‘Well?’ prompted Firethorn. ‘What happened?’
‘Westfield’s Men are welcome in Cologne.’
‘Did you mention my name, Nick?’
‘Several times,’ lied the other.
‘And mine, I trust?’ asked Gill.
‘Of course. We are to give two performances here.’
‘Where?’ said Firethorn.
‘The first will be in a public place and the Burgomaster himself will be there with the entire Council and their wives. The audience could be of considerable size.’
‘Was payment mentioned?’
‘We are allowed to charge admission.’
‘This is excellent news!’
‘The second performance will be at the palace,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Duke of Bavaria and other important guests are visiting Cologne, so we will have distinguished spectators. It pleased the Burgomaster that we gave him first call on the services of Westfield’s Men.’
‘Why?’ asked Gill.
‘Cologne is ruled by the Archbishop. He is also the Elector and thus wields temporal as well as spiritual power. The Burgomaster feels that he and his Council are the true government. There is great rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop. The spirit of Hermann Grein lives on.’
‘Who?’
‘Hermann Grein,’ repeated Nicholas. ‘He lived hundreds of years ago but the Burgomaster talked about him as if he were still alive. When he was himself Burgomaster, this Hermann Grein won a victory over one Archbishop Engelbert here in Cologne. The Archbishop wanted revenge. Burgomaster Grein was invited to the monastery for a conference. The monks kept various wild animals there, including a lion. Two canons trapped the Burgomaster in a courtyard with the lion. If the man had not been wearing his sword, he would have been torn to pieces. He fought bravely enough to kill the animal but was savagely mauled and nearly died.’
‘Did the poor wretch survive?’ said Firethorn.
‘By the grace of God, he did. The citizens of Cologne rescued him. Growing suspicious, they forced their way into the monastery and recovered their Burgomaster in time. The two canons involved in the plot were hanged at the monastery gate and Hermann Grein was slowly nursed back to health.’
‘An amusing-enough story,’ said Gill with a yawn, ‘but what bearing does it have on us?’
‘A fair amount,’ replied Nicholas levelly. ‘It helps to dictate our choice of play. The rivalry between the citizens and the Archbishop may not be as deadly as in the days of Burgomaster Grein, but it is still there. We would be foolish to stage a play which sets Church against Commonalty, and there are two or three in our repertoire.’
‘A timely warning, Nick,’ said Firethorn gratefully. ‘We do not wish to fan the flames of any dispute in the city. ‘Tis a pity we lack the actors to play The Knights of Malta. That would delight both citizens and Archbishop.’
‘Bore them, rather,’ said Gill contemptuously. ‘Your Grand Master would send the whole of Cologne to sleep.’
‘I will send you to sleep in a moment,’ retorted the other, fingering his dagger. ‘For all eternity.’
‘The Knights of Malta will not serve here,’ argued Nicholas quietly. ‘A play about the Turkish menace would not be the wisest choice. It is too close to the truth. The Turks are attacking the eastern border of the Empire even though they have signed a peace treaty. The people of Cologne may not wish to be reminded of that distant threat. Comedy is in request yet again, I think.’
‘And so do I,’ added Gill. ‘Cupid’s Folly, it must be.’
‘That would be folly indeed!’ sneered Firethorn.
‘They want laughter, song, dance. They want me.’
‘Even drunken Germans cannot be that misguided!’
The familiar bickering began again and Nicholas left them to it. Stealing away from the table, he walked towards the figure he had noticed on his own in the far corner. It was Edmund Hoode, crouched over a sheet of parchment with a quill in his hand. The pen was hovering indecisively.
‘How now, Edmund?’ said his friend, lowering himself onto the stool opposite. ‘Is your teeming brain at work on The Fair Maid of Bohemia?’
‘If only it were, Nick!’ sighed the other.
‘What is amiss?’
‘My Muse has deserted me.’
‘You always say that.’
‘This time, it is true. My mind is empty. The storehouse of my imagination is bare. The mice scamper around in there, unable to find even the tiniest crumbs.’
‘You are tired, that is all,’ reassured Nicholas. ‘The journey has taxed each one of us. A good night’s sleep will soon revive you and fill that storehouse until it bursts apart with fresh ideas.’
‘No, Nick. I have written my last play.’
‘Those words, too, have often been on your lips.’
‘Never with more conviction.’ He lifted both hands up in a gesture of despair. ‘I have nothing new to say.’
‘Novelty is not expected. All you have to do is to take an old play by Edmund Hoode and dress it in a clever disguise. You have fashioned such costumes a hundred times.’
‘I have lost my needle and thread. Look,’ he said, lifting the sheet of parchment in front of him, ‘this is the fruit of two hours’ work. All I have contrived to write is the title and the name of its misbegotten author. The chaste maid refuses to leave Wapping. She’ll have none of Bohemia!’
He tossed the sheet over his shoulder with disgust and buried his face in his hands. Nicholas consoled him gently. It was a service he had often rendered and his touch was delicate. Hoode was slowly weaned away from his crippling melancholy. Nicholas waited until he had coaxed the first faint smile out of his friend before he made his offer.
‘Let me help you,’ he suggested.
‘How?’
‘Not as your co-author, that would be far too great a presumption on my part. I only wish to be a servant, who fetches and carries things for my master. I bring the bones of ideas, you put flesh upon them.’
‘You do not know The Chaste Maid of Wapping well enough.’
‘I know it as well as its author,’ said Nicholas. ‘Better than he at this moment. You forget how often I have seen it rehearsed and played. The first scene, for instance, could be transported to Bohemia with one simple device.’
‘One?’
‘If you are bold enough to use it.’
‘What is it?’ asked Hoode, interested at last.
‘Pick up your pen and I will tell you.’
The drooping playwright took up his quill and dipped it into the inkwell before him. Once he began to write, his hand never paused for a second as a stream of ideas, images and daring concepts poured from Nicholas. Though not an author in his own right, he had a grasp of narrative and of theatrical effect that was the equal of any. Hoode’s enthusiasm was brought quickly back to life again. Instead of simply listing his friend’s comments about the play, he started to challenge, to criticise, to amend, to refine.
It was only a matter of time before his own creative juices flowed freely again. When he replaced the first page with a second, it was his imagination which made the pen dance across it. Nicholas was no longer needed. Hoode was talking to himself and hearing nobody else. The book-holder retrieved the discarded sheet of parchment from the floor and gazed around the room. Firethorn and Gill were still squabbling cheerfully, Elias was still carousing with the others, George Dart was slumbering over his beer again and the resident poet with Westfield’s Men had been rescued from a pit of misery and filled with brimming confidence. It was once more the company he knew and loved. Nicholas was content.