still feel the hot breath of the one as he had bent over her to check her bonds before quitting the room. When the key had turned in the lock, she had felt a measure of relief for the first time. But she knew that it was only temporary. They would be back.
Her chances of rescue depended entirely on Nicholas Bracewell. She could imagine how disturbed he would be by her abduction and how determined to track her down, but the city was a complete enigma to him. Nicholas would not know where to begin. Anne had no doubts about why she had been kidnapped. She was the weak point in his armour. Unable to wrest the documents from him directly, they had opted for a different means. Fear for her would persuade him to hand over the secret pouch, but what would happen then? Hysteria threatened again and she shook her head vigorously. For her own sake, she had to remain calm.
Anne went back over the series of events that brought her to the room, searching for any clue that might give her some indication of where she was and who was holding her captive. Were the voices coming up from a street or from the river? How far had they brought her from the Black Eagle? Why had she been foolish enough to open the door of her chamber to them? As she assailed herself with questions over and over again, one came to dominate all the rest.
Where was Nicholas Bracewell?
The sound of a key in the lock banished all other thoughts from her mind. She heard the door open, shut and get locked again. Only one man had come this time. Anne counted his footsteps as he walked towards her. The door was at least fifteen yards away. He tested her bonds and adjusted her blindfold. His breath was hotter than ever but he had not come to gloat over her this time.
Something far more important claimed his attention. She heard him sit down and unfold some parchment. He gave a low chuckle and talked to himself in German.
‘Now, then. Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’
Anne’s blood congealed. It was the voice she had heard on the Peppercorn. She was held captive by a murderer.
Chapter Ten
Nicholas Bracewell slowly regained consciousness to find that he was surrounded by a clutch of sympathetic faces. Someone had propped him up in a sitting position and was dabbing at the wound on the back of his head with a damp cloth. A blood-stained cap lay on the ground beside him and it took him a moment to realise that it was his. The pain then hit him with the force of a blow and he reeled. His kind surgeon steadied him with both hands.
Memory gradually returned. He recalled looking up at the astronomical clock, waiting for half an hour, responding to the signal from the man across the square, following him down a lane, seeing Anne in the man’s grasp. Beyond that, there was nothing, though the seriousness of the wound and his position on the ground told him what must have happened. He did not need to feel for the pouch or for the dagger. Both had obviously gone. Along with the woman he had foolishly taken for Anne Hendrik.
He had been duped. A stage manager had himself been tricked by some adroit stage management. Nicholas had lost the documents and gained nothing in return apart from scuffed apparel and a throbbing headache. The sense of failure was excruciating. Anne was still captive. The only consolation he could take was the fact that he had simply been knocked unconscious when he might just as easily have been killed. Adrian Smallwood had been bludgeoned, then daggered. There had to be a reason why Nicholas had been spared.