***
Rudolph knelt alone at the altar rail in the Cathedral of Saint Vitus. In the soaring majesty of the vast edifice, he was a tiny and insubstantial figure. It was symbolic, he felt, of his relation to his Empire. He was dwarfed by religion. Unlike the cathedral, the colossal structure that was his Empire was in danger of crashing down about his ears. Too many rivals’ hands had helped to build it. The Pope had laid the foundation stone, but Huss, Luther, Calvin, the Ultraquists, the Bohemian Brethren and others had been involved. Its pillars were unsteady, its massive roof too heavy and its services too controversial.
The Empire was a travesty of its original design. Its constituent materials clashed, its proportions were distorted and it rested on shifting sands. It was architecture without artistic merit or common purpose.
Rudolph quailed in its shadow. Having received absolution, he did not feel absolved. Having bared his soul, he had no sense of being cleansed. Prayers circled endlessly inside his febrile mind but they could find no way up to God. After an hour on his knees, an hour of pain, humility and penance, he was still unable to connect with his Maker.
The priest eventually walked over to him. Fearing the Emperor had either gone to sleep or been taken ill, he put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Words finally forced their way out of his tormented mind.
‘I know that I am dead and damned,’ confessed the Holy Roman Emperor. ‘I am a man possessed by the devil.’
***
‘No, no!’ he protested vehemently. ‘I refuse to believe it.’
‘At least, consider the possibility,’ said Nicholas.
‘There is no need. Caspar has been like a son to me.’
‘Sons have been known to rebel against their fathers.’
‘Not him. He is the epitome of loyalty.’
Doctor Talbot Royden was studying one of his books when the visitor descended on him and the heavy tome still lay open across his knees. Surprised to see Nicholas Bracewell for a second time, he was even more astonished by the proposition that had been put to him.
‘I would stake my life on Caspar Hilliard,’ he affirmed.
‘That is exactly what you have done.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘Look where you have ended up,’ said Nicholas, gesturing at the cell. ‘Entombed down here. Is this not a kind of death?’
‘Worse than that.’
‘And who was responsible for your imprisonment?’
‘Emperor Rudolph.’
‘The blame is not entirely his. He could not have had you arrested without cause. And you told us what that cause was.’
‘We failed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we ran short of time.’
‘Could there not be another reason, Doctor Royden?’
‘Another?’
‘Base metal into gold,’ said Nicholas. ‘You would not have promised the Emperor such a wonder unless you knew that it was within your compass. You had been conducting experiments for years.’
‘We had,’ admitted the other, ‘and we finally achieved success. There are twelve stages in the alchemical process. The first six are devoted to the making of the white stone. That involves calcination, dissolution, conjunction, putrefaction and forms of distillation I may not disclose.’
‘What of the other six stages?’
‘That is where science and magic go hand in hand.’
‘In what way?’
‘They are designed to turn the white into the red stone. The true philosophers’ stone, Master Bracewell. And we did it.’ He referred to his book. ‘It is all here. The two final stages of the process are the crucial ones. The augmentation of the elixir and the projection or transmutation of the base metal by casting the powder of the philosophers’ stone.’ His eyes glinted. ‘And we did it. Caspar and I actually did it.’
‘When?’
‘A month ago,’ said Royden, aflame with the memory. ‘We created the philosophers’ stone. It transformed heated mercury into gold. Only a minute amount, it is true. But it was a triumph. Caspar deserves his share of the credit for it.’
‘Should he then not also take his share of the blame?’
‘For what?’
‘Your failure.’
‘It would simply not come right somehow.’
‘Who devised the process?’
‘I did.’
‘Who was in charge of the work?’
‘I was!’ said Royden defensively.
‘Who heated the furnace?’
‘Caspar did.’
‘Who provided the materials?’
‘Caspar did.’
‘Who made notes of each of the twelve stages?’
There was a long pause. ‘Caspar did.’
Nicholas waited while the alchemist finally came to accept that his assistant might not have been as blindly loyal as he appeared. Instrumental in the successful experiment, Caspar had also occupied a key role in the failed one. Royden was so profoundly shaken that he could not even speak for a moment.
‘You have been betrayed, Doctor Royden,’ said Nicholas softly. ‘By the one person whom you would never suspect. The only one in a position to discredit his master.’
‘But why? Why? Caspar loved me.’
‘He loves something else more and that made him act with such calculation. He knew that the Emperor would turn on you if you failed and he made sure that you did. With what result? Caspar still has his liberty. You do not.’
Royden was perturbed. ‘He wanted me imprisoned?’
‘He contrived it.’
‘But I was his master!’
‘His true allegiance is to the Pope,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Caspar Hilliard was set on you deliberately. Under the guise of being your assistant, he was able to divine your other activities. He is the one who intercepted your letters and identified your agents. It is at his feet that the deaths of your spies must be laid.’
‘So young and yet so callous?’
‘His task was to destroy you. That argues how effective you must have been here in Prague. Intelligence sent back to London by you led to the arrest of Catholic spies and no doubt saved Her Majesty from falling victim to a conspiracy. Doctor Talbot Royden, the alchemist, was ruined in order to render him useless as an intelligencer.’
Royden slumped back against the wall and the book slipped off his lap. The betrayal left him paralysed.
‘How did you guess?’ he croaked.
‘A number of things came together,’ explained Nicholas. ‘He offered to deliver any message I had for you. At first I thought him helpful, but he was only trying to relieve me of the documents I had brought. How did he know that I had them? Only Master Firethorn and I knew of their existence.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘We two and Mistress Hendrik.’
‘What else drew you to suspect Caspar?’
‘A remark he made about you. When I pressed him on the subject of your relationship with Doctor Mordrake, he grew evasive. He told me that he was your assistant and not your father-confessor. The phrase slipped out,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think we know why.’
‘Caspar is a covert Jesuit.’
‘Working on behalf of Rome. That was another clue. He told me that he had studied medicine at Padua.’
‘One of the finest universities for the subject.’
‘What else was he taught there?’
‘How to cheat a credulous fool like me,’ groaned Royden.
‘How to win his way into your affections.’
‘Caspar was so conscientious and sincere.’
‘He was well-trained in the arts of spying. One more thing,’ added Nicholas. ‘When Caspar could not get the documents from me by deceit, they abducted Mistress Hendrik to force my hand. You see this wound? I was struck down with one of the loose stones from the castle rampart. That pointed to a culprit here.’
‘Caspar Hilliard!’
‘Do you believe me now, sir?’
‘I do, indeed!’ yelled Royden, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Let me at the traitor! I’ll murder him for what he has done!’