The Princess of Denmark

Chapter Nine

Their feelings of disappointment were soon allayed. Before they had even finished complaining about their accommodation in the cellars beneath the castle, Westfield’s Men were taken up to a hut in the forecourt that was used by the officers. Seated at a long table, they were served with a hearty meal that started with hot fish soup and warm bread. Plentiful supplies of beer were on hand and they discovered that the renown of Danish breweries was well earned. The beer was markedly stronger than anything they had tasted in England and, since it was free, they consumed it with additional relish.

Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode joined them for the meal and a sense of camaraderie returned. Still battered by their encounter with the pirates, they began to feel, for the first time, that they were recovering. Their injuries no longer smarted quite so much and their bruises had faded. More beer was served, toasts were drunk and singing started. Before the actors lapsed into a stupor, Firethorn decided to tell them what he had learnt.

‘We come somewhat before our time, lads,’ he announced in a voice that compelled attention, ‘and we caught them short of preparation. I am assured that things will soon improve.’

‘They’ve done so already,’ said Elias, quaffing his beer.

‘You merit better lodging than a dark cavern.’

‘Then surrender your room to me, Lawrence.’

‘Have you met the king yet?’ asked James Ingram.

‘King Christian is not yet in residence but he will arrive here in time for the wedding.’

‘When will that be, Lawrence?’

‘At the end of the week.’

‘So soon?’

‘Lord Westfield is a lusty bridegroom. He abhors delay.’

‘Where will we perform?’ asked Hoode. ‘In the courtyard?’

‘Too cold.’

‘In the hall?’ said Gill.

‘I perform best in the bedchamber,’ boasted Elias.

‘But no spectators would pay to watch you,’ Firethorn told him over a burst of raucous laughter. ‘They’ve left the choice to us so I’ll take Nick’s advice. The hall is used as a meeting place for the Councillors and may not be large enough for our purposes. The other place suggested was the ballroom.’

‘Ballroom?’ echoed Gill. ‘They have a ballroom here?’

‘The finest in Europe, I hear, and certainly the longest. The late King Frederick built it for his wife because she was so fond of dancing.’

‘Then that must be our playhouse. Let a dancer decide.’

‘The Dowager Queen is not enamoured of comic jigs. Barnaby. She’ll want no village antics here. The pavane, the galliard and the volta are more to her taste.’

‘I can dance anything, Lawrence.’

‘He’s like a bear on a chain,’ joked Elias. ‘Give him a prod and Barnaby will dance to order. And as with a bear, beware his embrace.’

There was some good-natured baiting and, for once, Gill took it in good part. Like the others, he was relieved to be there after their testing voyage and was refreshed by the delicious meal. It was now possible to enjoy their adventure.

‘Above all else,’ continued Firethorn, rising to his feet with a drink in his hand, ‘remember this. We are not only here to support our esteemed patron. We have the signal honour of representing our country and displaying the talent that she has nurtured. Let us show these Danes why English actors are the best in the world.’ He raised his tankard. ‘To England!’

‘England!’ they chorused with ragged patriotism.

Nicholas Bracewell had slipped out earlier. Having eaten his dinner, he wanted to make sure that Anne Hendrik had also been fed and looked after. Since none of the guards on duty seemed to speak English, he had some difficulty tracking her down in the long, cold corridors. He eventually found her in a tiny room used by one of the servants. It was bare and featureless but it gave her a privacy that he and the others did not share. They began with a warm embrace.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

‘Extremely well,’ said Anne. ‘I had my dinner served in here.’

‘We’ve been well-fed and given as much beer as we can drink. That will mean tired actors with very sore heads.’

‘Does Lawrence mean to rehearse today?’

‘No, Anne. He wants to give the company time to get over the rigours of the voyage. Most of us are lodged in the casemates. They have all protested bitterly about it but I’ll wager that every man among them will sleep as soundly as a baby tonight.’

‘They need rest. Wounds take time to heal.’

‘There speaks a ship’s surgeon!’ They shared a laugh. ‘Forgive us. I’m sorry that we’ve brought you so far out of your way.’

‘I’m loving every moment of it, Nick. I’ll be made welcome in Amsterdam but I’ll certainly not stay in a splendid castle like this. Have you had time to explore it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘One of the servant girls showed me around,’ she said. ‘It took my breath away. The rooms are lined with gilt leather or hung with rich tapestries. Ceilings are finely ornamented. There are wonderful paintings everywhere and the views from the windows made me gape.’

‘Keep away from the casemates, Anne.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a different world down there,’ he said. ‘We sleep among beer barrels and stores of salted fish. It’s cold and airless. There are no windows and a strong chance that we’ll have rats. Kronborg is clearly a castle of two halves — you are in the better half.’

‘Then I’m taking up a bed that you deserve.’

‘I would only sleep in it if you were beside me.’ He kissed her and pulled her to him. ‘Do you realise? This is the first moment we have had alone since we left London.’

‘I hope that there are others before I leave.’

‘There will be, Anne. I promise.’ He released her. ‘We came here in a rattling cart,’ he went on with mock envy, ‘but you arrived in style with Lord Westfield. What happened?’

‘We were met by a man named Bror Langberg,’ she told him. ‘He appears to be in charge here.’

‘Rolfe Harling told us about him. He’s one of the king’s leading Councillors and the uncle of the lady whom our patron is to marry.’

‘He and Master Harling met like old friends, though they hardly have much in common. Bror Langberg is genial and good-humoured.’

‘Then he’s the opposite of Rolfe Harling.’

‘They spoke together in Danish.’

‘Is everything in hand for the wedding?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘For that’s what brought us all this way.’

‘I’d like to see the town before I go.’

‘I’ll make sure that you do, Anne. We do not perform here until the end of the week. Lawrence is already talking about staging a play in the town beforehand — more than one, perhaps. It’s needful.’

‘Why?’

‘We must have revenue,’ he said. ‘Lord Westfield has paid for our passage here and he will open his purse again when we sail home. Elsewhere, we must look to ourselves.’

‘You will be paid to perform at the wedding, surely?’

‘Handsomely, I expect, but we have many expenses. If we can play in Elsinore itself a couple of times, it will stand us in good stead before we visit other towns.’

‘Not too many of them, Nick,’ she warned playfully. ‘I want you back home with me.’

‘When will you sail for Amsterdam?’

‘After the wedding. The Cormorant leaves on Sunday.’

‘There are still more repairs to be made first and Captain Skrine will need to hire new men for his crew. He lost five in all when we were attacked. But for you,’ he added gratefully, ‘that number would have been even higher. The captain will be pleased to see you on board again.’

‘First, I offer my services to the company.’

‘You are one of us now.’

‘Lord Westfield insists that I stay for the wedding.’

‘Your skill with a needle may well be wanted,’ he said. ‘Our costumes are always in need of a stitch or two. And we must look our best for the performance of The Princess of Denmark.’

‘Your patron cannot wait to meet his bride in the flesh.’

‘We are all curious to see this lovely creature.’

Anne’s memory was jogged. ‘That’s why it was so odd.’

‘Odd?’

‘Yes, Nick — the look that the servant girl gave me.’

‘The one who showed you around?’

She nodded. ‘Having no English, she talked to me in German.’

‘You have a good grasp of the language.’

‘I did at one time but I’m woefully out of practice. However, I think that I made myself understood in the end.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That I’d heard how beautiful the lady was.’

‘We both saw her portrait, Anne.’

‘Lord Westfield must have shown it to everyone on board. He is so proud of her. The miniature of Sigbrit Olsen reveals her to be a gorgeous young woman.’

‘What was the girl’s reply?’

‘That was the odd thing,’ said Anne, still puzzled. ‘She didn’t make one. She just gave me this strange look as if she had no idea what I was talking about.’

The arrival of her sister had transformed Sigbrit Olsen. Her sadness vanished, her face lit up and her confidence came flooding back. Hansi Askgaard was only two years older but she had a poise and wisdom beyond her age. She lived in Copenhagen with her husband, a close adviser to the new king, and entertained lavishly. While her younger sister tried to avoid it, Hansi savoured public attention and she dressed accordingly. None of Sigbrit’s muted colours would suit her. She preferred bright apparel and wore it with sublime assurance.

‘Enjoy yourself, Sigbrit,’ she urged. ‘That is all you have to do. Enjoy the whole occasion.’

‘I will try.’

‘You have something to celebrate. You will be a wife again.’

‘Yes,’ said Sigbrit, ‘and that appeals to me. But I worry that I am being disloyal to Ingmar in marrying again.’

‘Pah! The only way to get over the death of one husband is to take another. No disloyalty is involved. Ingmar will never be forgotten,’ said Hansi, ‘and he will always remain special to you. But it’s time to come out of mourning and seize this wonderful opportunity.’

‘You make me feel so much better about it all, Hansi.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

Hansi kissed her sister on the cheek then noticed that one of the paintings on the wall was awry. She set it straight. They were in Sigbrit’s apartment and her sister appraised it critically. There was an air of neglect about the chamber as if its occupant had grown careless and jaded. Hansi clicked her tongue.

‘You’ve been here too long, Sigbrit. It’s not healthy.’

‘I walk around the ramparts every morning.’

‘What use is that apart from exciting the guards?’

‘It’s good exercise.’

‘It’s not your body that needs exercising, it’s your mind. As long as you remain here, you look inward. You mope. That’s why you must get away and why this proposal from Lord Westfield is a godsend.’

‘You thought that he was a trifle old.’

‘Too young a man would be wrong for you.’

‘That’s what Uncle Bror said. He believes that I need a more mature husband, one with some experience of the world.’

‘I agree with him.’

‘If only he did not live so far away.’

‘England is not on the other side of the world,’ said Hansi briskly. ‘We shall certainly visit you there and so will Uncle Bror.’

‘He and Aunt Johanna have vowed to come next spring.’

‘Then we may well sail with them. You’ll be mistress of your own house once more, Sigbrit, and you’ll entertain us royally.’

‘Thank you, Hansi. My spirits are lifted already.’

‘They should never have been allowed to droop.’

‘I do not have your certainty.’

‘I’ve always known what I wanted,’ said her sister with a brittle laugh, ‘but I look upon that as the right of every woman. At the moment, I know what I want for my sister and that is to see her happy and settled. This marriage will redeem you, Sigbrit.’

‘If my husband finds me acceptable.’

‘He has already accepted you.’

‘He has accepted what Uncle Bror has told him about me, and it’s inspired him to travel all the way here. But I’m bound to wonder why Lord Westfield has not chosen an English bride.’

Hansi pulled a face. ‘Have you seen Englishwomen?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then you should talk to our ambassadors. Whenever they come back from London, they complain about the appearance and the manners of the court ladies. Queen Elizabeth is over sixty,’ she said as if the attainment of such an age were indecent. ‘Her teeth are black and her face is painted white. What sort of an example is that to set?’

‘Lord Westfield’s other wives were English.’

‘Then he knows the deficiencies of the breed.’

Sigbrit laughed. ‘You make them sound like cattle.’

‘From what I hear, many of them are little better.’

‘I refuse to believe that.’

‘Then believe the evidence of your own eyes,’ suggested Hansi. ‘A member of the English nobility could have almost any woman he wanted in his own country, provided that she was available. Instead of that, he has chosen my sister. He loves you, Sigbrit.’

‘But he has never set eyes on me.’

‘He loves the idea of you and that is what is important. You are young, full of charm and you are Danish. To someone like Lord Westfield, you are eminently different. That is why he’ll adore you, Sigbrit, and that is why you must take him as a husband.’

‘Oh, Hansi!’ cried her sister, tears of joy streaming down her face. ‘Thank heaven you came! You’ve made me feel so happy.’

The Trumpeter’s Tower was the tallest in the castle. Situated in the middle of the south wing, it soared up into the sky like a cathedral spire. Climbing up the steep stairs to the top gallery of the turret took them some time but Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn were rewarded with the most spectacular views. In one direction they could see the town of Elsinore, in another, the coast of Sweden and, if they turned with their backs to the courtyard, they could gaze at the Baltic Sea as it broadened out in the distance.

Firethorn’s attention was fixed on the high-pitched castle roofs, glistening brightly in the late afternoon sun as if made of gold.

‘Look at that, Nick,’ he said in amazement. ‘Sheets of copper.’

‘They have severe winters here, Lawrence. Copper will keep out the snow and rain though it will cost far more than tiles, of course.’

‘Denmark must be awash with money.’

‘There’s the reason why,’ said Nicholas, pointing at the three ships sailing towards the harbour. ‘Each vessel has to pay Sound Dues before she is allowed through. That’s why this castle was built. It’s less of a royal residence than a sumptuous toll-house. It’s also a symbol of Danish power.’

‘So are all those cannon on the ramparts. It would be a bold enemy who dared to attack this place. It’s astounding, Nick. I thought it would be made of a dull, grey stone. It has so much colour.’

‘The red brick and sandstone dressings were chosen for that purpose. So were the other materials. But it’s the clever decoration that interests me most. Stonemasons have been busy everywhere.’ He let his gaze travel slowly around the courtyard. ‘No wonder Anne likes being here so much.’

‘It’s a far cry from her house in Bankside.’

‘She’s very fond of Dutch architecture,’ said Nicholas, ‘and this is the image of it in many ways. Anne says that it reminds her of a square she knows in Amsterdam. However,’ he went on, striking a businesslike note, ‘I did not bring you up here simply to admire the finer aspects of the castle.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, nudging him, ‘you wanted to see if I could manage the long climb after all that drink.’

‘This is where the trumpeters play. Their fanfares ring out across the castle for all to hear. I think we should use the tower for The Princess of Denmark. Martin Yeo can signal the start of the play.’

‘Dressed as a woman?’

‘He’ll need to be in costume for the performance.’

‘No trumpeter has ever worn a skirt up here before.’

‘Martin will be heard but not seen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Everyone will be sitting in the audience. And the beauty of it is that we are directly above the ballroom. When he has discharged his duty up here, Martin will be able to come down the spiral staircase into the ballroom and make his entrance as a lady-in-waiting.’

‘You have decided on the ballroom, then?’

‘I think so. Let me show you why.’

They descended the staircase. Feeling slightly giddy, Firethorn made sure that Nicholas went first so that the book holder could break his fall if he lost his footing. As it was, the actor managed to get down the steps with relative safety, although his shoulders bounced off the walls many times as he did so. They came into the ballroom and stood side by side to take its measure. It was vast. Well over sixty yards in length, it was more than a dozen yards wide and had a row of high windows running down one side of it.

‘You see how much natural light is admitted?’ said Nicholas with a gesture. ‘We’ll not have to use candles or torches in here.’

Firethorn studied the floor. ‘I love all this marble,’ he said. ‘It will be perfect for us to dance upon for we must have a galliard to end the play. What is a wedding without a lively dance at its conclusion?’

Above them was a beamed ceiling and along the wall was a continuous narrow frieze with a succession of battle scenes painted on it. Below those was a selection of finely woven tapestries and gilt-framed paintings. At one end of the ballroom was a decorated wooden screen with a gallery above it for the musicians. Nicholas led the way purposefully towards it.

‘They have designed the scenery for us,’ he pointed out. ‘We’ll make use of the gallery and build a low stage in front of the screen.’

‘I agree,’ said Firethorn, looking around. ‘This place answers all our demands. The hall would be more compact but less imposing. Besides, the ballroom has an attribute that no other room in the castle could possibly match.’

‘What’s that, Lawrence?’

‘It will carry my voice.’

He opened his mouth and emitted a long, loud, rising roar of anger that filled the entire ballroom like the report of a cannon. Firethorn chortled with satisfaction but the noise caused disturbance elsewhere. A door opened and Bror Langberg swept into the ballroom with Rolfe Harling at his heels. When they saw the two men there, they went over to them.

‘We wondered what that sound was,’ said Langberg.

Firethorn gave a bow. ‘I was just exercising my lungs.’

‘They must have heard you in the town,’ said Harling with frank disapproval, ‘if not in Copenhagen itself.’

‘I wanted to see how my voice sounded in here.’

‘Like a veritable siege gun, Master Firethorn,’ complimented Langberg, rubbing his hands together. ‘I acted when I was a student but I had none of your skills.’

‘Few people do,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ve yet to meet one of them,’ added Firethorn proudly before bringing Nicholas forward. ‘This, by the way, is our ever-reliable book holder, Nicholas Bracewell.’ He indicated the Dane. ‘Our host, Master Langberg.’

‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘And I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve been hearing about your exploits aboard the ship from Rolfe. Is it true that you put paid to some pirates?’

‘That was all my doing,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘Once I had been taught how to fire a cannon, I brought their mast down.’

‘It was frightful,’ recalled Harling.

‘We beat the curs!’

‘Then changed course and missed our visit to Flushing. That was most inconvenient for some of us, Master Firethorn. That rash decision has created a lot of problems.’

‘None that cannot be overcome,’ said Langberg quietly.

‘If you say so.’

‘I do, Rolfe. I do.’ His smile broadened. ‘While you are here, Master Firethorn, exercising those powerful lungs of yours, perhaps I might have a word with you?’

‘Of course,’ said the actor.

‘It concerns the town,’ said Langberg, taking him by the arm to lead him away. ‘As soon as I knew that we would be graced by your presence, I passed on the tidings. It is not only here that we long to see your company perform.’

They moved down the ballroom out of earshot, leaving Nicholas to initiate a conversation with Rolfe Harling. On the Cormorant, the latter had been patently ill at ease. In the castle, he was much more at home, clearly used to being in the company of statesmen.

‘You do not care for the playhouse, I fancy,’ said Nicholas.

‘I never have time to visit it.’

‘So you know nothing of our work at the Queen’s Head?’

‘Only by report,’ said Harling.

‘Good report or bad?’

‘It came from your patron.’

‘Ah,’ said Nicholas, ‘then you heard from our dearest friend.’

‘He loves the company this side of idolatry, and wears it around his neck like a chain of office.’

‘We pray that his new wife will look kindly on us as well.’

‘I’m sure that the lady will.’

‘Lord Westfield must have the highest opinion of you to entrust such an important mission to you,’ said Nicholas, studying him.

‘I believe that I’ve earned that high opinion.’

‘I do not doubt it. Have you done this work before?’

Harling stiffened. ‘That question borders on impertinence.’

‘Then I withdraw it at once. It’s simply that you seem so adroit as a matchmaker that I assumed you were well versed in the art.’

‘My life has been dedicated to rather more serious business than finding wives for eligible widowers,’ said Harling sharply. ‘I’ve written learned books and travelled around the universities of Europe. All that I have done in this instance is to assist a friend.’

‘For a fee?’

‘You are being impertinent again, Master Bracewell.’

‘Will you be staying for the wedding?’

‘That’s what brought me here and I’ll see it through to the end. Immediately afterwards, however, I’ll take the first ship to Flushing.’

‘The Cormorant sets sail on Sunday.’

‘I would never put myself into Captain Skrine’s hands again.’

‘He’s a fine seaman.’

‘Then why did he change course unnecessarily?’ said Harling.

‘He explained that.’

‘Not to my satisfaction.’

‘With respect, Master Harling, it was more important to get an entire company to Elsinore than to oblige the sole passenger who had business in Flushing.’

Harling glared at him. ‘You may regret that remark one day.’

Before Nicholas could reply, he saw Lord Westfield enter the ballroom, waddling along in his finery and waving a hand to them.

‘There you are, Rolfe!’ he said.

‘Did you want me, my lord?’

‘I thought you were going to play chess with me.’

‘I was,’ said Harling, ‘but, when I came to your room after dinner, I found you fast asleep. I thought it best to leave you.’

‘I dozed off for an hour,’ said the other, ‘that is all. I am ready to do battle now.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘Do not meet him over a chess board,’ he cautioned, ‘for it is impossible to win. Rolfe plays the game as if he invented it.’

‘Concentration is the secret,’ said Harling.

Nicholas smiled. ‘You have an unlimited supply of that.’

There was a momentary silence. It was broken by the sound of the door opening at the far end of the ballroom. For a second, a woman’s face appeared and they were rooted to the spot, struck by the sheer force of her beauty. Embarrassed to have stumbled upon them, the woman withdrew at once and left her memory hanging in the air. Lord Westfield had seen those sculptured features before. Snatching the portrait from his pocket, he compared it to the vision that had just appeared before him. He was ecstatic.

‘It was her,’ he cried. ‘That was my lovely bride.’

In defiance of all their fears, Westfield’s Men slept relatively well in the casement, the combination of fatigue and drunkenness making most of them oblivious to everything around them. The cold did not trouble them and the nocturnal banter of the soldiers in a nearby casemate did not wake them. It was their first night on dry land and they took full advantage of it. Heartened by a good breakfast on the following morning, they were further bolstered by the news that a request had come for them to perform in the town. Nicholas Bracewell was duly dispatched to call on the mayor, to show him their licence and to see where they could best stage a play. Owen Elias went with him for company and — since she had expressed an interest in Elsinore — he also took Anne Hendrik. Blown along by a stiff breeze, all three of them marched out of the castle.

With over nine thousand inhabitants, Elsinore was the second largest town in Denmark and also one of the prettiest. Neat stone-built houses with tiled roofs flanked every street and there was an abundance of shops. Elsinore had retained its simple basic pattern for centuries though it had now pushed out well beyond its original boundaries. Because foreign immigrants had settled there over the years, many languages could be heard. Yet there was no sign of any tension between the differing nationalities.

‘I see no libels against strangers here,’ said Elias.

‘That bodes well,’ said Anne. ‘The tavern we just passed was run by a Dutchman. And I’ve seen German and French names on signboards as well. They all seem to live happily cheek by jowl.’

‘If only that were true of London,’ Nicholas commented.

When he reached the town hall, he went inside to introduce himself and left his friends to explore the immediate vicinity. Nicholas spent a productive time with the mayor, a rotund, bearded, jovial man with a positive love of theatre. He could not have been more helpful and, though his English was halting and his conversation punctuated by a series of loud guffaws, he told Nicholas all that he needed to know, including, importantly, the amount of money they intended to pay Westfield’s Men. Taking him outside, the mayor showed him what he felt would be the ideal place to set up a stage.

By the time he left, Nicholas was in good spirits. He found the others in a nearby tavern that was called the White Hart. Its English landlord served Danish beer and Elias was sampling it while Anne tasted an imported German wine. Nicholas took a stool at their table.

‘Well?’ asked Elias.

‘We’ve been invited to give two performances, Owen.’

‘Before the wedding?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It will give you a chance to get yourselves in good voice before we play The Princess of Denmark.’

‘Where will you perform, Nick?’ said Anne.

‘In the main square.’

She was surprised. ‘In this weather?’

‘The square is well-protected from the wind. As long as it remains dry, we will have no difficulties. The Danes are a hardy people. To survive their winters, they have to be.’

‘So the landlord told us,’ said Elias. ‘During his first Christmas here, he almost froze to death.’

‘What brought him here in the first place?’

The same thing that brought all the foreigners here, Nick.’

‘The Sound Dues?’

‘Yes,’ replied the Welshmen. ‘Since they had to anchor here, all vessels needed the services of pilots, ferrymen, sail makers, rope makers, ships’ chandlers and so on. That’s how the population grew.’

‘As a payment was made,’ said Anne, taking up the story, ‘the name and nationality of every ship had to be recorded. When they came into the town to collect supplies, captains preferred to deal with someone who spoke their own language. According to the landlord, English sailors often come first to the White Hart.’

‘As it happens, our friend, Captain Skrine, was here yesterday, asking about carpenters and smiths he needed to work aboard the Cormorant.’

‘We must invite him to one of our performances,’ said Nicholas. ‘They asked for rustic comedies. I think he’d enjoy either of the plays we’ll stage in the square.’

Elias was practical. ‘What about money, Nick?’

‘We are to have a generous grant from the town council and we can make a modest charge for our spectators.’

‘Gatherers?’

‘The mayor has undertaken to provide those. They’ll collect the entrance fee and pay it directly to me afterwards.’

‘This gets better and better.’

‘Who will supply the seating?’ said Anne.

‘That, too, will be taken care of,’ said Nicholas. ‘The mayor and the town worthies will sit on benches at the front with everyone else standing behind them. Those who live in houses that overlook the square, of course, can watch from their upper windows. The mayor assured me that we can count on large audiences.’

‘What about your patron? Will he have a seat of honour?’

‘I think it unlikely that he’ll even be here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s seen both comedies before and because he will not leave the castle while his bride is there. Lord Westfield caught his first glimpse of her yesterday,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he is enraptured.’

It was evening before he had a formal meeting with Sigbrit Olsen and it was a moving experience for him. Having waited all day, he had drunk heavily to subdue his impatience and was decidedly light-headed when the precious moment actually came. Lord Westfield was conducted into the hall beside Bror Langberg and his wife, Johanna. Over thirty people had gathered there to be introduced to their distinguished visitor from England but he had eyes for only one person. When she emerged from the shadows in the candle-lit room and gave him a gentle curtsey, he let out a gasp of wonder. Could this angel really be his?

Sigbrit was dressed in the German fashion with a loose-bodied gown of black and gold fitted to the shoulders and falling in set folds from the waist to the floor. The front was open, exposing the gold-embroidered dress beneath. A small, closed frill was attached to the high collar of the bodice of the undergarment. Sigbrit’s fair hair was held in a network of gold thread, lined with silk. The apparel tended to conceal more than it showed but Lord Westfield did not mind. His future wife was standing only yards from him.

‘This is my niece,’ said Langberg, easing her forward.

‘Good evening, my lord,’ said Sigbrit demurely.

Lord Westfield gave a seraphic smile. ‘I’m enchanted.’

As he bent forward to place a kiss on her gloved hand, he felt a thrill course through him. Whether from the excitement of meeting her or from having consumed too much wine, he did not know but he was so unsteady on his feet for a few moments that Langberg had to support him under the elbow. The prospective bride and groom exchanged a few, stilted sentences before Langberg intervened to draw his attention to the other people there. Lord Westfield was obliged to meet everyone of real significance in the castle and to make polite conversation with them.

Though they were in the same room for almost an hour, he could never get really close to Sigbrit, still less to speak to her alone. Whenever he looked at her, she was surrounded by women, curious to know what she would wear at the wedding, and, whenever he tried to do more than make a passing remark to her across the room, her uncle was always on hand to introduce him to some newcomers. Langberg made much of the fact that their guest of honour had had to endure a dangerous sea voyage to reach them. Before he knew it, Lord Westfield had acquired a small audience.

‘Yes,’ he recounted, ‘we were set on by pirates in a Spanish galleon but we fought them off bravely. They pounded us at first but Englishmen yield to nobody in a sea battle. I was strongly reminded of Gloriana Triumphant.’

Langberg was mystified. ‘My lord?’

‘It’s the title of a play written by Edmund Hoode and it marked our victory over the Spanish Armada.’ There was murmur of approval from everyone listening. ‘Gloriana, as you will guess, is Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. She inspired us to put our enemy to flight.’

‘The Dutch would value such inspiration.’

‘We’ve sent men and money to help them, Master Langberg, but the war against the Spanish drags on.’

‘Wars are a terrible drain on any nation.’

‘Denmark has done well to keep out of them.’

‘It was not always so,’ said Langberg ruefully. ‘At the start of his reign, King Frederick was embroiled in a Seven Years War to restore the Union. It was highly expensive and he was forced to borrow money from his wife’s family in Mecklenburg.’

‘Did he win the war?’

‘Nobody won it, my lord. After seven years of fighting — and after the deaths of thousands of brave soldiers — no territory changed hands.’ He led his companion across to a portrait that hung on the wall. ‘The king learnt his lesson. For the rest of his reign, he sought only peace and stability. And he devoted much of his energy to rebuilding this castle and strengthening its fortifications.’

‘He did a magnificent job,’ said Lord Westfield.

‘He was a remarkable man.’

They regarded the portrait. King Frederick II was a handsome man with close-cropped hair and well-trimmed beard and moustache. Wearing shiny black armour, he had a striking red and gold sash across his breastplate. He looked proud, imperious and resolute, gazing down like a monarch in his absolute prime.

‘Do you know what his motto was?’ asked Langberg.

‘No,’ said the other.

‘Without God — nothing.’

‘I endorse that sentiment wholeheartedly.’

‘King Christian has taken up the same theme.’

‘What is his motto?’

‘The fear of God makes the kingdom strong.’

‘Every country should take heed of that,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘I know little of political matters, I fear, but Rolfe is well-versed in the affairs of many nations. What he’s taught me about the history of Denmark has made me eager to take a Danish bride.’

Langberg glanced around. ‘Where is Rolfe Harling, my lord?’ he said. ‘He was invited. I would have expected him to be here by now.’

‘So would I. He is never late. Where on earth can he be?’

George Dart was a poor sailor and the voyage had been a nightmare for him. Now that they had arrived, however, and were staying in a royal palace, he realised how privileged he was to be a member of Westfield’s Men. No amount of teasing from the actors could make him regret the fact that he had come. Since he had to take on so many additional duties, the days ahead promised to be onerous and that made him quail. Meanwhile, however, Dart could enjoy himself.

‘Your turn now, Dick,’ said Martin Yeo.

‘No,’ replied Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the apprentices. ‘Let George go first.’

‘Very well. George?’

Dart stepped forward. ‘Yes?’

‘We will count up to fifty,’ said Yeo.

‘Make it a hundred.’

‘Fifty.’

‘Where will I go?’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Honeydew, handing him a candle. ‘Hurry up, George. We are starting to count now.’

Dart charged off. They were in the casemates, playing a game of hide and seek, having some harmless fun while at the same time exploring the labyrinthine passages below the castle. It had taken them a long time to find Martin Yeo’s hiding place. Now that it was his turn, Dart wanted to be just as elusive. With the candle casting a flickering light, he hurried on through the interconnecting cellars, making sharp turns to throw off pursuit and looking for somewhere to conceal himself. Eventually, he found it.

When he came into one casemate, he could pick out a series of storage bays, built of brick against the wall. Three feet in height, they were long enough to hide someone much taller than George Dart. Fish, grain and other foodstuffs occupied some of the bays but he found one that was half-empty. Whatever it contained was hidden beneath a large sheet of canvas. It was the perfect place. The sound of distant voices told him that the apprentices were already on his trail. There was no time to lose. He cocked a leg over the wall and lifted the canvas sheet. He was on the point of blowing out the candle when he saw that someone else was already hiding in the bay.

Face contorted by violent death, Rolfe Harling lay on his back, his doublet stained with blood, his mouth wide open in a soundless cry of protest.

George Dart fainted.