‘I took it as an act of consideration.’
‘They must not close the Queen’s Head to us again. It is robbery with malice. Stealing our audience from us by official edict and leaving us without any means of support.’
‘Pray God it may not come to that!’ sighed Nicholas.
‘But you sense a likelihood?’
‘I have been concerned for some weeks. We have had some isolated plague deaths in Southwark, but they may well be but precursors of a wider epidemic. Marwood saw the evidence with his own eyes in Clerkenwell. Other wards are also hearing the rattle of the death cart in their streets.’
Firethorn was dejected. ‘Is there no hope for us, Nick?’
‘A little. A little. The plague has abated before when it seemed set to tighten its hold. But we cannot rely on that happening again. My advice is this: Hope for the best but prepare for the worst.’
Firethorn slumped onto the stool and looked into a bleak future. Touring the towns and cities of England was a laborious and often thankless business. It would take him away from his wife and children for an extended length of time. It would also deprive him of the joy of lording it on the stage at the Queen’s Head, where he could woo and win some of the most gorgeous women in the capital. That thought made him leap to his feet again.
‘What of her, Nick?’ he demanded. ‘Give me some medicine to ward off this disease. If I am to lose my occupation, at least let me taste one of its sweetest joys first. Why did you not bring her to me, as I requested?’
‘That was not possible, I fear.’
‘Did you not speak to her?’
‘Alas, no.’
‘Not even through an interpreter?’
‘By the time I reached our patron, his guest had departed.’
‘Then why did you not fly after her?’ cried Firethorn. ‘Why did you not overtake the lady and urge my suit? I won her heart. She would have come to me post-haste.’
‘I was too late,’ said Nicholas. ‘A coach was waiting to take her to London Bridge, where she is boarding a boat that will take her to Deptford. The young lady will sail from there on the evening tide. She is returning home.’
Firethorn was aghast. ‘Home? She has spurned the chance of being alone with me in order to go home? This news is worse than the plague and it infects me with rage. She went home?’
‘The young lady had no choice in the matter. Her passage was booked. Her great-uncle expects her.’
‘What great-uncle?’ growled the other. ‘Some fat fool in Brandenburg? Some leering Bavarian oaf? Some cross-eyed count in Austria? Who is this great-uncle that she must reject me to speed back to his side?’
‘Rudolph the Second, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia.’
Firethorn’s jaw dropped in amazement and his hands spread in disbelief. Nicholas had to suppress a smile at his reaction. It was a full minute before the actor could speak.
‘Did you discover her name?’
‘I did. She is called Sophia Magdalena.
‘Sophia! Sophia!’ repeated the other, rolling the name around in his mouth to savour it. ‘Yes, it had to be Sophia. I should have guessed. She was every marvellous inch a Sophia.’ He gave a philosophical smile. ‘You were right as ever, Nick. A foreign beauty who did not understand our tongue. Related to an Emperor, no less. That accounts for her noble bearing.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Sophia! So that is the name of the fair maid who caused such commotion among us today. Can we be surprised? She is a paragon. She is Nature’s most sublime piece of work. A true Saint Sophia.’
‘Yes,’ added Nicholas. ‘The fair maid of Bohemia.’
Chapter Two
At his death, Jacob Hendrik bequeathed his English wife far more than just a house in Bankside and a thriving hat-making business. Anne also inherited her husband’s belief in the dignity of work and his readiness to fight hard against any adversity. Whenever she recalled how a Dutch immigrant had prospered in a country whose language he did not at first understand and whose trade guilds had ruthlessly excluded him and his kind, Anne Hendrik was filled with admiration for his tenacity and dedication.
There was another bonus. While she had been helping to improve his command of English, he had been teaching her Dutch, and-since she showed an aptitude for languages-he had schooled her in German as well, a tongue he had himself mastered in Holland for commercial purposes. A happy marriage had been a constant education for both partners. The attractive teen-age girl who had fallen in love with Jacob Hendrik was now a handsome widow in her early thirties with moderate wealth and an independent streak that set her completely apart from her female friends and neighbours.
Anne was able to keep her Dutch in excellent repair by conversing with her employees. Preben van Loew, the veteran hat-maker, was always delighted to slip back into his native tongue. Old and emaciated, he still retained his superlative skills at his craft. When Anne stepped out of her house and into the adjoining premises where her employees worked, she found Preben bent over his latest commission, a woman’s hat with a tall, elegant crown. After greeting them all in English, she spoke to the senior man in Dutch.
‘Could you spare me a few minutes, please?’
‘Of course,’ he said, putting his work aside and rising at once from his stool. ‘What is the problem?’
‘It is a private matter, Preben. Follow me.’
The sadness in her voice and the shadow across her face were bad omens. After a glance at his colleagues, he padded obediently behind her until they reached the parlour of her house. Anne closed the door behind them, then took a letter from the little table.
‘This came this morning from Amsterdam,’ she said.
‘Bad news?’
‘I fear so, Preben. My father-in-law is dying.’
‘Frans!’ he said with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Dear old Frans Hendrik! Tell me this is not true.’
‘If only I could!’
‘Frans is as strong as a horse. He will live forever.’
‘Not according to his brother. He writes to tell me that it is only a matter of weeks. Here,’ she said, offering the missive to him. ‘Read it for yourself. As you will see, Jan asks that I show you the letter because you knew my father-in-law so well.’
‘I knew the whole family,’ said Preben fondly. ‘Frans Hendrik, his poor wife-God bless her! — his brothers, Jan and Pieter, and his children. Jacob, your late husband and my good friend, best of all. Know the Hendrik family? I was part of it, Anne.’ He began to sway unsteadily. ‘They were the kindest people in the world.’
‘I learned that for myself,’ said Anne, taking him gently by the arm to guide him to a seat. ‘Rest there a moment. When you have got over the shock, read the tidings for yourself.’
The old man gave a nod of gratitude and buried his face in his hands. Memories flooded back into his mind and it was a long time before he was able to shake them off. He made an effort to brace himself, then held out his hand. Tributaries were soon trickling down from his already moist eyes as he read the letter, but it was not only the imminent death of Frans Hendrik which prompted them. Preben van Loew was being forcibly reminded of the loneliness of exile. Cut off from his native country, he was reading words in his own language about friends he had been forced to leave behind.
Anne felt a surge of sympathy for him. He was clearly torn between grief and helplessness, shocked by the impending loss of someone he loved, yet powerless even to pay his last respects before Frans Hendrik slipped out of the world. Relieving him of the letter, she glanced through it again herself.
‘I must go,’ she decided.
‘Jan does not ask you to do so.’
‘Not in so many words, Preben, but it is there between the lines. It is my only chance to see my father-in-law again and I must take it. When Jacob died, the whole family came to England to comfort me even though the cost of the visit was crippling. For my husband’s sake-and because I love his father as if he were my own-I must find a way to get to Amsterdam.’