Inferno

Chapter 42

The Sound, entrance to the Baltic

After the grey bluster of the North Sea, the calm and glitter of the Kattegat was a welcome change. The ship loosed more sail for the quick run south between Sweden to the left and Denmark to the right, heading for where the entrance to the Baltic became the strategic narrows known as the Sound.

For centuries Denmark had levied toll on the flood of shipping that passed through the sea highway to Estonia, Prussia, Stockholm, the medieval Hanseatic states, St Petersburg and the realms of the Tsar of All the Russias.

At the most confined passage a great fortress ringed with guns dominated the waters – Kronborg, massive and brooding.

Scores of ships were undertaking the transit but all made due obeisance, their barque being no exception, striking topsails in salute and anchoring while the formalities of the Sound toll were set in train.

‘This, my dear, is your Denmark,’ Renzi said, as the sights spread out before him.

On his arm, Cecilia looked up at him tenderly. ‘Darling, the very first time we’ve been together on – on an adventure!’ she breathed.

Wide-eyed, Hetty stood respectfully at a distance and tried to take it all in. ‘I’ve never ventured out of England,’ she cried. ‘I’m so excited.’

The master came up and removed his hat. ‘M’ lord, I’m to step ashore and pay m’ dues.’

‘So this is …?’

‘Helsingor, so please you, m’ lord.’ He added that they were still some twenty-five miles from Copenhagen.

Renzi touched Cecilia’s hand. ‘Do look across and see what you will, my dear.’

She shaded her eyes. ‘Why, it’s a little town, just tucked behind the point and in front there’s a remarkable big square building with spires …’

‘Indeed. You’re now looking into Elsinore – Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Prince of Denmark comes to mind. And your edifice is none other than the mighty castle and grim battlements of Kronborg, where it all took place.’

‘Oh, Nicholas – it’s only just there across the water, so near. Can we not visit?’

Renzi allowed that it would be of value to observe these iconic fortifications at the first hand.

He turned to the master, ‘Sir, it would oblige me should we stretch our legs on the land for a short time. Would this be at all possible?’

‘Why, yes. We’ll be here some hours, I wouldn’t wonder.’

On the way in, Renzi was told something of the lore of the Sound: if any ship passed an imaginary line connecting the Trumpeter’s Tower with the King’s Tower they would be brought to with a blank warning shot. If this was ignored a live ball would follow and the guardship, a frigate, would be sent to detain the offender. Naturally the cost of powder and ball would be added to the subsequent Sound due exacted.

The toll proceedings was a convenient time for masters in the Baltic trade to meet in the old Skibsklarerergarden while awaiting assessment, there to exchange gossip of commercial possibilities. With an obliging ship’s chandler acting as clearing agent, and an opportunity to store local fresh produce and water piped down from the lake, it was a congenial waypoint.

The town of Elsinore – or was it to be Helsingor? – was no sleepy medieval relic but a working town, devoted to the servicing of the endless stream of shipping in transit of the Sound. Busy shipbuilding and repair slips lay about the small harbour, and the many chandlers and shipping offices lined neat streets.

And overtopping all – Kronborg.

They took a shay and, at the towering gate, found that it was by no means unknown for English visitors to come to gaze upon Hamlet’s castle. An English-speaking guide could be had for a small sum, and a delighted Mr and Mrs Laughton were greeted at the Dark Gate Ravelin entrance through the towering Crownwork ramparts, and led into Kronborg.

The louring towers and casemates, frowning apartments and lofty trumpeter’s spire had an air that was at once menacing and deeply mysterious. It was pointed out that Hamlet’s battlements were part of the original Castle Krogen belonging to Eric of Pomerania, now dwarfed and built over as Kronborg at the very time Shakespeare was penning his masterpiece.

Banqueting halls with fading tapestries, rooms of ancient armour and regalia all added to the atmosphere. Renzi and Cecilia admired a brooding statue of the legendary Holger Danske, lost to the mists of history but sleeping in the bowels of Kronborg, ready in time of peril to rise up to save Denmark from her evil assailants.

That brought Renzi up short, a reminder of why he was there, and cut through the warm cocoon of his romantic tryst with Cecilia.

Damn it all! There had to be a resolution to the insanity before the gathering storm broke over this calm and ordered land. He’d do all that was possible to spare its inhabitants.