‘Wunderbar!’ he announced. ‘Wizzfeld’s Men! Wunderbar!’
‘We thank you, sir,’ said Firethorn, giving his most obsequious bow. ‘We are humble players whose only wish is to serve our masters. It has been an honour, Herr Burgomaster.’
‘Magnificent, you are, Lurrence Feuertorn.’
‘Firethorn,’ enunciated the other. ‘Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘You please us. I help.’
His hand went towards his midriff and Firethorn hoped that he was about to open his purse. Instead, the Burgomaster plucked a letter from his belt and proffered it.
‘To Frankfurt, you go. Ja?’
‘We do, sir.’
‘You take.’
‘Thank you,’ said Firethorn, taking the letter but handing it straight to Nicholas with a bitter aside. ‘Is that what he calls help? Turning us into his couriers’?
‘You read. Ja?’ urged the Burgomaster. ‘In German, I write, and that letter sent to Frankfurt. Emperor Rudolph, he forgets. Frankfurt not been told you come, maybe. Now they know. My letter tell them. Written by Wizzfeld’s Men.’
‘But we wrote no letter,’ protested Firethorn.
‘I do for you, to help,’ said the Burgomaster with a gleeful chuckle. He turned to Nicholas. ‘Read. For all.’
When he unfolded the letter, Nicholas realised that what he held was an English translation. The Burgomaster had taken great pains on their behalf. His application for permission to play in Frankfurt was couched in the language of deference. Nicholas read it out to the whole company in a firm voice.
‘High Honourable, Respectable, Praiseworthy, Highly Learned Lords, Herr Burgomaster and the Council. Particularly Praiseworthy, Gracious and Ruling Lords, our company of players has stayed briefly in Cologne, where we were well-received, and we set out now towards Prague, where, by grace of the Most High Emperor, we are to display our talents at the Imperial Court. As our journey takes us close to your illustrious city, we did not wish to neglect to visit such a famous and praiseworthy place, and to present our plays to the High Council, according to its will. This is why we submit this most humble request to the Council, and ask it for the great honour of graciously allowing us to play in Frankfurt for a short time: for we are experienced players, trained as actors from our youth, commended for our performances before Her Gracious Majesty, Elizabeth, Queen of England, and renowned for our plays, wherein we present no vices or condemnable tricks, only things appropriate to decency and decorum, in addition to charming English music and excellent dances, which will the better increase the pleasure of the spectators and the listeners. Accordingly, we hope that the High Council will not refuse our humble request but will most kindly permit us to engage in theatrical performances for the entertainment of your justly celebrated city. Forever grateful. Your humble servants.’
There was dead silence. Annoyed to learn that a letter had been sent on their behalf without his knowledge, Firethorn speedily adapted to the idea. His problem was to contain his mirth at the cringing humility of the missive’s tone. As he glanced around, he saw that the rest of the company felt the same way. They were struggling to hold in their amusement.
The Burgomaster beamed. ‘Is good. Ja?’
‘Very good,’ said Firethorn.
Then the dam burst. Laughter poured out of him in a torrent and it set of a dozen minor tributaries. The whole company was soon rocking helplessly. A Burgomaster in Cologne would know how a Burgomaster in Frankfurt wished to be addressed and his letter would no doubt win them a favourable hearing, but that took nothing away from its submissive crawling and its essential ridiculousness. As the laughter built to a crescendo, Nicholas was afraid that the Burgomaster would be offended by such a reaction to his help but the latter readily joined in the wild cachinnation. It never occurred to their affable host that they were laughing at him.
‘Is good. Ja?’ he shouted.
The whole company gave its reply in unison.
‘Is very good. Ja! Ja! Ja!’
***
Hours later, some of them were still draining the dregs of the joke. As they sat around a table at the White Cross, they revelled in their triumph and giggled at the memory of the Burgomaster’s letter.
‘Did you ever hear such stuff?’ howled Elias with a mug of beer in his hand. ‘That letter did everything but get down on its knees to lick the arse of the Burgomaster of Frankfurt.’
‘Do you speak of the Particularly Praiseworthy, Gracious and Ruling Herr Burgomaster?’ teased Ingram.
‘I do, James. Most humbly and cravenly.’ said Elias.
‘And do you really believe that our plays are free from all vices and condemnable tricks?’
‘No, I do not.’
‘They are full to the brim with both,’ said Firethorn.
‘Thank heaven!’ added Elias.
And the table roared again. Nicholas gave only a token smile. His amusement at the wording of the letter had soon faded and he was struck by the extraordinary benevolence that lay behind it. On the strength of his long interview with Nicholas-and before he had seen Westfield’s Men perform Love and Fortune-the Burgomaster had taken it upon himself to smooth their passage across Germany by writing to his counterpart in Frankfurt. He would no doubt have sent a covering letter of his own to reinforce the request to be allowed to play in the city.
Firethorn read the mind of his book-holder and moved him aside.
‘Do not blame them, Nick. They needed this laughter.’
‘I know.’
‘Besides,’ said the actor-manager, ‘that letter may not have sounded quite so obnoxious in German. Then again, it may have been far worse.’ He gave a chuckle, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You are missing Anne, I think.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Very much. I fear for her.’
‘There is no need.’
‘She is alone in a foreign country.’
‘Anne is a capable woman. She will survive.’
‘Adrian was a capable man. He did not.’
‘That was different, Nick.’
‘I know, and it is wrong of me to fret. She will have arrived safely in Amsterdam by now, where she will be looked after by the entire Hendrik family. They will be delighted that she has put herself to such trouble and expense in order to see her father-in-law once more.’ He took a meditative sip of his beer. ‘But I do miss her.’
‘The pain of separation!’ said Firethorn, stroking his beard. ‘I know it full well. I miss Margery and the children as I would miss limbs that have been hacked off. While I enjoy the hospitality of Cologne, they live in the shadow of the plague. I lie awake at night thinking of them. Especially Margery,’ he said with a nostalgic twinkle in his eye. ‘She is a rare creature indeed.’
‘I can vouch for that.’
‘Owen may lust after his eleven thousand virgins, but Margery is worth all of them together. She is the perfection of womanhood-and I pine for her.’
‘Write and tell her so,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘I will, I will.’
‘The friendly Burgomaster will tell us how to send letters back to England.’
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘He is so obliging that he will probably saddle his horse and ride off to deliver the letter for me in person. Is good? Ja?’
Firethorn emptied his own mug with one long swig, then set it down on the table. It was instantly refilled from a jug by a buxom tavern wench. He grinned lasciviously at her and forgot all about his long-suffering wife. As the girl bent over the next table to pour some more beer, he admired the generous proportions of her body with a practised eye. His thoughts flew swiftly to a much finer example of female beauty.
‘Sophia Magdalena,’ he sighed.
‘Edmund is working zealously on the play.’
‘I trust that he will enhance the importance of my role in it. I must dominate the stage as the tormented Earl who searches in vain for his lost child.’
‘The Earl has been changed to an Archduke of Austria.’