The Princess of Denmark (10 page)

‘We’ll be ready for the rogues!’

‘Yes,’ said Quilter, slapping the cannon. ‘Let them come on. We three will prove doughty gunners. We’ll blow the black-hearted devils to smithereens.’

‘Keeping them at bay is all that we need to do,’ said Nicholas. ‘If the action is too hot for them, they’ll withdraw. We just have to pray that they do not get too close.’

‘Why, Nick?’

‘Because they will rely on light guns and superior manpower. Their aim is to grapple and board.’

‘I’ll kill the knaves with my bare hands,’ said Firethorn.

‘They’ll have swords and daggers, Lawrence – guns, too, in some cases. I’ll make sure that we all have weapons. Without them, Westfield’s Men will become extinct.’

Captain Skrine had done all he could to shake off the pursuit but his efforts were in vain. Though the
Cormorant
changed course repeatedly and zigzagged through the open sea, it could neither elude nor outrun the pirate vessel. With a series of sharp commands, he deployed his crew at the gun ports on both decks and on both sides of the ship. The helmsmen were ordered to bring the
Cormorant
around in a wide arc. The Spanish galleon was now less than two hundred yards behind them. Beckoned by the captain, Nicholas climbed swiftly up to the quarterdeck.

‘Alert the others, Master Bracewell,’ ordered the captain.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘We’ll need every man jack of them.’

‘You shall have them.’

Nicholas went off at speed. Lord Westfield was the patron and Lawrence Firethorn the actor-manager of the
troupe, but it was the book holder who was in charge now. Given his greater naval experience, nobody would dare to challenge his authority. He went first below deck to warn his colleagues that the ship was in danger of attack and that they would all be required to defend it. Nicholas gave them no opportunity to fly into a panic. Pointing to each in turn, he assigned specific tasks to them before sending them up on deck. Necessity was a ready cure for seasickness. Even those most severely afflicted somehow managed to rally. To his credit, Barnaby Gill was the first to mount the steps, shedding his habitual selfishness and making common cause with the others.

Weapons were essential. Taking both George Dart and the limping Owen Elias with him, Nicholas went to the storeroom that had been unlocked by the master-at-arms. They grabbed swords, pikes and daggers to give to the others. While his friends rushed up on deck, Nicholas knocked on the door of Lord Westfield’s cabin before opening it. When they saw the weapons that he was carrying, all three occupants leapt to their feet at once.

‘What’s happened, Nick?’ asked Anne.

‘We have pirates on our tail.’

‘Pirates!’ cried Lord Westfield with disgust. ‘How dare they! I’ll not be kept from my bride by
anybody
. Give me a sword, Nicholas,’ he said, taking one from him. ‘I’m yours to command.’

‘Here’s a weapon for you as well, Master Harling,’ said Nicholas, handing him a cutlass ‘Do you know how to use it, sir?’

‘No,’ confessed the other, quailing.

‘You’ll soon learn.’

‘What about me?’ said Anne.

‘If they engage us, there’ll be serious injuries.’

‘I’ll look to the wounded. I’m not afraid of the sight of blood.’ She glanced through the window at the other ship. ‘I had a feeling that they were getting very close.’

‘Too close,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s see if we can scare them away.’

He led the way up the stairs to the main deck. Everyone was at his station. After telling the newcomers where to stand, and what to do if the ship was fired upon, Nicholas went off to join Captain Skrine on the quarterdeck. From his elevated position, he had an excellent view of the pirate ship. Sitting high in the water, its gun ports were open and its cannon at the ready. When the vessel got within a hundred yards of them, Nicholas turned to the captain.

‘They have no long-range guns,’ he said, ‘or they’d have fired on us well before now.’

‘That’s what we did in the
Revenge
,’ said Skrine. ‘We fired heavy shots low down from three hundred yards. We crippled some ships and took much of the boldness out of others.’

‘They are after our cargo so they’ll try not to damage it too much. They mean to board us. Their intent is to disable us first. With your permission, Captain, we’ll make use of Martin Yeo.’

‘Martin Yeo?’

‘One of our boy apprentices,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the lad on the main deck. ‘Martin is also a fine musician. I told him to bring his trumpet with him. When we fire, he’ll
blow hard in triumph. When their cannon sound, he will respond with a mocking fanfare.’

‘I like the notion,’ said Shrine, grinning. ‘Permission granted.’

‘Thank you, captain.’ He signalled to Martin Yeo, who gave a nervous smile of acknowledgement. ‘The others all have instructions. I’ll make sure that they abide by them.’

Carrying a sword, Nicholas went down to the main deck so that he would be in the thick of the action. The
Cormorant
, meanwhile, had come round in a wide arc so that it was heading towards the other ship at an acute angle. At the command of Captain Skrine, a single shot was fired across the bows of the pirate vessel, passing within twenty yards of her bowsprit before plopping harmlessly into the sea. The response was immediate. Instead of being warned off, the ship altered its course sharply so that it could come alongside the
Cormorant
. A broadside was inevitable but Skrine was determined to fire his first. As they drew level with the three-masted pirate galleon, he gave the signal and the guns thundered. Martin Yeo played a shrill fanfare on his trumpet.

His celebration was premature. Before the echoes of the first broadside has died away, and before they could see what damage they had inflicted, a second one boomed out and the
Cormorant
was hit so hard that it rocked in the water. Some cannon balls flew over the head of the crew but others struck the bulwark, holing it instantly and sending showers of splinters into the air like wooden bullets. One man was instantly blinded, another’s face was horribly disfigured by a hail of splinters. There were other casualties.
Two men were crushed to death beneath the weight of their cannon when it suffered a direct hit and jumped into the air before pinning them to the deck. A third member of the crew had his leg fractured by flying debris.

Anne Hendrik could hear their screams but she had to wait until the smoke had cleared before she was able to find the injured men. Clearing his throat, Yeo did his best to play a derisive fanfare. Still on the main deck, Nicholas was pleased that none of the company had been wounded. He was also impressed with the way that his three friends had fired their cannon and were trying to reload. James Ingram was lifting a heavy iron cannon ball while Frank Quilter held the wooden ram to pack the charge home. Lawrence Firethorn had put more gunpowder in the touch hole and stood by to apply a spark to the linstock.

‘Wait there, James,’ said Nicholas, stepping forward to pick up a different cannonball. ‘Use stone instead of iron. It will shatter on impact and cause more damage. Let me show you.’

He supervised the reloading then waved his friends back. The other ship had passed them and they were now looping around her stern. Nicholas saw his opportunity. Without waiting for an order, he picked his moment then lit the slow match, moving smartly aside so that he would not be caught by the vicious recoil of the gun and its solid wooden carriage. The lint burnt down and the gunpowder ignited with an ear-spitting bang. The stone shot was lethal. Smashing its way through the windows of a cabin below the quarterdeck, it went straight through a door then sped along the main deck until it hit the main mast with juddering force.

Stone flew everywhere, killing two men and wounding several others. Razor-edged shards also sliced through the rigging and cut dozens of holes in the canvas sails. One well-aimed shot had caused pandemonium on the pirate ship. Aboard the
Cormorant
, they could hear the screams of pain and confusion. Martin Yeo found much more breath to blow his trumpet. But the action was not over yet. As soon as the ships came alongside each other again, the pirates retaliated with another broadside. It was more destructive this time, holing the
Cormorant
in a number of places just above the waterline and raking the main deck. The broadside also caused a barrel of gunpowder to explode, hurling men in every direction by the force of the blast.

Three of the crew were killed outright and some of the actors were injured. A fire started. Nicholas was everywhere, helping the apprentices to douse the flames with water, calling Anne’s attention to wounded men in need of bandaging, then replacing a gunner whose arm had been shot away. On a signal from Captain Shrine, they discharged their own broadside with deafening volume. A mixture of stone and iron shot had been used, the former splitting on impact to spread its terror far and wide, the latter punching large holes in the bulwark and knocking two cannon out of commission.

Though they did not know it, the stone ball fired by the three actors had the most dramatic effect. Striking the main mast that had already been badly weakened by the earlier impact, the heavy stone opened up a split that widened within seconds. Its own massive weight told against it,
pressing down on the fissure until it burst asunder. There was a loud crack then the main mast came crashing down like a tall tree in a forest, demolishing everything in its way and bringing the battle to a sudden end. Everyone aboard the
Cormorant
gave a rousing cheer.

Over the distant howls of agony, came the loudest fanfare yet.

‘When will they arrive, Uncle?’ asked Sigbrit Olsen.

‘Not for some time yet.’

‘But they are on their way?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bror Langberg. ‘They will have set sail by now. When they reach Vlissingen – the English call it Flushing – there will be letters from me awaiting them. I’ve explained how delighted you are with the match.’

Sigbrit was hesitant. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

She was a slender young woman of middle height with the white skin of a true Scandinavian. She had a cambric ruff above her stiffened bodice and a hooped skirt whose hem brushed the ground and concealed her slippers. Worn high on the forehead and away from the sides of her face, her fair hair had a natural sheen. Bror Langberg, her uncle, was a tall man in his fifties with broad shoulders and a substantial paunch. Wearing a long gown over his doublet and hose, he had a ruff of yellow starched linen. Langberg had a pleasant, round, open face and a warm smile. He was visiting his niece at an apartment in Kronborg, the castle at Elsinore. The closer the visit of Lord Westfield became, the more reassurance she would need.

‘Will he like me?’ she wondered.

‘He already loves you, Sigbrit.’

‘But he has not even met me.’

‘Yes, he has,’ said Langberg, ‘albeit through intercessories. He has two portraits of you – one in miniature and the other in life-size, painted with my own words. Rolfe Harling described you in detail and his master was enchanted.’

‘Will I find Lord Westfield agreeable?’

‘Of that, there is no doubt.’

‘What will he expect of me?’ she said anxiously.

‘That you are a good wife to him. Love and loyalty is all that he asks for, Sigbrit. Pledge yourself to him.’ Still worried, she turned away. He took her by the shoulders. ‘Away with these silly fears,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘His only wish is to make you happy. Do you not want to live in England as Lady Westfield?’

‘I do not know, Uncle.’ She faced him once more. ‘I would like to visit England because there are too many sad memories to vex me here, but I am not sure if I could live there. And I do not believe that I could ever love as I did once before.’

‘You will in time, Sigbrit.’

‘I do not believe it.’

‘You will and you must,’ he said softly. ‘It is right that you should mourn your husband but he would not have wanted you to pine forever. Consider Lord Westfield – he has grieved over the death of two wives yet he has enough spirit and hope to seek a third. He wants to pluck joy out of sorrow. You must do the same.’

‘I know.’

Her nod of obedience concealed her misgivings.
Sigbrit Olsen loved, respected and trusted her uncle. She treated him as a father and, as a rule, accepted his advice unquestioningly. In this instance, however, she was assailed by doubts. While the prospect of marrying a member of the English nobility was tempting, it was also daunting. She wished that she could feel more enthusiastic about it.

‘Take heart,’ said Langberg, reading her thoughts. ‘It is all for the best, I promise you. Do you think that I would have entered upon these negotiations unless they were to the advantage of my niece? You will gain so much, Sigbrit – wealth, position and fine houses both in London and in the country. You will have real importance.’

‘Yes, yes, I understand all that.’

‘Then there is another aspect, of course.’

‘You have already talked to me about the king.’

‘He approves of this match. Denmark has enemies so we must be sure to strengthen bonds with our friends. King Christian wishes us to be closer to England and this marriage will be one small way of achieving that end.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We do not want to disappoint the king, do we?’

‘No, Uncle Bror.’

‘Look to the future.’

‘The future?’

‘Yes,’ he explained. ‘King Christian’s sister is herself married to a king, James VI of Scotland – a most happy union. Queen Elizabeth is old and tired. She will not rule England much longer. Just imagine if the person to succeed her was King James. What would that mean?’

‘England would have a Danish Queen,’ she said.

‘Someone you know and love.’

‘Anne was good to me.’

‘Your friendship will blossom again, Sigbrit – but not if you stay here in Elsinore, your mind forever entombed with your late husband. You must break away from Ingmar,’ he insisted. ‘Honour his memory but build your life anew with another man.’