The Princess of Denmark

Chapter Two

They were all there. The entire cast of The Italian Tragedy had turned up at the Queen’s Head, along with the stagekeepers and the tireman, to help in the mammoth task of clearing away the wreckage. In a sense, they were also dismantling their own home so the work was additionally painful. Rank disappeared. From the actor-manager down to the humblest hired man in the company, everyone did his share. The only actor who refused to dirty his hands, or to risk staining his exquisite attire by struggling among the filthy ruins, was Barnaby Gill, a brilliant clown on stage but a morose and egotistical man when he stepped off it. Since it was beneath his dignity to take part in physical labour, he simply watched sourly from the other side of the yard and deplored the fact that he would be unable to display his histrionic skills there again for a very long time.

There was a crowning irony. Fire had robbed them of their playhouse yet they had to engage the self-same thief to dispose of the booty. Beams, floorboards and furniture beyond recall were tossed on to a bonfire in the middle of the yard. Bricks, plaster and broken tiles were wheeled away in wooden barrows. Bed linen had been burnt to extinction. Pewter tankards and utensils had melted in the heat of the furnace. Some things could be saved for re-use but most had perished during the night. There were consolations. The fire had not consumed the Queen’s Head in its entirety and, because there had been no wind, sparks had not been carried to any of the adjacent properties.

It was Nicholas Bracewell who discovered the body. As he scooped up another armful of shattered tiles, he saw a foot protruding from the debris. It was bare and discoloured. Since the fire had only claimed one victim, the foot simply had to belong to Will Dunmow. He was buried beneath some badly-charred roof timbers.

‘I’ve found him,’ said Nicholas, throwing the tiles aside. ‘Give me a hand, Owen.’

‘Gladly,’ offered Owen Elias, scampering across to him. ‘Are you sure that it’s him?’

‘Who else can it be?’ Taking a firm grasp, they moved the first heavy oak beam between them. ‘The fire started in his bedchamber and that would have been directly above this spot.’

‘Poor Will! He had no chance.’

‘The landlord blames you for leaving a lighted candle there.’

Elias was roused. ‘Then he needs to be told the truth,’ he said indignantly. ‘I made a point of snuffing out the candle before we left. You can ask James. He’ll bear witness.’

‘I take your word for it, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but that raises a question. If a candle did not cause the fire, then what did?’

‘Who knows?’

Taking hold of the next beam, they heaved it aside to expose the upper half of the corpse. It was a grisly sight. Scorched and distorted, Will Dunmow’s handsome face was a grotesque mask. His hair had burnt down to the skull, his eyebrows had been singed and both nose and jaw had been broken by the impact of the falling timber. Every shred of clothing had been burnt off his body, leaving his flesh black and mutilated. Nicholas felt a surge of compassion.

‘His own mother would not be able to recognise him,’ he said. ‘I thank heaven that she did not see him in this condition.’ He turned to Elias who was staring in horror at the corpse. The Welshman was visibly shaken. ‘What ails you, Owen?’

‘It was true, Nick — hideously true.’

‘True?’

‘What I said to James as we lay him on his bed last night. I said that Will would sleep until doomsday.’ Elias bit his lip. ‘I did not realise that doomsday would come so soon for him.’

‘How could you?’

‘I feel so guilty.’

‘You were not to blame.’

‘It was almost as if I prophesied his death.’

‘That’s a foolish thought. This was none of your doing.’ He became aware of the small crowd that had gathered to look at the body with morbid curiosity. Nicholas waved them away. ‘Back to your work, lads. Will Dunmow was kind to us. Do not stare so as if he were a species of monstrosity. Grant him some dignity.’ The others began to drift away. ‘I can manage here, Owen,’ he went on. ‘Fetch something to cover him from prying eyes.’

‘Yes, Nick.’

The Welshman went off and left Nicholas to remove the rest of the debris that covered the dead man. He did so with great care, averting his eyes from the crushed legs that came into view. Pity welled up in him once more. In the course of his life, Nicholas had seen death in many guises but none so shocking and repulsive as the one that now confronted him. Will Dunmow had not merely been killed. He had been deformed and degraded. By the time the book holder had liberated the body completely, Elias returned with a large white sheet that he had taken from the room where they kept their wardrobe. It was laid over the corpse with reverence then the two of them lifted Will Dunmow up and carried him to a cart that stood nearby. They lowered him gently into it.

‘There’ll have to be an inquest,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll see the body delivered to the coroner.’

‘Thank you, Owen.’

‘Then I’ll do what I can to track down the house where Will was staying while he was in London. He told me that it was in Silver Street,’ explained Elias, ‘and belonged to a friend. I’ll find him if I have to knock on every door.’

‘Save yourself the trouble. I think this friend will come to us. He must have known that Will was at the play yesterday afternoon. Since his lodger did not return last night, the friend will want to know why. In time, he’ll turn up at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Then he’ll be met with dreadful news.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘And the worst part of it is that we cannot even tell him how the fire started.’

‘I could hazard a guess.’

‘Could you?’

‘I’ve been thinking about what he said,’ remembered Elias. ‘When we carried him to his chamber, he kept calling for a bottle of sack. Will said that he’d like to drink some more and smoke a pipe of tobacco before he went to sleep.’

‘A pipe?’

‘That might be the explanation, Nick.’

‘Indeed, it might.’

‘How he managed to light it, God knows, for he was as drunk as a lord. As soon as his head touched the pillow, he was asleep.’

‘He must have come awake again,’ decided Nicholas, ‘and tried to smoke a pipe. Will Dunmow would not be the first man to doze off and start a fire unwittingly with burning tobacco.’

‘An expensive mistake. He paid for it with his life.’

‘Take him to the coroner, Owen. Describe what happened here and tell him that we know precious little about Will Dunmow apart from his name and his generosity. I’ll carry on here.’

‘Not for a while, Nick,’ said Elias as he saw two figures walking across the yard. ‘You have company.’

Nicholas looked up to see Anne Hendrik and Preben van Loew heading towards him. They were looking around with dismay. Elias stayed long enough to exchange greetings with them before driving the body away in the cart. Anne was horrified by the amount of damage.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘We are not certain,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and never will be, alas. But we think someone started the fire when he fell asleep with a pipe of tobacco still burning. He died in the blaze. Owen is just taking him to the coroner.’

‘We expected to find you rehearsing today’s play.’

‘Out of the question, Anne.’

‘So I see.’

‘It will be next spring at least before we return to the Queen’s Head. The landlord would rather that we never came back.’ He glanced at the bandaging around the old Dutchman’s head. ‘But enough of our troubles. Preben seems to have encountered some of his own. I thought you both went to the churchyard this morning.’

‘We did, Nicholas,’ he said somnolently. ‘There was another vicious attack on strangers, I fear.’

‘It was on the wall,’ said Anne. ‘When Preben took it down, he was hit on the head by a stone. We did not see who threw it. It was a bad wound. We had to find a surgeon to dress it.’

Nicholas was sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Another libel, you say? That’s bad. Let’s stand aside,’ he said, moving them away from the noise of the clearance work behind him. ‘Now — tell me all.’

Lord Westfield gazed in wonder at the miniature then let out a cry of delight. Holding the portrait to his lips, he placed a gentle kiss on it.

‘I love her already!’ he announced. ‘What is her name?’

‘Sigbrit, my lord,’ said his companion. ‘Sigbrit Olsen.’

‘A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.’

‘That miniature was painted only last year.’

‘And is she as comely in the flesh?’

‘I’ve every reason to think so,’ said Rolfe Harling. ‘I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her yet but, when I spoke with her uncle in Copenhagen, he could not praise her enough. He described his niece as a jewel among women.’

‘I can see that, Rolfe. The creature dazzles.’

Lord Westfield was so enraptured by the portrait that he could not take his eyes off it. Framed by silken blonde hair, Sigbrit Olsen had a face that combined beauty, dignity and youthfulness. Her skin seemed to glow. Lord Westfield pressed for details.

‘How old is she?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘Less than half my age.’

‘Such a wife would take years off you, my lord.’

‘That’s my hope. Has she been married?’

‘Only once,’ stressed Harling, ‘and her husband died in an accident soon after the wedding. There was no issue. At first, she was overcome with grief. After a decent interval of mourning, however, she is now ready to start her life afresh and she prefers to do it abroad. Denmark has too many unhappy memories for her.’

‘Then I must take her away from them.’

‘That would be viewed as a blessing, my lord.’

‘By me as well as by her.’

He kissed the portrait again. Lord Westfield was a short, plump man of middle years with a reddish complexion lighting up a round, pleasant face. Thanks to a skilful tailor, his slashed doublet of blue and red gave him a podgy elegance and his breeches cunningly concealed his paunch. He had been married twice before but had outlived both of his wives. Though he led a sybaritic existence that involved the pursuit of a number of gorgeous young ladies, he had now decided that it might be time to wed for the third time.

‘How do you think that Sigbrit would look on my arm, Rolfe?’

‘You will make a handsome couple, my lord,’ flattered Harling.

‘She would be the envy of all my friends.’

‘That thought was in my mind when I chose her.’

‘You have done well, Rolfe.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harling with an obsequious smile. ‘It has taken time, I know, but a decision like that could not be rushed. I did not wish to commit you until I was absolutely convinced.’

‘I would have preferred it if you had actually seen Sigbrit.’

‘So would I, my lord, but she was visiting relatives in Sweden when I was there. Her uncle is eminently reliable, I assure you, and I’ve had good reports of the lady from others. Until her marriage, she was a lady-in-waiting at court.’

‘That, in itself, is recommendation enough.’

‘The Dowager Queen likes to surround herself with beauty.’

Lord Westfield beamed. ‘And so do I, Rolfe.’

They were in the house that Lord Westfield used when he was staying in the city. His estates were in Hertfordshire, north of St Albans, close enough to London to allow easy access to and fro yet far enough away to escape the stench and the frequent outbreaks of plague that afflicted the capital. He had been waiting for weeks for the return of Rolfe Harling. Since his reputation for promiscuity was too well-known in England, Lord Westfield had chosen to look elsewhere for a wife and Harling had been dispatched to find a suitable partner for him, searching, as he did, through three other countries before settling on the woman whose portrait he had brought back.

Rolfe Harling was a tall, thin individual in his thirties with long, dark hair and a neat beard. He wore smart but sober apparel and, with his scholarly hunch and prominent brow, he conveyed an impression of intelligence. The fact that he spoke four languages had made him an ideal person for the task in hand.

‘Do you ever regret leaving academic life?’ asked Lord Westfield.

‘Not at all, my lord. Oxford has its appeal but it can seem very parochial at times. Travel has taught me far more than I could learn from the contents of any library.’

‘That depends on where you travel.’

‘Quite so,’ said Harling. ‘As an Englishman, there are some countries that I have no desire to visit — Spain, for instance. I would never have dared to foist a wife from that accursed nation upon you. Spain is our enemy, Denmark our friend.’

‘And likely to remain so.’

‘That, too, was taken into consideration.’

‘You have been diligent on my behalf,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘and I thank you for it. My brother’s death was a bitter blow but it brought a welcome change of fortune to me. Hitherto, I baulked at the idea of asking a woman to share my poverty with me. Now that I can afford to marry again, I will do so in style.’

‘Sigbrit Olsen will not disappoint you. Through her uncle, she makes only one request, and that is for the wedding to be on Danish soil. I was certain that you would abide by that condition.’

‘Gladly. Let her nominate the place.’

‘She has already done so.’

‘Copenhagen?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Harling. ‘The lady prefers her home town. In her native tongue, it is called Helsingor.’

‘And what do we call it in English?’

‘Elsinore.’

Preben van Loew was a very private man who had remained single by choice because of his excessive shyness and because of a lurking fear of the opposite sex. He liked and respected Anne Hendrik, but even she was not allowed to get too close to him. When they returned to her house in Bankside, therefore, he refused her offer to examine the wound and dress it with fresh bandaging. Still in pain, he wanted to get back to his work in the premises adjoining her house in order to put the incident at the Dutch Churchyard out of his mind.

‘You are not well enough to go back to work,’ Anne said.

‘I am fully recovered now,’ he told her.

‘Your face belies it, Preben. That stone was thrown hard.’

He gave a pale smile. ‘You do not need to remind me.’

‘If you feel the slightest discomfort, you have my permission to leave at once. Do not tax yourself. Every commission we have has been finished ahead of time. You are under no compulsion.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And when you do want the dressing changed, come to me.’

‘I will,’ he said.

But she knew that he was unlikely to do so. He had such a strong sense of independence that he hated to rely on anyone else, especially a woman. Preben van Loew was an odd character. When he had been struck on the head, he was less concerned with the searing agony than with the embarrassment he felt at having been attacked in Anne’s presence. Having set out that morning as her protector, it was he who now needed protection. It was an affront to his pride.

‘Do not tell them about this in Amsterdam,’ he requested.

‘But they will all ask after you, Preben.’

‘Tell them that I am well.’

‘But you are not,’ she said.

‘I want them to hear only good news about me. If they know about the attack, my family and friends will only worry about me.’

‘And so they should.’

‘Spare them the anguish,’ he said. ‘Tell them the truth — that I live a happy life among people I admire, and do a job that I have always loved. I want no fuss to be made of me, Anne.’

Anne became reflective. ‘You sound like Jacob,’ she recalled. ‘During his last illness, when he lacked the strength even to get out of bed on his own, he kept telling me not to cosset him. He hated to put me to the slightest trouble. I was his wife yet he would still not let me pamper him. Can you understand why?’

‘Very easily.’

‘Then you and he are two of a kind.’ She thought about the narrow, dedicated, industrious, almost secret existence that he led and she changed her mind. ‘Well, perhaps not. As for your injury …’

‘These things happen. We just have to accept that.’

‘Well, I’ll not accept it,’ she said with spirit, ‘and neither will Nick. You saw how angry he was when we told him about it.’

‘But there was no need to do so, Anne. It’s far better to remain silent. All that I had was a bang on the head. Think of the problems that Nicholas is facing after that fire,’ he said. ‘You should not have bothered him with this scratch that I picked up.’

‘It was much more than a scratch, Preben.’

‘It will heal in time.’

‘Someone deserves to be punished.’

‘We do not know who he was.’

‘Nick will find out.’

‘How can he?’ asked the old man. ‘He was not even there.’

‘Perhaps not, but he cares for you, Preben. That’s why he took such an interest in the case.’

‘I’d rather he forget it altogether.’

‘Then you do not know Nick Bracewell,’ she said proudly. ‘If his friends are hurt, he’s not one to stand idly by. You may choose to forget the outrage but he will not. Sooner or later, Nick will make someone pay for it. You will be avenged.’

After toiling away for most of the morning with the others, Nicholas Bracewell left the Queen’s Head to call on their patron. Lord Westfield liked to be kept informed about his troupe and this latest news would brook no delay. Having cleaned himself up as best he could, therefore, Nicholas made his way to the grand house he had often visited in the past. In times of crisis for Westfield’s Men — and they seemed to come around with increasing regularity — the book holder always acted as an intercessory between the company and its epicurean patron. He had far more tact than Lawrence Firethorn and none of the actor’s booming self-importance. As a result of Nicholas’s long association with the company, Lord Westfield appreciated the book holder’s true worth. It made him the ideal messenger.

The servant who admitted him to the house was not impressed with his appearance but, as soon as he gave the name of the visitor to his master, he was told to bring him into the parlour at once. Nicholas was accordingly ushered into the room and found Lord Westfield, sitting in a chair, scrutinising a miniature that he held in his palm. It was moments before the patron looked up at him.

‘Nicholas,’ he said with unfeigned cordiality. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘What brings you to my house this time?’

‘Sad tidings.’

‘Oh?’

‘There has been a fire at the Queen’s Head.’

‘A serious one?’

‘Serious enough,’ said Nicholas.

He gave Lord Westfield a detailed account of what had happened, speculating on the probable cause of the blaze and emphasising the dire consequences for the company. To Nicholas’s consternation, their patron was only half-listening and he appeared to be less interested in the fate of the troupe that bore his name than he was in the portrait at which he kept glancing. When he had finished his tale, the visitor had to wait a full minute before Lord Westfield even deigned to glance up at him.

‘Is that all, Nicholas?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Sad tidings, indeed.’

‘We have been wiped completely from the stage.’

‘And you believe this man started the fire?’

‘It is only a conjecture,’ admitted Nicholas.

‘Then it could just as easily have been arson.’

‘Oh, no, my lord.’

‘But we have jealous rivals,’ Lord Westfield reminded him. ‘They have often tried to bring us down before. Someone employed by Banbury’s Men could have burnt us out of our home.’

‘There is no suggestion of that.’

‘But it is a possibility.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they would not have lit the fire in that part of the inn,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Had someone wanted to inflict real damage on us, they would have started the blaze on the other side of the building so that the rooms where we keep our wardrobe, our scenery and our properties would have been destroyed. Without all that, we would be unable to stage a play anywhere.’

‘A fair point,’ conceded the other.

‘The seat of the fire was in Will Dunmow’s bedchamber. That much is certain. It was started by accident.’

‘Accident or design, Banbury’s Men will applaud the result.’

‘There is nothing we can do to stop them,’ said Nicholas. ‘They and our other rivals will gloat over our misfortune. That is why I came to you, Lord Westfield.’

‘Go on.’

‘We are hoping that you may lighten our burden.’

‘In what way?’

‘It may be possible for us to play at the Rose on rare occasions but that will hardly keep our name before the public. You have many friends, my lord. In the past, you have been kind enough to commend us to them and we have been invited to play in their homes.’

‘True.’

‘May we prevail upon you to do so again, please?’

Lord Westfield gazed down at the miniature again and went off into a trance. Nicholas tried to catch his attention by clearing his throat noisily but the other man did not even hear him. He was far too preoccupied. The book holder grew steadily more annoyed. He had just brought terrible news about Westfield’s Men yet all that their patron could do was to ignore him. At length, Lord Westfield did raise his eyes, blinking when he realised that he had company.

‘Did you want something, Nicholas?’ he said.

‘Yes, my lord. I begged a favour of you.’

‘Ah, yes. You wanted to be recommended to my friends.’

‘We would be most obliged,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘Actors like Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill will always be in demand for private performances, and Owen Elias can sing sweetly enough to make a living at it. But for most of the company, that fire is the road to penury and suffering. If you could find us work from those in your circle, you would lessen that suffering. May we count on you to do that, my lord?’

‘No,’ said the other flatly.

Nicholas was taken aback. ‘No?’

‘I would not even consider it, Nicholas.’

‘As you wish, my lord — though I find your decision surprising.’

‘It was made for me,’ said Lord Westfield, getting up from his chair and coming across to him. He held out the miniature. ‘Look at this, please.’ Nicholas hesitated. ‘Go on — take it.’

The book holder did as he was told. He studied the portrait and wondered why it held such fascination for the other. Lord Westfield watched him carefully.

‘Well?’ he prompted.

‘It is well painted, my lord. The limner knows his trade.’

‘Forget the artist. Consider only his subject.’

‘The lady is very beautiful,’ observed Nicholas.

‘Is that all you have to say about her?’

‘What else is there to say except that she is young, well-favoured and of high birth? She has great poise and charm, my lord. Who the lady is, I do not know, but I think that she might well hail from a Scandinavian court.’

Lord Westfield was pleased. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘This is not an English face,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I’ll wager that you will not find any of the ladies at court with their hair worn like this. The limner has painted a foreigner.’

‘You are very perceptive.’

‘I do have an advantage, my lord.’

‘Advantage?’

‘Yes,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘There have been occasions when I’ve worshipped at the Dutch Church in Broad Street. It does not only serve the needs of those from the Low Countries. Other nations are also represented — Germans, Swedes, Norwegians — and you learn to pick out the differences between them.’

‘And what does this tell you?’ said the other, taking the portrait back so that he could feast his eyes on it once more. ‘This dear lady is the reason that I will not let my company spend their talents in the draughty halls of my friends. Where does she come from, Nicholas?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Answer the question — it’s important to me.’

‘Then I return to my first guess,’ said Nicholas, still mystified. ‘What you hold in your hand is a Scandinavian aristocrat. If you force me to name a country, I will do so.’

‘Then name it.’

‘Denmark.’

Lord Westfield shook with laughter. Slapping his visitor on the back by way of congratulation, he thrust the portrait in front of Nicholas’s gaze once more.

‘You have hit the mark,’ he said jubilantly. ‘This is no English beauty. She transcends anything that we could produce here. You are looking at a veritable saint. Her name is Sigbrit Olsen — a princess of Denmark!’