‘Two small white feathers? Is that all it contained?’
‘They are enough,’ groaned Royden.
‘What do they betoken?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Worse news than I can bear to tell you, sirs. Have no fear about my travelling with Westfield’s Men.’ He put the feathers on his palm and blew them into the air, watching them float slowly to the ground. ‘I am done for. After this, I can never go near London again.’
***
Barnaby Gill strolled around the Town Square in the fading light of a balmy summer evening. Back at the Black Eagle, the rest of the company were in a sombre mood. They worried about the disappearance of Anne Hendrik, ordered beer to subdue their anxieties, felt guilty that they were not out searching for her and drank even more heavily to sedate that guilt. But it was not only the prevailing sadness which drove Gill to parade around the city on his own. Westfield’s Men, working actors with simple needs, clung together because they had so much in common. A long tour only intensified their togetherness.
Gill soon wearied of their habits and their rituals. With them during performances, he preferred to shun them in private. He sought companionship of another kind. In a city as big and as cosmopolitan as Prague, he felt, he would be certain to find what he was looking for, but an hour of preening himself in the square brought no reward. The fashion and bright colours of his doublet and hose attracted immense curiosity from those who passed, and several women pointed with interest at his purple hat with its long ostrich feather. But nobody spoke, nobody signalled. It was a barren pilgrimage.
After pausing beneath the astronomical clock for the fifth time, he decided to search for a congenial inn and walked back across the square. The Týn Church was directly ahead of him, its sixteen spires silhouetted against the darkening sky to give it a ghostly quality. As he got nearer, someone came out of the street ahead and hurried across his path. Gill recognised him at once.
‘Hugo!’ he called. ‘Hold there!’
Hugo Usselincx stopped in his tracks and smiled when he saw Barnaby Gill bearing down on him. Before the latter could even speak, Usselincx had showered him with more praise for his exquisite performance in Cupid’s Folly. The actor revelled in the flattery.
‘But what brings you here, Master Gill?’ he said.
‘I was looking at the sights of the city.’
‘It will soon be dark.’
‘Then I must find other sights to interest me,’ said Gill casually. ‘Can you commend any to me?’
‘What sights did you have in mind?’
‘Come, sir. You have travelled Europe and worked in many churches. Even celibate clergy have desires at times. Where might a lonely man satisfy those desires in Prague?’
‘I do not share that predilection myself,’ said the other with a sheepish grin, ‘so I am no sure guide. But I have heard an acquaintance of mine mention an inn that lies behind the Týn Church. It is called the Three Kings and you will know it by its yellow sign. I fancy you will be made welcome there.’
‘I am obliged to you, Hugo.’
‘It is small payment for all the pleasure you have given me. Westfield’s Men have made my journey to Prague a delight.’
‘That is good to hear. The name again?’
‘The Three Kings.’
‘I remember. The yellow sign.’
Usselincx bobbed his head and moved away. Gill strode off in the other direction and turned down the street that led to the Týn Church. Imposing from a distance, it was overwhelming at close quarters and he paused to take in its splendour, staring up at its multiple spires until his neck ached. Since the front door was open, he was tempted to take a peep inside. The interior was dark and gloomy, with pools of light created by a series of altar candles. His eye fell first on the ornate pulpit but a loud noise took his attention elsewhere.
Scaffolding was set up in the chancel and workmen were scrambling over it. He went down the aisle to make a closer inspection. One man was hammering nails, another was winching up some large pipes. Two more were carrying in lengths of wood. When Gill realised what they were doing, he was quite alarmed. The Three Kings did not enjoy his custom that night.
***
Nicholas and Firethorn spent a long time discussing what they had been told by Doctor Talbot Royden. The latter’s position at the Bohemian Court was a convenient cover for his other activities. Royden was at the centre of a web of Protestant agents who reported back to Sir Robert Cecil in London. Prague was a centre for Catholic exiles and Jesuit extremists. It was Royden’s task to observe who came and went, to recruit and train new agents, and to keep his master informed of any suspicious developments. Nicholas now understood where the money had come from to fund their travels.
‘What did you think of him, Nick?’ asked Firethorn.
‘I thought he was odious,’ said Nicholas, ‘but that does not mean he failed in his work. Sir Robert Cecil is too astute a man to employ someone who could not discharge his duties properly. Doctor Royden is a peculiar mixture.’
‘Forger, fraud and downright liar.’
‘He has a high reputation as an astrologer.’
‘He did have until the Emperor found him out. And what was all that business with the two white feathers? Why should a paltry gift from this Doctor Mordrake vex him so?’
‘It obviously had great significance for him.’
‘But what, Nick?’ complained Firethorn. ‘Number codes, ciphers, white feathers, German and Czech. This city is a complete riddle to me. I can understand nothing.’
‘It all comes down to translation.’
‘Anne served us in that office.’
‘And will do again when we find her,’ said Nicholas with confidence. ‘To do that, we may need the help of someone else who can speak both English and German.’
‘What of Hugo Usselincx? He can give us Dutch as well.’
‘So could Anne.’
‘Shall we try to engage him?’
‘I think not. There is somebody closer at hand, here in the castle itself. All we have to do is to find him.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Caspar Hilliard.’
‘Royden’s assistant. Is he more than that, I wonder?’
‘More?’
‘Sorcerer’s apprentice and spy.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘I do not believe he was involved in that aspect of Doctor Royden’s work at all. We would certainly have been told if he had. Caspar will probably have no idea of his master’s secret mission. All he wishes to do is to work with a man he reveres. Keep him ignorant of the truth. And say nothing of our visit to his employer.’
‘Why not?’
‘We must let Caspar do all the talking. He was willing enough to do so when he called on us at the Black Eagle. He resides here at the castle-but where?’
‘Royden spoke of his laboratory.’
‘Let us start there.’
During the long search, they got completely lost on more than one occasion but they stuck to their task and finally managed to get directions from a servant with a smattering of English. Under his guidance, they came at last to the laboratory where Doctor Talbot Royden had laboured with such distinction until the Emperor’s patience had snapped. The door was locked but a faint light under it suggested that it might be occupied. Firethorn banged on it uncompromisingly with his fist but got no response. A second, louder attack on the timber produced no result.
The two men made their way back down to the courtyard. Firethorn had a list of names in his head but those people were beyond their reach until they had an interpreter. It made them feel Anne’s loss even more keenly.
‘Why are they still keeping her hostage, Nick?’
‘To retain a hold over us.’
‘We need to widen the search. Bring in more people to help. Owen spoke true. The whole company loves Anne. Let us call on them to help to save her.’