The Princess of Denmark

Chapter Thirteen

Nicholas Bracewell was in a quandary. Aware that the performance of The Princess of Denmark might not even take place, he had to watch the actors working hard on the play that afternoon. If he stopped the rehearsal, his explanation would be met with dismay and disbelief. Yet, if he let them carry on, he would be allowing them to think that all the scenes that were being expertly honed in the ballroom would soon be set before a very special audience. Having uncovered deceit elsewhere, Nicholas felt that he was now guilty of it himself. He was, in effect, letting his friends waste their time and effort.

Preoccupied with his dilemma, Nicholas began to make some uncharacteristic mistakes. Most of them went unnoticed by the others but Lawrence Firethorn had sharper instincts. When the rehearsal was over, and everything had been dismantled, he took his book holder aside for a quiet word.

‘What ails you, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Is dropping the book nothing? Is letting your attention wander nothing? Is forgetting that you are Nicholas Bracewell and therefore a man who never errs — do you call that nothing?’

‘I was a little distracted.’

‘By what?’

Nicholas hesitated. ‘I will tell you another time.’

‘Now,’ demanded Firethorn. ‘I want the truth now.’

‘You will not like what you hear.’

‘I did not like what I saw this afternoon.’

It was an honest assessment of Nicholas’s work and he was ready to acknowledge it. When the last of the scenery and properties had been carried away to be stored, he agreed to accompany Firethorn to his apartment. Once inside, the actor closed the door then put his back to it.

‘Now, then, Nick — what is going on?’

‘Lord Westfield is being hoodwinked.’

‘By whom?’

‘Judge for yourself.’

Composing his thoughts, Nicholas gave him as clear an account as he could of what he believed was a deliberate deception. At first, Firethorn could only bluster in protest but he listened with growing concern as the evidence mounted up. The conclusion was inescapable. Between them, Nicholas and Anne Hendrik had unearthed a cunning ruse that could have appalling consequences if allowed to continue unchecked. Firethorn was infuriated.

‘This is a heinous crime!’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, Lawrence, but what lies behind it?’

‘A cruel sense of humour. Our patron has been enticed by a beautiful woman so that he can be married off to a plain one.’

‘Sigbrit Olsen is not plain,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s what made the trick possible. She has similar features to her sister but lacks her complexion and her brilliance.’

‘Brilliance is the word. She glitters like a star.’

‘There is something else. Anne did not notice this because she only saw one side of the lady’s face and that was by candlelight. I had a much clearer view in the chapel.’

‘What did you see, Nick?’

‘A livid scar that runs down the side of her chin,’ replied the other. ‘It could be largely hidden by powder when viewed by the flames of a candle. In the light of day, it’s more difficult to disguise,’

Firethorn was fuming. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ he cried, pacing the room like a caged animal. ‘Is this what we came all this way for — to see our patron married off to some scar-faced harpy?’

‘You misjudge the lady. It may well be that she is quite unaware of the deception that is being practised in her name.’

‘She must know. She’s in this up to her waist.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m not sure that she is. I only saw her for a fleeting moment but it was when she was completely off guard. Bear in mind that she had been praying there for almost half an hour. That gives you some indication of her character.’

‘She was seeking forgiveness for her sins,’ snarled Firethorn.

‘That’s not what I saw in her face, Lawrence. I saw honesty and decency and a kind of innocence. I begin to think that Sigbrit Olsen is as much a victim of this plot as our patron.’

‘Do not forget us — we are victims as well.’

‘Lord Westfield is the person who stands to lose most.’

‘He must be told directly, Nick. We can’t let him marry this counterfeit princess. It’s unthinkable.’

‘He will want to know who is behind this subterfuge.’

‘What will you tell him?’

‘The truth,’ said Nicholas. ‘It has to be Bror Langberg.’

‘You were quite wonderful,’ congratulated Bror Langberg, enfolding his niece in his arms. ‘You played the part as well as any actor.’

‘I hardly spoke,’ said Hansi Askgaard.

‘You did not need to — did she, Johanna?’

‘No,’ replied his wife fondly. ‘All that you had to do, Hansi, was to sit there and he was spellbound. Lord Westfield never took his eyes off you.’

‘I could wish a more handsome husband for my sister.’

Langberg smiled. ‘His title and his fortune are very handsome.’

‘Sigbrit will not have to sleep with either of those.’

‘She’ll be happy enough with the marriage.’

‘I hope so, Uncle Bror.’

‘Had it been otherwise, I’d not have commended it to her. Lord Westfield is a restless man. He yearns for the city pleasures. While he is in London, Sigbrit will have a fine country house to herself.’

‘I hate to think that she will be lonely.’

‘There’s no danger of that,’ he assured her.

They had returned to Hansi’s room after dinner to discuss what had happened. Each of them felt that it had been a success. Lord Westfield had been placed at one end of a long table with Hansi at the other. Langberg and his wife sat opposite each other on the vacant sides. They provided most of the conversation because their guest had been too engrossed with the woman he thought would be his future wife. Saying little and smiling often, Hansi let her natural radiance hold his attention. She had one grievance.

‘The irony is that I will not be there at the wedding,’ she said.

Johanna pulled a face. ‘It might cause a few problems if you were, Hansi. With regard to princesses, there is a golden rule.’

‘Is there?’

‘No husband needs two.’

‘Talking of husbands,’ said Langberg, ‘that’s another person who has earned our undying thanks — your own husband, Wilhelm. I will make a point of writing to tell him what a clever wife he has.’

‘Willhelm knows the importance of this match,’ said Hansi.

‘We will all benefit as a result.’

‘Sigbrit will wed and I will go home to my husband. I do not envy my sister. She can have Lord Westfield with my blessing.’ She looked at Langberg. ‘Will she ever learn the truth, Uncle?’

‘No,’ he said, firmly. ‘She must never know about this little trap we set for her husband. Ignorance is a kindness to her. If she were not so trusting, we could never have embarked on this deception.’

‘What of the wedding itself?’

‘What of it?’

‘Will he not realise then that I am not Sigbrit?’

‘There’s no risk of that, Hansi,’ said her uncle. ‘I’ll make sure that he has had so much to drink beforehand that he will not know whom he is marrying. Lord Westfield is the only one of our visitors who has seen you properly. The others will have no suspicions.’

‘You have thought of everything, Uncle Bror.’

‘It’s not all my doing.’

‘I’ll do my share as well,’ Johanna pointed out. ‘By the time I’ve finished powdering Sigbrit’s face, I will have covered up the little scar that worries her so much. In her wedding dress, with her face half-hidden, she’ll be the image of her elder sister.’

‘Everything is in our favour,’ said Langberg with complacence. ‘On Saturday, all our ambitions will be fulfilled. And the most satisfying part of it is that Lord Westfield will not have the slightest notion of what is really going on.’

Lord Westfield was so thunderstruck by what he had heard that he collapsed into a chair and put his head in his hands. Though Nicholas Bracewell had broken the news as gently as he could, the impact had still been shattering. Having spent the last couple of hours in a state of euphoria, Lord Westfield had now been plunged into utter dejection. When their patron’s chest began to heave ungovernably, Lawrence Firethorn feared that he might be having some kind of seizure. He leant solicitously over him.

‘Are you ill, my lord?’

‘Not in body,’ said the other, ‘only in the mind.’

‘We felt that you had to know at once.’

‘I still refuse to accept it.’

‘The evidence is clear,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘There can be no equivocation here. Anne and I have seen both sisters.’

‘A pox on it!’ cried Lord Westfield, removing his hands from his face. ‘So have I, so have I! Today, I dined with one sister and, the other evening, I met her exact likeness in the hall. Which is which, please tell me! Am I to marry twins and spend my wedding night playing three-in-a-bed? What sorcery is this?’

‘It’s not sorcery, my lord. It’s a deep-laid plot.’

‘Am I to be gulled?’

‘Not any more,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are rescued. Nick and Anne have saved you from making an irretrievable mistake.’

Lord Westfield glowered. ‘Well, expect no thanks from me.’

He lapsed into a bruised silence. All that the others could do was to stand there quietly while he wallowed in his desolation. During the meal, he had experienced an intense joy that he had never known before, an ecstasy that came from simply gazing upon his beautiful Danish princess. If she could excite such feelings in him when she was at the other end of the table, she would lift him to an even higher plane of exhilaration when she lay in his arms. It was a vision of paradise and Nicholas had abruptly snatched it away from him. He glared at the book holder.

‘What’s afoot here?’ he asked.

‘I’ve yet to find out, my lord,’ said Nicholas.

‘But you must have your suspicions, man.’

‘I do.’

‘Then, for God’s sake, let’s hear them. If you are to deprive me of the greatest love I have ever felt, then give me something in return. I want reasons, Nicholas. I want explanations.’ He banged the table beside him and made the ivory chessmen jump in the air. ‘And most of all, I want solace.’

‘That’s the one thing I cannot offer you, alas.’

‘Then what can you give?’ howled the other.

‘Calm down, my lord,’ soothed Firethorn.

‘I’ve no wish to calm down.’

‘There’s no point in upsetting yourself like this.’

‘Then what else would you have me do?’ challenged the other. ‘Dance a jig around the room? By Jesu! Can you not see how much I’ve lost by this expedition? I invest time and money and every sinew of my being to prove my love and for what? I am made to feel like a country yokel at Bartholomew Fair, robbed of everything he owns and jeered at by his tormentors.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll have this out with Bror Langberg immediately.’ He marched to the door. ‘I’ll not be his dupe a moment longer.’

Nicholas blocked his way. ‘I suggest that you stay here.’

‘Out of my way, man!’

‘For you own sake, my lord, I must stop you.’

‘And I must do the same,’ said Firethorn, standing beside him.

Their patron spluttered. ‘What kind of conspiracy is this?’ he yelled. ‘Do you dare to keep me against my will?’

‘We have to, my lord.’

‘In the name of all that’s holy — why?’

‘Because we cannot let you put yourself in such jeopardy,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you challenge Master Langberg while you are choleric, there will be only one outcome.’

‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘You’ll not leave this castle alive.’ Lord Westfield recoiled with horror. ‘And you would not be his first victim, my lord. Bror Langberg already has blood on his hands.’

Firethorn started. ‘What do you mean, Nick?’

‘He contrived the murder of Rolfe Harling.’

‘There is not long to go now, Sigbrit,’ said Hansi Askgaard. ‘In two days’ time, you will be the new Lady Westfield.’

‘Yes,’ said her sister dully.

‘Try to sound happier about it.’

‘I wish that I could, Hansi, but I feel so unworthy.’

‘Unworthy?’ echoed the other. ‘That is ridiculous. No bride was ever more worthy of her husband. You will be the perfect wife for him.’

‘Will I?’

Sigbrit was seated at a little table in her apartment. On it was a gilt framed mirror and she studied her face in it for a moment, running a finger along the scar on her chin. Hansi stood behind her.

‘It will fade in time,’ she said.

‘I see it more clearly than ever,’ sighed her sister. ‘When I met Lord Westfield in the hall that evening, Uncle Bror taught me to keep my head to one side so that it did not show. What will my husband say when he learns the truth?’

‘He will be too much in love with you to notice.’

‘He is bound to notice. Yesterday, he sent me this letter,’ she said, picking it up from the table. ‘My English is not good enough for me to understand every word but I can see that it is in praise of my beauty. He will be so disappointed.’

‘Let me see,’ said Hansi, taking the letter and reading through it. ‘There you are,’ she added, putting it down again, ‘he is ensnared by your charms, Sigbrit. Lord Westfield sees only what he wishes to see and that is his gorgeous Danish princess. Love is blind.’

Sigbrit rallied slightly. She got up from the table and walked to the window, looking down at the place that had been her home for so long and realising that she would at last have to leave it. She was overcome by a sudden onset of nostalgia.

‘I wish that I did not have to leave Denmark,’ she said.

‘You will return. Lord Westfield has promised that. We will visit you next spring then you and your husband can come back here in the summer. You will love England, Sigbrit. I’ve been there.’

‘What is it like?’

‘London is the most exciting city in the world. It is so big and full of life. It makes Elsinore look like a village. I envy you so much,’ she said, embracing her sister. ‘And I have the comfort of knowing that this marriage will not only make my sister happy, it will be good for our country as well. Denmark will gain from it.’

‘That’s what Uncle Bror told me.’

‘Then pay heed to what he says. Left to yourself, you would simply mourn your first husband and spend your days in lonely isolation. In England, you will have a new life. It will be such an adventure for you, Sigbrit. And the person you have to thank for it all is Uncle Bror.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Sigbrit, smiling. ‘He has been my salvation.’

Nicholas Bracewell needed proof. It was one thing to expose an act of duplicity and rescue Lord Westfield from marrying the wrong person, but it would be far more difficult to establish the purpose that lay behind the deception. In doing that, he believed, he would also solve the murder of Rolfe Harling. Looking back, Nicholas saw that Bror Langberg had been altogether too helpful. He had discussed the crime at length with the book holder then taken him to Harling’s room and allowed him to search it. The only reason he had done that, Nicholas now realised, was that he knew there would be nothing to find. Anything that might suggest a motive for his death had already been removed. If anywhere, it would be hidden in Langberg’s apartment.

A decoy was required and Lawrence Firethorn was the ideal choice. Instructed by Nicholas, he called on Langberg and took him off to the ballroom, claiming that certain practical problems had come to light during the afternoon’s rehearsal and asking for advice. As soon as the two men vanished around a corner, Nicholas came out of his hiding place behind a large, ornate, oak cupboard that stood in the corridor. He entered the apartment quickly and closed the door behind him. He had no doubt where anything of value was kept.

Pulling out his dagger, he went across to the chest he had seen on his earlier visit. Reinforced with strips of iron, it had two large padlocks to keep out intruders. By deft use of the point of his dagger, Nicholas managed to prise open one of the locks but the other would not budge. He resorted to violence. Kicking hard with his heel several times, he loosened the clasp attached to the padlock then he inserted his weapon at the weakest point and used it as a lever. By applying steady pressure, he made the lock twist, squeak in protest then fall to the ground as the clasp was finally forced out of the wood.

The chest was open. He stood a candle on the shelf above it so that he could see more clearly. Lifting the lid, he was confronted by a mass of papers, some bags of money and an ornamental sword. On top of the papers was a small leather satchel that he recognised as having belonged to Rolfe Harling. He took it out. Inside was a mass of letters and documents. Nicholas went through them with painstaking thoroughness. Some were in Danish, even more in German, but the ones that interested him were in English.

When he saw the name of Bror Langberg at the bottom of the first missive, he read it eagerly but its contents disappointed him. The letter simply expressed thanks that Harling had taken the trouble to visit Denmark in order to discuss a possible marriage and told him that preparations would soon be in hand at Kronborg. The writer’s command of English was good but his grammar was rather strange at times. Nicholas found that surprising. Having spoken to Langberg a number of times, he knew what a mastery of the language the man possessed.

When he read the second letter, the same pattern was repeated. Beyond the grammatical errors, there was nothing that could arouse the slightest suspicion. The truth then dawned with the force of a blow. Nicholas was not looking at one letter but at two. The trick that Langberg had used with his nieces was repeated in epistolary form. One thing was shown, quite another intended. From his pocket, Nicholas took out the tiny strip of paper that had been found in the chess set. It was the secret code. With its help, he saw that he was reading something entirely different. He also understood why the code had been concealed inside the black king. It represented James VI of Scotland, a name that recurred three times in the letter when it was translated.

Nicholas was excited. He had not only found clear proof that Langberg had been involved in the murder of Rolfe Harling, he knew exactly why such trouble had been taken to marry Lord Westfield to a Danish wife. It was disturbing. Langberg had ambitions that went far beyond arranging a match for his niece. Nicholas picked up another letter and discovered, when he deciphered it with the code, that it was even more explicit. He was at once shocked and fascinated by his discovery. So keen was he to look at another letter that he lost all track of time. He was barely halfway through it when the door opened and Bror Langberg came in.

‘What’s this?’ cried Langberg, pulsing with anger. ‘I should have known that something was up when Master Firethorn asked me all those unnecessary questions.’

‘I’ve a few more pertinent ones to put to you,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll not bandy words with a thief.’

‘A thief is a higher vocation than a murderer.’ He held up the slip of paper. ‘We found the code in Master Harling’s chess set. It helped me to see the monster that you are.’

‘Be quiet!’

‘There’ll be no wedding now. Lord Westfield has been told the truth. You showed him one niece so that you could marry him off to her sister. Like everything else that bears your name,’ said Nicholas, ‘the marriage is fraudulent.’

‘I’ll hear no more of this,’ shouted Langberg, pushing past him to reach into the chest. He pulled out the ornamental sword. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, taking it from its jewelled sheath. ‘It’s the highest honour that Denmark can bestow. It was given to me by the late King Frederick for outstanding services to the state.’

‘Did they include your plan to assassinate our queen?’

‘Silence!’

‘I cannot believe that Rolfe Harling would condone such a plot,’ said Nicholas, backing away. ‘Is that why you had him killed?’

Langberg bristled. ‘You know far too much for your own good, Master Bracewell.’

‘I know that he was not murdered by two cooks from your kitchens. That was another case of deception. Tell me, sir, have you ever done anything honest in your life?’

Langberg was enraged. Leaping forward he swung the sword in a vicious arc, intending to slice off Nicholas’s head. The latter ducked just in time, letting the blade pass harmlessly above him. He then pulled out his dagger and parried the wild slashes and thrusts that followed. But he could not do that indefinitely. Langberg was a powerful man with a superior weapon. He was bent on murder. Nicholas had to escape quickly. As he dodged and weaved around the room, he suddenly dived for the chest and picked up a handful of documents, flinging them hard into Langberg’s face confuse him for an instant.

Nicholas seized his chance. He opened the door and ran into the corridor but Langberg had not come alone. Two armed guards were stationed outside the door and they grabbed Nicholas between them, pinning him against the wall. He fought back to no avail. They had too strong a grip on his arms. Still holding the sword, Langberg sauntered into the corridor with a malevolent grin. He was not going to be bested by a hired man from a theatre company. He held the point of the sword against Nicholas’s throat and was about to jab it hard when a woman’s voice cried out.

‘Uncle Bror,’ said Sigbrit in alarm. ‘What are you doing?’

Langberg was baulked. His niece was walking down the corridor towards him. He could not commit murder in front of her. Letting the sword fall to his side, he turned a reassuring smile on her and mumbled an excuse. Sigbrit stared at him in horror. Out of the corner of his mouth, he gave an order to the guards.

‘Lock him in the dungeon,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with him later.’

After long hours in rehearsal, Westfield’s Men were relaxing that evening in their hut, drawing themselves free tankards of beer from the cask and deciding that the effort of reaching Elsinore had been more than worth it. Some played cards, others waged money in games of dice and the rest indulged in friendly badinage. None of them were prepared for what happened next. Flinging open the door, Lawrence Firethorn burst in and barked a command.

‘Come with me, lads,’ he yelled. ‘Nick has been arrested.’

‘Why?’ asked Owen Elias.

‘I’ll explain on the way. Hurry up — there’s no time to waste. Bring whatever weapons you have.’

‘Weapons? Are we going to fight?’

‘If need be, Owen.’ The actors were on their feet immediately, reaching for swords and daggers. ‘Follow me,’ said Firethorn, going out, ‘and stay close together. They can’t kill the whole lot of us.’

With the others at his heels, he marched across the forecourt and went through one of the gateways into the main courtyard. Elias ran to catch him up.

‘Whatever’s happened, Lawrence?’

‘We’ve all been mightily abused,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Lord Westfield was brought here under false pretences and the villain who did it was Bror Langberg.’

‘But he’s been the perfect host.’

‘That was just a guise, Owen. He’s a black-hearted rogue who had Rolfe Harling murdered. Nick went to search his room for evidence and was caught before he could get away. I saw guards taking him to the casemates.’

‘That’s where Master Harling was found.’

‘Exactly.’

As they surged across the courtyard, most of them had heard what Firethorn had said. They were roused to a pitch of anger. If their book holder were in danger, they would do everything in their power to rescue him. They gave an early demonstration of intent. Two guards stood beside the steps that led to the casemates. When they crossed their pikes to stop anyone passing, they were grabbed by the actors and thrown rudely aside. Westfield’s Men went into the casemates in a solid body, picking their way through the cavernous interior by the light of torches they stole from their brackets. Finding anyone in the bewildering maze of tunnels was not easy but Firethorn knew how to do it. He filled his lungs then bellowed at the top of his voice.

‘NICK! WHERE ARE YOU?’

‘Here!’ came a reply from Nicholas. ‘I’m over here, Lawrence.’

Guided by the voice, they hurried down a passage to the left until they came to section of the casemates that widened out into a square. Across one corner, a series of iron bars had been fixed to the walls, creating a triangular dungeon. Nicholas Bracewell was in it. The two guards who put him there were waiting with Bror Langberg. When they saw a dozen armed men coming at them, they drew back.

‘Stay away!’ warned Langberg. ‘There are hundreds of men in the garrison. I could have you all hacked to pieces.’

‘You’d die before us,’ said Firethorn, using his sword to force the man back against the bars. He looked at the prisoner. ‘Are you hurt, Nick?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I soon would have been.’

‘Give that here,’ demanded Elias, snatching a key from one of the guards. He unlocked the door of the cage. ‘Come on out, Nick.’

‘Thank you, Owen.’

‘Our turn to save you for a change.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, stepping out of the dungeon. ‘And you were never more welcome.’

The sound of running feet made him look up. Hearing the noise from the dungeon, almost thirty armed soldiers had come to investigate. When they saw what was happening, they stood in a double line to block the exit. Langberg emitted a laugh of triumph.

‘I think that you are outnumbered, Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘Stand back!’ Firethorn ordered the soldiers, ‘or I’ll put this sword through his heart.’

‘Certain death would follow for the whole pack of you.’

‘At least I would have the pleasure of taking you with us.’

‘You are beaten, man,’ said Langberg, gloating. ‘Have the sense to admit it. Nothing can save you now.’

Even as he spoke, a long, strident fanfare rang out from the Trumpeter’s Tower, muffled by the casemates but audible enough for all of them to recognise what it signalled.

‘The king!’ exclaimed Langberg. ‘I must bid him welcome.’

‘Then we’ll go with you,’ said Firethorn, slipping his dagger into Nicholas’s hand so that he could hold a weapon against their prisoner as well. ‘Tell them to stand aside.’

With a sword at his throat and a dagger at his back, Langberg waved an arm to his men and the soldiers moved reluctantly out of the way. Firethorn and Nicholas pushed him forward, holding him tightly. Followed by the soldiers, the actors took a tortuous route back to the exit, glad to get out of the casemates again. When they climbed the steps into the courtyard, they were met by a blaze of light that surrounded the visitors. Dozens of torches were aflame. In the middle of them, adorned in bright attire and striking an imperious pose, was King Christian IV with his personal bodyguard.

As he saw them all emerge from the casemates, the king was astonished. Firethorn and Nicholas felt obliged to release their prisoner. In the presence of the king, they had to show deference. Langberg beamed. He was safe. He spread his arms wide.

‘Welcome to Kronborg, Your Majesty,’ he said with a bow. ‘You could not have come at more appropriate time.’

‘Arrest that man,’ snapped the King. ‘He’s a traitor.’

Members of his bodyguard promptly seized Bror Langberg and pinioned his arms behind him. When he tried to speak, he was clubbed into silence. Westfield’s Men were saved.

The Princess of Denmark was performed in the ballroom on Saturday night after all but not in celebration of any wedding. It was at the command of King Christian IV, the young monarch with a love of the arts and a respect for English actors. Lord Westfield sat beside him in the audience, grateful that he had been rescued from an unfortunate marriage and able to take an especial delight in the skills of his company. There were notable absentees from the ballroom. Bror Langberg was held in the dungeon while his wife and Hansi Askgaard, accomplices in the plot, were locked in their respective apartments. Completely innocent herself, Sigbrit Olsen was shocked to learn of their perfidy, and appalled at the way that she was being used for political ends. She could not bear to attend a play that had been inspired partly by her.

Since the drama now had a different purport, Edmund Hoode changed the names of its principal characters to Harald and Sophie, removing all hint of their patron and his intended bride. In its first performance, therefore, The Princess of Denmark was seen for what it was, a sparkling comedy set in the castle at Elsinore, replete with fine poetry, poignant romance, comic brilliance, lively dances and a plot that held them all firmly together with invisible strength. The spectators were captivated throughout, none more so than the King, who laughed in the wrong places at times but who was thrilled by the performance. Edmund Hoode had even included a reference to him in the concluding lines of the Epilogue. Owen Elias declaimed them with great feeling.

Our lovers suffered pain while kept apart

Then royalty did bring them heart to heart.

For, mark it well, there is no better thing

Than being rescued by a Christian king.

The galliard with which the play ended spilt out onto the marble floor and the actors whirled within feet of their audience. Applause reverberated the length of the whole room. King Christian IV, the Christian king, clapped until his hands were sore.

Westfield’s Men took their bows with particular pleasure. They were relieved to have the opportunity to stage a play on which they had spent so much time, and they put their hearts and souls into it. The whole company knew how close they had come to disaster and their performance was, to some extent, a visible sign of gratitude to the king who had averted it. No wedding might have taken place but the feast was nevertheless held after the play and the actors were invited to join in the celebrations. It was a fitting end.

Owen Elias’s head wound still throbbed but it had not stopped him from giving a commendable performance as Peder Mikkelson, pickpocket and itinerant ballad singer, a loveable rogue who made the ladies titter at his lewd behaviour. Before too much drink robbed him of coherent thought, the Welshman wanted clarification from Nicholas Bracewell, who sat beside him at the feast.

‘Why exactly was Bror Langberg arrested?’ he asked.

‘How much do you know already, Owen?’

‘Only that our patron was being hoodwinked. He was given a portrait of a woman that he was never going to marry.’

‘A beautiful woman at that,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve seen her.’

‘What of her sister? Is she ugly?’

‘Not in the least but her face would never have brought Lord Westfield all the way to Denmark. I’ve spoken with the lady.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘The irony is that Sigbrit Olsen never wanted to get married to anyone. Her uncle talked her into it.’

‘But why, Nick?’

‘To achieve his ends. He needed somewhere in England from which his confederates could work. They would have gone there as attendants to our patron’s bride. Lord Westfield is often at court,’ said Nicholas, ‘and, as a result, is very much aware of Her Majesty’s movements. That information would have been crucial.’

Elias was scandalised. ‘They meant to kill Queen Elizabeth?’

‘Bror Langberg wanted her out of the way so that King James of Scotland could succeed. Her Majesty is old but in good health. If they wait for her to die, it might take years and he feared that another claimant might find favour in the meantime.’

‘So they assassinate a queen for the sake of a Scottish king.’

‘He has a Danish wife, Owen.’

‘Ah! So that’s the rub.’

‘Bror Langberg is a close friend of hers,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Were she and her husband to sit on English thrones, he could look for great rewards from her.’

‘Was this plot first hatched in Scotland then?’

‘No, King James and his wife are completely unaware of it.’

‘Then how did King Christian learn about it?’ asked Elias. ‘When he arrived here, he called Master Langberg a traitor.’

‘He was set to betray the honour of Denmark,’ said Nicholas. ‘In raising a hand against Queen Elizabeth, he would have been attacking a true friend of this country. The king had suspicions of him for some time. Letters that were sent to from here to Flushing were intercepted. They were addressed to Rolfe Harling but intelligencers seized them and broke the cipher. Now I understand why Master Harling was so eager to call in at Flushing on our way here,’ he decided. ‘He did not want such dangerous correspondence to go astray. Unbeknown to him, it had already been seized.’

‘I never liked that dried fish of a man,’ said Elias. ‘If Rolfe Harling was part of this conspiracy, the villain deserved to die.’

‘He was working as a spy for Sir Robert Cecil and found that he and Master Langberg had similar ambitions. Both wanted a Danish queen in England. The difference was,’ Nicholas said over the babble of voices around him, ‘that he was prepared to let Her Majesty die a natural death. When he refused to condone assassination, he was killed outright because he was in a position to reveal Bror Langberg’s plot.’ He paused to sip his wine. ‘My own suspicions were aroused when Lord Westfield told me how he had come to meet his friend. It was through the offices of Sir Robert Cecil, a man who keeps a small army of intelligencers. Master Harling was one of them.’

‘A filthy spy, was he?’ said Elias with contempt. ‘Never trust a man who prefers chess to women, Nick. It’s a game that perverts the mind. As for our patron,’ he went on, glancing towards the end of the table where Lord Westfield was laughing merrily beside the king, ‘he must learn to choose his friends with more care — and his wives.’

‘I’m sure that he knows that.’

‘So what happens now, Nick?’

‘We’ve seen the last of Denmark for a while,’ said Nicholas, looking around at the happy faces of the actors. ‘The company has prospered from the three plays that we presented, and we made many admirers, but I cannot say that I am sorry to leave. Tomorrow, we board the Cormorant again. Anne will finally reach Amsterdam and we will head for home.’

Elias cackled. ‘Think of all those broken-hearted women who will welcome me back,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Think instead of the man who has twice tried to kill you.’

‘Oh, I’ve not forgotten him, Nick.’

‘His name is Josias Greet and my guess is that he’s probably sailing to London now. We’ll catch up with him one day.’

When he reached the capital, Isaac Dunmow rode straight to the inn and took a room. He then sent word to Josias Greet and counted out the money while he waited for the man to arrive. A letter from Anthony Rooker had informed him that Greet had returned and claimed to have good news for him. Dunmow had set out from York at once. Instead of dulling his urge for revenge, the passage of time had merely sharpened it. If their mission had been completed, his hired killers deserved their reward.

An hour later, Josias Greet was shown up to the room, almost panting with eagerness. He was carrying a blood stained bag. Taking off his greasy cap, he gave an ingratiating smile.

‘Good day to you, Master Dunmow,’ he said, displaying a row of misshapen teeth. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you in the city again.’

‘Well, I get no pleasure from looking at your vile face. The sooner we settle this matter, the better.’ He regarded his visitor critically. ‘I had a letter from Master Rooker. He says that you’ve done my bidding.’

‘That’s right, sir. Of course, I did not tell him what that bidding was. I obeyed your orders, sir. I simply went to his office and gave him the message that you wanted.’

‘Owen Elias is dead?’

‘As a doornail.’

‘Burnt?’

‘To a cinder.’

‘How do I know?’

‘Because I brought something for you,’ said Greet, opening the bag to take out a charred hand. ‘I cut this from his arm, sir.’

Dunmow stared at the hand with distaste then looked away.

‘Where is Ryden?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that’s the sad part of the tale, sir. He’s dead.’

Greet went on to give a rambling account of the murder of Owen Elias. He claimed that Ben Ryden had been killed when he fought with the Welshman, leaving Greet to overpower and burn Elias. The details he gave of their voyage and of their brief stay in Elsinore sounded convincing enough but the rest of his story struck a false note. Dunmow scowled at him.

‘You’re lying, you scabby knave,’ he said.

‘I’d swear on the Bible that it’s the truth, sir.’

‘Then your tongue would turn black.’

‘I did as you told me,’ insisted Greet, waving the scorched hand in front of him. ‘Where else could I have got this?’

‘From anyone. How do I know it belonged to Elias?’

‘You have my sacred word.’

Dunmow sneered. ‘You’ve never told the truth in your life.’

‘As God’s my witness, this is his hand.’

‘Get out of here!’

Greet slapped the hand on the table. ‘I want the money.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait until Westfield’s Men come back to England. If Elias is still alive, you’ll not get a penny.’

‘Pay up, sir,’ growled the other. ‘You promised.’

‘What I promised was to pay you and Ben Ryden. That means you get only half of the fee — or none at all, if you failed to kill Elias for the second time.’

‘I want it all, Master Dunmow. I earned it.’

‘We’ll only know that when Westfield’s Men return.’

‘Give it to me!’

‘I give nothing to liars,’ said Dunmow, crossing to open the door. ‘Now clear off before you stink the place out — and take that foul hand with you.’ Greet glowered at him. ‘Go on — get out.’

Greet bowed his head obediently and put the hand into the bag. As he did so, he kept his back to the other man so that he could take a dagger from his belt. Dunmow would not be fooled. If they waited until Westfield’s Men returned, then Greet’s lies would be exposed and he would get nothing. If he wanted the money, he had to take it now. When he turned to face Dunmow, therefore, he brought his hand upwards with full force, sinking the dagger into his stomach then twisting it sharply to give maximum pain. Isaac Dunmow goggled. He opened his mouth to cry for help but all that came out was a faint gurgle. Grinning with pleasure, Greet continued to twist the blade. It was only when Dunmow fell slowly to the floor that he pulled the dagger out again.

Stepping over his victim, he opened the bag that held the hand and scooped all that money on the table into it. Then he looked down at Isaac Dunmow, still writhing in pain as his lifeblood drained out of him. Greet gave him a gratuitous kick.

‘You should have paid me when I asked,’ he said.

Leaving the inn by the back door, he walked back to his lodging through the crowded streets, knowing that he had enough money to last him for a year. He began to speculate on how he could best spend it. There was no thought of Ben Ryden now. The reward belonged entirely to Josias Greet and he would enjoy it to the hilt. The long walk took him to one of the more squalid areas of the city, a narrow, twisting lane with an open sewer running down the middle of it. When a dog came sniffing at him, he swung the bag to knock it away and it went yelping off down the lane.

Greet entered a tenement and climbed the stairs to his room. Opening the door, he crossed to the bed and emptied his booty over the soiled mattress. He let out a harsh laugh. Then he heard the door slam shut behind him. Someone had already been in the room.

‘Hello, Josias,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Remember me?’

Greet was horror-struck. ‘No, sir,’ he gabbled. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

‘That’s because you always crept up behind me before — both here in London and in Elsinore.’ He glanced at the mattress. ‘Would that be Ben Ryden’s hand, by any chance?’

‘There’s been a mistake. You have the wrong man.’

‘It was you who made the mistake, Josias Greet — not once, but twice.’ He pulled out his sword. ‘You tried to kill me.’

‘Keep away from me,’ said Greet, moving to the window with his dagger in his hand. ‘I’ll not warn you again.’ As Elias took a step towards him, Greet raised his weapon. ‘Stand back, I say.’

He flung the dagger across the room. Elias ducked out of the way and it flew past him before embedding itself in the door. Greet did not stay. Flinging open the window, he jumped through it and dropped down until he landed in a pile of offal. Before he could move, a hand closed around his neck and forced his back against the wall. Nicholas Bracewell had been waiting to cut off any attempted escape.

‘Stay a while,’ he ordered. ‘We need to talk to you.’

‘What do you want with me?’ jabbered Greet.

‘We have several scores to settle with you. That’s why we came here as soon as we landed. Master Rooker was kind enough to give us your address,’ said Nicholas. ‘You left it with him for Isaac Dunmow, we hear. We came straight to this rat hole to find you.’

Greet tried to break free but Nicholas was far too strong. Owen Elias came out of the house to join them. He looked at the prisoner with absolute disgust then flexed both hands.

‘Let me go,’ pleaded Greet. ‘I have money. I’ll pay you.’

‘Oh, you’ll pay,’ said Nicholas. ‘We can promise that.’

‘Master Dunmow hired us. He is to blame.’

‘You were the one who attacked me,’ said Elias. ‘You and that other villain whose throat you cut back in Elsinore.’

‘I did that as a favour to Ben,’ said Greet. ‘He was in agony.’

‘It’s my turn to do a favour for a friend now,’ said Nicholas. ‘Before we hand you over to a magistrate, Owen would like a private word with you.’ He released Greet. ‘He’s all yours now, Owen.’

Alexander Marwood pointed across the inn yard to the work that had been abandoned by the builders. The main timbers had been erected and the roof had been started, but that was all. There was still much to do before that side of the Queen’s Head could ever be in use again.

‘Look, Master Rooker!’ he cried. ‘This is how they have left it.’

‘That’s of no concern to me,’ said Rooker.

‘But you pay their wages.’

‘I was enjoined to release funds to the builder once a week.’

‘Then why have you stopped? said Marwood. ‘Give them their money and bring them back here.’

‘I’ve no power to do that.’

‘But you must.’ He waved a document in his face. ‘I’ll seek redress in court for this. You are bound by the terms of the contract.’

‘The contract no longer exists,’ said Rooker coldly. ‘It was signed by Isaac Dunmow. When he was murdered, the contract died with him. And I have to say that I am very glad. Now that I know the full details of the bargain that you struck, I wish that I’d never been involved in it. You are a disgrace, sir.’

Marwood was offended. ‘I deny that charge.’

‘Isaac Dunmow sent hired ruffians after Westfield’s Men. One of them returned to kill him. I have no love of actors,’ he went on, ‘but they are entitled to the freedom to practise their craft. According to the contract you had with him, you are nothing but a hired ruffian with murder in your heart. You set out to destroy the company as well.’

‘They deserved it, Master Rooker.’

Rooker was scornful. ‘If everyone got their deserts, sir,’ he said, ‘then the Queen’s Head would fall down around your miserable ears. My business with you ends here and I have never been so glad to rid myself of a client.’

Pursued by Marwood’s wild imprecations, he went out of the yard and vanished into Gracechurch Street. The landlord stamped his foot then took another despairing look at the deserted building site. Grinding his teeth, he scuttled off to the taproom to unpack his woes to his wife, knowing that he was more likely to get reproach than sympathy but needing to tell someone of his cruel rebuff. Expecting to find Sybil in her usual icy and unforgiving mood, he was astounded to hear her laughing gaily as she talked to Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Come in, come in, Alexander,’ she cooed, beckoning him over to her. ‘Nicholas has returned from Denmark with good news.’

‘It’s bad news that Westfield’s Men have returned at all.’

‘My husband jests,’ she said, shooting him a glare that made his blood run cold. ‘He was saying only this morning how much he missed the company.’

‘As I miss the plague,’ said Marwood under his breath.

‘Your wife has been telling me about a contract you signed,’ said Nicholas. ‘On the condition that we never played here again, Will Dunmow’s father undertook to pay for the rebuilding of the inn.’

‘An iniquitous contract,’ said Sybil with disdain. ‘I tried hard to stop Alexander from signing it. Fortunately,’ she added, riding over the objection that sprang to her husband’s lips, ‘it no longer exists. Isaac Dunmow was murdered here in London.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘Owen Elias and I had the privilege of handing over the killer to the magistrates — after Owen had exchanged a few words with the fellow, that is. So, it would seem that your contract is null and void.’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell,’ said the landlord.

‘Do you regret that?’

‘Very much.’

‘Alexander!’ chided his wife.

‘I do, Sybil. It was like manna from heaven.’

‘It was a dreadful mistake and we must be honest enough to admit it. I think that a personal apology is needed to Lord Westfield.’ She quelled Marwood’s attempted protest with another glare. ‘How misled we have been in our judgement of him! He is a fount of true benevolence.’

‘What are you talking about, woman?’ said Marwood.

‘Allow me to explain,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our visit to Denmark was not without its perils and we were able to save our patron from being tricked into something that he would regret for the remainder of his life. In token of his regret — and on one single condition — Lord Westfield has offered to pay for the rest of the repairs here so that the Queen’s Head can return to its former glory.’

‘This is true manna from heaven,’ declared Sybil, clapping her hands girlishly together. ‘Say something, Alexander. Accept the offer.’

Marwood was cautious. ‘You mention a condition.’

‘Just one,’ said Nicholas.

‘What is it?’

‘That Westfield’s Men can play here again in perpetuity.’

‘My husband agrees,’ said Sybil over Marwood’s groan of pain. ‘Have the contract and he will sign it if I have to hold his hand while he does it. Is that not so, Alexander?’

The landlord looked into her eyes and saw such a compound of threat, malice, entreaty, demand and, incredibly, sexual allure, that he lost all power to resist. While he was still under her spell, the door of the taproom opened and Lawrence Firethorn led in the whole troupe.

‘Nick, dear heart,’ he said. ‘Do we have our playhouse?’

‘I still await a reply,’ said Nicholas.

Everyone turned to their hated landlord, knowing that he would rather drink hemlock than invite them back to the Queen’s Head. Only the generosity of Lord Westfield could win him over. Marwood glanced first at his wife. The spectre of allure was still there. He summoned up a crooked smile.

‘Welcome home, gentlemen,’ he said with forced geniality. ‘Sybil and I have pined for your return. I have repeated the same thing day after day. The Queen’s Head is nothing without Westfield’s Men.’

They gave him a rousing cheer.