‘I could,’ said Adrian Smallwood bravely.
The whole company turned towards him. Feeling as queasy as any of them, Smallwood made a determined effort to overcome his seasickness and sang in a ringing baritone voice.
‘Now is the month of Maying,
When merry lads are playing.
Fa la la.’
He looked around his fellows and tried to shake them out of their self-pity. Even though the vessel began to rock more violently, Smallwood persevered as a choirmaster.
‘Come on!’ he exhorted. ‘Sing away this storm. We would never have beaten the Armada with sailors such as you. Show your spirit. Sing in defiance. Who’ll join me?’
‘I, for one,’ volunteered Nicholas.
‘And me,’ said Elias. ‘You will never find a Welshman shirking a chance to sing. Lead on, Adrian. We follow.’
Smallwood sang out with even more gusto this time.
‘Now is the month of Maying,
When merry lads are playing.
Fa la la.
Fa la la.
Each with his bonny lass,
Upon the greeny grass,
Fa la la.
Fa la la.’
Nicholas lent his support and the rich deep voice of Elias blended with those of his companions. Firethorn was the next to take up the song, then Ingram, then Richard Honeydew. Anne soon joined them, and others were caught up in the melody. Even the bilious Gill joined in while Hoode—unwilling to open his mouth again lest more than words gush out—tapped his foot in time to the rhythm of the piece.
Huddled below deck, the other passengers watched with blank amazement at the incongruous recital. Foreigners amongst them decided it was yet further evidence of the madness of the English and they responded with scorn, sympathy, or amusement. Led by Adrian Smallwood, the choir surged on regardless.
‘The Spring, clad all in gladness,
Doth laugh at Winter’s sadness.
Fa la la.
Fa la la.
And to the Bagpipes’ sound,
The Nymphs tread out their ground.
Fa la la.
Fa la la.
Fie then, why sit we musing,
Youth’s sweet delight refusing?’
And so it went on. A ragged band of players, frightened by the storm, shaken until they were about to vomit, wondering if they would ever see dry land again, slowly blended together in harmony to work their way through song after song. Adversity united them, and the man who had revived their spirits was Adrian Smallwood. It was very gratifying to Nicholas because he had recommended the actor for inclusion in the touring company.
The repertoire of songs did nothing to still the troubled waters of the North Sea, and the vessel continued to roll alarmingly as it sailed on. Several of the actors peeled off at intervals to vomit into one of the wooden buckets provided for the purpose and their contribution towards the recital was thereafter muted. But the singing carried on until the company began to fall asleep, one by one, from sheer exhaustion. Adrian Smallwood ended as he began, with a solo performance.
***
It was a rough crossing. Inclement weather throughout the night blew the Peppercorn off course and added hours to their voyage. There was one small advantage for Westfield’s Men. Gathered together in a corner below deck, they were easier to protect from the feared attack, and Nicholas shared the watch under the swinging lanterns with Firethorn, Elias and Smallwood. No threat came. Nicholas surmised that the assassin had either been disabled by the heaving motion of the ship or that Anne Hendrik had misheard him. She herself slept fitfully against the shoulder of her lodger and dear friend.
Dawn revealed billowing waves through a blanket of rain and few passengers ventured up on deck. The members of the company woke sporadically and were surprised to find themselves still alive and unharmed. When they had relieved themselves in one of the fetid privies, some were even able to rediscover their appetite. The worst was definitely over.
Time glided past and the bucking rhythm of the vessel seemed to ease. The yell from the look-out filtered down to them. Land had been sighted. When the weary travellers started to drift up on deck, they learned that the rain had ceased and that the sky was slowly clearing. The swirling wind still played havoc with the rigging and the choppy waves still climbed high enough to scour the deck occasionally, but the sight of their destination helped the passengers to accommodate these discomforts without any sense of panic.
Nicholas escorted Anne to the bulwark to take her first look at the little seaport of Flushing, situated at the mouth of the River Schelde and welcoming them to a harbour where many smaller vessels already bobbed and swayed. The welcome was illusory. When the Peppercorn tried to put in, its captain found the waves too strong and the wind too guileful, so he elected instead to sail on to Rammekins for surer anchorage.
Lawrence Firethorn was outraged by the change of destination. He took his protest across to his book-holder.
‘Our passage was booked to Flushing!’ he roared.
‘We will not be too far away,’ said Nicholas.
‘Order the captain to deliver us to the town that is named on our passport. I will not endure such a hellish voyage and be put down on the wrong part of the Dutch coast.’
‘The captain has no choice. He shows good seamanship. Would you rather stay aboard until the sea decides to calm? That might take a whole day.’
‘Another day on this floating death-trap! Get me off!’
‘Be patient,’ counselled Nicholas, ‘and you will soon have dry land beneath your feet again.’
‘Thank heavens!’
Firethorn’s relief was short-lived. When the company at last disembarked from the Peppercorn, the dry land had been turned to mud by a fortnight’s steady rain. Disenchantment gnawed at the actor-manager. Having envisioned a triumphal arrival at Flushing, he was now limping ashore at Rammekins. Instead of being welcomed like a victorious admiral after a naval battle, he was a complete nonentity forced to lead a bedraggled company on foot across a squelching quagmire.
Supporting Anne by the arm, Nicholas again took the full force of his employer’s ire. Firethorn was incandescent with righteous indignation.
‘Could they not supply us with horses?’ he demanded.
‘We were not expected to land here.’
‘This country is barbaric!’
‘Other passengers must walk as well as us.’
‘This mud almost reaches to my knees.’
‘Flushing is only four miles away.’
‘Four miles of this misery?’
‘Anne fares worse than us,’ noted Nicholas, breaking in on the other’s self-absorption. ‘If we had to struggle through this mire in a dress—as she does—we might have just reason to complain. Yet Anne bears it all with a brave smile. We should learn from her example.’
Firethorn accepted the rebuke with good grace and showered Anne with profuse apologies for the next mile. The rest of the company trudged along behind them in a mood of dejection. Not even the resilient Smallwood could manage a song now. The only person missing was George Dart. Nicholas had no qualms about leaving Dart behind to guard the wicker baskets containing their costumes and properties until a cart could be sent for him from Flushing. It was inconceivable that the diminutive assistant stagekeeper could be the intended victim of the death threat. The murderer—if he existed—would be stalking another member of the company.
***
Flushing was an English possession, a cherished bridgehead on the Continent which to some extent compensated for the disastrous loss of Calais on the eve of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. Ceded by the Dutch in recognition of military support against the Spanish invaders, Flushing showed the influence of English occupation. It had an English church, English settlers, and a permanent garrison of English troops. When the weary,
mud-covered travellers reached the town, they saw English faces and fashions at every turn.
But it was by no means a home from home. Dutch inhabitants were cold and hostile, feeling that the English had not merely taken their town away from them. They had changed its name as well. The busy little port of Vlissingen was now the military base of Flushing, full of soldiers on their way to battle or wounded men and corpses returning from it. Overcrowded and insanitary, the place was haunted by profiteers, adventurers, and others who could exploit the wartime situation. The town was inhospitable and there was a pervading sense of unease.
It was Gill’s turn to have a fit of disillusionment. He gazed around with utter disgust and stamped a sodden foot.
‘This whole escapade is a catastrophe!’ he exclaimed.
‘Give it time to unfold, Barnaby,’ said Hoode.
‘It has unfolded far enough, Edmund. I am imprisoned in the hold of a ship, subjected to a voyage of sheer terror, forced to ruin by best shoes and hose by wading through the mud, then confronted with this cesspit!’ He folded his arms and turned away. ‘I expect better, I deserve better, I am owed better!’
‘We all share your disappointment.’
‘It was cruel to inveigle me into this calamity.’
‘You are a calamity in yourself!’ sneered Firethorn.
‘To come here, I turned down some highly tempting offers.’
‘Why?’ mocked the other. ‘What did Clement Islip promise to do to you? Hold you between his thighs and play you like his viol? Be your own fair maid?’
‘There is no point in bickering,’ said Hoode, stepping between the two men. ‘Our first task is to find somewhere to stay in this unfriendly town.’
‘It is already arranged,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is what Lord Westfield gave me to understand. Nick?’
‘Yes?’ asked Nicholas, stepping forward.
‘Be our pathfinder here. Where do we go?’
‘We stay right here.’
‘In the town square?’ said Gill with disdain. ‘We are renowned actors, not street beggars. We demand respect.’
‘I believe that we are about to receive it, Master Gill.’
Nicholas had seen the horseman approaching them at a steady trot. He was a tall, slender young man in neat apparel and he was already composing his features into a polite smile of welcome. The horse came to a halt in front of them. The rider touched his hat deferentially.
‘I am seeking Master Lawrence Firethorn,’ he said.
‘He stands before you,’ announced the actor with a hand on his chest. ‘Who may you be, sir?’
‘Balthasar Davey, at your service. Secretary to Sir Robert Sidney, Lord Governor of Flushing. I am sent to welcome you to the town and to apologise for the gross inconvenience you have clearly suffered.’ He dismounted from the saddle. ‘Sir Robert sends his compliments and bids me conduct you to the inn where you and your company will lodge for the night.’
‘Thank you, Master Davey,’ said Firethorn, pleased by this new development. ‘We drop from fatigue and need refreshment.’
‘I will take you to it directly.’ He turned to Anne and spoke with courtesy. ‘But I see that you have a lady with you. We have only a short distance to walk but I will happily offer her the use of my horse for that journey.’ He glanced at the soiled hem of her dress. ‘You have already marched too far on foot, I think. Travel the rest of the way in some comfort.’
Anne acknowledged the kind offer with a smile and was about to refuse it but Nicholas took the decision for her.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, taking her by the waist and hoisting her up into the saddle in one fluent move. ‘This is Mistress Hendrik, who has been our companion thus far from London. Her business takes her to Amsterdam and we seek advice as to how she can reach it in the safest and swiftest way.’
‘Put the matter in my hands,’ said Davey obligingly. ‘If Mistress Hendrik will spend a night at the inn, I will ensure that she may set off for Amsterdam in the morning. Will that satisfy you?’
‘It will,’ said Anne with gratitude.
Balthasar Davey tugged on the reins and led his horse along the road. Restored by the promise of hospitality, the company followed eagerly. Nicholas fell in beside their guide and introduced himself.
‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘Our baggage was too heavy to drag from Rammekins. A member of the company stayed behind to guard it. I would retrieve it and him as soon as possible.’
‘Your wagons await you at the inn.’
‘Good.’
‘I will find someone to do this errand for you.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘It is my responsibility. I will drive the wagon myself without delay.’
‘So be it.’
The inn was a long, rambling, ramshackle building with a steep roof whose thatch was in need of repair, but its defects were willingly overlooked by guests in need of rest and sustenance. English ale and wholesome food awaited them. With four walls around them at last, they were mollified. After an inauspicious beginning, their visit to the Continent might yet be redeemed. They were expected, after all.
Nicholas did not share in the repast. When he had shown Anne to the privacy of her bedchamber, he went out to the stables where an ostler was harnessing two of the horses between the shafts of a wagon. Nicholas was soon rumbling off in the direction of Rammekins to collect the abandoned George Dart. Curled up on a basket like a stray dog, Dart shivered in the grudging sunshine and scanned the road to Flushing with large and fearful eyes. When he saw Nicholas approaching with the wagon, he burst into tears of joy and fell on to the ground from his perch. He soon rallied when Nicholas praised him for discharging his duty so well and promised him a nourishing meal once they returned to the inn. After loading the baskets into the wagon, they set off on a creaking journey along the muddy track.
They had gone well over a mile before Nicholas realised that they were being followed. A sixth sense made him turn sharply and he caught a glimpse of a stocky man on a roan some fifty yards or more behind them. The lone horseman quickly dropped back and sought the cover of some trees. Nicholas said nothing to his companion. Flicking the reins, he coaxed a brisk trot out of the animals and they made light work of pulling the wagon along. When he next looked over his shoulder, Nicholas saw no evidence of any pursuit.
It was late afternoon when they trundled up to the inn. The sun had belatedly decided to grace the day with its full force and this drew some members of a Dutch militia company out onto the tufted lawn at the rear of the building for a game of skittles. Inside the hostelry, Westfield’s Men had already made themselves at home and were carousing happily. George Dart was given such a rousing reception that he forgot all about the privations of the voyage and the agonies of being left alone in a foreign country to guard the company’s baggage.
Nicholas saw immediately that Firethorn, Gill, and Hoode were missing. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. Owen Elias spoke over the top of a tankard of ale.
‘They are at the Governor’s house,’ he explained. ‘Sir Robert Sidney invited them to his table and that smooth-faced secretary of his escorted them thither. We have plainer fare here but it goes down well with this ale. Come and join us, Nick. You must be starving.’
‘I will speak with Anne first.’
‘She is resting in her chamber and left word that she will come down to you anon.’ He nudged his friend and chuckled. ‘Forget your office for once. Stop worrying about the needs of others and put Nick Bracewell first.’
‘I will admit to being thirsty, Owen.’
‘Hungry, too, I wager.’
‘Very.’
‘Then let us address the problem.’
With a loud yell, Elias banged the table until one of the servingmen came to see what he wanted. Food and drink were ordered for N
icholas and he set about both with relish. James Ingram and Adrian Smallwood were at the same table. All four men were soon chatting amiably but Nicholas remained alert. He remembered Anne’s warning very clearly and wondered if it might have a connection with the horseman who had trailed him.
They were in a long bare room with a scattering of tables, benches and stools. Apart from the actors, there were groups of English soldiers taking their ease during a break from fighting, watched resentfully by a few Dutch militiamen. Taunting remarks were occasionally tossed between the nominal allies. The tensions of war were clearly taking their toll.
Elias was buoyant again. ‘This tour of ours will be a triumphal march!’ he affirmed. ‘I feel it in my bones.’
‘That may just be the ague,’ joked Smallwood.
‘Do not rush to judgement,’ cautioned Ingram. ‘We have a long way to go yet, Owen. And we will spend far more time travelling than strutting upon a stage.’
‘We are pioneers!’ insisted Elias. ‘Other companies have brought their plays to the Continent, but none of our standing. I may well turn out to be the first Welshman to have acted before the Emperor Rudolph. Perhaps I should insert some lines in my native language for him.’
‘He would not understand them, if you did,’ said Nicholas as he put his dish aside. ‘The Emperor may not speak English, Welsh or any other tongue that you may know. He was brought up in the Spanish Court.’
‘Spanish!’ echoed Elias with distaste. ‘I’ll not speak that foul language for the Archangel Gabriel, let alone for a mere Emperor.’
‘You spoke it readily enough for Banbury’s Men,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘When you played in The Spanish Jew for them, you even sang a ballad in Spanish.’
‘Only in mockery of King Philip!’ he protested. Contrition came at once. ‘You are right to jog my memory, Nick. I rue the day when I was foolish enough to join our rivals. I paid dearly for that act of madness. My heart and hand belong to Westfield’s Men now.’ His chuckle resurfaced. ‘What is the point of travel if we cannot pick up every language that may lie in our way? I am turned schoolboy again.’
The Fair Maid of Bohemia Page 8