The Princess of Denmark

Chapter Four

Margery Firethorn was a gregarious woman who loved to have people around her. Her house in Shoreditch was not merely home to her husband and children, it also contained two servants and the four boy apprentices who belonged to Westfield’s Men. In addition, it was the regular meeting place for certain members of the company so visitors were coming and going all the time. Margery greeted them all with maternal warmth and made sure that refreshment was always on hand. That morning, however, her pleasure at seeing her friends was tempered by the thought that she might not lay eyes on them again for a long time. When the troupe sailed off to Denmark, five people who slept under her roof would disappear along with all of her most cherished callers. The house in Old Street would seem very empty.

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive and she always reserved her most cordial welcome for the book holder. When she embraced him this time, however, there was sadness in her face and a hint of desperation in the way that she clung to him. He understood why. Margery stepped back to appraise him.

‘I shall miss you, Nick,’ she said.

‘Not as much as I’ll miss you,’ he said gallantly. ‘There’s nobody in the whole of Denmark who will look after us as well as you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The pity of it is that we cannot take you with us.’

‘The same must be true of Anne, surely?’

‘No, Margery — she will be joining us.’

‘Oh?’

‘Anne is going to Amsterdam to visit relatives and friends of her late husband. She’ll sail with us part of the way.’

‘Well perhaps I could do so as well!’

‘We’d be honoured to have you.’

She kissed him on the lips, gave him an impulsive squeeze then took him into the parlour, where Lawrence Firethorn was poring over a manuscript. He looked up.

‘Nick, dear heart,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘As ever, you are the first here even though you have to travel further than anyone.’

‘I enjoy a long walk,’ said Nicholas.

‘It must have taken you past the Queen’s Head.’

‘It did. The place looks forlorn. By now, I fancy the landlord will have pulled out the last remaining tufts of hair in vexation. It will be months before the inn returns to anything like its former glory.’

‘It can only do that when Westfield’s Men play there again,’ said Margery loyally. ‘The sooner that happens, the better.’ The doorbell clanged. ‘That will be Edmund.’

She left the room and let the newcomer in, enfolding him in her arms for a moment before ushering him into the parlour. Margery then vanished into the kitchen. After an exchange of greetings, the three men sat down. Firethorn picked up the manuscript on the table.

‘I’ve been reading your latest play again, Edmund,’ he said. ‘I know that it did not find favour with the Master of the Revels but it might have a kinder reception in Denmark.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Hoode. ‘Sir Thomas More will be a poor play if I take out all the lines that offended the censor. He hacked it to pieces.’

‘His writ does not run in Elsinore.’

Hoode sat up. ‘We perform the piece exactly as it is written?’

‘That’s my suggestion,’ said Firethorn, leafing through the pages. ‘Sir Thomas is a part I yearn to play. He towers over the drama like a Colossus and his execution will move the hardest of hearts. Sir Thomas More would grace any stage.’

‘Thank you, Lawrence,’ he said, touched. ‘I have never had a play savaged by the Master of the Revels before and I was deeply wounded. To have it performed in Denmark would be a balm to my injuries.’ He turned to the book holder. ‘What’s your opinion, Nick?’

‘I think it’s a fine play,’ said Nicholas. ‘One of your best.’

‘It’s settled then,’ declared Firethorn, tossing the manuscript onto the table. ‘That’s one problem solved.’

‘I disagree, Lawrence.’

‘I thought you liked the play.’

‘I admire it greatly,’ said Nicholas, ‘but it is hardly a suitable choice for a wedding. Lord Westfield will expect laughter and gaiety. We cannot celebrate the occasion with a tragedy.’

Hoode nodded. ‘Nick makes a telling point.’

‘Then we play Sir Thomas More elsewhere,’ said Firethorn, determined not to be deprived of the chance to create a superb new role. ‘They’ll have a comedy for the wedding and a tragedy at some other venue in Denmark.’

‘I’m sorry to challenge you again, Lawrence,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I have to question the wisdom of that decision.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the name of Sir Thomas will mean little to a Danish audience. He may live fresh in our memory but they have their own heroes and men of integrity. But there is an even stronger argument against the play,’ Nicholas went on. ‘It was rejected in its present form and there was a good reason for that.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn with a scowl. ‘Sir Edmund Tilney does not appreciate the talent of Edmund Hoode. Our celebrated Master of the Revels sliced the play wide open.’

‘Only because he thought it politic to do so. And you malign him unjustly. He’s an admirer of Edmund’s work and has never turned one of his plays away before. What alarmed him was the coincidence.’

‘What coincidence, Nick?’

‘I can tell you that,’ interjected Hoode. ‘At the time when Sir Thomas was under-sheriff of London, there was great unrest over the number of foreigners in the capital. It’s dealt with in three separate scenes. Unhappily,’ he said with a grimace, ‘the same hatred of strangers had been whipped into a frenzy again.’

‘Look what happened to Anne and Preben yesterday,’ resumed Nicholas. ‘They learnt just how much resentment is felt against foreigners. Without intending to do so, certain scenes in Edmund’s play might excite that resentment even more.’

‘Perish the thought!’ said Hoode.

‘Such objections could not be raised in Denmark,’ argued Firethorn. ‘We would hardly arouse enmity against strangers there.’

‘No,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but we would show England in a very poor light. Remember this — whenever we perform, our patron and his bride will be in the audience. No play will endear itself to the new Lady Westfield if it portrays this city as a cauldron of hatred and intolerance.’

‘Sir Thomas More is a history play.’

‘History has a nasty habit of repeating itself, Lawrence, as in the case of our present troubles. Denmark will not be unaware of those. Among the strangers here,’ Nicholas pointed out, ‘we have Danes as well. Their letters home are bound to talk of the outrages against foreigners.’

‘Nick has persuaded me,’ said Hoode. ‘My play is withdrawn.’

Firethorn raised a palm. ‘Not so fast, Edmund. I’ll not yield up a wonderful role so easily. To make it more acceptable,’ he said, ‘all that we have to do is to remove the scenes that deal with strangers.’

‘In other words, we ape what Sir Edmund Tilney did.’

‘He tore the play apart. We will merely amend it.’

‘It amounts to the same thing. If the play is not performed in its entirety, then it will not take to the stage at all. No more argument,’ said Hoode as Firethorn tried to speak. ‘I’ll not be party to anything that might cause embarrassment to Lord Westfield and his bride.’ The doorbell was rung hard. ‘That will be Barnaby. I’m glad that we discussed Sir Thomas More before he arrived. He disliked the play.’

‘Only because he had such a minor role,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘the only scenes he bothered to read were those in which the clown appeared. It was ever thus. He judges the quality of a play by the number of lines he has and the number of comic jigs he’s allowed to dance.’

Moments later, Margery showed the latest arrival into the room before disappearing again. There was a flurry of greetings then Gill took a seat. He distributed a warning glance among the others.

‘I hope that you’ve not been rash enough to make any decisions without me,’ he said, ‘because I shall countermand them all.’

‘Three votes will always count against your one,’ said Firethorn.

‘I only see two sharers in the room.’

‘Nick’s opinion has more weight than anyone else’s.’

‘Even when he is nothing more than a hired man?’

‘Stop harping on that, Barnaby,’ said Hoode wearily. ‘Nick has already stopped us from taking one unsuitable offering to Denmark and he’ll do so again. Nobody knows our stock of plays better than he, and what costumes, scenery and properties are needed for each one. Since we can only carry a limited amount of baggage, such details need to be taken into account.’ Margery entered with a bottle of wine and four glasses on a tray. ‘We’ll put it to the test.’

‘You come on cue, my love,’ said Firethorn, massaging her buttock as she put the tray on the table. ‘Of the four of us, who is the best judge of a play?’

‘Nick Bracewell,’ she replied promptly.

‘And the finest actor?’

‘Do not fish for compliments, Lawrence,’ she said, pouring the wine out and handing the glasses around. ‘When you are in the same company, you do not compete. You act with each other.’

Hoode smiled his approval. ‘Well-said, Margery.’

‘Every team needs a leader,’ Firethorn commented.

‘He leads best who does not have to impose his will upon others,’ she said, handing a drink to her husband before moving away. ‘Bear that in mind, Lawrence.’

‘Heed your wife,’ Gill advised. ‘Margery spies your weakness.’

‘She spied yours at a glance,’ riposted Firethorn.

‘I did not come here to be abused.’

‘Then refrain from inviting it.’

‘I’m here to make important decisions.’

‘And so is Nick — let that be understood.’

‘It’s not only the choice of plays that must exercise us,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is the far trickier problem of selecting those who act in them. Lord Westfield has kindly volunteered to pay for our passage to Denmark but his bounty ends there. To defray expenses, we must travel with a smaller company and that will mean shedding several of our hired men.’

‘We must take musicians,’ insisted Firethorn. ‘They will expect songs and dances from us.’

Gill preened himself. ‘And especially from me,’ he boasted.

‘There’s not room for everyone,’ said Hoode solemnly.

‘Alas, no,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘Instead of musicians, we must have actors who can play an instrument. Their other skills should also be taken into account before we come to a decision.’

‘Other skills?’ said Firethorn.

‘Oswald Megson once worked as a carpenter. He will be sorely needed to make new scenery or repair anything that gets damaged. Harold Stoddard was apprenticed to a tailor. He must be both actor and tireman. As for David Knell-’

‘Oh, no!’ protested Gill. ‘I draw the line at him — anyone but David Knell. His face is so mournful that it makes me feel unwell. When he smiles, it is like a grave opening up. Forget him, Nicholas. Whoever else comes with us, we do not take Death Knell.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, disheartened at the prospect before him, ‘we simply sound it for those we have to set aside. Very well — let us be fair but firm. As well as the sharers, who else comes to Denmark?’

‘How do things stand, my lord?’ asked Rolfe Harling.

‘Preparations are almost complete.’

‘In so short a time?’

‘There’s no point in delay,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘Once I made the decision to take my company with me, it was simply a case of leaving the arrangements to Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘And who might he be?’

‘An estimable fellow in every way. Though he is only the book holder with Westfield’s Men, he virtually carries them on his broad shoulders. He is our talisman. What he has done in the course of one week is extraordinary.’

‘A remarkable man, clearly,’ said Harling.

‘And he has one outstanding quality.’

‘What is that?’

‘He is a born sailor,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘and we need someone like him to comfort us on the voyage. Nicholas is the son of a Devon merchant. He went to sea with his father many times.’

‘Only across the English Channel, I daresay. I can tell you from experience that the North Sea is far more perilous.’

‘Do not talk of peril to Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Why not?’

‘In younger days, he sailed around the word with Drake. He survived storms and tempests, the like of which we can only imagine. The North Sea holds no fears for such a man.’

‘I look forward to meeting him, my lord.’

‘I reserve my anticipation for my dearest Sigbrit.’

Although he knew every detail of her countenance from incessant study of the miniature, Lord Westfield took it from his pocket yet again and looked in wonderment at her. They were dining together in his favourite tavern and he was anxious for events to move as swiftly as they could.

‘You’ve written to her uncle?’

‘My letter will have arrived by now.’

Lord Westfield was worried. ‘We may have set sail before his reply comes. Oh!’ he cried, slapping his leg with a petulant hand, ‘is there anything more vexing than the tyranny of distance?’

‘Have no fears,’ Harling told him.

‘But I need to know that I am expected and wanted.’

‘You are, my lord, I assure you.’

‘Supposing that she has changed her mind? Or fallen ill and is unable to go through with the marriage? Supposing that I do not please her enough?’

‘You are all that she could wish for,’ said Harling, sampling the Madeira wine in his glass. ‘Her uncle and I took every aspect of the marriage into account. We do not leave for another ten days. There is no chance that his reply will fail to reach me.’

‘What if the ship should miscarry before it reached our shore?’

‘Even then, we would have no reason for alarm.’

‘I need to see her acceptance in the form of a letter.’

‘And so you shall, my lord — when we reach Flushing.’

‘Flushing?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ explained Harling. ‘Our vessel first calls there. I took the precaution of having any letters for you from Denmark sent to the governor’s home in Flushing. They will not even have travelled by sea but been carried overland by couriers.’

‘What a clever fellow you are, Rolfe!’

‘I did not want any correspondence to go astray. All that we have to do is to call on Sir Robert Sidney and retrieve any letters.’

‘You have put my mind at rest.’ After glancing at the portrait once more, he slipped it back into his pocket. ‘All things proceed to a successful outcome.’

‘I think you will find that every detail has been considered.’

‘And we will be housed in the castle?’

‘Kronborg Slot awaits you.’

Lord Westfield blinked. ‘Where?’

‘It’s what they call the castle in Elsinore.’

‘I could want a more mellifluous name for a place where I will marry the most beautiful creature in the world. However, if it contents Sigbrit, I’ll raise no complaints. Will the king be in residence?’

‘He’ll be sure to attend the ceremony,’ said Harling, ‘and he will certainly not miss any performances given by your troupe. English players have visited Demark before with distinction.’

‘Lawrence Firethorn will outshine all of them.’

‘Even he will take second place to Sigbrit Olsen.’

‘I’ll be fast married to her before I let him near her,’ said Lord Westfield with a grin. ‘Lawrence has an eye for the ladies. When absent from his wife, he has been known to seek pleasure elsewhere. But not from my Sigbrit — she is one woman he will never ensnare.’

‘How many performances will your company give?’

‘As many as they can.’

‘They will be in demand at Kronborg Slot and in the town of Elsinore itself, I daresay. And if King Christian admires them — as he is certain to do — he may well invite them to play in Copenhagen.’

‘What do you know of this new king?’

Harling pondered. ‘He is well-educated, ambitious and far-sighted,’ he said at length. ‘His mother was Sophie of Mecklenburg so he speaks perfect German. His father, King Frederick II, was a man of strong convictions and had an interest in the arts. His son shares that interest. Until his coronation earlier this year, the country was under a regent. King Christian IV has succeeded to the throne with the fire of youth in his veins.’

‘You seem unduly well-informed, Rolfe.’

‘I have travelled widely in Europe. One picks up all the gossip.’

‘This is more than gossip.’

‘When I was in Copenhagen,’ explained Harling, ‘I found out all I could. You must remember that I am a scholar at heart. I’ve been trained to gather all the evidence before reaching a judgement.’

‘I have been the beneficiary of your thoroughness.’

‘You paid me well.’

‘No man can set a price on happiness.’

‘I like to render good service.’

‘And so you did,’ said Lord Westfield, raising his glass. ‘I toast my future wife — the divine Sigbrit Olsen!’

‘Sigbrit Olsen,’ echoed Harling as they clinked glasses.

‘She will be so thrilled with my wedding present.’

‘Which one, my lord?’

‘My theatre company, of course,’ said the other.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘What other bridegroom could turn up at the altar with the finest troupe in Europe at his side? And there’ll be another surprise for her, Rolfe.’

‘Will there?’

‘Westfield’s Men are to perform a play in her honour.’

‘What is it called?’

‘What else, man? The Princess of Denmark.’

‘But there is no such play in our stock,’ said Owen Elias, ‘and even someone with as fluent a pen as Edmund’s could not write one in the short time before we leave.’

‘Nevertheless, we will perform The Princess of Denmark.’

‘How can we, Nick, when she does not even exist?’

‘But she does,’ said Nicholas, ‘hidden beneath another name.’

‘Well, I do not know what it is.’

‘Think hard, Owen.’

The two of them were in Elias’s lodging and the Welshman was eager for any information relating to their imminent trip abroad. As a sharer and as one of the company’s most versatile actors, he was among the first to be listed among those making the voyage. Others had been less fortunate and it had fallen to Nicholas Bracewell to pass on the bad tidings to many of the hired men who served the troupe. It had been an ordeal for him. Bitter tears had been shed and heartbreaking entreaties made but he had no authority to alter the decisions that had been made. Having at last finished his thankless task, he had called in on his friend.

‘Do you remember our visit to Prague?’ asked Nicholas.

Elias was rueful. ‘I am hardly likely to forget it,’ he said, ‘and neither is Anne. She was abducted in the city.’

‘What was the title of the play we performed at the wedding?’

‘The Fair Maid of Bohemia.’

‘No, Owen.’

‘It was — I swear it.’

‘What the audience thought they saw was a play of that name,’ said Nicholas. ‘In fact, what they were watching was The Chaste Maid of Wapping, an old comedy new-minted by Edmund to give it the sheen of novelty. He will use the same trick again.’

‘Turn a chaste maid into a princess?’

‘Find a play from the past that will fit an event in the future. With my help, Edmund has done so. We chose The Prince of Aragon.’

‘But that is a dark tragedy.’

‘Not in its new incarnation,’ said Nicholas. ‘The prince becomes a princess, Aragon is translated into Denmark and the death of the hero is changed into the wedding of the heroine. All demands are satisfied. Lord Westfield and his bride will think the piece was conceived with them in mind.’

‘You are a magician, Nick!’

‘I merely provided the play. Edmund will fashion it anew.’

‘Oh, I am so looking forward to this adventure!’ said Elias.

‘I, too,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we have unfinished business first.’

‘Do we?’

‘I still worry that we’ve heard no more about Will Dunmow.’

‘There’s nothing else to hear. I told you about that man with whom Will was staying.’

‘Yes — Anthony Rooker.’

‘When the body was released by the coroner, he was going to have it transported back home for burial. He must have done that by now. A letter was sent to York in advance.’

‘That’s what perplexes me, Owen.’

‘Why?’

‘Put yourself in the father’s position,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Your son sets out for London on business. The next thing you hear is that he’s been killed in a fire. What would you do?’

‘Mourn his death.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Await the return of his body.’

‘Then we would make very different fathers.’

‘What do you mean.’

‘If a son of mine died in those circumstances, I’d be in the saddle the moment I heard about it. I’d come to London to find out every last detail of the tragedy. Nobody else would be allowed to send Will’s body north. I’d ride with it myself.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias, thinking it through, ‘I suppose that I would as well. I’d seek out those who last saw Will alive.’

‘Owen Elias and James Ingram.’

Elias shuddered. ‘We have that grim distinction.’

‘Has the father been anywhere near either of you?’

‘No, Nick. As far as I know, he is still in York.’

‘I find that odd.’

‘So do I. On the other hand,’ said Elias, ‘Will did tell us how glad he was to get away from him. There was no love lost between them. Will was bent on living life to the full while he was in London because he was not allowed to do that in York. His father was a martinet — Anthony Rooker confirmed that.’

‘I wish that I’d met him myself.’

‘He was not the most pleasant of men, Nick.’

‘That’s irrelevant,’ said Nicholas. ‘I still feel that this whole business is not yet over somehow. We were involved — you, especially. As a man, we liked Will Dunmow.’

‘He was a true friend.’

‘I would like to know what happened to him. When was the body dispatched and what sort of funeral will it have? What manner of man is the father? Why has he not been in touch with you?’

‘I think that he probably despises me, Nick.’

‘Why?’

‘I helped to get his son into that state,’ admitted Elias. ‘James and I carried him to his bed that night. I snuffed out the candle but I forgot that he had a pipe with him.’

‘We are not even sure that that is what started the fire.’

‘I’m sure, Nick — and I still feel culpable.’

‘No blame attaches to you or to James. You could not foresee what might happen. However,’ Nicholas continued, ‘let’s leave Will Dunmow and turn to the other unfinished business.’

‘And what is that?’

Nicholas leant in closer to him. ‘I need to ask a favour of you.’

The Dutch Churchyard lay wrapped in the thick blanket of night. Dutch, German and other languages were etched on the gravestones but they were unreadable in the darkness. All that could be seen were the blurred outlines of monument and tombstone. An owl perched on a stone cross. Moles were busy underneath the soft earth. Rats came sniffing through the grass. Locked against intruders, the church itself loomed over the dead that were buried in its massive shadow. A homeless beggar slept on the cold stone in its porch.

The old watchmen approached on their nightly patrol. When they got close to the churchyard, their lanterns threw a flickering light on an ancient cart abandoned near the entrance. All that they could see in it was a large pile of sacks and a broken wheelbarrow. They moved on to the churchyard to conduct their usual search and disturbed the owl. Leaving its perch, it flew high up into a tree before settling on a branch and keeping them under wide-eyed surveillance. As they meandered between the gravestones, they looked for signs of desecration. They found none. They sauntered back towards the gate.

‘Look at the wall, Tom,’ said one.

‘Aye,’ replied his companion.

‘That’s where they publish their damnable lies.’

‘Except that they’re not all lies.’

‘What’s that you say?’

His friend did not reply. They left the churchyard and examined the wall that ran alongside it. Nothing had been left there. The first man repeated his question.

‘What’s that you say?’

‘There are too many of them, Silas,’ grunted the other.

‘Too many?’

‘Strangers — they are everywhere. I heard tell that they counted their numbers. Do you know how many we have in London?’

‘No, Tom. Hundreds, I expect.’

‘Over four thousand.’

‘Never!’

‘That’s the figure I heard and I believe it. They are never satisfied, Silas, that’s their trouble. They always want more.’

‘The foreigners I know all work very hard.’

‘Yes,’ said Tom grumpily, ‘but they do not work for us. They sneer at what we have in our shops and warehouses. They open their own instead. It’s not right. It’s not fair.’

‘That’s not for us to say.’

‘Strangers are strangers. They’ll never belong.’

‘Anyone would think that you wrote those libels, Tom Hubble.’

‘Not me, Silas. I despise most of what they say.’ He spat onto the ground. ‘But I do agree with bits of them.’

‘Shame on you!’

‘England must look first to the English.’

‘Let’s move on.’

‘Over four thousand of them, Silas — and the numbers grow.’

‘They are exiles, Tom,’ said the other with compassion, ‘driven out of their own countries.’

Tom Hubble sniffed. ‘There are too many of them.’

They trudged off down Broad Street until their lanterns were slowly extinguished in the gloom. There was a long pause. Someone then emerged warily from a doorway on the opposite side of the road and trotted across to the churchyard. Confident that he was alone, he unfurled a poster and started to fix it to the wall. He was soon interrupted. A figure suddenly rose up in the back of the abandoned cart and shook off the sacking under which he had been concealed. The man at the wall was so terrified that he dropped his scroll and ran for his life. He did not get far.

Nicholas Bracewell darted into the street from his hiding place and grabbed him by the shoulders, hurling him against a wall to knock some of the breath out of him. But the man was young and strong. Recovering quickly, he pulled out a dagger and slashed at Nicholas. The book holder eluded the weapon with ease. He had been involved in many brawls and knew how to stay light on his feet. When his assailant thrust the dagger at his heart, therefore, Nicholas turned quickly sideways and grabbed the man’s wrist as it flashed past him. There was a brief tussle but Nicholas’s superior strength soon brought the fight to an end. Forcing this adversary to drop the knife, he flung him against the wall again then struck him with a relay of punches that left him cowering on his knees against the brick. Whimpering piteously, the man begged for mercy.

Owen Elias had been hidden in the cart. When he joined his friend, he was not happy about his accommodation.

‘I swear that those sacks were filled with horse manure at some point,’ he said, curling his nose. ‘I must stink to high heaven.’

‘Your efforts were rewarded, Owen. We caught him.’ Nicholas hauled the young man to his feet and held him by the throat. ‘This is one piece of business that is now finished.’