The Princess of Denmark (5 page)

‘What a clever fellow you are, Rolfe!’

‘I did not want any correspondence to go astray. All that we have to do is to call on Sir Robert Sidney and retrieve any letters.’

‘You have put my mind at rest.’ After glancing at the portrait once more, he slipped it back into his pocket. ‘All things proceed to a successful outcome.’

‘I think you will find that every detail has been considered.’

‘And we will be housed in the castle?’

‘Kronborg Slot awaits you.’

Lord Westfield blinked. ‘Where?’

‘It’s what they call the castle in Elsinore.’

‘I could want a more mellifluous name for a place where I will marry the most beautiful creature in the world. However, if it contents Sigbrit, I’ll raise no complaints. Will the king be in residence?’

‘He’ll be sure to attend the ceremony,’ said Harling, ‘and he will certainly not miss any performances given by your troupe. English players have visited Demark before with distinction.’

‘Lawrence Firethorn will outshine all of them.’

‘Even he will take second place to Sigbrit Olsen.’

‘I’ll be fast married to her before I let him near her,’ said Lord Westfield with a grin. ‘Lawrence has an eye for the ladies. When absent from his wife, he has been known to seek pleasure elsewhere. But not from my Sigbrit – she is one woman he will never ensnare.’

‘How many performances will your company give?’

‘As many as they can.’

‘They will be in demand at Kronborg Slot and in the town of Elsinore itself, I daresay. And if King Christian admires them – as he is certain to do – he may well invite them to play in Copenhagen.’

‘What do you know of this new king?’

Harling pondered. ‘He is well-educated, ambitious and far-sighted,’ he said at length. ‘His mother was Sophie of Mecklenburg so he speaks perfect German. His father, King Frederick II, was a man of strong convictions and had an interest in the arts. His son shares that interest. Until his
coronation earlier this year, the country was under a regent. King Christian IV has succeeded to the throne with the fire of youth in his veins.’

‘You seem unduly well-informed, Rolfe.’

‘I have travelled widely in Europe. One picks up all the gossip.’

‘This is more than gossip.’

‘When I was in Copenhagen,’ explained Harling, ‘I found out all I could. You must remember that I am a scholar at heart. I’ve been trained to gather all the evidence before reaching a judgement.’

‘I have been the beneficiary of your thoroughness.’

‘You paid me well.’

‘No man can set a price on happiness.’

‘I like to render good service.’

‘And so you did,’ said Lord Westfield, raising his glass. ‘I toast my future wife – the divine Sigbrit Olsen!’

‘Sigbrit Olsen,’ echoed Harling as they clinked glasses.

‘She will be so thrilled with my wedding present.’

‘Which one, my lord?’

‘My theatre company, of course,’ said the other.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘What other bridegroom could turn up at the altar with the finest troupe in Europe at his side? And there’ll be another surprise for her, Rolfe.’

‘Will there?’

‘Westfield’s Men are to perform a play in her honour.’

‘What is it called?’

‘What else, man?
The Princess of Denmark.
’

‘But there is no such play in our stock,’ said Owen Elias, ‘and even someone with as fluent a pen as Edmund’s could not write one in the short time before we leave.’

‘Nevertheless, we will perform
The Princess of Denmark
.’

‘How can we, Nick, when she does not even exist?’

‘But she does,’ said Nicholas, ‘hidden beneath another name.’

‘Well, I do not know what it is.’

‘Think hard, Owen.’

The two of them were in Elias’s lodging and the Welshman was eager for any information relating to their imminent trip abroad. As a sharer and as one of the company’s most versatile actors, he was among the first to be listed among those making the voyage. Others had been less fortunate and it had fallen to Nicholas Bracewell to pass on the bad tidings to many of the hired men who served the troupe. It had been an ordeal for him. Bitter tears had been shed and heartbreaking entreaties made but he had no authority to alter the decisions that had been made. Having at last finished his thankless task, he had called in on his friend.

‘Do you remember our visit to Prague?’ asked Nicholas.

Elias was rueful. ‘I am hardly likely to forget it,’ he said, ‘and neither is Anne. She was abducted in the city.’

‘What was the title of the play we performed at the wedding?’

‘
The Fair Maid of Bohemia
.’

‘No, Owen.’

‘It was – I swear it.’

‘What the audience
thought
they saw was a play of that
name,’ said Nicholas. ‘In fact, what they were watching was
The Chaste Maid of Wapping
, an old comedy new-minted by Edmund to give it the sheen of novelty. He will use the same trick again.’

‘Turn a chaste maid into a princess?’

‘Find a play from the past that will fit an event in the future. With my help, Edmund has done so. We chose
The Prince of Aragon
.’

‘But that is a dark tragedy.’

‘Not in its new incarnation,’ said Nicholas. ‘The prince becomes a princess, Aragon is translated into Denmark and the death of the hero is changed into the wedding of the heroine. All demands are satisfied. Lord Westfield and his bride will think the piece was conceived with them in mind.’

‘You are a magician, Nick!’

‘I merely provided the play. Edmund will fashion it anew.’

‘Oh, I am so looking forward to this adventure!’ said Elias.

‘I, too,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we have unfinished business first.’

‘Do we?’

‘I still worry that we’ve heard no more about Will Dunmow.’

‘There’s nothing else to hear. I told you about that man with whom Will was staying.’

‘Yes – Anthony Rooker.’

‘When the body was released by the coroner, he was going to have it transported back home for burial. He must have done that by now. A letter was sent to York in advance.’

‘That’s what perplexes me, Owen.’

‘Why?’

‘Put yourself in the father’s position,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Your son sets out for London on business. The next thing you hear is that he’s been killed in a fire. What would you do?’

‘Mourn his death.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Await the return of his body.’

‘Then we would make very different fathers.’

‘What do you mean.’

‘If a son of mine died in those circumstances, I’d be in the saddle the moment I heard about it. I’d come to London to find out every last detail of the tragedy. Nobody else would be allowed to send Will’s body north. I’d ride with it myself.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias, thinking it through, ‘I suppose that I would as well. I’d seek out those who last saw Will alive.’

‘Owen Elias and James Ingram.’

Elias shuddered. ‘We have that grim distinction.’

‘Has the father been anywhere near either of you?’

‘No, Nick. As far as I know, he is still in York.’

‘I find that odd.’

‘So do I. On the other hand,’ said Elias, ‘Will did tell us how glad he was to get away from him. There was no love lost between them. Will was bent on living life to the full while he was in London because he was not allowed to do that in York. His father was a martinet – Anthony Rooker confirmed that.’

‘I wish that I’d met him myself.’

‘He was not the most pleasant of men, Nick.’

‘That’s irrelevant,’ said Nicholas. ‘I still feel that this whole business is not yet over somehow. We were
involved
– you, especially. As a man, we liked Will Dunmow.’

‘He was a true friend.’

‘I would like to know what happened to him. When was the body dispatched and what sort of funeral will it have? What manner of man is the father? Why has he not been in touch with you?’

‘I think that he probably despises me, Nick.’

‘Why?’

‘I helped to get his son into that state,’ admitted Elias. ‘James and I carried him to his bed that night. I snuffed out the candle but I forgot that he had a pipe with him.’

‘We are not even sure that that is what started the fire.’

‘I’m sure, Nick – and I still feel culpable.’

‘No blame attaches to you or to James. You could not foresee what might happen. However,’ Nicholas continued, ‘let’s leave Will Dunmow and turn to the other unfinished business.’

‘And what is that?’

Nicholas leant in closer to him. ‘I need to ask a favour of you.’

The Dutch Churchyard lay wrapped in the thick blanket of night. Dutch, German and other languages were etched on the gravestones but they were unreadable in the darkness. All that could be seen were the blurred outlines of monument and tombstone. An owl perched on a stone cross. Moles were busy underneath the soft earth. Rats
came sniffing through the grass. Locked against intruders, the church itself loomed over the dead that were buried in its massive shadow. A homeless beggar slept on the cold stone in its porch.

The old watchmen approached on their nightly patrol. When they got close to the churchyard, their lanterns threw a flickering light on an ancient cart abandoned near the entrance. All that they could see in it was a large pile of sacks and a broken wheelbarrow. They moved on to the churchyard to conduct their usual search and disturbed the owl. Leaving its perch, it flew high up into a tree before settling on a branch and keeping them under wide-eyed surveillance. As they meandered between the gravestones, they looked for signs of desecration. They found none. They sauntered back towards the gate.

‘Look at the wall, Tom,’ said one.

‘Aye,’ replied his companion.

‘That’s where they publish their damnable lies.’

‘Except that they’re not all lies.’

‘What’s that you say?’

His friend did not reply. They left the churchyard and examined the wall that ran alongside it. Nothing had been left there. The first man repeated his question.

‘What’s that you say?’

‘There are too many of them, Silas,’ grunted the other.

‘Too many?’

‘Strangers – they are everywhere. I heard tell that they counted their numbers. Do you know how many we have in London?’

‘No, Tom. Hundreds, I expect.’

‘Over four thousand.’

‘Never!’

‘That’s the figure I heard and I believe it. They are never satisfied, Silas, that’s their trouble. They always want more.’

‘The foreigners I know all work very hard.’

‘Yes,’ said Tom grumpily, ‘but they do not work for us. They sneer at what we have in our shops and warehouses. They open their own instead. It’s not right. It’s not fair.’

‘That’s not for us to say.’

‘Strangers are strangers. They’ll never belong.’

‘Anyone would think that
you
wrote those libels, Tom Hubble.’

‘Not me, Silas. I despise most of what they say.’ He spat onto the ground. ‘But I do agree with bits of them.’

‘Shame on you!’

‘England must look first to the English.’

‘Let’s move on.’

‘Over four thousand of them, Silas – and the numbers grow.’

‘They are exiles, Tom,’ said the other with compassion, ‘driven out of their own countries.’

Tom Hubble sniffed. ‘There are too many of them.’

They trudged off down Broad Street until their lanterns were slowly extinguished in the gloom. There was a long pause. Someone then emerged warily from a doorway on the opposite side of the road and trotted across to the churchyard. Confident that he was alone, he unfurled a poster and started to fix it to the wall. He was soon interrupted. A figure suddenly rose up in the back of the abandoned cart and shook off the sacking under which he
had been concealed. The man at the wall was so terrified that he dropped his scroll and ran for his life. He did not get far.

Nicholas Bracewell darted into the street from his hiding place and grabbed him by the shoulders, hurling him against a wall to knock some of the breath out of him. But the man was young and strong. Recovering quickly, he pulled out a dagger and slashed at Nicholas. The book holder eluded the weapon with ease. He had been involved in many brawls and knew how to stay light on his feet. When his assailant thrust the dagger at his heart, therefore, Nicholas turned quickly sideways and grabbed the man’s wrist as it flashed past him. There was a brief tussle but Nicholas’s superior strength soon brought the fight to an end. Forcing this adversary to drop the knife, he flung him against the wall again then struck him with a relay of punches that left him cowering on his knees against the brick. Whimpering piteously, the man begged for mercy.

Owen Elias had been hidden in the cart. When he joined his friend, he was not happy about his accommodation.

‘I swear that those sacks were filled with horse manure at some point,’ he said, curling his nose. ‘I must stink to high heaven.’

‘Your efforts were rewarded, Owen. We caught him.’ Nicholas hauled the young man to his feet and held him by the throat. ‘This is one piece of business that is now finished.’

George Dart was the smallest and most timid member of the company. As an assistant stagekeeper, he performed a whole array of menial tasks with a willingness that never flagged. On occasion, much to his discomfort, he was also compelled to take part in a play, albeit in a very minor capacity. For the most part, however, he loved his work and looked upon Westfield’s Men as his true family even though the apprentices sometimes teased him and the actors frequently used him as their whipping boy. Expecting to be discarded for the visit to Denmark, he was overwhelmed to be one of those selected to go. Dart was bursting with gratitude.

‘A thousand thanks, Nicholas,’ he said.

‘It was not my decision, George.’

‘But you spoke up for me. I know that. If it had been left to Master Firethorn and the others, they would not have given me a second thought – except to laugh at me.’

‘I know your true worth,’ said Nicholas fondly. ‘You do
the work of three men and are always ready to learn. Dear old Thomas Skillen is our stagekeeper but you do most of the tasks that should rightly be his. Since his ancient bones would never survive a voyage across the North Sea, he urged that you should go in his place.’

Dart was amazed. ‘But all that he ever does is box my ears.’

‘That is his means of instruction.’

The two of them had come to the Queen’s Head to take away the scenery and properties that would be needed on tour. There was a limit to how much they could carry. Weight and bulkiness were thus crucial factors. Guided by their book holder, Lawrence Firethorn and the others had chosen to perform plays on tour that could share many of the same items as well as most of the same costumes. Duplication would simplify matters. Nicholas took out the key. When he unlocked the room where everything was stored, there was barely enough space among the clutter for them to stand side by side.

‘Read out the list, George,’ said the book holder, handing him a scroll. ‘I’ll try to find the things we need.’

Dart unrolled the paper. ‘
Item
, one Pope’s miter, one imperial crown, one throne.’

‘The throne is far too heavy. If we play in a castle, I’m sure that we can borrow a high-backed chair that will serve our purposes.’

‘They may also furnish us with a crown.’

‘That would be too much to ask,’ said Nicholas, taking two objects down from a shelf. ‘It would be impertinent of us to ask King Christian to abdicate for a couple of hours
so that we could make use of his crown.’ He put the objects aside. ‘Here we are – one miter, one crown. What’s next?’

‘
Item
, one rock, one tomb, one cauldron.’

‘The tomb must come – it’s used in three separate plays – but we will have to find a rock in Denmark – a real one, probably. It is so with the cauldron. The castle kitchens will furnish that.’

‘What about the steeple and maypole for
Love and Fortune
?’ asked Dart. ‘I doubt that we will find those so easily. Big as they are, we’ll have to take them with us.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, putting the wooden tomb outside the door so that it would not impede them, ‘they will stay here. When we reach the castle, Oswald Megson will make us a new steeple and maypole. He’s been told to bring his tools.’

‘I forgot that he was trained as a carpenter.’

‘It’s the reason that Oswald was picked to go.’

Before they could continue, they heard footsteps in the corridor outside then the face of Alexander Marwood appeared in the doorway.

‘I want all this taken away,’ said the landlord peremptorily.

‘It will be,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Every trace of Westfield’s Men must leave my inn.’

‘The costumes have already been removed by Hugh Wegges, our tireman. George and I will clear this room today as well. When we have picked out the items that we need to take to Denmark with us, we’ll return with a larger cart and carry everything else away.’

‘No, before then!’ snarled Marwood. ‘Since we lost
almost half of the Queen’s Head in the fire, we need to use every room we have.’

Dart was curious. ‘This will become a bedchamber?’

‘It will have to. Eight rooms were lost in the blaze.’

‘But what happens when we come back?’

‘You will not be allowed on my premises.’

‘We do have a contract with you, Master Marwood,’ Nicholas reminded him, ‘and it was signed in good faith. You have no legal right to put us out on a whim.’

‘That contract – accepted against my better judgement, I may tell you – stipulates that Westfield’s Men may play in my yard for the next year. But I no longer
have
a yard,’ asserted Marwood, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, ‘and so the contract is null and void.’

‘Only until you rebuild the inn.’

‘That will never happen.’

‘But it must,’ pleaded Dart. ‘This is our home.’

‘It was
our
home until it was burnt down, young sir. It was the place that gave us our livelihood. You and the others may sail off across the sea to earn a living. We do not have that luxury. My wife and I are stuck here in the ruins of our inn.’

‘Have you spoken to a builder yet?’ asked Nicholas.

‘What is the point?’

‘The Queen’s Head can arise anew.’

‘Only at a high price, Master Bracewell. Where am I to get the money to pay it? I do not have a wealthy patron like you.’

‘Come now,’ said Nicholas, ‘you can hardly plead poverty. The weather has been kind to us all year.
Throughout spring and summer, we filled your yard with paying customers. They bought your refreshments during the performances and thronged your taproom after it. Six days a week, you made healthy profits.’

‘Yes,’ Dart put in, ‘and it would have been seven days had we not been banned from staging a play within the city limits on the Sabbath.’

‘We bring in most of your custom, Master Marwood.’

The landlord sneered. ‘You also bring cunning pickpockets and greasy prostitutes to my inn,’ he said. ‘I watch them mingle with the crowd as they go about their nefarious business. I will be well rid of such vile creatures.’

‘You will also lose the gallants and their ladies who inhabit your galleries,’ said Nicholas persuasively, ‘not to mention those members of the court who spend their money so freely here. Great men of state have sat on cushions at the Queen’s Head in order to watch us. Would you spurn them as well?’

‘I will spurn anyone in order to keep Westfield’s Men at bay.’

‘But we need each other,’ wailed Dart.

‘My mind is made up – you are expelled forever.’

‘Rebuild,’ advised Nicholas, pointing through the open door at the yard beyond. ‘Rebuild your inn and rebuild your faith in us.’

Marwood was adamant. ‘The only thing that I will build is a high wall to keep out you and that infernal company of yours. I am sorry, Master Bracewell,’ he went on, ‘you are a decent man and have always dealt honestly with me, but Lawrence Firethorn and his crew have tortured me
enough.’ He indicated the wooden tomb at his feet. ‘This is your monument – Westfield’s Men are dead and buried. Away with the whole pack of you!’

With a vivid gesture, he turned on his heel and stalked off.

Dart was distraught. ‘Did you hear that, Nicholas?’

‘I’ve heard it all too often.’

‘He means to evict us. We have nowhere to perform.’

‘Yes, we do,’ said Nicholas, ‘we have the castle in Elsinore and other places in Denmark. That is all that concerns me at the moment, George. Pay no need to the landlord. When we are gone, he will rue his harsh words. Now,’ he went on briskly, ‘let us carry on. Read out the next items on the list.’

Turning it gently in her hands, Anne Hendrik examined the hat with an expert eye. Light green in colour, it was round with a soft crown and a narrow brim. Twisted gold cord surrounded the crown. An ostrich feather sprouted out of the top of the hat.

‘This is good,’ she said with admiration.

‘It will pass,’ said Preben van Loew. ‘It will pass.’

‘It will do for more than that. Are you sure that Jan made this?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘He has improved so much in the last year, Preben.’

‘Apprentices must work hard if they are to master their trade.’

‘Jan has certainly done so. You must be proud of him.’

‘I am teaching him all I know,’ said the Dutchman. ‘I showed you this latest example of his craft to prove that
you need have no fears while you are away. The business will continue. Jan is now able to make hats that are worthy of sale. The lad is no longer a burden on you. He is helping to earn his keep.’

‘And maintaining the tradition that Jacob established.’

‘That is very important.’

Anne had invited him into her house so that they could discuss how the business would be run in her absence. There were enough commissions to keep them busy for months and there was always the possibility that more might come in. She had no worries about the making of the hats because Preben van Loew would oversee that. Where he needed advice was in the areas that she usually reserved for herself – the buying of the materials and the pricing of the finished article. What the Dutchman and the others made, she then sold. Her side of the operation was one in which the old man did not excel.

‘We will get by somehow,’ he assured her.

‘I know, Preben.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘I’ll not stay much more than a week in Amsterdam.’

‘I still have many friends there. Will you carry letters for me?’

‘I’ll insist upon it.’

‘Thank you, Anne.’

It was early evening and they were seated in the parlour where candles had already been lit to dispel the shadows. Anne had no regrets about marrying into a Dutch family. She had not only acquired some charming relatives, she had also made many friends from the Low Countries and been
impressed by the diligence and simplicity of their lives. She did not merely keep in touch with her relatives by marriage out of a sense of obligation. It was a pleasure to make rare visits to see them. Unwilling to return to his homeland himself, Preben van Loew valued her excursions there because she always brought back news and letters for him.

‘I feel that I can leave with a clear conscience now,’ she said.

‘Conscience?’

‘Nick did what he vowed to do.’

‘Ah,’ he said, realising. ‘The Dutch Churchyard.’

‘He and Owen kept vigil there for three nights in a row before they caught that young man.’

‘I know, Anne. I’m very grateful.’

‘He was the same person who threw the stone at you that day we were there. He admitted as much to Nick.’

‘But he did not write those cruel verses about strangers.’

‘No,’ she agreed, ‘but he endorsed every word of them. He’ll be punished severely for his part in the outrage. He’ll not be able to hang any more libels on the wall of the churchyard.’

‘Somebody else will do that.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘They will, Anne,’ he said with an air of fatalism. ‘He can easily be replaced. The only way to stop these attacks is to arrest the men who write and publish them. Nicholas would never catch them. They are far too clever to put themselves at risk. They stay hidden while someone else spreads the poison on their behalf. The young man who was captured last night was suborned by others.’

‘Their names will soon be known, Preben.’

‘He’ll not yield them up willingly.’

‘Nick says that he’s been taken to Bridewell to be examined,’ she told him. ‘We both know what that means.’

Preben van Loew swallowed hard. A sensitive man, he recoiled from the idea of pain, even when it was inflicted on others. The young man in custody had broken open the Dutchman’s head with a sharp stone yet he could still feel pity for him. Examination in Bridewell condemned the prisoner to torture. Instruments that could inflict the most unbearable agony were kept there. The very notion made Preben van Loew squirm. He tried to change the subject.

‘Do you wish me to see you off, Anne?’ he asked.

‘We’re not sailing for another couple of days.’

‘Will you want me at the quayside?’

‘No, Preben,’ she replied. ‘You are much better off here, carrying on with your work and helping Jan to improve even more. If he or any of the others have letters or gifts they wish me to take to Amsterdam, they only have to ask.’

‘I’ll pass that message on to them.’

‘Good.’

‘It’s a pity that you cannot go on to Denmark as well.’

‘Oh, I do not have time enough for that.’

‘But you would like to be with Nicholas, would you not?’ he said with a quizzical smile. ‘And you have always enjoyed watching Westfield’s Men – do not deny it.’

‘I would never dare to do that. I’ve spent many happy afternoons at the Queen’s Head and hope to spend many more in the future. And yes,’ she added, warming to the
thought, ‘I would love to go with them to Denmark. But then – if truth be told – I’d gladly go anywhere with Nick Bracewell.’

On the eve of their departure, Nicholas Bracewell called at the house in Shoreditch to confirm arrangements with Lawrence Firethorn. Once again, he was clasped to Margery’s surging bosom, hugged for a long time then kissed repeatedly.

‘Let him go, my love,’ said Firethorn with a chuckle, ‘or you’ll squeeze the life out of him. Above all else, we need Nick on this voyage. He’s the one true sailor among us.’

‘Then I charge you to bring him back safely to me,’ she told her husband, releasing the book holder. ‘For I have my needs as well.’

‘It’s always a delight to satisfy them, Margery.’ She let out a merry cackle and gave her husband a playful push. ‘Well, Nick,’ he continued, ‘is everything in order?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Where are our costumes, scenery and properties?’

‘Awaiting us at the quayside. I rented space in a warehouse.’

‘What of the items we leave behind?’

‘Hugh Wegges has stored the costumes in his own home. All else has been stowed with our carpenter in Bankside. It hurt me to tell Nathan Curtis that he would not be sailing with us, but there is no room in the company for someone who does not act.’