The Princess of Denmark

Chapter Twelve

Nicholas Bracewell picked up the two cups of wine from the counter then eased his way gently through the crowded taproom to the table in the corner. Anne Hendrik took the drink that he offered her.

‘Thank you, Nick.’

‘We earned this,’ he said, lowering himself on to the stool.

‘Did you have to pay?’

‘Everything is free to Westfield’s Men. We bring in so much business for him that the landlord would like to keep us for a month.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘What a pity he does not own the Queen’s Head as well!’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘To have an agreeable landlord there would be a welcome change for you. The wonder is that you’ve managed to stay so long in Gracechurch Street. Alexander Marwood hates the company. He’s tried to evict you a dozen times before now.’

Nicholas was not listening. Over her shoulder, he had just seen something through the window that made him leap to his feet. As Owen Elias walked across the yard towards the privy, a man came up behind him to deliver a vicious blow to the back of his skull with the butt of a pistol. Nicholas put his wine on the table. He did not ease his way through the press this time. He moved fast and used his elbows to clear a path to the door. When he came into the yard, he saw that Elias’s attacker had dragged him into the stables where a second man was trying to ignite some hay. Unconscious, and with blood oozing from his head wound, Elias was utterly helpless.

The intention was clear. They meant to burn him alive. Without bothering to call for help, Nicholas ran forward and dived at the man who was holding Elias, pulling him away and flinging him against a wall. Josias Greet was momentarily dazed by the impact. Letting out a string of expletives, he then reached for the pistol in his belt but Nicholas was too quick for him. Jumping forward, he grappled with the man and kept banging him against the bare brick. Ben Ryden, meanwhile, had started the fire and was piling fresh hay onto it. The crackling noise put fresh urgency into Nicholas. After exchanging punches with Greet, he brought his knee up hard into his groin and made him gasp. As the man bent forward in agony, Nicholas hit him with a powerful uppercut that sent him tumbling to the ground.

Instinctively, Nicholas swung round. He was just in time to ward off an attack from Ryden, who came hurtling at him with a dagger in his hand. Nicholas moved smartly sideways to avoid the weapon’s thrust then roughly pushed his attacker away. Rushing to the stable, he tried to stamp out the fire but Ryden came after him. Nicholas threw a handful of burning hay into his face to force him back but it only bought him a few seconds. They circled each other warily and Nicholas wished that he had been wearing his dagger. Elsinore was obviously not as safe as he had imagined. Two men were set on murdering Elias in broad daylight and dispatching Nicholas after him. There was no room for error on the book holder’s part.

Greet was slowly recovering. Still in some pain, he shook his head to clear it then took stock of the situation. Ryden slashed wildly with his dagger but to no effect. Nicholas evaded the weapon nimbly. Ryden backed him against a fence. Smoke was now coming from the stables and the two horses stalled there were protesting with frenzied neighs and loud kicks. Ryden needed to act fast. It was only a matter of time before someone came out of the inn. Feinting with his dagger, he went down on one knee to deliver a murderous thrust that would have ripped Nicholas’s stomach apart. But Nicholas saw it coming and eluded it swiftly, reaching out to grab the wrist that held the weapon. The two men grappled wildly.

Greet was incensed. Climbing to his feet, he pulled the pistol from his belt and tried to aim it at Nicholas but the two bodies kept twisting and turning so rapidly that he could not shoot.

‘Stand aside, Ben,’ he called. ‘I’ll finish him.’

Seeing the danger, Nicholas responded at once, holding his man even tighter and using him as shield against the accomplice. Greet came forward and tried to pull Ryden away from his target. Nicholas assisted him, promptly letting go of the man and pushing with all his might. Ryden smashed into Greet and sent him flying, there was a loud report as the pistol went off accidentally and the ball lodged in Ryden’s back. Staggering forward, he let out a cry of anguish and put both hands to a wound. Blood spurted everywhere. The commotion brought many curious faces to the door and windows. Greet thought only of escape. He grabbed his stricken companion and hustled him quickly out of the yard into the gathering dusk.

Nicholas was far more interested in saving his friend than in chasing the would-be killers. He snatched up a pail of water that stood beside the well and flung it over Owen Elias to douse the flames that were licking at his clothes. He then handed the pail to the first man who emerged from the inn.

‘Fill it up again!’ he ordered.

‘Yes,’ said the other, gaping at the scene.

‘Be quick, man!’

Taking Elias by the feet, Nicholas dragged him to safety then checked that he was still breathing. When he saw that the Welshman was still very much alive, he went back to the stables and stamped on the burning straw. Other people hurried to help him and, under the onslaught of a dozen feet, the fire was soon contained. A second pail of water put out the last of the flames and it was then possible to calm the frightened horses. Westfield’s Men formed a circle around their fallen colleague, horrified at the sight of the injury to his skull. It was left to Anne Hendrik to bathe and bind up the wound. When he began to regain consciousness, Elias let out a long groan and put a hand to the back of his head.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘You were attacked by two men,’ said Nicholas. ‘They tried to burn you alive in the stables.’

‘I thought the Danes were friendly people.’

‘They are, Owen. These villains were English.’

Bror Langberg kissed her gently on the forehead and smiled at her.

‘I am glad to see that you have come to your senses, Sigbrit.’

‘I had a long talk with Aunt Johanna,’ she said, turning to her sister, ‘and with Hansi, of course. They persuaded me that I should have no fears about this marriage.’

‘None at all,’ said Hansi.

‘I am beginning to look forward to it, Uncle Bror.’

‘And so you should,’ he said. ‘Had you been in the square this afternoon, you would have seen what a wonderful company you are about to inherit. Westfield’s Men are the toast of Elsinore. They have brought so much merriment to the town.’

‘Good.’

‘On Saturday, they will perform in the castle ballroom.’

‘I still have qualms about that,’ admitted Sigbrit.

‘They will disappear the moment the play begins.’

Langberg was pleased that his niece’s doubts seemed to have been overcome and he was grateful to her sister for the help that she had been given. He now felt able to take more cheering news to the bridegroom. After bidding farewell to the two women, he went along the corridor with a spring in his step until he came to the apartment set aside for Lord Westfield. When he was admitted, Langberg saw that the chess pieces were in an untidy pile on the table.

‘Rolfe Harling would never have left them like that,’ he noted.

‘No,’ said the other. ‘He kept them neatly in a box.’

‘Everything about him was neat and meticulous.’

‘Have his killers been caught?’

‘Not yet, my lord, but they will be. They will be.’

Langberg studied his guest. Lord Westfield looked more jaded and world-weary than ever. His visit had so far delivered none of the joys that he had expected. All of his natural zest had deserted him.

‘I bring you good tidings,’ said Langberg.

‘Are there such things?’

‘I’ve not long returned from the town, my lord. The performance of The Wizard Earl was the finest I have ever seen upon a stage. Since I speak English, I was able to appreciate its full value but even those who could not understand a word of the language, enjoyed it hugely. Your actors floated on a sea of laughter.’

‘Whereas I am becalmed in the shallows,’ said Lord Westfield.

‘Take pride in the achievement of your company.’

‘I always do, Master Langberg. But there are times when comedy strikes a jarring note inside my head. This is one of them.’

‘Then let us see if we can cure you of that discord.’

‘Only one person could do that and she is not here.’

‘She soon will be,’ said Langberg happily. ‘That’s the other news I bring you. Sigbrit sends word. She apologises for being unable to see you and wants you to know that she is feeling markedly better.’

‘That does cheer me,’ said the other, shedding his malaise in an instant. ‘Can we meet properly at last?’

‘Sigbrit will dine with you tomorrow, my lord.’

‘Why must I wait until then?’

‘That is her request.’

‘Then I’ll willingly abide by it,’ agreed Lord Westfield. ‘It’s the privilege of a bride to keep her husband waiting and I’ll not cavil at that. Had she felt able to attend the play today, I’d have enjoyed it at her side. As it is, we will watch The Princess of Denmark together and she will see what a precious gift I offer her in the form of my theatre company.’

‘Precious and quite unique.’

‘Indeed. They have had the honour of playing before Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth many times.’

‘They will soon perform before a king,’ said Langberg, moving to the door. ‘I wonder if you would care to come with me, my lord? There is something I wish to show you.’

‘Where?’

‘Here in Kronborg. We will not have to leave the castle.’

‘Then I’ll gladly accompany you.’

Opening the door, Langberg took him out and ushered him along the corridor until they reached the end. When they turned at right angles into another passageway, they stopped at the first window. Langberg gestured his companion forward.

‘Behold, my lord.’

‘All that I can see is an empty courtyard.’

‘Look at the window opposite.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one near the corner,’ said Langberg. ‘Do you see her?’

Lord Westfield tingled. ‘Is it Sigbrit?’

‘Who else?’

Pressing his nose against the glass, Lord Westfield stared across the courtyard at the young woman in the window directly opposite. She was some distance away and light was fading but he was still able to recognise her as his bride. Framed in the window, she waved to him and he lifted a hand in acknowledgement. The more he stared, the clearer he could see her. He did not need to take out the portrait this time. Her beauty identified her at once. Doubts that he had felt earlier now disappeared. His gloom and irritation were replaced by a sense of pure joy. There was another treat to come. Putting her hand to her lips, she blew him a kiss across the courtyard. He was enraptured.

‘Sigbrit!’ he murmured. ‘I love you!’

The attempted murder of Owen Elias brought the festivities at the White Hart to a sudden end. Alarmed that such a thing could happen on his premises, the landlord insisted on summoning a surgeon so that the wound could be properly examined, and he also sent for constables. A search of the immediate vicinity began but there was no sign of the two men. Evidently, they had gone to ground somewhere, aided by the fact that it was growing steadily darker.

Westfield’s Men waited until the surgeon had inspected and re-bandaged Elias’s injury. The Welshman was given a herbal compound to ease his headache and to help him sleep. Nicholas Bracewell assisted him back to the cart and they set out for Kronborg. Once they were safely back in the castle, Lawrence Firethorn stalked off to his apartment with Nicholas and Edmund Hoode in tow.

‘This is intolerable!’ he protested as they entered the room. ‘We have unseen enemies in Denmark. First of all, Rolfe Harling is killed. Today, it was Owen’s turn to be attacked.’

‘The two crimes are not linked,’ said Nicholas.

‘They must be,’ argued Hoode.

‘No, Edmund. It may look like that, I agree, but I ask you to compare the cases in detail.’

‘Two of our number have been attacked, Nick. That’s all the detail I need. Someone has a grudge against Westfield’s Men.’

‘Then why did they single out Master Harling?’ asked Nicholas. ‘He came here with us but not as one of the company. He was simply a friend of our patron. If someone wanted to harm us, they’d have picked another victim.’

‘They did,’ observed Firethorn sharply. ‘Owen Elias.’

‘This has to be the work of the same villains,’ said Hoode.

‘Then why did they wait so long to strike?’ asked Nicholas. ‘We have been here for days. After Cupid’s Folly, Owen drank just as heavily at the White Hart as he did today. If the same killers are involved, why did not they assail him then? No,’ he went on, trying to work it out in his mind, ‘these crimes are definitely not connected. Bror Langberg is certain that the two men who stabbed Master Harling worked as cooks. They fled for their lives. It would be madness for them to lurk in the town when they were being hunted. Would you do so in their situation?’

Hoode pondered. ‘Nick argues well. He is right.’

‘I disagree,’ said Firethorn testily. ‘The coincidence is too great to ignore. We have enemies here. In future, we must stay together and arm ourselves if we go abroad.’

‘There is no need of that, Lawrence,’ said Nicholas.

‘I say that there is.’

‘Then I ask you to look at the way Master Harling was killed.’

‘He was stabbed to death.’

‘Why was Owen not dispatched in the same way?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters a great deal,’ asserted Nicholas. ‘I was a witness when Owen was knocked out with the butt of a pistol. Those ruffians could easily have thrust a dagger through his heart or simply shot him dead. Instead, they wanted him to be burnt alive.’

‘Such a hideous way to die!’ gasped Hoode.

‘Does it remind you of someone else?’

There was a long pause. ‘Will Dunmow.’

‘Exactly,’ decided Nicholas. ‘That’s the explanation here. My guess is that the two men who lay in wait for Owen today were the selfsame villains who ambushed him in London.’

Firethorn was incredulous. ‘That’s absurd, Nick. Why would two men come all the way from England in pursuit of Owen?’

‘Because they were extremely well paid.’

‘By whom?’

‘Will Dunmow’s father,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was furious at what happened to his son and I think that Owen bore the brunt of that fury. You must remember that it was he and James Ingram who put Will to bed that night. Owen gave a full account of it to Master Rooker, the friend who was charged to look after Will while he was in London.’

‘This is idle supposition.’

‘I wonder,’ said Hoode.

‘I don’t see a pattern here,’ said Firethorn.

‘Then you must open your eyes much wider,’ advised Nicholas. ‘The men who killed Master Harling were Danish. Those who sought Owen’s life were English.’

‘That proves nothing. There are several Englishmen living in Elsinore. It could have been any of them.’

‘You would not believe that if you’d talked, as I did, to the landlord of the White Hart. Two men arrived from London yesterday evening on the Speedwell. They lodged at the inn for one night. They also questioned the landlord closely about Westfield’s Men and were delighted to hear that we’d be performing in the square today.’

‘They probably wished to be in the audience,’ said Firethorn.

‘I’m sure that they were,’ Nicholas resumed, ‘and I’m equally sure that they went to the White Hart to await our arrival. These men are strangers to the town, Lawrence.’

‘If they lodged at the inn,’ said Hoode, ‘they’d have given their names to the landlord. Did you ask what they were called, Nick?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then we know who they were.’

‘I fear not, Edmund. They were too cunning to give their real names. One of them was called Ben — I heard it called out. Neither of them gave that name to the landlord.’

Firethorn scratched his beard. Nicholas was so sure of his facts that his judgement had to be respected. The actor-manager had been badly shaken by events at the White Hart. He wanted no repetition.

‘Owen must never be left alone,’ he decreed. ‘Someone must protect him at all times.’

‘He’s safe within the castle,’ said Nicholas. ‘Every gate is locked and guarded. Those villains would never be able to get anywhere near Owen. Besides, one of them was shot in the back. Instead of trying to take someone else’s life, he’ll be hanging onto his own.’

Josias Greet was in a state of panic. Having carried his friend to a hiding place not far from the inn, he was absolutely exhausted. Yet he knew that he had to move on. Ben Ryden was bleeding profusely. Every word he spoke was charged with pain.

‘Where are we, Josias?’

‘In a ditch behind the church.’

‘We must get away.’

‘You’re in no condition to walk.’

‘Carry me,’ ordered Ryden. ‘When it’s really dark, carry me.’

‘Where?’

‘To the harbour. We’ll steal aboard tonight.’

‘Yes, Ben,’ said the other, knowing full well that Ryden might not even live that long. ‘I’ll do as you say.’

‘Scurvy Welshman!’

‘We should have stabbed him when we had the chance.’

‘He had to be burnt to death. That was our commission.’

‘Forget about it now. All that we need worry about is you.’

‘My body is on fire. I feel as if there’s a red hot poker in my back.’ A spasm of pain made him convulse. ‘Damnation!’

‘Be quiet!’ said Greet, clapping a hand over his mouth. ‘You’ll give us away, Ben.’ He peered anxiously over the top of the ditch. An extension was being built to the church and they were hiding in its muddy foundations. ‘We cannot stay here much longer. They’ll come with torches for another search. We have to sneak away.’

He looked down at his companion with a mixture of sympathy and fear. Sorry that Ryden had been injured, he saw what a burden his friend had now become. If he had any hope of escape, Greet had to go alone. Ryden’s body sagged and his head fell forward. Weakened by the loss of blood, he lapsed slowly into unconsciousness, his mouth agape and his breathing laboured. Greet acted on impulse. After seizing the other man’s purse, he also deprived him of his dagger. Then he took another look over the top of the ditch. Lanterns appeared at the far end of the street. Another search was being conducted. By staying where he was, Greet risked discovery. In trying to take Ryden with him, he would make escape virtually impossible. There was only one thing to do and he did not hesitate.

‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ he said, raising the dagger. ‘I have to do this.’

Then he slit Ryden’s throat with a flick of his wrist.

After his glimpse of Sigbrit Olsen across the courtyard, Lord Westfield was in high spirits. He returned to his apartment and began to write a letter to her, praising her beauty and promising that he would dedicate himself to making her happy. He was not pleased to be interrupted by Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Yes?’ he said abruptly, holding the door open.

‘I want to speak to you about this afternoon, my lord.’

‘Bror Langberg has already done so. He told me everything that I need to hear about The Wizard Earl.’

‘I am not here to discuss the performance.’

‘Talk to me another time. I am too busy now.’

Nicholas held his ground. ‘Too busy to hear about an attempted murder?’ he asked, using a palm to stop the door from being shut in his face. ‘One of your actors was almost killed, my lord.’

‘Oh.’ Lord Westfield stood back. ‘You had better come in.’

Nicholas entered and closed the door behind him. He explained what had occurred at the White Hart and confided his suspicions about whom the two men might be, stressing that he was relying on guesswork rather than evidence.

‘In my experience,’ said the other, ‘your guesses have a habit of being remarkably accurate. How is Owen Elias now?’

‘Fast asleep. He has a bad wound in his scalp.’

‘Will he be able to perform at the wedding?’

‘I hope so,’ said Nicholas. ‘Owen is a strong man. He recovered well from the first attack on him. We trust that he’ll do the same again. There is something I am bid to ask you, my lord,’ he went on. ‘We shall be rehearsing The Princess of Denmark tomorrow. Lawrence wondered if you wished to be present.’

‘No, Nicholas. I prefer to see it for the first time with the lady who inspired it. We will each come to it afresh.’

‘A wise decision.’

‘Is there anything that I can do for Owen?’

‘I think not, my lord. We will all nurse him back to health.’

‘Have you reported the incident to Bror Langberg?’

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and nor will I. His hands are full with the preparations for the wedding and he already has one murder on his hands. Owen — by the grace of God — survived. There the matter ends until we return to London.’

‘What happens then?’

‘We’ll confront the man who hired those two ruffians. But I am interrupting you, my lord,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ll withdraw.’

‘Wait a while. I’m glad you came.’ He indicated the chessmen on the table. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

‘I’ve seen them already.’

‘Hear me out,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘Earlier today, I tried to play a game against myself and became so exasperated that I swept the pieces from the table. They went all over the floor. When my temper had cooled, I picked them up again and noticed something that surprised me.’ He lifted up the black king. ‘This had come loose.’ Unscrewing the piece, he held a part in each hand. ‘What do you make of that, Nicholas?’

‘It sorts well with Master Harling’s secretive nature.’

‘There’s a message inside — take it out.’

A tiny scroll had been inserted into the upper half of the black king. It was so small that it could easily have been missed. Extracting it with the utmost care, Nicholas unrolled it. He held it close to read the miniscule hand.

‘It does not make sense,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘Rolfe had a brilliant mind yet that letter is complete gibberish.’

‘It’s not a letter, my lord.’

‘Then what the devil is it?’

Nicholas looked up at him. ‘A code.’

Anne Hendrik was finding the little room irksome. Designed for a servant, it was no more than a cramped box into which no natural light strayed. The mattress was hard and unyielding. After the cosy bed in which she slept at home, it was almost punitive. The one thing that made it bearable was the fact that Nicholas would share it with her for a short time. In spite of all that had happened, she knew that he would keep the assignation. It was hardly the most romantic place for a tryst but it would serve.

Since he would not be able to find the room without guidance, Anne had agreed to meet Nicholas at the top of the main staircase in the west wing. He slept with the others in a hut in the forecourt so it was impossible for them to go there. She longed to see him alone. Anne had spent most of the day at his side but always in the company of many people. It was vexing. She felt that an hour in his arms would atone for everything. When the appointed hour drew near, therefore, she took her candle and left the room, padding swiftly along the corridor towards the main staircase.

In the distance, she heard voices and stepped swiftly into an alcove, covering the flame with her hand to mask its light. Footsteps approached along the corridor and the voices became clearer.

‘Thank you for all that you’ve done, Aunt Johanna.’

‘Your uncle and I love you.’

‘Without you, I could never have gone through with this.’

‘Are you still nervous?’

‘Very nervous.’

‘It will soon pass, Sigbrit.’

Anne could not understand all of the Danish words but she heard the names distinctly. Sigbrit Olsen was talking to her aunt who was carrying a candelabrum. As they went past the alcove, they were within feet of Anne and it was Sigbrit who was closer to her. The candles threw enough light for Anne to see both of them very clearly. Johanna Langberg was a gracious woman who moved with dignity but she attracted no interest from Anne. The person who fascinated her was Sigbrit Olsen, walking along on dainty feet and talking to her aunt with deference. Anne only saw her face in profile but it was enough to give her a mild shock. She backed further into the alcove.

Bror Langberg responded to the request immediately. He conducted Lawrence Firethorn to the ballroom and praised his performance as the Wizard Earl unceasingly. The actor lapped up every word like a cat with a bowl of cream. Having discussed the matter with the others, he said nothing of the drama that had followed the performance. It was a private matter that affected only Westfield’s Men. There was no need for Langberg to be involved in any way.

‘Well,’ said Langberg as they entered the candle-lit ballroom. ‘Here we are, Master Firethorn. We know that your voice carries in here so another demonstration will not be needed.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘A few loud bellows, perhaps!’

‘You would rouse the whole castle.’

‘Then they retire to bed too early.’ He became serious. ‘As I told you, Master Langberg, we wish to rehearse in here tomorrow morning and afternoon.’

‘The ballroom is at your disposal.’

‘I must ask that we are not interrupted, sir. Though we perform in public, we do the best of our work in private. It is there that we can put our mistakes right and polish our performances.’

‘I cannot believe that you are ever in need of polish.’

‘This is a new and untried play,’ said Firethorn, concealing the fact that it was quite the opposite and that it had been rewritten and cleverly disguised by Edmund Hoode. ‘That means there is an element of danger. We never quite know how a new piece will be received.’

‘With thunderous applause, I promise you.’

‘We must first earn that applause.’

‘Westfield’s Men have done so twice in the town square.’

‘They were merry romps, sir — lively comedies to amuse the lower orders. Our audience here will be of higher standing so a more poetic offering is in order.’

‘I would cheerfully watch anything you play,’ said Langberg.

‘Then at least one spectator will admire us.’

Firethorn went on to explain what he would need on the following day and every single request he made was readily granted. Langberg was not only prepared to lend the company various stage properties that they lacked, he even suggested additional items that could help to decorate a scene.

‘Anything in the castle is yours, Master Firethorn,’ he said.

The actor leered. ‘Does that offer include some of the buxom wenches I’ve seen here from time to time?’

‘You can do better than servant girls and you most surely will.’

‘How?’

‘By giving the kind of performance that we saw today,’ Langberg told him. ‘The ladies will be enthralled by you. I’ll warn you now that you’ll have more than one knock on the door of your apartment on Saturday night. And it will not be King Christian, come to bestow an honour upon you, much as you deserve it. You are a famous actor, Master Firethorn. You will thrill and enchant. They will buzz around you like moths around a flame.’ He chuckled. ‘I will have to chain my wife to my side or Johanna will also succumb to your charms.’

‘The lady that intrigues me is the one beyond my reach.’

‘And who is that?’

‘Why, your niece, of course — Sigbrit.’

‘A princess in all but name.’

‘Is she really as beautiful as we are led to believe?’

‘Sigbrit is truly blessed,’ said Langberg airily. ‘She is an angel sent from above. Your patron is a most fortunate man, my friend. He is about to marry a heavenly vision.’

Nicholas Bracewell was stunned by the news. His mind was racing.

‘When was this, Anne?’ he asked.

‘Not five minutes ago.’

‘And you are certain that it was her?’

‘Yes, Nick. Her aunt spoke the name — Sigbrit.’

‘But you only saw her for a second.’

‘It was enough,’ said Anne.

They were in her little room and Nicholas was trying to take in the import of what he had been told. If her instinct was right, then a number of things were suddenly explained.

‘Do you remember what I told you about that servant, Nick?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She gave you a strange look.’

‘Now I know why. Sigbrit is not the beauty we all think.’

‘But you saw her on the back stairs that night.’

‘I saw someone who looked very much like her,’ said Anne, ‘but it was not the woman who walked past me earlier. Sigbrit Olsen is a very pretty young lady, nobody would deny that.’

‘Prettiness is not real beauty.’

‘It’s only a pale version of it.’

‘So what is your conclusion?’

‘Lord Westfield does not have a portrait of Sigbrit.’

‘Then who is the lady?’ he asked.

‘The same one that I saw on the back stairs and that you caught sight of in the ballroom. The likeness is so strong that they must be sisters.’

Nicholas was shocked. The implications were farreaching. It began to look as if they had been lured there under false pretences, and he wondered if Rolfe Harling had been party to the deception. Something that Lord Westfield had told him popped into his mind.

‘Our patron complained how little he had seen of her,’ said Nicholas. ‘When they met in the hall one evening, the place was so full that he could not get near her. Since he had been drinking all day, his eyesight was probably blurred.’

‘A fair point, Nick,’ she said, thinking of the face she had just seen in the corridor. ‘In subdued light, Sigbrit might conceivably have passed for the woman we saw in the portrait but not if Lord Westfield got really close to her.’

‘I suspect that she was carefully shielded from him.’

‘By whom — and for what reason?’

‘I wish that I knew.’

‘Lord Westfield is in for a dreadful surprise,’ said Anne with sympathy. ‘He has fallen in love with one woman yet is about to be wed to another. Are you going to warn him, Nick?’

‘Not until I have more proof. I’ll make enquiries.’

‘I’ve said from the start that something odd is going on.’

‘Odd or ominous? I have uneasy feelings about all this. When he went to the hall that evening, Lord Westfield met everyone of importance in the castle. If Sigbrit Olsen has a sister, then the lady was certain to be there — yet she was not.’

‘We can guess why.’

‘Yes, Anne,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘I’m very grateful to you. Ever since we left London, you’ve been a source of immense help to the company. Even Barnaby Gill has admitted that now and it’s an achievement for any woman to win a compliment from him. Since we’ve been here, you’ve made yourself indispensable. And in providing this latest intelligence, you’ve rendered the greatest service yet.’

‘I would like to think so.’

‘There’s no question about it.’

‘Does that mean you are glad you came here this evening?’

‘Very glad.’

She prodded his chest. ‘Is that all?’

‘What more do you require — a letter of gratitude?’

‘I just want to be appreciated,’ she said, nestling against him.

Nicholas grinned. ‘I think that I can manage that.’

Breakfast was served in the hut where the actors had spent the night and they were joined by the select few who had their own rooms in the castle. Lawrence Firethorn noticed at once that someone was missing.

‘Where’s Nick?’ he asked.

‘He went out an hour or more ago,’ replied James Ingram. ‘He said that he wanted some fresh air.’

‘Then I think we’ll know where he’ll find it.’

Firethorn’s sly grin set off a round of muted laughter. Everyone assumed that their book holder had sneaked off quietly to be with Anne Hendrik and envious comments were passed around the table. It was not until they had finished their meal that Nicholas finally returned. When he told them that he had been to the town, everyone dismissed the explanation jocularly as an excuse. He had his own breakfast then went immediately to work. After collecting the items they needed for rehearsal, they went to the ballroom and Firethorn was delighted to see that Bror Langberg had honoured his promise. All the things that the actor-manager had asked for had been provided.

Though he had come with the others, Owen Elias was not well enough to take part in the rehearsal. He sat in a chair as their sole spectator, still groggy from the potion he had taken. Before they began, Nicholas addressed the whole company.

‘A curtain will be hung from the balcony,’ he said, ‘so that we have a tiring house behind. Entrances can be made from either end of the curtain, or from a gap in the middle.’ He pointed upwards. ‘Our music will come from above and the scenes in Sigbrit’s bedchamber will be played up there.’

‘Our patron will play those best,’ said Firethorn, chortling.

‘That’s why I changed the hero’s name,’ said Hoode. ‘Sigbrit and Frederick will be married in the chapel. Then they will have a second wedding here on stage.’

‘Let us think only of the play,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘We must leave Lord Westfield to his own devices. Now, although we will have a stage, my feeling is that we should step down from it during the dance at the end of the performance. This was built as a ballroom so we should take full advantage of that fact.’

Barnaby Gill led the chorus of agreement. When the book holder had finished his instructions, he volunteered to read Elias’s role in the play then handed over to Firethorn.

‘This is no rough-hewn performance in a town square, lads,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘We are here to honour our patron and his bride, and to entertain King Christian and his court. Nothing but the best of our art will suffice. This play, as you know, began life as The Prince of Aragon, a stirring tragedy. New-minted by Edmund, it has transcended itself and is now a sprightly comedy to excite the mind and dazzle the eye. Let us do it justice.’

The rehearsal began. In spite of his severe misgivings, Nicholas worked with his usual commitment, controlling everything behind the scenes while listening with a critical ear to all that took place on stage. There were several mistakes and some scenes had to be done again and again, but the quality of The Princess of Denmark shone through nevertheless. During a break, Elias made that point to Nicholas.

‘Edmund is a miracle worker. He has turned water in wine.’

‘That is unfair on The Prince of Aragon,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was a fine play in its own right. What Edmund has done is to turn wine into a form of nectar.’

‘I have only one complaint,’ said Elias.

‘And what’s that?’

‘You have usurped my role as Lars and are better than me.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘I’ll gladly surrender it on the day itself, Owen.’

Elias rubbed his bandaged head. ‘If I’ve recovered by then. My eyes are still bleary and my mind wanders. I have all of the ill effects of drinking with none of its pleasures.’ He stood up and took Nicholas aside. ‘Where did you really go this morning, Nick?’

‘To the town.’

‘Come now — you went to Anne’s bedchamber.’

‘Because of you,’ said Nicholas, ‘I had to forego that particular delight. The two men who attacked you gave false names to the landlord of the White Hart but they did not do so to the captain of the Speedwell. They would have had to show him their passports. I rowed out to the ship and told him about the attempt on your life. He was more than ready to give me their names.’

‘What were they?’ demanded Elias, anger rising.

‘Ben Ryden and Josias Greet.’

‘I’ll kill the pair of the knaves.’

‘Ryden is already dead,’ said Nicholas. ‘They found his body in a ditch behind the church. He was not killed by the shot that was fired. They say that his throat had been slit.’

‘Then his accomplice must have murdered him.’

‘He did more than that, Owen. Not content with taking his life, Greet seems to have cut off his hand as well.’

The Endeavour had sailed on the morning tide. She was a three-masted brig with plenty of canvas to catch the gusting wind and send her scudding over the waves. Seven passengers were aboard the merchant vessel. Six of them stood at the bulwark to survey the Danish coast as they headed towards the Kattegat but the other remained below. Josias Greet was already feeling slightly seasick but his nausea was eased by his sense of relief. He had escaped alive. Ben Ryden had had to be sacrificed but he would never have survived for long. Instead of subjecting him to a slow, protracted, agonising death, Greet had dispatched his friend quickly. In his purse, he now had all the money that they had been given and there was the promise of much more.

Greet glanced at the blood-soaked bag beside him and smiled.

After a couple more hours, Firethorn brought the rehearsal to an end and, although it had gone well, he felt the need to deliver a series of reprimands in order to keep the actors on their toes. Gill, inevitably, was singled out for a few barbs. More work was needed on specific scenes and Firethorn intended to concentrate on those after dinner when he expected a visible improvement. The actors were chastened by his comments. Before they could disperse, however, their patron strutted into the ballroom in his finery.

‘Is all well here, Lawrence?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ returned Firethorn, greatly impressed by his blue and gold doublet with its matching breeches. ‘May I say how resplendent you look today?’

‘With good cause.’

‘Are you dining with the future Lady Westfield?’

‘I am indeed,’ said the other uxoriously. ‘While you rehearse one princess of Denmark, I go to meet another.’

As their patron strode off down the ballroom, Nicholas watched with mingled affection and trepidation. He was fond of him. With all his faults, Lord Westfield was a good-hearted man. Nicholas did not want to see him hurt but he feared that pain was unavoidable if the wedding went ahead. The bridegroom was being duped. What taxed Nicholas’s brain was how many people were involved in the ruse. He needed time alone to think. Since he would get no privacy over dinner, he waited until the others had left then he slipped off to the one place in the castle where he could count on solitude.

The chapel had been consecrated only fifteen years earlier and it still had an air of newness about it. Nicholas came into the balcony and what struck him at once was the rich elaboration of the whole place. Skilled craftsmen had left small masterpieces on every side. The wooden pews were superbly carved and ornamented, and the altar was even more extravagant. Gold leaf glistened. Tall, white stone pillars supported the beautiful vaulted ceiling. Light streamed in through the high windows to reveal the extraordinary range of colours that had been used and to show off the vivid black and white pattern in the marble floor.

Nicholas knelt down and offered up a prayer for guidance. He then returned to the event that had first jangled the company after their arrival in Kronborg. Still unsolved, the murder of Rolfe Harling continued to mystify him. One possible clue had emerged when Lord Westfield had knocked an ivory chess set to the floor in a moment of pique, but it was far from conclusive. Nicholas had come around to the view that Harling’s death might in some way be related to the conspiracy that was taking place. When inebriated, Lord Westfield might have been deceived but someone as quick-witted and observant as his friend would never be taken in. Had he been killed before he could discover the truth about Sigbrit Olsen?

That thought led him to speculate on why the deception was necessary. Was it so important for her to marry Lord Westfield that a portrait of her sister had to be dangled in front of him as bait? And what would happen when the husband realised that he was the victim of a trick? Having been joined in holy matrimony before God, he could hardly turn his wife out. Nicholas brooded. During their time at the castle, a number of inexplicable things had happened there. What he lacked was a common thread to pull them all together. His mind went back to a piece of paper hidden in Harling’s chess set. What secret did it hold? Why had it been concealed inside the black king?

Nicholas was still wrestling with imponderables when he heard a door open below. He looked over the balcony. Wearing a cloak and hood, a woman tripped across the floor and stepped into one of the pews. As she knelt in prayer, Nicholas drew back in embarrassment, feeling uneasy at trespassing on someone else’s devotions. Curiosity soon got the better of his discomfort. Peeping over the balcony again, he watched her for a long time, wondering who she was and what had brought her there. Why did she spend such an age on her knees? Was her mind troubled or was she involved in some kind of penance?

Her prayers eventually came to an end and she rose to her feet. As she did so, the hood fell back from her head to expose blond hair in a beautiful coiffure. Nicholas could see that she was young, delicate and, from the quality of her embroidered cloak, clearly belonged to a wealthy family. Moving across the marble floor, there was nobility in her bearing. But it was only when she suddenly looked up at the balcony that he knew for certain who she was. It was Sigbrit Olsen. She was not the woman in Lord Westfield’s portrait but the likeness was strong enough to deceive a casual observer. Anne Hendrik had only seen her in profile and had described her as pretty. Nicholas was able to see her whole face and she was alarmed.

Pulling the hood quickly back up, she fled from the chapel.

Invited to join them for dinner, Anne Hendrik chose to eat alone in her room. It was not because she felt out of place as the only woman in a male assembly. Having been so closely associated with Westfield’s Men over the years, she was completely at ease with them. Mindful of the effect her presence had on the actors, she had withdrawn out of consideration. It was not only the coarse banter that was suppressed when she was there. It was the comradeship that held Westfield’s Men together, a unity of which she could never truly be a part.

Her meal was simple but palatable and she valued the time alone. Having set out originally for Amsterdam, she now found herself in Elsinore, caught up in the drama that surrounded Kronborg. She was not dismayed. Being involved in two performances had given her the most intense pleasure and she was eager to unravel some of the mysteries that the castle held. When she had finished her dinner, she put the cup and plates outside the door on their wooden tray.

‘Did you save none for me?’ asked Nicholas as he approached.

Anne straightened up. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Scavenging for food.’

‘I thought you’d have dinner with the others.’

‘I will, Anne,’ he said, ‘but I felt that I had to have a word with you first. Your instinct was sound. She simply cannot be in two places at once.’

‘Who?’

‘Sigbrit Olsen. Our patron is dining with her at this very moment yet I’ve just seen the lady in the chapel.’

‘The chapel? What were you doing there, Nick?’

Easing her back into the room, he shut the door behind them then told her about his visit to the chapel. All her suspicions were confirmed. The sister of Sigbrit Olsen was being used as an occasional substitute. Lord Westfield was unwittingly revelling in the company of a woman who would not stand at the altar with him.

‘He must be warned,’ she said.

‘He will be.’

‘It would be cruel to keep this from him.’

‘Leave everything to me, Anne,’ he said, kissing her on the lips. ‘I’m hungry. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll join the others now.’

‘But you haven’t heard my news yet.’

‘Oh — and what would that be?’

‘When I first moved in here, one of the servants showed me around the castle. We managed to understand each other in German.’

‘I remember. Go on.’

‘Well,’ continued Anne, ‘on the way back from the ballroom today, I bumped into her again. She was disturbed about the murder that took place here. She said that it made the castle very unpleasant to work in. We’ve all noticed how the atmosphere here has changed.’

‘It was bound to, Anne.’

‘I tried to cheer her up by telling her that the killers were not inside Kronborg. I explained that the two men had worked as cooks in the kitchens.’

‘And?’

‘She gave me that look again, Nick, the one that made me feel as if I’d said something very stupid. It seems that her husband works in the kitchens. According to him,’ she went on, ‘nobody at all has fled from there. Whoever committed that murder was not certainly employed as a cook. Someone is lying.’