The Fair Maid of Bohemia nb-9

by Edward Marston

  Firethorn felt betrayed. ‘My acting? Lower spirits?’

  ‘I talk of the play and not your performance,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘This war in the Netherlands is now in its seventh year, with no sign of resolution. Many English soldiers have already sacrificed their lives and others will surely do so.’

  ‘How does this bar Hector of Troy?’

  ‘The army is weary and disheartened. Soldiers need a play which takes them away from war, not one which reminds them of it. They want rest, amusement, distraction. In place of a stirring tragedy, offer them a harmless comedy. There is another consideration,’ he argued softly. ‘Where is the performance to take place?’

  ‘That was not decided.’

  ‘Is there anywhere suitable in the army’s quarters?’

  ‘They have no quarters, Nick,’ said Firethorn with a shrug. ‘The soldiers are dispersed around the town in lodgings. The Governor himself does not have a residence of his own. He rents a house. Flushing may be an English town but it is crawling with Dutch landlords.’

  ‘Where, then, are we expected to play?’

  ‘I was relying on you to find a place for us.’

  Nicholas pondered. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.

  ***

  Adrian Smallwood demonstrated his true value to the company next morning. He was indefatigable. In default of anywhere more suitable, Nicholas selected the inn itself as their theatre and he found the landlord much more amenable than Alexander Marwood had ever been. Decisions had to be taken quickly and implemented at once. Since there was no enclosed yard like that at the Queen’s Head, Nicholas elected to set the stage up in the angle between the main body of the inn and the stables. The afternoon sun would strike the acting area directly and warm the back of the spectators’ heads.

  Smallwood was in action at once, helping the ostlers to lead the horses out of the stables and tethering them a distance away. Aided by George Dart, he rolled barrels into place, then lifted boards onto them to create a springy but quite serviceable stage. Nicholas screened the wall of the inn with a makeshift curtain so that one room could be pressed into service as the tiring-house and its neighbour as a storeroom for costumes and properties. The stage nestled beneath the windows, making it possible for actors to step through each set of shutters to make separate entrances. When it was cleared out by Smallwood, a stable was incorporated into the play as the home of one of its characters.

  It was Smallwood’s idea to utilise the upper window as a gallery where he and the other actor-musicians could play their instruments to best effect. The chamber had been vacated by Anne Hendrik at dawn and the landlord obligingly reserved it for use by Westfield’s Men. A hundred other jobs needed to be done and Nicholas shared them out evenly, but it was Adrian Smallwood who somehow ended up doing most of them with an infectious cheerfulness.

  ‘How did you contrive the miracle, Nick?’ he asked.

  ‘Miracle?’

  ‘You turned Hector of Troy into Mirth and Madness. Nobody else could have worked so subtly on Master Firethorn.’

  ‘I have had some practice,’ said Nicholas wryly.

  ‘What is your secret?’

  ‘Patience and fortitude.’

  ‘Heavy demands must have been made on both.’

  Nicholas grinned. ‘I have lived to tell the tale.’

  The rehearsal of Mirth and Madness was attended by all kinds of errors and delays, as the deficiencies of the stage forced several changes to the text as it was played at the Queen’s Head. But there was no sense of desperation. It was stock play from their repertoire and they knew they could make it work as successfully as it always had done. To his credit, Firethorn led his company with admirable commitment. The loss of his beloved Hector was a blow that left no visible bruises. At the end of the rehearsal, he gave them his routine blast of criticism in order to concentrate their minds. He then retired without any qualms to take refreshment in the inn.

  Smallwood remained behind to help Nicholas with last-minute refinements. The two wagons were placed end to end at the rear of the rows of benches to provide additional seating at a raised level. Because there was no charge for admission, it was unnecessary to screen off the open side of the improvised auditorium. Nicholas fully expected customers from the inn and townspeople to converge on them out of curiosity when the performance was under way. He took a final look around.

  ‘We are all done, Adrian,’ he decided.

  ‘Thanks to your leadership.’

  ‘Take your share of the credit. You have worked as hard as any of us and with far less complaint.’

  Smallwood beamed. ‘I love this life, Nick.’

  ‘This tour may put that love under severe strain.’

  ‘It will not be found wanting,’ vowed the other.

  They slipped away for a frugal meal and were soon back in the tiring-house with the rest of the company. Spectators began to pour in and the benches quickly filled. Firethorn felt the need to make an oration to his fellows. Dressed in his costume, he beckoned them close to hear his urgent whisper.

  ‘Lads,’ he declared, ‘this is a test of your mettle. We perform a trusty old play on a rickety stage in front of an untried audience. Anything may happen and we must be ready to respond to it. The good name of Westfield’s Men must be preserved at all costs. See this afternoon as a chance to try our art on foreign eyes and ears. English soldiers will form the main part of our audience but there may be Dutch, Danish and German spectators out there as well. Include them at all times. Raise your voices. Broaden your gestures. Leave them shaking with mirth at the divine madness of Westfield’s Men.’

  They were ready. With no silken flag to hoist above their little playhouse, they used a trumpet fanfare to indicate the start of the play. Lawrence Firethorn stepped out in person to deliver the Prologue and set the tone. His words rang out effortlessly across a hundred yards or so.

  ‘Mirth and madness are our themes today,

  So darker minds must seek another play

  To feed their gloom. All’s froth and folly here,

  And Comedy itself will oft appear

  To grace this Flushing stage and mend a tear

  With laughter and with song. And have no fear

  That tragedy will come by stealth to turn

  Your joy to sighs. Our clownish antics spurn

  Life’s miseries and with a Sidney’s skill

  Govern your happiness.’

  The first laugh was led by Sir Robert Sidney himself, delighted at the way that his name had been worked into the verse. Seated on cushions in one of the wagons, he was accompanied by the erect figure of Balthasar Davey, immaculate as ever and trembling with controlled amusement. A ragged cheer went up from the English soldiers. Firethorn was saddened to see how many of them were wounded but it did not show in his voice. It continued to pound out the lines with exquisite timing until even those who did not understand a word of English were soon laughing.

  He quit the stage to applause and passed the book-holder.

  ‘You were right, Nick.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The ideal play.’

  Nicholas had no time to savour the compliment. Mirth and Madness demanded all his attention. It was a rumbustious comedy with many changes of scene and some striking dramatic effects. Deft stage management was required to keep it moving at the requisite pace. Shorn of his usual complement of assistants behind the scenes, he had to take even more responsibility on his own shoulders. George Dart shared the increased burden, but he was taking a series of minor roles in the play and was thus of limited help.

  Mirth and Madness was indeed an ideal choice. It was a visual delight from start to finish. Its plot was easy to follow, its comedy rich and varied, its characters engaging companions with whom to spend a sunny afternoon. Jaded soldiers were transported from the cruelties of a war to a world of helpless laughter. Dutch spectators marvelled at the quality of acting, which made their own indigenous travelling players look like fl
oundering amateurs.

  Nobody appreciated the performance more than Sir Robert Sidney. Vexed by the cares of office, he had appealed to Queen Elizabeth to relieve him of his duties in Flushing so that he could escape from a conflict which had already robbed him of his revered elder brother. There was a sublime Englishness about the play which allowed the Governor to spend two glorious hours in his own beloved country. Poised and handsome in his high eminence on the wagon, Sir Robert quickly surrendered to the general hilarity.

  His approval did not go unnoticed by the members of the cast. Owen Elias came hurtling offstage after another riotous scene and paused beside Nicholas.

  ‘Sir Robert is laughing his noble head off at us.’

  ‘He is not the only one, Owen.’

  ‘I had no idea that he was so young,’ said Elias. ‘He cannot have reached thirty yet. Why has he been deemed worthy of the Governorship at such an age?’

  ‘His wife is Welsh,’ said Nicholas with a teasing smile. ‘That must have counted mightily in his favour.’

  ‘Lady Sidney is Welsh? I knew he was a man of taste.’

  Invigorated by the news, Elias went out for his next scene with even greater zest. The play was carried along by its own breath-taking momentum now. Lawrence Firethorn plundered his whole armoury of comic effects and gave endless pleasure with his extraordinary facial expressions, Barnaby Gill’s hilarious songs and dances brought even more guffaws, and Edmund Hoode supplied some gentler humour as a parish priest who falls hopelessly in love with an unattainable young milkmaid.

  Yet it was Adrian Smallwood who impressed Nicholas the most. The three leading sharers had taken their respective roles many times and had been able to refine their portrayals. Smallwood, by contrast, was making his first appearances in Mirth and Madness. Having mastered his supporting role at short notice, he also accompanied five songs on his lute, took part in three dances and still managed to lend a willing hand to Nicholas behind the scenes. In a selfish profession, Smallwood was a rare example of readiness to serve others.

  When the play reached its giddy climax, the audience burst into frenzied applause. Westfield’s Men had given them a priceless entertainment and rescued them from the harsher concerns of resisting Spanish aggression. As Firethorn led out the company to take their bow, the spectators surged forward to congratulate, embrace and cheer them.

  Nicholas Bracewell was alone behind the scenes. When a hand closed on his arm, it belonged to no grateful spectator. Instead, he found himself looking up into the anxious face of the landlord. The man gibbered with embarrassment and motioned for Nicholas to follow. They went swiftly upstairs to the chamber which the book-holder shared with Owen Elias, Edmund Hoode and Adrian Smallwood. It had been ransacked. Baggage had been slit open and all their belongings scattered across the floor.

  ‘Who found it like this?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘A servant,’ said the landlord in halting English.

  ‘When?’

  ‘During the play. She came up here with fresh linen and found all the rooms like this.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Every chamber set aside for your company.’

  Nicholas went to each of the rooms in turn to see for himself. Someone had searched them in great haste and left chaos in his wake. The landlord was deeply upset. Westfield’s Men had brought a large audience to his inn and he had made a tidy profit selling food and drink to them. He mumbled his apologies and spoke of compensation for the outrage that had taken place under his roof. Nicholas paid no heed. His mind was racing with the implications of what had happened.

  Hurrying back downstairs, he found that the actors had now withdrawn from the milling crowd into the privacy of the tiring-house. Inebriated with success, they were talking and laughing together. Nicholas saw at a glance that someone was missing. He pushed to the centre of the room.

  ‘Where is Adrian?’ he asked.

  ‘He must be still onstage,’ said Elias, looking around.

  ‘No,’ said Richard Honeydew. ‘He went into the stable to fetch his lute. It was left in there after my last song.’

  ‘That is right,’ confirmed Hoode. ‘I was waiting in the stable for my next entrance. Adrian quit the stage as a lutanist but rushed back on as a cuckolded husband with a foil in his hand. He’ll be here in a moment.’

  Nicholas did not wait. Stepping through the window, he brushed aside the curtain and went onstage. Spectators were still standing about in groups, enthused by the wonderful performance they had seen. There was no sign of Smallwood. Nicholas ran to the stable which had been utilised during the play to great effect. Its door was shut tight. He wrenched it open and stepped quickly inside.

  Adrian Smallwood lay face-down on the floor, his head smashed violently open. His buff jerkin had been ripped from his back and a long-handled knife plunged deep between his shoulder-blades. The lute floated lazily in a pool of blood.

  Chapter Five

  It was a paradox. Over three hundred people had come to watch a play, yet not one of them had witnessed the real drama which had occurred at the inn. Watching a delightful romp, they missed the foul murder which took place under their noses. The killer had searched their rooms while everyone was distracted by Mirth and Madness, then used the swirling crowd as his cover when he struck down Adrian Smallwood. Or so it appeared to Nicholas Bracewell. He was convinced that the two crimes were linked but uncertain about the motives which inspired them.

  When he raised the alarm, everyone was shocked to learn that one of the actors had been bludgeoned and stabbed only a short distance from where they stood. The goodwill engendered by the performance evaporated at once. While the audience was stunned, Westfield’s Men were in despair. At the very moment when they were celebrating the first success of their Continental tour, one of their number was brutally killed. All of a sudden, the English possession of Flushing seemed alarmingly foreign. They were adrift in an alien land.

  Nicholas was deeply shaken. Smallwood was both a friend and an invaluable member of the company. To lose him at all was a bitter blow, but to have it happen in this way was shattering. Without understanding why, Nicholas felt an obscure sense of guilt, as if it had been his duty to protect the actor. The guilt merged with his surging anger and prompted a vow to bring the killer to justice at whatever cost. Unfortunately, the vow was easier to make than to keep. Obstacles lay in his path. It was Balthasar Davey who pointed them out to him.

  ‘You attempt the impossible, I fear,’ he said.

  ‘But I am involved in this to the hilt.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘Adrian Smallwood was my fellow.’

  ‘If he had been a complete stranger, he would not have deserved the hideous fate which he met. I am as anxious as you to see the murderer caught and hanged, but finding him is a task for the proper authorities.’

  ‘I may have information that they do not, Master Davey.’

  ‘Then it is your duty to pass it on.’

  ‘I have already given a statement about how I found the body,’ said Nicholas. ‘My sole concern now is to track down the man who left it there.’

  ‘What chance have you of catching him?’

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘None, sir,’ said the other politely. ‘An assassin who can work so cunningly will not be reckless enough to remain in Flushing while you and others conduct a search for him. He will be several miles away by now.’

  ‘Then I will pursue him!’

  ‘How?’

  There was a calm practicality about Balthasar Davey that made him formidable in argument. The Governor’s secretary was keen to help in any way that he could, but he felt bound to oppose the course of action Nicholas wished to take. It was some hours after the play had ended. An official investigation into the murder had been set in motion and the corpse had been taken off by cart to the morgue in the English church. While the rest of Westfield’s Men were drowning their sorrows in the inn, Balthasar Davey and Nicholas wer
e in a private room at the rear of the premises. The secretary was acquainting the book-holder with the reality of his situation.

  ‘Take my advice,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘Leave the town tomorrow and put this whole matter behind you.’

  ‘We cannot desert our fellow. That would be cruel.’

  ‘It is a cruelty which masks a greater kindness.’

  ‘Kindness!’ Nicholas blinked in disbelief. ‘Abandoning a friend at a moment like this? You call that kindness?’

  ‘I do. It would be a kindness to you because it would spare you untold pain and vexation. And it would be a kindness to your fellows to take them away from this unseemly business as soon as you may. I have heard actors are superstitious by nature. Keep them here to brood on the murder and that superstition will turn into morbid fear. Your company will suffer greatly.’

  ‘There may be a grain of truth in that,’ conceded Nicholas. ‘But we will still not forsake Adrian.’

  ‘Do you have any other choice?’ asked Davey. ‘You can hardly take his body with you. Pray for his soul and ride away from the scene of his murder. Tomorrow.’

  ‘We will at least stay for the funeral.’

  ‘That may not be for some days.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Casualties of war,’ said the other. ‘We suffer heavy losses here. Wounded or dying men come in everyday. Many others are already waiting for burial and their turn must come before Adrian Smallwood.’

  ‘But he was a victim of murder.’

  ‘That gives him no prior claims.’

  ‘It should,’ protested Nicholas. ‘What sort of an uncaring place is this? Have you no human decency here?’

  ‘We have as much as the war allows us.’

  Nicholas boiled with resentment but it was not directed at Balthasar Davey. The Governor’s secretary was not obstructing his wishes deliberately. He was very distressed at the murder, especially as it had occurred at the inn which he had chosen for the company. But living in the shadow of a long and expensive war had forced him to accept unpalatable facts. Emotion gave way to expediency. One man’s death-however gruesome-had to be set against countless others on the battlefield. In the long catalogue of slaughter, the name of Adrian Smallwood was of no particular significance.