The Princess of Denmark (11 page)

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘I ask it for your own sake and for that of your country.’ After a moment, Sigbrit nodded. Langberg kissed her on the cheek. ‘That is better,’ he continued. ‘Lord Westfield has a wedding gift for you that even King James could not match.’

‘When he got married in Oslo,’ she recalled, ‘he brought four Negroes with him to dance in the snow at the wedding. I was there and saw all four dance so prettily. But the cold was too much for them,’ she added with a wan smile. ‘All four died of pneumonia.’

‘No more talk of death,’ said her uncle, showing his irritation. ‘Think only of life, Sigbrit. Lord Westfield does not come with four dancers but with a whole company of actors.’

‘Yes,’ she said, brightening at last. ‘I long to see them.’

‘They are the finest troupe in England and they will be yours.’

Her doubts returned. ‘Will they?’

Celebrations aboard the
Cormorant
were short-lived. Having crippled the pirate ship and sailed out of range of her cannon, they took stock of their casualties. They were
heavy. Five members of the crew had been killed and even more had been wounded. Only one member of Westfield’s Men had died – Harold Stoddard, crushed to death – but several had collected injuries. Barnaby Gill had been knocked unconscious by a glancing blow from a fallen spar and Edmund Hoode’s hands had been badly lacerated by flying splinters when he brought them up to protect his face. None of them had escaped without at least some cuts and grazes. Two of the apprentices had slight burns from the fire on board. To his annoyance, Owen Elias added a facial gash and a head wound to his other injuries.

Nicholas was proud of them all, especially of Anne Hendrik. Working tirelessly throughout, she had torn her clothing into pieces in order to bandage wounds, saving more than one man from bleeding to death. When she had finished with the more serious cases, she washed and dressed the minor wounds of crew and actors alike with great tenderness. It was she who poured the brandy into Gill’s mouth. It made him open his eyes again.

‘Well,’ said Elias with a cackle, ‘that’s a sight I never thought to see in a hundred years – Barnaby in the arms of a woman.’

The other actors laughed. Gill started. When he realised that Anne was cradling him, he sat quickly up and pushed her hands away, rubbing his sore head where he had been struck.

Burial of the dead was one of the first tasks. Captain Skrine did not want the gruesome, blood-covered corpses left on board to upset his crew so he officiated at a simple ceremony. Along with the others, Harold Stoddard was
sewn into a piece of canvas and consigned to the deep. Damage had been extensive and many repairs were necessary. Nicholas volunteered the services of Oswald Megson, actor and carpenter, and undertook the most onerous duty himself. Lowered over the side of the ship on ropes, he mended the holes that had been opened during the action by cannon balls.

It was slow, laborious, tedious work and the constant movement of the vessel made it highly dangerous. Nicholas was soaked to the skin by the waves but he ignored the discomfort and stuck at it, knowing how crucial the repairs were. When he was finally hauled back on deck again, he was dripping wet.

‘Well done,’ said Captain Skrine. ‘We owe you our thanks.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘It’s the pirates who get
my
thanks,’ he said. ‘They holed us just above the waterline. Had they hit us lower, we would be in real difficulty. I know what it is to make repairs on the hull below the sea. It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.’

‘Get below and change into dry clothing, Master Bracewell.’

‘I will, sir. Do you know where we are?’

‘Yes,’ said Skrine, ‘I’ve taken bearings. We were blown right off course by the storm and chased further north by the pirates. I’m minded to change our plans.’

‘Why?’

‘Most of the cargo is destined for Elsinore and we’ve to take some on board there. If we make for Denmark first, we can call at Amsterdam and Flushing on the voyage home.’

‘That will please Lord Westfield,’ said Nicholas, shaking out his wet hair, ‘for it will get him to his new bride sooner than he expected. But it will not suit everyone.’

Anne Hendrik was bandaging Lawrence Firethorn’s wounded arm nearby. Constant effort had taken its toll. Her hair was dishevelled, his face streaked with perspiration and the remnants of her skirt splashed with the blood of a dozen patients. Nicholas crooked a finger to call her over.

‘Do you hear that, Anne?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The
Cormorant
is to make for Denmark first.’

‘I see,’ she said, crossing over to them.

‘She’ll call at Amsterdam on the return voyage.’

‘It will add a long time to your journey, I fear,’ apologised Skrine ‘but it suits our purpose. The
Cormorant
is, after all, a merchant ship and the fate of her cargo is paramount. You were the only person bound for the Low Countries.’

‘Do not worry, Anne,’ said Nicholas. ‘When we reach Elsinore, you may well find a ship that will get you to Amsterdam much sooner than this one.’

‘But I prefer the
Cormorant
,’ she announced.

‘Oh?’

‘I feel like part of the crew, Nick. And since you made me the ship’s surgeon, I would like to keep an eye on my patients. Besides,’ she went on, ‘I’ll not complain about a few days spent in Denmark. It will give me a chance to see Westfield’s Men perform again.’

‘Then you are welcome to join us.’

‘I would also like to meet the lady.’

‘What lady?’ he asked.

‘Sigbrit Olsen. Lord Westfield talked about her so much when we were in his cabin during the storm. He’s deeply in love with her.’

‘I know, Anne. That’s why he braved this voyage.’

‘I look forward to seeing this princess of Denmark.’

‘So do we,’ he said seriously, ‘for much hangs on this marriage. We must please his new wife and win her blessing because we must, above all else, keep our patron. Everything depends on Lady Westfield. Should she take against us, we may discover that we have made a long journey to the graveyard.’

‘In what way?’

‘Our patron is truly infatuated. He could refuse his bride nothing. We must pray for her approval. If he were forced to choose between Sigbrit Olsen and his theatre company, there is no question of the outcome.’ Nicholas gave a philosophical shrug. ‘Westfield’s Men would disappear into oblivion.’

Margery Firethorn was not a woman to grieve over the absence of her husband and to sit brooding alone until his return. Because he was such a commanding presence, she missed him dreadfully and she missed the whole company as well. But she still had children to bring up, a house to run and a life to lead, and she did all three with the bustling energy that defined her. Margery also had another important function. She had been appointed as an emissary on behalf of Westfield’s Men. Knowing that they were in serious danger of losing their inn yard playhouse, Lawrence Firethorn had asked his wife to pay an occasional visit to the Queen’s Head to use her powers of persuasion on its egregious landlord.

It was a role that Margery had taken on once before and she had learnt a valuable lesson in the process. There was one sure way to influence Alexander Marwood and that was to win over the person who really made all the
decisions. When she next visited Gracechurch Street market, therefore, Margery went out of her way to call in on Sybil Marwood.

‘Good day to you,’ she said cheerily.

‘What is good about it?’ asked Sybil, looking around a taproom that was virtually empty. ‘Our custom is pestilence dead.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’

‘Your husband must take some of the blame.’

‘Lawrence did not start the fire.’

‘Someone involved with Westfield’s Men did.’

Margery remained cool. There was no point in arguing with Sybil Marwood, a fierce, resolute, dogmatic woman with a forbidding countenance and a hostile glare that could turn weaker vessels to stone. Plump and unlovely, she had devoted her middle years to a period of sustained regret over the follies of her younger days, chief among which was the disastrous marriage into which she believed she had been inveigled. Seeds of bitterness had been planted in her soul and they had produced a flourishing crop that grew inside her like a field of large ulcers. Closing one hooded eye, she peered at her visitor through the other.

‘Marriage is truly a veil of tears for women,’ she declared.

‘I have never found it so, Sybil,’ said Margery, hoping, by the familiar use of her Christian name, to move the conversation onto a more friendly level. ‘Never a day goes by where I realise how blessed I am in Lawrence. Being the wife of a famous actor brings with it certain disadvantages – I’m very much aware of them at this time – but they pale beside the many benefits of marital life.’

‘Benefits – ha!’

‘I see that our experience differs.’

‘Being married has turned me against all men.’

‘But it’s only through a man that we achieve full womanhood.’

‘Then I wish I’d remained a spinster.’

‘But think what you would have missed, Sybil.’

‘Nothing that I would not gladly spare.’

‘It was love that brought you and your husband together in the first place.’ Sybil curled a contemptuous lip. ‘Never forget that. And together, you produced a beautiful daughter. Do you not look at Rose and recall those first magical years of conjugal bliss?’

‘No, Mistress Firethorn,’ retorted the other woman. ‘I simply hope that Rose does not have to endure the misery, boredom and toil that comes with the title of wife. Men are little better than beasts.’

‘Some men, perhaps.’

‘All of the breed. A cruelty in nature shaped them for pleasure and us for pain. We are born to slavery.’

It was a strange comment from someone who dominated her husband so completely that she kept him in a state of gibbering servility, but Margery did not point this out. She found it easier to let Sybil rant on at length about the evils of the male sex, tossing in a nod of agreement now and again by way of encouragement. When the vehement tirade finally ended, Margery was able to return to the topic that had brought her to the Queen’s Head.

‘I was shocked to learn about the damage to your property.’

‘It has wrecked all our ambition.’

‘Not so,’ said Margery. ‘The thing that Lawrence most admires about you is your strength of character. You have had setbacks before and risen above them.’

‘Those setbacks were always caused by Westfield’s Men.’

‘Come, come – that’s too harsh.’

‘Harsh but true,’ said Sybil. ‘This is not the first fire they have inflicted upon us. And I’ve lost count of the number of times a play of theirs has provoked an affray in our yard.’

‘You must also have lost count of the money they bring in.’

‘No, they’ve swelled our profits, I grant them that.’

‘And they can do so again,’ said Margery with a disarming smile. ‘When they come home in triumph from Denmark, they’ll fill the Queen’s Head once more.’

‘They’ll not get the chance, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘But they must.’

‘Not while I’m landlord here,’ said a ghostly voice behind her. Margery turned to see Alexander Marwood standing there. ‘I give you my solemn word. Westfield’s Men are exiled.’ He glanced deferentially at his wife. ‘Am I right, Sybil?’

‘We are at one on this,’ she agreed.

‘But you are cutting your own throats,’ said Margery. ‘Keep the company out and you bid farewell to any hope of recovery. How can you rebuild the inn without the money that only Westfield’s Men will garner for you?’

Sybil was complacent. ‘There are other sources of money.’

‘A loan? Interest rates will be very high.’

‘I’m not talking about a loan.’

‘Then what – you have saved enough to pay for it all?’

‘No, no,’ said Marwood, aghast at the very thought, ‘we’ll not plunder our savings. What Sybil is talking about is a gift.’

‘A gift of money?’

‘Subject to certain conditions.’

‘One of which,’ said Sybil, reserving the right to administer the fatal thrust, ‘is that Westfield’s Men will never again perform here.’

Margery was shaken. ‘Can this be true?’

‘We’ve signed a contract to that effect.’

‘So the decision has legal force,’ said Marwood with a kind of morose gleefulness. ‘The company is banned forthwith by the terms of the contract. I rejoice in our good fortune.’

‘Rebuilding work begins on Monday.’

‘These are black tidings,’ said Margery, deeply upset. ‘I wish to see the Queen’s Head rise from the ashes, of course, but not at the expense of Westfield’s Men. I urge you both to think again. Tear up this contract before it commits you to a hideous mistake.’

Sybil folded her arms. ‘It’s too late for that.’

‘We’ve given our word to the gentleman,’ said her husband.

‘What gentleman?’ asked Margery, torn between anger and despair. ‘I see nothing gentlemanly in this. Westfield’s Men are the pride of London. They’ve entertained the whole city for many years with comedies, tragedies and histories. And is all this to end?’

‘It already has.’

‘Then it’s nothing short of treachery.’

‘It’s Westfield’s Men who are the traitors. They’ve betrayed us time and again. Their heads are now on the block.’

‘So do not look for sympathy from us,’ warned Sybil.

Margery was still dazed. ‘And a
gentleman
did this to us?’

‘A rich merchant from York – one Master Dunmow.’

‘Dunmow? That name strikes a chord for some reason.’

‘So it should,’ said Marwood, ‘for it’s engraved on our hearts. Will Dunmow was the young man burnt to death in the fire that began in his bedchamber. His father, Isaac, is our benefactor.’

‘Does he hate the company enough to destroy them?’

‘They killed his son.’

‘Your husband has seen the last of the Queen’s Head,’ said Sybil, keen to reinforce the point. ‘Westfield’s Men may be the toast of Denmark but, when they come back to London, they face destitution. They will have no home.’

The
Cormorant
battled its way through the North Sea. Days were long and arduous but they were not wasted. The actors did not merely help with the extensive repairs to the ship. They rehearsed
The Princess of Denmark
every morning and, under the direction of Nicholas Bracewell, they spent hours on the fight scenes that featured in the other plays they intended to perform. There was a double purpose behind this. Not only were the lively brawls and clever swordplay made to look more convincing on stage,
Nicholas was also training the actors to defend themselves better in case they were attacked by another pirate vessel.

Everyone was delighted that they would first call at Elsinore, thereby shortening the voyage and sparing them visits to other ports. There was one exception and he argued with the captain on a regular basis. Rolfe Harling was distressed that they would not sail directly to Flushing. When he saw Nicholas talking to the captain that morning, he decided to raise the issue yet again.

‘I must protest most strongly, Captain Skrine,’ he said.

‘You have done so repeatedly, sir, but to no avail.’

‘Can nothing alter your mind?’

‘No,’ said Skrine bluntly. ‘We sail for Denmark.’

‘But your orders were to call at Flushing.’

‘Storm and pirates intervened, Master Harling.’

‘And the Spanish navy has to be considered,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘The Dutch are at war with Spain. Because we are their allies, the Dutch granted us Flushing – or Vlissingen – as a base for our soldiers.’

Harling was tetchy. ‘I know all this.’

‘What you seem to forget is that Spanish galleons – not filled with pirates this time – guard the eastern approach in order to stop our soldiers reaching land. Captain Skrine will be able to get to Flushing with greater ease if he sails south from Amsterdam with the protection of ships from the Dutch navy.’

‘Very true,’ said Skrine.

‘It’s too late to turn back now, Master Harling.’

‘This argument does not concern you.’

‘It concerns me very much,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘We
lost one of our actors in the skirmish with the pirates, and most of the others were injured. I’d sooner not expose them to more danger by tangling with the Spanish navy. Nor,’ he added with a nod in the direction of Lord Westfield, ‘would our patron. We’ll not be able to perform a play at his wedding if more of the company are killed or wounded.’

‘Why are you so eager to reach Flushing?’ asked the captain.

‘I have business there,’ said Harling.

‘It will have to wait.’

‘But it has a bearing on our visit to Elsinore.’

Nicholas was interested. ‘Go on, sir.’

‘I sent letters to Denmark, telling them of our plans. Not wishing any replies to go astray at sea, I asked for them to be sent overland to Flushing. They’ll be delivered to the Governor and held there until we arrive.’

‘Then you will have to delay reading them.’

‘But they may contain intelligence about our visit.’

‘We are expected, are we not?’

‘Of course,’ said Harling, ‘but we have no details. They would have been in the correspondence sent in my name. Without that, we do not know where we will stay and what is expected of us.’

‘That will soon become clear,’ said Skrine.

‘Forewarned is forearmed, captain.’

‘Nobody could have forewarned us about the pirates and there is no ship afloat that is completely forearmed against the North Sea. These are perilous waters, Master Harling. Be grateful that we will reach our destination in one piece.’

‘But you sail to the wrong port.’

Skrine bristled. ‘
I’ll
make that decision, sir.’

‘And I believe it to be a wise one,’ said Nicholas.

Rolfe Harling seethed with exasperation. Wanting to impose his authority, he was quite powerless to do so. Until that moment, he and Nicholas had always been on friendly terms but the situation had changed. In supporting the captain, Nicholas had incurred Harling’s dislike. It was he who was treated to a look of muted aggression before the other man flounced off across the deck.

‘What difference will a couple of letters make?’ said the captain.

‘They are clearly of significance to him,’ concluded Nicholas.

Skrine grinned. ‘Could they be written by a lady, then?’

‘I think not. Master Harling is more adept at finding a bride for someone else than seeking one out for himself. He has other reasons to rue the missing correspondence.’ Nicholas stroked his beard. ‘I wonder what they could be.’

Sigbrit Olsen was so surprised by the news that she let out an involuntary cry of alarm. Her delicate hands came up to her face.

‘They are here
already
?’ she exclaimed in disbelief. ‘You told me not to expect them for days.’

‘I was wrong,’ said Bror Langberg, ‘and delighted to be so. I’ve sent men down to the harbour to greet them.’

‘How did they get here so early?’

‘I’ll make a point of asking them.’

‘And are they coming to the castle?’

‘Where else, Sigbrit? You cannot invite Lord Westfield to sail all this way in order to be lodged at an inn. He will receive the honour that is due to him.’

They were in her apartment, a room on the second floor that overlooked the sound. Crossing to the window, Sigbrit surveyed the harbour below and saw that a merchant ship had dropped anchor. Passengers were being rowed towards the quay in a boat. They were too far away to be anything more than a series of tiny figures but she knew that somewhere among them was her future husband.

‘I am not
ready
, Uncle Bror,’ she said anxiously.

‘I will help you.’

‘Where is Hansi? I need her with me.’

‘Your sister is on her way here, Sigbrit.’

‘I cannot do this without Hansi,’ wailed the other.

‘She will arrive this evening at the latest. Now come away from that window,’ he went on, guiding her back into the room. ‘If the sight distresses you, do not look at it.’

‘I will not have to meet Lord Westfield, will I?’

‘Not today, Sigbrit.’

‘But he will ask where I am.’

‘Leave me to deal with him. All that you must do is to calm down and compose yourself. An important event is about to take place in your life and you must revel in it.’

‘How can I when I have so many worries?’

‘About what, child?’

‘About him – about myself – about
everything
.’