The Princess of Denmark (2 page)

‘The shame of it is that you ever came back.’

‘Without us,’ said Firethorn, inflating his barrel chest, ‘this place would be deserted. Westfield’s Men lend it true distinction.’

Marwood curled a lip. ‘True distinction, eh? Is that what you call it?’ he taunted. ‘I saw no true distinction when you played
A Trick to Catch a Chaste Lady
. You set off such an affray in my yard that the inn was almost pulled to pieces. I swore that you’d never perform here again after that.’

‘But wiser counsels prevailed,’ said Nicholas. ‘You allowed us back in time.’

‘And here is my reward.’ The landlord turned to survey
the wreckage. ‘This is how I am repaid for my folly. Never again, sirs! You are banished from my inn forever. As for the fire,’ he went on, rounding on them, ‘I’ll seek compensation from you in the courts. I’ve been cruelly abused by Westfield’s Men.’

‘Then add this to the list of charges,’ Firethorn told him.

Drawing his sword, he used the flat of it to hit Marwood’s backside with a resounding thwack and sent him hopping across the yard with his buttocks in his hands. Firethorn laughed heartily but Nicholas was less amused.

‘Nothing was served by attacking the landlord,’ he said.

‘I had to do something to relieve my anger.’

‘He owns the Queen’s Head – we do not. The day will come when we’ll need to woo the testy fellow yet again. And we’ll not do it with a sword in our hands.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, sheathing his weapon. ‘As ever, you will be our ambassador, Nick. Soothing words from you will win that unsightly gargoyle over again.’ He heaved a long sigh. ‘Though it will be many months before your embassy can begin.’ He remembered something. ‘Our patron must hear of this. Lord Westfield will be mightily distressed at the tidings.’

‘I’ll take on the office of telling him,’ volunteered Nicholas.

‘Ask him if he can aid us in some way.’

‘Not with money, I suspect. His debts mount with each year.’

‘You are behind the times, Nick. Our esteemed patron has had good fortune at last. His elder brother died earlier this year.’

‘I knew that.’

‘What you did not know is that he left him half his estate. Lord Westfield is transfigured. He has finally paid off his creditors.’

‘Cheering news,’ said Nicholas, ‘yet I look for no munificence from him. Unlike poor Will Dunmow, he is not given to charity. And talking of our erstwhile friend,’ he added considerately, ‘we must send word to his family of his unfortunate end. Though we had only the briefest acquaintance with him, it behoves us to act on his behalf. The landlord will certainly not do so.’

‘He’ll be too busy cooling his bum in a pail of water.’

‘Owen Elias spent the longest time with Master Dunmow. He’ll know where the young man lodged in London and what friends he may have in the city.’

‘It’s right to mourn for the dead but we must also have care for the living. Unless we can find somewhere else to play, the company will go into hibernation. A few of us will not fare too badly,’ said Firethorn, ‘because we have other irons in the fire, but most of the lads will suffer grievously. An actor without a stage is like a man without a woman, lacking in the one thing that allows him to prove his true worth.’ His gaze travelled around the yard. ‘Yesterday, we gave them
The Italian Tragedy
. This morning, we behold a real tragedy. Westfield’s Men have gone up in smoke.’

Nicholas was soulful. ‘That fate befell Will Dunmow,’ he noted. ‘We live to perform another day. For that, we owe a prayer of thanks.’

‘You are right, Nick.’ He doffed his hat and began to
unbutton his doublet. ‘And I believe that we do have a duty to clear some of this rubbish away.’

Nicholas slipped off his cap and his buff jerkin. ‘I’ve sent George Dart to fetch the others,’ he said. ‘This is work for many hands. When he sees us helping here, the landlord’s heart may soften towards us.’ Firethorn gave a snort of derision. ‘And there will be compensation of a sort for you, Lawrence.’

‘Not from that death’s-head.’

‘I was thinking of your wife. Margery will be delighted to see more of her husband in the next few months.’

‘That’s a mixed blessing,’ said Firethorn, recalling his wife’s violent temper. ‘But not in your case, Nick. Your domestic life is less troubled than mine. If the company goes to sleep throughout the autumn, you will see a great deal of Anne. That must content you.’

‘Unhappily, no.’

‘Why not?’

‘Anne is planning another visit to Amsterdam.’

Located in Broad Street, the Dutch Church had once been part of an Augustinian monastery. After the dissolution, it had been granted to royal favourites of Henry VII, who had promptly shown their religious inclinations by using it as a stable. When his young son, Edward, succeeded to the throne, he gave the nave and aisles of the church to Protestant refugees, most of whom were Dutch or German, but they were not allowed to enjoy the gift for long. At the start of Queen Mary’s reign, that devout Roman Catholic gave the foreign congregation
less than a month to leave and she shunned them thereafter. The accession of Queen Elizabeth saw the immediate restitution of a building that resumed its title of the Dutch Church, and acted as a central point for immigrant worshippers.

Anne Hendrik knew the place well and had attended many services there with her husband. A young Englishwoman with a quick brain, she had soon mastered Jacob Hendrik’s native language and learnt a great deal of German from him as well. A happy marriage was then cut short by the untimely death of the Dutchman, and his wife inherited the hat-making business that he had set up in Bankside. Showing a flair and acumen that she did not know she possessed, she managed the enterprise with considerable success. The reputation it achieved was not all Anne’s doing. Much of the credit had to go to Preben van Loew, her senior employee, a man whose talent and versatility brought in a stream of commissions.

It was the sober Dutchman who accompanied her on the long walk to church that morning. In a dangerous city, Anne was grateful for an escort, even one as taciturn as the emaciated old man.

‘It’s kind of you to come with me, Preben,’ she said.

‘I like to pay my respects as well.’

‘You were a good friend to Jacob.’

‘We grew up together,’ he said.

‘And fled to England together as well. It must have been a shock to you when he chose to marry someone like me.’

‘You were a good wife.’

‘I like to think so,’ said Anne with a nostalgic smile, ‘but you did not know that beforehand. You must have had serious doubts about me at first.’

The Dutchman was tactful. ‘I cannot remember.’

‘A wise answer.’

Side by side, they continued along the busy thoroughfare of Broad Street. They were making one of their regular journeys to the churchyard to visit the grave of Jacob Hendrik. It was always a sad occasion but there was some solace for Anne. Having paid her respects to her late husband, she would have an opportunity to call on the man who had replaced him in her life, Nicholas Bracewell, a dear friend who had begun as a lodger before finding himself her lover as well. Gracechurch Street was within easy walking distance of the Dutch Church. Ignorant of the tragedy that had befallen the Queen’s Head, Anne proposed to stop there in order to watch a little of the day’s rehearsal.

As she bore down on the church, however, her mind was filled with fond memories of Jacob Hendrik, a hard-working man who had been forced to settle south of the river because the trades guilds resolved to keep as many foreign rivals as they could out of the city. On arrival in England, her future husband had met with resentment and suspicion. When they reached their destination, Anne was suddenly reminded of what he had had to endure.

‘Not another one!’ said Preben van Loew with disgust.

‘Tear it down,’ she urged.

‘I wish to read it first.’

‘It’s the work of a twisted mind, Preben.’

‘A man should always know his enemy.’

The printed message was attached to the wall of the churchyard and it had a stark clarity. Both of them read the opening lines.

‘They still hate us,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘I have been here all these years and I am still a despised stranger.’

‘Not in my eyes.’

‘You are the exception.’

‘No, Preben,’ she said stoutly. ‘London is full of good, decent, tolerant citizens who would be repelled by this libel. Unfortunately, the city also harbours cruel and vicious men who envy the success that foreign tradesmen have.’

‘They are many in number.’

‘I do not believe that.’

‘They are,’ he said, rolling his eyes in despair. ‘Have you forgotten how easily the apprentices were incited to riot against us? We are despised and always will be.’

‘When I see such vile accusations, it makes me ashamed to call myself English. At times like this,’ said Anne, glancing into the churchyard, ‘I feel proud that I have strong Dutch connections. I feel sympathy for all who sought refuge here. You and Jacob had so much to bear when you left your own country.’

He shrugged. ‘It was no more than we expected.’

Wanting to turn away, she felt impelled to read more of the angry verse and saw a scathing attack on the government for allowing strangers to enter the realm.

‘Take it down, Preben,’ she ordered. ‘Let us spare others the distress of having to read such hateful words.’

‘It is best to ignore it altogether.’

‘Remove it so that we may hand it over to a constable. It’s a malicious libel and the law protects you from such things.’

‘They still keep coming,’ he said dolefully.

‘Commissioners have been ordered to take the utmost pains to discover the author and publisher of these attacks. When they are caught, they will face a heavy punishment. Take it down,’ she repeated. ‘Nobody else can be insulted by it then.’

‘As you wish.’

‘And when you have done that, forget that you ever saw it.’

The Dutchman smiled. ‘I’ve already done so.’

Standing on tiptoe, he reached up to remove the verses
from the wall. But they had a protector. No sooner did his hands touch the paper than a large stone was hurled from across the street. It struck his head with such force that his black skullcap was knocked off. Stunned by the blow, Preben van Loew fell to the ground with blood oozing from his head wound. Anne let out a gasp of alarm and bent down to help him. She did not see the figure that ran off quickly down a lane opposite. The libel on the wall of the Dutch Churchyard was no idle jest. Someone was ready to enforce the warning against strangers.

They were all there. The entire cast of
The Italian Tragedy
had turned up at the Queen’s Head, along with the stagekeepers and the tireman, to help in the mammoth task of clearing away the wreckage. In a sense, they were also dismantling their own home so the work was additionally painful. Rank disappeared. From the actor-manager down to the humblest hired man in the company, everyone did his share. The only actor who refused to dirty his hands, or to risk staining his exquisite attire by struggling among the filthy ruins, was Barnaby Gill, a brilliant clown on stage but a morose and egotistical man when he stepped off it. Since it was beneath his dignity to take part in physical labour, he simply watched sourly from the other side of the yard and deplored the fact that he would be unable to display his histrionic skills there again for a very long time.

There was a crowning irony. Fire had robbed them of their playhouse yet they had to engage the self-same thief
to dispose of the booty. Beams, floorboards and furniture beyond recall were tossed on to a bonfire in the middle of the yard. Bricks, plaster and broken tiles were wheeled away in wooden barrows. Bed linen had been burnt to extinction. Pewter tankards and utensils had melted in the heat of the furnace. Some things could be saved for re-use but most had perished during the night. There were consolations. The fire had not consumed the Queen’s Head in its entirety and, because there had been no wind, sparks had not been carried to any of the adjacent properties.

It was Nicholas Bracewell who discovered the body. As he scooped up another armful of shattered tiles, he saw a foot protruding from the debris. It was bare and discoloured. Since the fire had only claimed one victim, the foot simply had to belong to Will Dunmow. He was buried beneath some badly-charred roof timbers.

‘I’ve found him,’ said Nicholas, throwing the tiles aside. ‘Give me a hand, Owen.’

‘Gladly,’ offered Owen Elias, scampering across to him. ‘Are you sure that it’s him?’

‘Who else can it be?’ Taking a firm grasp, they moved the first heavy oak beam between them. ‘The fire started in his bedchamber and that would have been directly above this spot.’

‘Poor Will! He had no chance.’

‘The landlord blames you for leaving a lighted candle there.’

Elias was roused. ‘Then he needs to be told the truth,’ he said indignantly. ‘I made a point of snuffing out the candle before we left. You can ask James. He’ll bear witness.’

‘I take your word for it, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but that raises a question. If a candle did not cause the fire, then what did?’

‘Who knows?’

Taking hold of the next beam, they heaved it aside to expose the upper half of the corpse. It was a grisly sight. Scorched and distorted, Will Dunmow’s handsome face was a grotesque mask. His hair had burnt down to the skull, his eyebrows had been singed and both nose and jaw had been broken by the impact of the falling timber. Every shred of clothing had been burnt off his body, leaving his flesh black and mutilated. Nicholas felt a surge of compassion.

‘His own mother would not be able to recognise him,’ he said. ‘I thank heaven that she did not see him in this condition.’ He turned to Elias who was staring in horror at the corpse. The Welshman was visibly shaken. ‘What ails you, Owen?’

‘It was true, Nick – hideously true.’

‘True?’

‘What I said to James as we lay him on his bed last night. I said that Will would sleep until doomsday.’ Elias bit his lip. ‘I did not realise that doomsday would come so soon for him.’

‘How could you?’

‘I feel so
guilty
.’

‘You were not to blame.’

‘It was almost as if I prophesied his death.’

‘That’s a foolish thought. This was none of your doing.’ He became aware of the small crowd that had gathered to look at the body with morbid curiosity. Nicholas waved
them away. ‘Back to your work, lads. Will Dunmow was kind to us. Do not stare so as if he were a species of monstrosity. Grant him some dignity.’ The others began to drift away. ‘I can manage here, Owen,’ he went on. ‘Fetch something to cover him from prying eyes.’

‘Yes, Nick.’

The Welshman went off and left Nicholas to remove the rest of the debris that covered the dead man. He did so with great care, averting his eyes from the crushed legs that came into view. Pity welled up in him once more. In the course of his life, Nicholas had seen death in many guises but none so shocking and repulsive as the one that now confronted him. Will Dunmow had not merely been killed. He had been deformed and degraded. By the time the book holder had liberated the body completely, Elias returned with a large white sheet that he had taken from the room where they kept their wardrobe. It was laid over the corpse with reverence then the two of them lifted Will Dunmow up and carried him to a cart that stood nearby. They lowered him gently into it.

‘There’ll have to be an inquest,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll see the body delivered to the coroner.’

‘Thank you, Owen.’

‘Then I’ll do what I can to track down the house where Will was staying while he was in London. He told me that it was in Silver Street,’ explained Elias, ‘and belonged to a friend. I’ll find him if I have to knock on every door.’

‘Save yourself the trouble. I think this friend will come to us. He must have known that Will was at the play yesterday afternoon. Since his lodger did not return last night, the
friend will want to know why. In time, he’ll turn up at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Then he’ll be met with dreadful news.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘And the worst part of it is that we cannot even tell him how the fire started.’

‘I could hazard a guess.’

‘Could you?’

‘I’ve been thinking about what he said,’ remembered Elias. ‘When we carried him to his chamber, he kept calling for a bottle of sack. Will said that he’d like to drink some more and smoke a pipe of tobacco before he went to sleep.’

‘A pipe?’

‘That might be the explanation, Nick.’

‘Indeed, it might.’

‘How he managed to light it, God knows, for he was as drunk as a lord. As soon as his head touched the pillow, he was asleep.’

‘He must have come awake again,’ decided Nicholas, ‘and tried to smoke a pipe. Will Dunmow would not be the first man to doze off and start a fire unwittingly with burning tobacco.’

‘An expensive mistake. He paid for it with his life.’

‘Take him to the coroner, Owen. Describe what happened here and tell him that we know precious little about Will Dunmow apart from his name and his generosity. I’ll carry on here.’

‘Not for a while, Nick,’ said Elias as he saw two figures walking across the yard. ‘You have company.’

Nicholas looked up to see Anne Hendrik and Preben van Loew heading towards him. They were looking around
with dismay. Elias stayed long enough to exchange greetings with them before driving the body away in the cart. Anne was horrified by the amount of damage.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘We are not certain,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and never will be, alas. But we think someone started the fire when he fell asleep with a pipe of tobacco still burning. He died in the blaze. Owen is just taking him to the coroner.’

‘We expected to find you rehearsing today’s play.’

‘Out of the question, Anne.’

‘So I see.’

‘It will be next spring at least before we return to the Queen’s Head. The landlord would rather that we never came back.’ He glanced at the bandaging around the old Dutchman’s head. ‘But enough of our troubles. Preben seems to have encountered some of his own. I thought you both went to the churchyard this morning.’

‘We did, Nicholas,’ he said somnolently. ‘There was another vicious attack on strangers, I fear.’

‘It was on the wall,’ said Anne. ‘When Preben took it down, he was hit on the head by a stone. We did not see who threw it. It was a bad wound. We had to find a surgeon to dress it.’

Nicholas was sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Another libel, you say? That’s bad. Let’s stand aside,’ he said, moving them away from the noise of the clearance work behind him. ‘Now – tell me all.’

Lord Westfield gazed in wonder at the miniature then let out a cry of delight. Holding the portrait to his lips, he placed a gentle kiss on it.

‘I love her already!’ he announced. ‘What is her name?’

‘Sigbrit, my lord,’ said his companion. ‘Sigbrit Olsen.’

‘A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.’

‘That miniature was painted only last year.’

‘And is she as comely in the flesh?’

‘I’ve every reason to think so,’ said Rolfe Harling. ‘I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her yet but, when I spoke with her uncle in Copenhagen, he could not praise her enough. He described his niece as a jewel among women.’

‘I can see that, Rolfe. The creature
dazzles
.’

Lord Westfield was so enraptured by the portrait that he could not take his eyes off it. Framed by silken blonde hair, Sigbrit Olsen had a face that combined beauty, dignity and youthfulness. Her skin seemed to glow. Lord Westfield pressed for details.

‘How old is she?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘Less than half my age.’

‘Such a wife would take years off you, my lord.’

‘That’s my hope. Has she been married?’

‘Only once,’ stressed Harling, ‘and her husband died in an accident soon after the wedding. There was no issue. At first, she was overcome with grief. After a decent interval of mourning, however, she is now ready to start her life afresh and she prefers to do it abroad. Denmark has too many unhappy memories for her.’

‘Then I must take her away from them.’

‘That would be viewed as a blessing, my lord.’

‘By me as well as by her.’

He kissed the portrait again. Lord Westfield was a short,
plump man of middle years with a reddish complexion lighting up a round, pleasant face. Thanks to a skilful tailor, his slashed doublet of blue and red gave him a podgy elegance and his breeches cunningly concealed his paunch. He had been married twice before but had outlived both of his wives. Though he led a sybaritic existence that involved the pursuit of a number of gorgeous young ladies, he had now decided that it might be time to wed for the third time.

‘How do you think that Sigbrit would look on my arm, Rolfe?’

‘You will make a handsome couple, my lord,’ flattered Harling.

‘She would be the envy of all my friends.’

‘That thought was in my mind when I chose her.’

‘You have done well, Rolfe.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harling with an obsequious smile. ‘It has taken time, I know, but a decision like that could not be rushed. I did not wish to commit you until I was absolutely convinced.’

‘I would have preferred it if you had actually
seen
Sigbrit.’

‘So would I, my lord, but she was visiting relatives in Sweden when I was there. Her uncle is eminently reliable, I assure you, and I’ve had good reports of the lady from others. Until her marriage, she was a lady-in-waiting at court.’

‘That, in itself, is recommendation enough.’

‘The Dowager Queen likes to surround herself with beauty.’

Lord Westfield beamed. ‘And so do I, Rolfe.’

They were in the house that Lord Westfield used when he was staying in the city. His estates were in Hertfordshire, north of St Albans, close enough to London to allow easy access to and fro yet far enough away to escape the stench and the frequent outbreaks of plague that afflicted the capital. He had been waiting for weeks for the return of Rolfe Harling. Since his reputation for promiscuity was too well-known in England, Lord Westfield had chosen to look elsewhere for a wife and Harling had been dispatched to find a suitable partner for him, searching, as he did, through three other countries before settling on the woman whose portrait he had brought back.

Rolfe Harling was a tall, thin individual in his thirties with long, dark hair and a neat beard. He wore smart but sober apparel and, with his scholarly hunch and prominent brow, he conveyed an impression of intelligence. The fact that he spoke four languages had made him an ideal person for the task in hand.

‘Do you ever regret leaving academic life?’ asked Lord Westfield.

‘Not at all, my lord. Oxford has its appeal but it can seem very parochial at times. Travel has taught me far more than I could learn from the contents of any library.’

‘That depends on where you travel.’

‘Quite so,’ said Harling. ‘As an Englishman, there are some countries that I have no desire to visit – Spain, for instance. I would never have dared to foist a wife from that accursed nation upon you. Spain is our enemy, Denmark our friend.’

‘And likely to remain so.’

‘That, too, was taken into consideration.’

‘You have been diligent on my behalf,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘and I thank you for it. My brother’s death was a bitter blow but it brought a welcome change of fortune to me. Hitherto, I baulked at the idea of asking a woman to share my poverty with me. Now that I can afford to marry again, I will do so in style.’

‘Sigbrit Olsen will not disappoint you. Through her uncle, she makes only one request, and that is for the wedding to be on Danish soil. I was certain that you would abide by that condition.’

‘Gladly. Let her nominate the place.’

‘She has already done so.’

‘Copenhagen?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Harling. ‘The lady prefers her home town. In her native tongue, it is called Helsingor.’

‘And what do we call it in English?’

‘Elsinore.’

Preben van Loew was a very private man who had remained single by choice because of his excessive shyness and because of a lurking fear of the opposite sex. He liked and respected Anne Hendrik, but even she was not allowed to get too close to him. When they returned to her house in Bankside, therefore, he refused her offer to examine the wound and dress it with fresh bandaging. Still in pain, he wanted to get back to his work in the premises adjoining her house in order to put the incident at the Dutch Churchyard out of his mind.

‘You are not well enough to go back to work,’ Anne said.