The Princess of Denmark

Chapter Eleven

Celebrations in the White Hart went on for a couple of hours. It was almost like being back in the Queen’s Head except that the landlord was friendly, the beer Danish and the unstinting praise given in more than one language as spectators from various countries crowded in to thank the actors for coming to Elsinore. Among those who had seen the play, the vast majority fawned on Barnaby Gill, the erstwhile Rigormortis, and his admirers were puzzled by the sharp contrast between his comic brilliance on stage and his melancholy when off it. Everyone in the company enjoyed his share of free drink and congratulation. Westfield’s Men felt accepted, honoured and feted. As they went back to Kronborg in their carts, there was such a general sense of well being that they broke spontaneously into song.

Their buoyancy did not last. As soon as they entered the castle through the Dark Gate, the atmosphere changed. Guards eyed them with resentment and made derisive remarks. The smiles that had greeted their arrival were long gone. They were made to feel like the outsiders they were, a despised minority who had brought trouble and discomfort to Elsinore.

‘Now we know what is like to be strangers in a country,’ said Nicholas Bracewell. ‘Your husband must have felt this animosity when he came to England.’

‘Dutch immigrants still arouse great bitterness there,’ said Anne, ‘as we know only too well. But I do not understand why there has been such a change of mood here.’

‘Put yourself in their position. Everything was in order until Westfield’s Men arrived. Then a murder is committed, the castle is in a state of chaos and some of the garrison are forced out of their hut so that we can move into it.’

‘They surely cannot blame you for the murder, Nick.’

‘One of our number was the victim. That’s all they see. As a result, every soldier is on duty for long hours and those who occupied our hut have been made to sleep in the casemates. We are highly unpopular with them,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we are not exempt from suspicion. Until the killer is caught, everyone in the castle is now under scrutiny.’

‘Even me?’

‘Yes, Anne. And you have another bad mark against you.’

‘Do I?’

‘You are our tireman,’ he said with a smile, ‘and therefore tarred with the same brush.’

They reached their hut. Nicholas made sure that everything was unloaded from the carts and stowed under cover for the night. He then went off to find their patron so that he could report what had happened. Seated beside a flagon of wine, Lord Westfield was in his apartment, seething with frustration at being unable to talk to his future wife. The redness of his cheek and the occasional slurring in his speech indicated that it was not the first flagon of wine. He gave Nicholas an offhand welcome.

‘Why have you come?’ he asked dully.

‘Lawrence thought that you might like to hear about our success in the town this afternoon, my lord.’

‘Well, there has been no success here, I can tell you. My day has been a story of constant failure. I pine, I mope, I fret. They will not let me near her. My princess is here in the castle and she refuses to see anyone, not even the man who has pledged to marry her. It’s too much,’ he insisted. ‘She needs me, Nicholas. I could comfort her.’

‘You will have time enough to do that after the wedding.’

‘I want to see Sigbrit now.’

‘Master Langberg says that she is too distressed by the murder to venture from her chamber.’

‘We are all distressed,’ contended the other, ‘none more so than me. Heavens above, I was Rolfe’s friend. I liked him, I engaged him, I had complete faith in him to find me a suitable wife.’

‘And that’s exactly what he did, my lord.’

‘Then where is she?’

‘Trying to overcome the shock of what happened.’

‘I should be with Sigbrit to help her. Instead of that, I am left alone and made to feel more like a prisoner here than a guest.’

Nicholas waited while he took a long sip from his glass. He saw no point in telling Lord Westfield what he had learnt from Anne. It would only create another wave of self-pity if his patron knew that Sigbrit Olsen had been seen out of her apartment not long after the body had been discovered. Nicholas was baffled by her behaviour. Lord Westfield would be horrified. The book holder tried to cheer him up.

‘Westfield’s Men were supreme today,’ he said. ‘Cupid’s Folly was received with great acclaim in the town and your name was spoken of with thanks and admiration.’

‘Not by Sigbrit, alas.’

‘You would have been proud of your company, my lord. They were peerless — and not simply because they lacked their patron.’ The pun went unnoticed by Lord Westfield. ‘We missed you.’

‘I was too steeped in sadness to watch a comedy, especially one that ends with a maypole dance and a wedding. It would have rankled. Tragedy alone would match my disposition.’

‘We play again tomorrow, my lord.’

‘Then do not count on my presence.’

‘Master Langberg was there today with his wife. They both seemed to enjoy the performance. And the mayor thought it the funniest thing he had ever seen. Barnaby was unsurpassed.’

‘I need more than a prancing clown to lift my spirits,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘The only thing that would make me attend tomorrow would be the joy of having my princess of Denmark on my arm.’

‘By tomorrow, the lady may have recovered.’

‘So may I.’ He drained his glass and hauled himself to his feet. ‘I am sorry to be so liverish with you, Nicholas,’ he said. ‘It’s not only Sigbrit who has brought this misery on. I mourn Rolfe Harling. The truth is that I feel, to some degree, culpable for his death.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was responsible for bringing him here.’

‘You were not to know that someone was plotting to kill him. Shed any pangs of guilt you may have, my lord. This crime should not weigh on your conscience.’

‘Nevertheless, it does.’

‘I still believe the explanation for his death lies somewhere in Master Harling’s private life. The truth will only be revealed when we know who killed him.’

‘But we already do know.’

Nicholas was surprised. ‘That’s news to me, my lord.’

‘According to Bror Langberg, two men were seen sneaking away from here not long before the body was found. They had worked in the castle kitchens, it seems.’

‘Is there any proof that they committed the murder?’

‘No,’ said the other, ‘but it’s reasonable to assume that they were the villains. They’ve not been seen since. The search has been widened to include the town itself.’

‘Ah,’ said Nicholas, recalling the many soldiers he had seen patrolling Elsinore that day. ‘That accounts for something that came to my notice. Yet it still does not solve the crime.’

‘The names of the killers are at least known.’

‘Possibly, my lord, and I hope that is the case. But there are other reasons that could prompt two men to flee the castle. They should not be condemned outright. Perhaps they were badly treated here or paid too poorly for work they disliked doing. Perhaps they had business that called them back home.’

‘Bror Langberg was convinced that they were the culprits.’

‘Then I would like to talk to them if they are caught.’

‘He intends to extract confessions under torture.’

‘All that interests me is their motive,’ said Nicholas. ‘Why did they kill Rolfe Harling? Why was he singled out and why was such violence used against him?’

‘I wish I knew, Nicholas. None of it makes sense. A more innocuous creature never walked the earth, that’s for certain.’

Though he endorsed the statement with a nod, Nicholas had some reservations. He did not wish to unsettle Lord Westfield by voicing them, however, so he held his tongue. His gaze fell on the chess set that stood on a small table in the corner.

‘You’ve been playing chess, I see,’ he remarked.

‘I’ve been trying to,’ said the other, crossing to the table. ‘I was so bored with my own company that I sought solace in a game. I played against myself the way that I’d seen Rolfe do often but I lack both his patience and his cunning.’

‘The pieces are carved from the finest ivory.’

‘It seems that they are bequeathed to me.’

‘Did Master Harling have no family?’

‘None that I know of,’ said Lord Westfield, running a hand through his hair. ‘Rolfe loved his work. He was a perpetual student, lonely and contemplative.’ He looked up. ‘Do you play chess?’

‘Not well, my lord,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘I learnt aboard the Golden Hind — or the Pelican, as she was when we first set sail. The ship’s carpenter had made a chess set out of wood. That’s why I was curious when I first saw this one.’

‘Curious?’

‘The chessmen are so large, three or four times bigger than the ones we used. Our set could be slipped into a man’s pocket and so could the board. Not this one. Then there is the expense.’

‘It was Rolfe’s only indulgence — apart from his books, of course. He certainly did not spend money on his wardrobe,’ he said with a laugh, ‘and the pleasures of London were unknown to him. He bought the set in Italy.’ He handed a white bishop to Nicholas. ‘As you can see, the workmanship is exquisite.’

Nicholas inspected it. ‘So delicate yet so solid,’ he said, turning it over. ‘I can see why he treasured the set.’

‘He kept it by him at all times.’

‘Did the game mean so much to him?’

‘So it would appear.’

A memory surfaced. ‘You told me earlier, my lord, that Master Harling had been recommended to you by a trusted friend.’ He returned the white bishop to him. ‘Could his name, by any chance, be Sir Robert Cecil?’

Lord Westfield was astonished. ‘It could, as it happens,’ he said. ‘How on earth did you guess that?’

‘Then the ugly woman, Ursula, leapt out from behind a tree and chased him around the stage until he tripped and fell into the horse trough with a splash.’ Johanna Langberg burst into laughter again as she remembered the scene. It was some time before she was able to continue. ‘After that,’ she said, composing herself, ‘Rigormortis put the three wenches aside and swore that he loved only Ursula. They were duly married.’

‘You clearly enjoyed the play, Aunt Johanna,’ said Sigbrit.

‘It was a comical feast.’

‘What of Uncle Bror?’

‘He loved it as much as the rest of us, Sigbrit. My one regret is that you were not there to share our pleasure.’

‘My mind was too troubled.’

‘Cupid’s Folly would have dispelled all your cares.’

‘Sigbrit was better off here,’ said Hansi Askgaard. ‘She is not inclined to company at the moment, Aunt Johanna. It’s only because I’m her sister that I’m allowed in here.’

‘You were not allowed, Hansi,’ corrected Sigbrit mildly. ‘You were wanted and welcomed. And so are you, Aunt Johanna.’

The three women were in Sigbrit’s apartment. Evening shadows had lengthened and several candles had been lighted. The ones that burnt beside Sigbrit illumined a face that was warped by a deep frown, pursed lips and eyes ringed by fatigue. She looked as if she had had no sleep at all the previous night. Having listened to her aunt’s account of the performance, she forced herself to show an interest.

‘You say that Ursula was an ugly woman?’

‘Yes,’ replied Johanna. ‘She had the features of a pig.’

‘Yet she was really a boy in disguise.’

‘That was the wonder of it, Sigbrit. I knew that he was only an apprentice but, within five minutes, he had persuaded me that he was a flesh and blood woman. It was so with the others,’ she continued. ‘They were such pretty country wenches that I felt they simply had to be young girls. But no — they were artful boys.’

‘One of them is to play you, Sigbrit,’ said Hansi.

Her sister was alarmed. ‘Me?’

‘That’s what Uncle Bror told me. A new play has been written in your honour. The Princess of Denmark is dedicated to you and Lord Westfield has asked that the apprentice playing the heroine should resemble his bride as closely as possible.’

‘But he has never seen me.’

‘Your portrait will have been shown to him.’

‘Yes,’ said Johanna, ‘and he will have further instruction from your future husband. Now that he has met you, Lord Westfield will be able to describe you in every detail.’

‘This is all very well, Aunt Johanna,’ said Sigbrit, ‘but I am very uneasy at the thought that we will all be sitting at a play while a killer is still at liberty in the castle.’

‘But he is not.’

‘He’s been caught?’

‘He and his accomplice very soon will be.’

‘It was the work of two men?’

‘So it transpires,’ said Hansi. ‘Fearing arrest for the murder, two of our cooks fled from the castle. Uncle Bror has sent search parties into the town. So you no longer need to hide away in here, Sigbrit. You may breathe easily again and — yes — you may now enjoy watching The Princess of Denmark without the merest touch of guilt. By the time that it’s performed, the villains will be safely under lock and key.’

‘So you can devote all your attention to the wedding,’ said Johanna happily. Her niece’s worried expression remained. ‘Learn to smile again, Sigbrit,’ she urged. ‘Show pleasure. That’s the least a husband can expect from you.’

‘He’d get more than a smile if he dedicated a play to me,’ said Hansi with a shrill laugh. ‘I can think of nothing more wonderful than to see myself portrayed on stage.’

Sigbrit shuddered. ‘The very idea unnerves me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it raises me up to a position I have no desire to hold. I love the theatre and I admire actors immensely but I do not want one of them to pretend to be me.’ She bit her lip before going on. ‘Thus it stands. I married my first husband out of love. Ingmar and I needed no play to mark the occasion, still less the presence of the king. We were enough for each other.’

‘This is a different kind of marriage,’ counselled her aunt.

‘I know. I am taking a husband out of duty rather than love.’

‘Duty comes first. Love will surely follow.’

‘Why does Lord Westfield have to make such a spectacle of the whole event? Yes, yes,’ she added before they could reply, ‘I know how pleased I was when I first heard that his actors would be coming here with him. But not any more, alas. I’m overwhelmed by what lies ahead. The very title of the play bothers me.’

Hansi stared. ‘What is wrong with The Princess of Denmark?’

‘Two things,’ replied her sister. ‘First, I am not a real princess and have no wish to be treated as one. Second, and more importantly, the title reminds me of my birthright. I was born and raised here. I do not want to live in exile in England.’

‘But it will not be exile, Sigbrit.’

‘No,’ said Johanna, moving across to put an arm around her. ‘We will visit you so often that you’ll imagine you are back here in Elsinore. Besides, you will not be going alone. You’ll be taking maids and servants with you to England. They’ll ensure that you are able to speak your own language every day.’ She stood back. ‘Your uncle has worked sedulously on your behalf, Sigbrit. He acted purely out of love for you. Conquer these silly impulses that you have.’ Her smile congealed. ‘You do not want to let us all down, do you?’

Sigbrit capitulated. ‘No, Aunt Johanna,’ she said.

Lawrence Firethorn was already regretting his decision to stage a play that gave prominence to the one man in the company whom he disliked. It was almost impossible to put Firethorn in the shade but Barnaby Gill had managed it that afternoon and it was like an open wound. Firethorn was in continuous pain. As he sat in his room with Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode, that pain could still be heard very clearly in his voice.

‘Barnaby was a disgrace to the profession,’ he argued.

‘Nobody in the audience would have thought that,’ said Hoode with quiet impartiality. ‘They hailed him, Lawrence.’

‘What they hailed were his mistakes. He rewrote the play.’

‘To great effect.’

‘I’m surprised to hear a playwright condone such recklessness. Had Cupid’s Folly been your work, Edmund, you’d have squawked like a chicken at what Barnaby did. He cut out lines that were there and inserted those that were not. Schooled to sing two songs, he decided that four were in order. And jigs that should have lasted for only two minutes went on for at least three times that length.’

‘Only because the spectators liked them so much.’

‘That’s no excuse.’

‘Give him his due — Barnaby dazzled on that stage today.’

‘Dazzled!’ roared Firethorn. ‘Do you dare to admire all that face-pulling, arm-waving and blithe disregard of the play as written? Really, Edmund! You disappoint me.’ He swung round to the book holder. ‘Teach him, Nick. You know better than anyone else how Barnaby butchered the lines. Support me here.’

Nicholas was tactful. ‘I think it of more use to talk about the play we stage tomorrow than the one we performed today,’ he said. ‘It’s true that liberties were taken with Cupid’s Folly but the audience were not aware of it. What they saw, they liked. Why argue about it?’

‘Because it goes to the very heart of an actor’s code. Our duty is to serve the playwright. When he creates a wonderful role, it behoves us to perform it as is set down. Do you agree, Edmund?’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘Up to a point.’

‘Nick?’

‘The mark of a great actor,’ Nicholas suggested, ‘is that he can enhance the quality of his character by bringing all his skills to bear upon it. Whereas you do it by taking the role exactly as it is written and enlarging its compass, Barnaby prefers to adopt a much freer approach.’

‘Freer and more destructive.’

‘You cannot argue with applause, Lawrence.’

‘I can if it’s grossly misplaced.’

‘Then we will be here all night,’ complained Hoode, normally the most quiescent of people. ‘If you insist on picking over each line of Cupid’s Folly, then I’ll go to bed forthwith.’

‘Stay, Edmund,’ said Nicholas as his friend tried to get up. ‘I’m sure that Lawrence sees the futility of protesting about something that it’s impossible to change. One play is gone, a second remains.’

‘The third will be the crowning achievement,’ said Firethorn with beaming certitude. ‘When I bestride the boards in The Princess of Denmark, I’ll reduce Barnaby to complete invisibility. Thank you, Nick. Your advice is timely. The past is past. Westfield’s Men must look to the future.’

‘The immediate future is rosy. We had the Danish equivalent of five pounds from the mayor, and we took a tidy sum at the gate. We’ll match that tomorrow with The Wizard Earl then there will be an honorarium here at the castle. Beyond that is an invitation to visit Copenhagen where, Bror Langberg tells me, we may play for a week.’

‘Then all our expenses are covered,’ said Hoode.

‘And we’ll have tasty profits to count,’ said Firethorn.

‘Do not rush to spend them too soon,’ warned Nicholas. ‘When we sail back to England, we may have need of any surplus to see us through the lean months ahead. Westfield’s Men will be without a home. Our landlord has closed the door on us at the Queen’s Head.’

‘He’ll open it again when you work on him,’ said Hoode.

‘Alexander Marwood may be proof against my entreaties this time, Edmund. I think that we should brace ourselves for the worst.’

‘It’s not like you to play the pessimist, Nick.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, ‘you are ever wont to sound a cheering note. But have no fears of our lice-ridden rogue of a landlord. I’ve shown due care for the future of the company and found a way to confound that miserable, sheep-faced, vile-breathed knave.’

‘What have you done?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I set Margery on to him.’

Among her many virtues were resilience and tenacity. Repulsed at her first attempt, and stunned by the news that Westfield’s Men would be ousted from the Queen’s Head by legal means, Margery Firethorn did not give up. She sought out the man who was behind the vindictive decision and, since Isaac Dunmow lived in York, she made intensive enquiries until she learnt that there was someone in London who was acting for him. That information eventually took her to Anthony Rooker’s office in Thames Street. Wearing her best dress for the occasion, she was at her most polite.

‘I am sorry to intrude on you, Master Rooker,’ she began, ‘but I come on an errand of mercy. My name is Margery Firethorn and I have the privilege of being married to the finest actor in London.’

‘I am pleased for you, dear lady,’ said Rooker, ‘though I fail to see why you are here. Since I am no playgoer, the details of your domestic life have no interest for me.’

‘I’m here to talk about Westfield’s Men.’

‘Ah!’

‘You may well say that, sir. Are you going to offer me a seat?’

Rooker was a busy man with sheaves of documents waiting on the desk in front of him for attention. At the same time, however, he had a natural courtesy that had not been entirely blunted by his life as a merchant. He felt obliged to offer his visitor a seat and to hear her out. As she sat down, Margery bestowed her sweetest smile on him.

‘You have the look of a kind man, Mr Rooker.’

‘There’s little room for kindness in my world, I fear.’

‘I understand that you work for Isaac Dunmow.’

‘Not for him,’ he said with unforced dignity. ‘I am master of my own affairs and work for nobody. There was a time when Isaac and I were partners and, because of that, I have done him a favour from time to time.’

‘It’s one of those favours that brought me here.’

He was wary. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘How can you possibly know what passes between Isaac and me? Such things are confidential, Mistress Firethorn, and no concern of yours.’

‘Then perhaps you should know that I have children to feed and servants to pay. I can do neither if my husband is prevented from practising his craft at the Queen’s Head. The fate of many men is involved here, Master Rooker, and they are all very dear to me.’

‘It’s not my function in life to provide work for actors.’

‘You are ready enough to deprive them of it.’

‘This is not my decision,’ he said. ‘Speak to Isaac Dunmow.’

Margery’s bosom swelled. ‘I wish that I could, sir, but even my voice — loud as it can be — will not reach York. You represent him here. I expect answers from you.’

‘Then you expect the impossible. My hands are tied.’

‘A moment ago, you were the master of your own affairs,’ she pointed out. ‘I know how many warehouses you own and how many men you employ, Master Rooker. Only a wealthy man could afford an office like this,’ she went on, taking in the whole room with a gesture. ‘You are nobody’s representative, sir. I see independence in your eye.’

Rooker sighed. ‘Deliver your speech, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘I have no speech. I simply present you with the evidence.’

‘Of what?’

‘Spite, malice and cruelty.’

‘They’re not of my making.’

‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I take you for a fair-minded man and ask you to give an honest judgement here. Do you think that Master Dunmow is being vengeful?’

‘I have no opinion in the matter.’

‘Clearly, you do, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you enforce someone’s wishes,’ said Margery, ‘then you must agree with them. When I badgered him for days on end, the landlord of the Queen’s Head gave me the name of the lawyer who has drawn up this contract between Alexander Marwood and Isaac Dunmow. By its terms, you are empowered to pay the builder.’

‘That’s true,’ he conceded. ‘Isaac could hardly do that from York. He needs someone in London to see that the work is being done properly at the inn and to pay accordingly.’

‘Then you are involved in the assassination of Westfield’s Men.’

‘I am simply doing a favour for a friend.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have an obligation here,’ said Rooker uneasily. ‘When he was here in the city, Will Dunmow was a guest in my home. I had a duty of care towards him. I failed in that duty. As a result, I’m bound to help an anguished parent.’

‘Westfield’s Men were anguished by his death as well.’

‘They barely knew him.’

‘What they did know, they liked,’ she said. ‘My husband told me what a pleasant young man he was. But let’s return to this favour you are doing for the father. If he handed you a dagger and asked you to stab someone to death as a favour to him, what would you do?’

‘You pose an absurd question.’

‘Do I, Master Rooker. Think about it.’

‘I’ve no need to do so.’

‘In agreeing to help a friend, what you are really doing is to stab Westfield’s Men to death. This is no tragic accident like the fire that killed Will Dunmow,’ she said forcefully. ‘It is premeditated murder.’

‘All that I am doing is paying someone to rebuild an inn.’

‘With blood money.’

‘I’ve no more to say on the matter.’

‘Well, I have a great deal, sir.’

‘Then you will have to say it to someone else,’ he told her as he got to his feet. ‘Frankly, I have no interest whatsoever in whether a theatre company does or does not perform at the Queen’s Head. Nothing would persuade me to enter a playhouse of any kind. But,’ he went on with controlled anger, ‘I’ll not be browbeaten in my own office by a complete stranger. Good day to you, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Margery with blistering scorn. ‘I mistook you for a gentleman. I see you now for what you really are.’

Storming out of the office, she left the door wide open.

As a former sailor, Ben Ryden had suffered no ill effects from the voyage but that was not the case with Josias Greet. Hampered by seasickness for days, he still felt queasy and his feet took time to adjust to the fact that they were back on dry land. When he walked, he moved slowly with his legs wide apart as if trying to compensate for the roll of the ship. They took a room at the White Hart, an English haven in a Danish town. The landlord had told them about Westfield’s Men. Troubled by nausea, Greet had only half-listened to the details. After a long night in bed, his stomach was still in minor rebellion. Over breakfast next morning, his companion gobbled his food with undisguised gusto but Greet had no appetite.

‘I could never be a sailor, Ben,’ he said. ‘I hate the sea.’

‘You get used to it after a time.’

‘Is it always that rough?’

‘Much worse, as a rule,’ said Ryden, munching away. ‘The North Sea was very placid for a change.’

‘Placid! The Speedwell was tossed hither and thither.’

‘No, Josias. We sailed across a mill pond.’ He paused to release a loud belch then punched his chest with a fist. ‘Think on this. It was worth the effort of coming here. Chance contrives better than we ourselves. We are in Elsinore less than a day and we already know when and where to strike.’

‘Right here at the White Hart.’

‘This is where the actors will come after their performance.’

‘Do we watch it, Ben?’

‘Why not?’ asked Ryden with a snigger. ‘We’ll let that scurvy Welshman entertain us before we kill him.’

‘Burn him alive. That was our command.’

‘We’ll have to knock him senseless first.’

‘Yes,’ said Greet, ‘or he’ll fight like the devil. I still have the scars from that brawl we had with Owen Elias and I’ll make him pay for each one of them.’

Ryden was pensive. ‘I see a way to do it,’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘There’s straw and hay in the stables at the back of the inn. If we lug the body in there, we can roast him like a pig.’

‘Then what?’

‘We sail on the next ship to England.’

‘Master Dunmow wanted certain proof of his death.’

‘We’ll give it to him, Josias.’

‘How?’

‘We’ll cut off that ugly Welsh head and take it home in a sack.’

Though it had a similar rural setting, The Wizard Earl was a very different play from the one performed on the previous afternoon. It had the same vitality and the same farcical brilliance but the resemblance ended there. Written by Edmund Hoode, it had been inspired by a visit the company had once made to Silvermere, a country estate in Essex, owned by Sir Michael Greenleaf. A munificent host and a devotee of theatre, Sir Michael was also an experimental scientist and inventor. Unbeknown to him, he had become the Earl of Greenfield, the eponymous hero of the comedy, and he was about to demonstrate his wizardry to the townspeople of Elsinore.

Since it was a far more intricate and sophisticated play than Cupid’s Folly, it was rehearsed at length behind the wooden screens that morning. Those who crossed the square were intrigued by the sounds they heard coming from the improvised stage and they vowed to attend the performance later on. The weather was, however, less than promising. The wind had died down but a fine drizzle had replaced it, coating the actors’ faces like dew. They were not discouraged. Westfield’s Men were so elated after their earlier success in the town that only a hurricane could have dampened their ardour.

By the time of the performance itself, a large audience had flocked to the square and the screens had to be moved outwards on three sides to accommodate them all. The mayor was in the front row once more with the local worthies, and Bror Langberg had brought his wife down from the castle for the second time. There was a loud buzz of expectation. It was followed by a communal sigh of gratitude as the drizzle relented and the sun made a first appearance in the leaden sky. In the tiring house at the rear of the stage, Lawrence Firethorn was quick to claim the credit for the improvement.

‘The Wizard Earl has done it again,’ he announced proudly. ‘My invention of a machine to control the weather clearly works.’

‘Then raise the temperature,’ said Barnaby Gill petulantly. ‘It’s far too cold for us.’

‘My performance will produce the heat of a furnace.’

‘That will make a change. You were more like an iceberg when you played the part last. I almost froze to death beside you.’

‘There is nothing new there, Barnaby,’ countered the other. ‘You are like a standing statue in every role you take. Old age has seized your limbs. On stage, you are a block of wood.’

‘Tell that to yesterday’s audience. They worshipped me.’

‘Then they worshipped a false god. Today, I will rule.’

Nicholas interrupted the banter and called the actors to order. It was time to begin. They took their places. At a signal from the book holder, Martin Yeo blew a fanfare on his trumpet then Owen Elias stepped onto the stage in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue that had been penned by Edmund Hoode after their first visit to the town square.

The Welshman’s voice rang out like a clarion call.

Today, good friends, in Denmark’s pretty town,

A tale of mirth and magic we set down

For your delight. Enchantment we’ll unfurl

Before your eyes as you behold our Earl

Of wizardry, a conjurer supreme,

Whose wondrous powers will charm you like a dream.

He comes from England to this foreign shore

To spread amazement throughout Elsinore.

Elias surged on, listing various streets, statues and landmarks in the town so that, if nothing else, the Danes in the audience would at least recognise some elements in the Prologue. Broad gestures and explicit facial expressions also helped to convey meaning. At the conclusion of his speech, with a trick devised by Nicholas Bracewell, he clapped his hands hard and a small explosion took place behind his feet, loud enough to startle the audience and to give the actor time to vanish from the stage. The Wizard Earl was under way.

The action was swift and the pace never slackened as Firethorn, resplendent in the title role, displayed a whole series of inventions, each one more ambitious than the last. A kind man with a paternal interest in people, the Earl always tried to create something that would bring benefit to one and all. His brain teemed with brilliant ideas but, when he tried to put them into practice, they rarely succeeded because Luke Bungle, his clumsy apprentice, kept putting the wrong ingredients into each experiment or losing the plan of the machine that he was supposed to be building.

As a consequence, the much-vaunted inventions of the Wizard Earl had the opposite effect of the ones intended. When he showed off the machine that controlled weather, he pressed a button to create bright sunshine and brought on a torrential downpour instead. Everyone on stage scampered for cover so convincingly that the audience could almost feel the rain. Pulling a lever to stop the rain, Firethorn inadvertently started a snowstorm. In trying to dispel that, he plunged his whole estate into thick fog and there was sustained hilarity as the actors groped their way blindly around and bumped into each other.

Barnaby Gill excelled as Bungle but it was Firethorn’s play. He was in his element as the genial inventor, ever sanguine, ever ready to attempt something new. The summit of his achievement was a potion that made the taker fall madly in love with the person he or she first saw. Hoode explored all the comic possibilities of the situation. At one point, the Earl had three nubile ladies fighting over him while Bungle, having mistakenly allowed some of the potion to be fed to the animals, aroused the passion of an amorous goat — Owen Elias with horns — and was pursued with unflagging persistence.

The sheer comic verse of The Wizard Earl made it irresistible, and the fact that it was peppered with so much action, mime, dance and special effects meant that it was comprehensible to the audience. Nicholas was pleased with the way that it was received but Anne Hendrik was not able to follow the play. She was too busy behind the scenes, sewing on buttons, mending ripped costumes and repairing hats that had been damaged in one of the many lively stage fights. Two hours sped by in a torrent of laughter and cheering. When the play ended, it gained an even longer ovation than its predecessor.

Firethorn was satisfied. He was back where he belonged at the head of his troupe, the undisputed leading actor who had put the upstart Gill firmly back in his place. After taking the last of several bows, Firethorn led the actors offstage and took the opportunity to get in another sly dig at his sworn foe.

‘Congratulations, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘A fine performance.’

Gill was on his guard. ‘Thank you, Lawrence.’

‘Edmund has finally shaped a role to suit your unique talents as a bungler. You bungled superbly as Bungle.’

‘Stop crowing,’ said Hoode, stepping in to stop another quarrel before it had really started. ‘Both of you served my play well, as did the whole company. I reserve a special word of praise for you, Owen,’ he went on, turning to Elias. ‘Your goat was incomparable.’ There was concerted agreement in the tiring house. ‘The chase after Bungle was one of the triumphs of the afternoon.’

‘It’s in my blood, Edmund,’ said Elias. ‘The Welsh have always had a goatish disposition. We are nought but lechery on four hooves.’ Becoming aware of Anne’s proximity, he bit back the lewd jest that he was about to make. ‘I’ll graze in pastures new,’ he went on. ‘Here’s one goat who seeks the company of a White Hart.’

‘The rest of us will join you there,’ said Nicholas.

‘If they will let us in,’ observed Firethorn. ‘So many people wish to meet us that there’s scarce room enough in the inn. The landlord does well to let us drink at his expense for we have trebled his custom at the White Hart. In deference to the popularity we’ve bestowed upon it, he should call it the Westfield Arms.’

‘Was our patron in the audience today?’ asked Hoode.

‘Alas, no,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He’s keeping vigil at the castle. Lord Westfield says that he is not in a laughing vein at the moment. He prefers to spend time alone.’

Frederick Arbiter, first Baron Westfield pored over the table as he considered his next move. Unable to get near to his princess yet again, he had remained in his apartment and sought to wile away the lonely hours with a game of chess. Rolfe Harling had played against himself on many occasions, losing himself in the contest for hours as he regarded move and counter-move. Lord Westfield lacked his rigid impartiality. Wanting to let the white chessmen win, he favoured them at every turn yet the black somehow retained the upper hand. It was eerie. He had the unsettling feeling that Harling was playing against him from the grave. Eventually, his patience snapped.

‘Enough of this!’ he exclaimed, using an arm to sweep every piece from the board and scatter them across the room. ‘This is no game for me. I want to see Sigbrit.’

Sitting back in his chair, he mused on the cruelty of it all. The woman he loved enough to marry was less than twenty yards from where he sat but she was as unattainable as if she were in another country. Why was she keeping away from him? Had she been so disappointed when they met that she was wallowing in regret at her acceptance of him as a husband? Could it be that Bror Langberg’s excuses for her absence hid the fact that Sigbrit was ill? The thought worried him. During the hour they spent in the hall, she did not have the bloom that he had expected. Was she still unwell? Or was there a more sinister explanation why he was being kept apart from her? It was a time when he most needed Rolfe Harling’s advice but the man was no longer available to serve him.

Lord Westfield was in despair. Taking her portrait from his pocket, he held it in the palm of his hand and scrutinised it. To his eye, Sigbrit was the personification of beauty. Even in miniature, she was a woman in a thousand and a loving impulse made him press his lips to the portrait. When he looked at her again, however, he saw something that suddenly alarmed him and made his brain whirl. What disconcerted him was that he had absolutely no idea what it was.

Before he adjourned to the inn after the others, Nicholas Bracewell took care to see that the scenery and the stage were struck, and that everything was loaded onto the waiting carts. The mayor had provided some constables to stand guard over them so Nicholas felt able to escort Anne to the White Hart. There was a raucous atmosphere in the inn but she felt at ease among so many friends. Surrounded by admirers, Lawrence Firethorn was declaiming one of the speeches from The Wizard Earl. When he saw the newcomers, he broke off.

‘Here’s the real wizard,’ he said. ‘It was Nick who contrived all those bangs and flashes you saw. He’s a genius with gunpowder. And he rehearsed us in every brawl we had on stage. A round of applause, please, for the man who holds us together — and for the lady who kept us so well attired this afternoon.’

Nicholas and Anne acknowledged the clapping then found a corner in which to sit. Neither enjoyed being the centre of attention. They were grateful when it shifted back to Firethorn who lapsed into the role of the Earl once more and sang the comic song that had amused the audience so much.

Anne was interested. ‘Is this what happens at the Queen’s Head after every play?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Nicholas. ‘If it has gone well.’

‘What about the night of the fire?’

‘The performance went rather too well, Anne. It ensnared Will Dunmow completely. He kept asking Lawrence and the others to recite speeches from the play so that he could applaud once more. We always seek recognition of our work but Will went beyond that.’

‘And yet he rarely went to a play,’ she recalled.

‘There was little opportunity to see actors in York and, in any case, his father thought that playhouses were dens of sin and corruption. If a company came to town, he stopped his son from going to see them. That’s why we caught Will’s imagination, I think,’ said Nicholas sadly. ‘Our pre-eminence was due to the flatness of the surrounding countryside. Because he had nobody with whom to compare us, he conceived a higher opinion of Westfield’s Men than he might otherwise have had.’

‘It’s impossible to have too high an opinion of you,’ she said. ‘You are head and shoulders above any other company and one of the main reasons for that is sitting opposite me.’

‘Waiting for a drink. Will you join me?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘We deserve to celebrate.’

‘Must the celebrations be confined to the White Hart?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘No, Anne,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that we can have more privacy back at the castle.’

Ben Ryden and Josias Greet bided their time. During the play, they had laughed as readily as anyone and had reserved their loudest guffaws for the smitten goat. But that did not deflect them from their purpose. In killing Owen Elias, they stood to earn a large amount of money and would avenge the injuries they sustained at the Welshman’s hands. When the notion of sailing across the North Sea to commit murder had first been put to Greet, he had thought it ridiculous. Now that they were actually there, he saw the advantages.

They were anonymous faces in a foreign country. Nobody would be able to identify them. Once the deed was done, they would board a ship that was sailing for Amsterdam on the morning tide. From there, they would reach London on another vessel. It was all planned. They would be clear of Denmark before the hullabaloo caused by the crime had even died down. The likelihood of arrest was negligible. It would be a perfect murder. Greet was pleased about something else as well. His appetite had returned. He could eat and drink once again.

‘How much longer will he be, Ben?’ he asked.

‘Give him time. He’ll have to go soon.’

‘That’s the fourth tankard of beer he’s quaffed. He must have a bladder the size of a small barrel. Look at him.’

‘I’ve not taken my eyes off him,’ said Ryden. ‘Drink on, Owen,’ he murmured, ‘for it’s the last time you’ll be able to do it.’

‘What about his friends?’

‘They’ll be too busy carousing in here, Josias.’

‘Supposing one of them goes out with him?’

‘Then he’ll wish that he didn’t.’

‘We kill him as well?’

‘No,’ said Ryden, ‘we just give him the biggest headache he’s ever had in his life. This is our chance. Nobody will rob us of it.’

The two men were standing near the door, drinking beer and pretending to join in the fun. Over the heads of the other actors, they could see Owen Elias, revelling in the company of his friends and oblivious to the fact that he was in such danger. The more beer he consumed, the more relaxed and jovial he became. There was a dagger hanging from his belt but they did not intend to let him use it. Surprise was their main weapon. It would never even cross Elias’s befuddled mind that two hired killers would come hundreds of miles in search of them. On stage, he had been a rampant goat. To the watching Greet and Ryden, he was a lamb to the slaughter.

Their wait was soon over. Feeling the need to relieve himself, Elias put his half-empty tankard on a table and lumbered off towards the door. Ben Ryden nudged his friend.

‘Here he comes,’ he whispered. ‘Get ready.’