The Fair Maid of Bohemia

by Edward Marston

  ‘I must speak with you both,’ he insisted.

  ‘Another time, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn dismissively. ‘We have other things on our mind.’

  ‘This will brook no delay.’

  ‘I have already told you. We are not going to indulge you again. I refuse to play Cupid’s Folly just to satisfy your vanity. Enough is enough.’

  ‘It is nothing to do with that, Lawrence.’

  ‘Then why do you ambush me like this?’

  ‘To tell you about my visit to the Týn Church.’

  ‘Why should we have the slight interest in that?’

  ‘Because of what I learned about Hugo Usselincx.’

  Firethorn was about to wave him away but Nicholas sensed that Gill had something of consequence to say. It was so unlike the latter to consort with his fellows in the same inn that there had to be a sound reason why he was even still at the Black Eagle. Nicholas motioned both men to an empty table and they settled down on the benches.

  ‘Well?’ he prompted.

  ‘Earlier this evening,’ said Gill in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘finding the atmosphere in here too stuffy, and the companionship too dull, I decided to view some of the sights on the other side of the river.’

  ‘Spare us the excuses, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn cynically. ‘We know why you went and what you hoped to find.’

  ‘I was in the Town Square when I met Hugo Usselincx. He was still full of admiration for my performance as Rigormortis in Cupid’s Folly.’

  ‘That accursed play again! I knew it.’

  ‘Meeting him was no surprise,’ commented Nicholas. ‘Hugo Usselincx is the organist at the Týn Church, which is nearby.’

  ‘But that is the point, Nicholas,’ said Gill. ‘He is not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I went to the church and ventured in. There is scaffolding up and a deal of rebuilding is taking place. One of the things they are putting in is a new organ.’

  ‘But Master Usselincx told us in Frankfurt that he had to hasten here in order to take up his duties. Perchance he was expecting to play this new organ.’

  ‘It will not be ready for a week or more. I took the trouble to ask. Besides, the church already has a resident organist. He has been in the office for a number of years.’

  ‘What of Hugo Usselincx?’ wondered Firethorn.

  ‘They had never heard of him.’

  There was a pause as the two men absorbed the impact of the news. Nicholas was first to see how valuable a piece of intelligence it was.

  ‘You have done well, Master Gill,’ he said, as his mind raced ahead. ‘This explains much. He was always too ready to befriend us and to find out the innermost workings of the company. I begin to suspect why.’

  ‘One moment,’ said Firethorn. ‘If Hugo had nothing to do with the Týn Church, why was he in its vicinity?’

  ‘My guess is that he may have a lodging nearby. That might explain why he was there earlier.’ He indicated the bandage. ‘When he or his accomplice was responsible for this.’

  Gill blanched. ‘What happened, Nicholas?’ he said, seeing the wound for the first time. ‘Were you assaulted?’

  ‘Close by the Týn Church.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am only now beginning to understand that.’

  ‘That two-faced Dutchman!’ exclaimed Firethorn.

  ‘We have no proof that he is Dutch. That is merely what he wanted us to believe. Supposing,’ said Nicholas, remembering the voyage on the Peppercorn, ‘that he is a German who can speak Dutch. We could tell no difference between the accents. Hugo Usselincx—I doubt that is his real name—gulled us all. There is only one reason he could wish to do that.’

  ‘The rogue! Let’s go hunt the villain down.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We begin at the Týn Church.’

  ‘No, Lawrence,’ said Gill, ‘that is the one place he will not be. Besides, night has fallen. We cannot search for anyone in the dark. It will have to wait until morning.’

  ‘I will not leave Anne in peril a moment longer than I have to,’ vowed Nicholas. ‘We may not be able to find Hugo Usselincx—whoever he is—but his accomplice could be a different proposition.’

  ‘You have found the man?’

  ‘Not yet, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘But we will.’

  Nicholas rose to leave. ‘Pray excuse me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to the castle.’

  ‘But we have only just come from there, Nick.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Nicholas. ‘We twice met Hugo in the courtyard of the castle. The stone which struck me down was from the castle fortifications. The man who has shed most light on this business is in the castle dungeon. That is where the answer lies,’ he concluded. ‘And that is where Anne may be held.’

  ***

  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 t
he 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!’

  ‘You are trapped down here,’ said Nicholas, restraining him. ‘This is work for me. I, too, have a personal stake in this. Caspar will not go unpunished, I assure you. What I need from you, Doctor Royden, is your help.’

  ‘Help? What help can I give?’

  ‘The key to the laboratory.’

  ‘Caspar has it.’

  ‘There is no duplicate?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Could the door be easily forced?’

  ‘No,’ said Royden. ‘It has been strengthened. The laboratory contains things of great value. They need to be protected. A battering ram would be needed on that door.’

  ‘Is there no other way in?’

  ‘Not without that key.’

  ‘Think hard, sir,’ urged Nicholas. ‘If that key were lost, if you and Caspar were locked out and had somehow to get back into the room—how would you do it?’

  Royden ran a pensive hand through his spiky hair.

  ‘There is one way, I suppose. But only a brave man would even attempt it. A very brave and very foolish man.’

  ***

  His silence was disconcerting. In its own way, it was as frightening as the other’s speech. Anne Hendrik knew that her captor was in the room but she could not draw a single word out of him. He had given her food and left the gag off her mouth. Was he himself eating? Was he close? Was he at the far end of the room? Or was he simply watching her?

  ‘I know that you’re there,’ she said.

  No answer. Was he sitting or standing?

  ‘Don’t you understand English?’

  Still no response. Had he been ordered to say nothing?

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked. ‘At least, tell me that.’

  There was a creaking sound as he shifted his position on a chair. It was barely a yard away. Anne was unsettled by the idea that he was so near to her, then a new thought struck her. The other man had done all the talking. His accomplice had been careful not to speak to her directly. The conversation between the two men had taken place some distance away, so that she could not hear him properly. There was a reason for that.

  ‘Do I know you?’ she challenged.

  Words at last came but they were not from him.

  ‘What ho! Within there!’

  It was the voice of Lawrence Firethorn, accompanied by a banging on the door. Before she could cry out, the gag was back in place, tied tighter than ever. Firethorn knocked harder.

  ‘We need your help, sir! Are you there?’

  She heard him walk down the room towards the door.
There was a third shout from Firethorn, then he seemed to give up. A full minute passed before the door was unlocked, opened and locked again from the outside. Anne was in despair. Help had been within reach and she had been unable to call for it. She struggled hard against her bonds, but the ropes were too secure. A scraping sound drifted into her ear. She stopped to listen. It was coming from outside the room and getting closer.

  ***

  Nicholas Bracewell had borrowed the rope from one of the ostlers in the castle stables. The bribe had been too generous for the man to refuse. Up on the roof of the palace, Nicholas tied one end to the pole which bore the Bohemian flag and let the rest of the rope hang down the front of the building. He was at the highest point in the city. A fall would mean certain death, but he did not hesitate. Taking the rope in both hands and pushing himself out with his feet, he began the perilous descent.

  The secret, he knew, was not to look down. Three years at sea with Drake had taught him how to swarm up the rigging and stay aloft even in bad weather. There was no swell to contend with here, no rocking movement of the mast to make a climb more hazardous. At the same time, he realised, there was no sea to break his fall if he was hurled off, no swirling waves from which he could be retrieved by helpful shipmates. As he inched his way down the front of the building, there was no margin for error. Darkness was an enemy.

  When his foot slipped, he was left dangling in mid-air for a few moments and had to adjust his position quickly. Sweat broke out on his brow and his weight began to tax his muscles. The slow descent continued. As befitted a man who, among many other things, was a skilled mathematician, Royden’s instructions had been extremely precise. He had told Nicholas where to tie the rope and exactly how far down the window of the laboratory would be. After hanging in space for what seemed like an age, the climber was relieved when one foot made contact with the sill. It allowed him to pause, to rest, to take stock.

  Reaching the window was only half of the battle. He still had to gain entry. The shutters were locked firmly from the inside. With both feet on the sill, Nicholas kept one hand on the rope and used the other to take out the dagger which had been lent to him by Firethorn. Its blade was long and thin but it could still not be inserted between the shutters to flick up the catch. There was only one means of entry and that was by brute force.