The Princess of Denmark (20 page)

Their wait was soon over. Feeling the need to relieve himself, Elias put his half-empty tankard on a table and lumbered off towards the door. Ben Ryden nudged his friend.

‘Here he comes,’ he whispered. ‘Get ready.’

Nicholas Bracewell picked up the two cups of wine from the counter then eased his way gently through the crowded taproom to the table in the corner. Anne Hendrik took the drink that he offered her.

‘Thank you, Nick.’

‘We earned this,’ he said, lowering himself on to the stool.

‘Did you have to pay?’

‘Everything is free to Westfield’s Men. We bring in so much business for him that the landlord would like to keep us for a month.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘What a pity he does not own the Queen’s Head as well!’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘To have an agreeable landlord there would be a welcome change for you. The wonder is that you’ve managed to stay so long in Gracechurch Street. Alexander Marwood hates the company. He’s tried to evict you a dozen times before now.’

Nicholas was not listening. Over her shoulder, he had just seen something through the window that made him leap to his feet. As Owen Elias walked across the yard towards the privy, a man came up behind him to deliver a vicious blow to the back of his skull with the butt of a pistol. Nicholas put his wine on the table. He did not ease his way through the press this time. He moved fast and used his elbows to clear a path to the door. When he came into the yard, he saw that Elias’s attacker had dragged him into the stables where a second man was trying to ignite some hay. Unconscious, and with blood oozing from his head wound, Elias was utterly helpless.

The intention was clear. They meant to burn him alive. Without bothering to call for help, Nicholas ran forward and dived at the man who was holding Elias, pulling him away and flinging him against a wall. Josias Greet was momentarily dazed by the impact. Letting out a string of expletives, he then reached for the pistol in his belt but Nicholas was too quick for him. Jumping forward, he grappled with the man and kept banging him against the bare brick. Ben Ryden, meanwhile, had started the fire and was piling fresh hay onto it. The crackling noise put fresh urgency into Nicholas. After exchanging punches with Greet, he brought his knee up hard into his groin and made him gasp. As the man bent forward in agony, Nicholas hit him with a powerful uppercut that sent him tumbling to the ground.

Instinctively, Nicholas swung round. He was just in time to ward off an attack from Ryden, who came hurtling at him with a dagger in his hand. Nicholas moved smartly
sideways to avoid the weapon’s thrust then roughly pushed his attacker away. Rushing to the stable, he tried to stamp out the fire but Ryden came after him. Nicholas threw a handful of burning hay into his face to force him back but it only bought him a few seconds. They circled each other warily and Nicholas wished that he had been wearing his dagger. Elsinore was obviously not as safe as he had imagined. Two men were set on murdering Elias in broad daylight and dispatching Nicholas after him. There was no room for error on the book holder’s part.

Greet was slowly recovering. Still in some pain, he shook his head to clear it then took stock of the situation. Ryden slashed wildly with his dagger but to no effect. Nicholas evaded the weapon nimbly. Ryden backed him against a fence. Smoke was now coming from the stables and the two horses stalled there were protesting with frenzied neighs and loud kicks. Ryden needed to act fast. It was only a matter of time before someone came out of the inn. Feinting with his dagger, he went down on one knee to deliver a murderous thrust that would have ripped Nicholas’s stomach apart. But Nicholas saw it coming and eluded it swiftly, reaching out to grab the wrist that held the weapon. The two men grappled wildly.

Greet was incensed. Climbing to his feet, he pulled the pistol from his belt and tried to aim it at Nicholas but the two bodies kept twisting and turning so rapidly that he could not shoot.

‘Stand aside, Ben,’ he called. ‘I’ll finish him.’

Seeing the danger, Nicholas responded at once, holding his man even tighter and using him as shield against the
accomplice. Greet came forward and tried to pull Ryden away from his target. Nicholas assisted him, promptly letting go of the man and pushing with all his might. Ryden smashed into Greet and sent him flying, there was a loud report as the pistol went off accidentally and the ball lodged in Ryden’s back. Staggering forward, he let out a cry of anguish and put both hands to a wound. Blood spurted everywhere. The commotion brought many curious faces to the door and windows. Greet thought only of escape. He grabbed his stricken companion and hustled him quickly out of the yard into the gathering dusk.

Nicholas was far more interested in saving his friend than in chasing the would-be killers. He snatched up a pail of water that stood beside the well and flung it over Owen Elias to douse the flames that were licking at his clothes. He then handed the pail to the first man who emerged from the inn.

‘Fill it up again!’ he ordered.

‘Yes,’ said the other, gaping at the scene.

‘Be quick, man!’

Taking Elias by the feet, Nicholas dragged him to safety then checked that he was still breathing. When he saw that the Welshman was still very much alive, he went back to the stables and stamped on the burning straw. Other people hurried to help him and, under the onslaught of a dozen feet, the fire was soon contained. A second pail of water put out the last of the flames and it was then possible to calm the frightened horses. Westfield’s Men formed a circle around their fallen colleague, horrified at the sight of the injury to his skull. It was left to Anne Hendrik to bathe and bind up
the wound. When he began to regain consciousness, Elias let out a long groan and put a hand to the back of his head.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘You were attacked by two men,’ said Nicholas. ‘They tried to burn you alive in the stables.’

‘I thought the Danes were friendly people.’

‘They are, Owen. These villains were English.’

Bror Langberg kissed her gently on the forehead and smiled at her.

‘I am glad to see that you have come to your senses, Sigbrit.’

‘I had a long talk with Aunt Johanna,’ she said, turning to her sister, ‘and with Hansi, of course. They persuaded me that I should have no fears about this marriage.’

‘None at all,’ said Hansi.

‘I am beginning to look forward to it, Uncle Bror.’

‘And so you should,’ he said. ‘Had you been in the square this afternoon, you would have seen what a wonderful company you are about to inherit. Westfield’s Men are the toast of Elsinore. They have brought so much merriment to the town.’

‘Good.’

‘On Saturday, they will perform in the castle ballroom.’

‘I still have qualms about that,’ admitted Sigbrit.

‘They will disappear the moment the play begins.’

Langberg was pleased that his niece’s doubts seemed to have been overcome and he was grateful to her sister for the help that she had been given. He now felt able to take more cheering news to the bridegroom. After bidding farewell to
the two women, he went along the corridor with a spring in his step until he came to the apartment set aside for Lord Westfield. When he was admitted, Langberg saw that the chess pieces were in an untidy pile on the table.

‘Rolfe Harling would never have left them like that,’ he noted.

‘No,’ said the other. ‘He kept them neatly in a box.’

‘Everything about him was neat and meticulous.’

‘Have his killers been caught?’

‘Not yet, my lord, but they will be. They will be.’

Langberg studied his guest. Lord Westfield looked more jaded and world-weary than ever. His visit had so far delivered none of the joys that he had expected. All of his natural zest had deserted him.

‘I bring you good tidings,’ said Langberg.

‘Are there such things?’

‘I’ve not long returned from the town, my lord. The performance of
The Wizard Earl
was the finest I have ever seen upon a stage. Since I speak English, I was able to appreciate its full value but even those who could not understand a word of the language, enjoyed it hugely. Your actors floated on a sea of laughter.’

‘Whereas I am becalmed in the shallows,’ said Lord Westfield.

‘Take pride in the achievement of your company.’

‘I always do, Master Langberg. But there are times when comedy strikes a jarring note inside my head. This is one of them.’

‘Then let us see if we can cure you of that discord.’

‘Only one person could do that and she is not here.’

‘She soon will be,’ said Langberg happily. ‘That’s the other news I bring you. Sigbrit sends word. She apologises for being unable to see you and wants you to know that she is feeling markedly better.’

‘That
does
cheer me,’ said the other, shedding his malaise in an instant. ‘Can we meet properly at last?’

‘Sigbrit will dine with you tomorrow, my lord.’

‘Why must I wait until then?’

‘That is her request.’

‘Then I’ll willingly abide by it,’ agreed Lord Westfield. ‘It’s the privilege of a bride to keep her husband waiting and I’ll not cavil at that. Had she felt able to attend the play today, I’d have enjoyed it at her side. As it is, we will watch
The Princess of Denmark
together and she will see what a precious gift I offer her in the form of my theatre company.’

‘Precious and quite unique.’

‘Indeed. They have had the honour of playing before Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth many times.’

‘They will soon perform before a king,’ said Langberg, moving to the door. ‘I wonder if you would care to come with me, my lord? There is something I wish to show you.’

‘Where?’

‘Here in Kronborg. We will not have to leave the castle.’

‘Then I’ll gladly accompany you.’

Opening the door, Langberg took him out and ushered him along the corridor until they reached the end. When they turned at right angles into another passageway, they stopped at the first window. Langberg gestured his companion forward.

‘Behold, my lord.’

‘All that I can see is an empty courtyard.’

‘Look at the window opposite.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one near the corner,’ said Langberg. ‘Do you see her?’

Lord Westfield tingled. ‘Is it Sigbrit?’

‘Who else?’

Pressing his nose against the glass, Lord Westfield stared across the courtyard at the young woman in the window directly opposite. She was some distance away and light was fading but he was still able to recognise her as his bride. Framed in the window, she waved to him and he lifted a hand in acknowledgement. The more he stared, the clearer he could see her. He did not need to take out the portrait this time. Her beauty identified her at once. Doubts that he had felt earlier now disappeared. His gloom and irritation were replaced by a sense of pure joy. There was another treat to come. Putting her hand to her lips, she blew him a kiss across the courtyard. He was enraptured.

‘Sigbrit!’ he murmured. ‘I love you!’

The attempted murder of Owen Elias brought the festivities at the White Hart to a sudden end. Alarmed that such a thing could happen on his premises, the landlord insisted on summoning a surgeon so that the wound could be properly examined, and he also sent for constables. A search of the immediate vicinity began but there was no sign of the two men. Evidently, they had gone to ground somewhere, aided by the fact that it was growing steadily darker.

Westfield’s Men waited until the surgeon had inspected and re-bandaged Elias’s injury. The Welshman was given
a herbal compound to ease his headache and to help him sleep. Nicholas Bracewell assisted him back to the cart and they set out for Kronborg. Once they were safely back in the castle, Lawrence Firethorn stalked off to his apartment with Nicholas and Edmund Hoode in tow.

‘This is intolerable!’ he protested as they entered the room. ‘We have unseen enemies in Denmark. First of all, Rolfe Harling is killed. Today, it was Owen’s turn to be attacked.’

‘The two crimes are not linked,’ said Nicholas.

‘They must be,’ argued Hoode.

‘No, Edmund. It may look like that, I agree, but I ask you to compare the cases in detail.’

‘Two of our number have been attacked, Nick. That’s all the detail I need. Someone has a grudge against Westfield’s Men.’

‘Then why did they single out Master Harling?’ asked Nicholas. ‘He came here with us but not as one of the company. He was simply a friend of our patron. If someone wanted to harm us, they’d have picked another victim.’

‘They did,’ observed Firethorn sharply. ‘Owen Elias.’

‘This has to be the work of the same villains,’ said Hoode.

‘Then why did they wait so long to strike?’ asked Nicholas. ‘We have been here for days. After
Cupid’s Folly,
Owen drank just as heavily at the White Hart as he did today. If the same killers are involved, why did not they assail him then? No,’ he went on, trying to work it out in his mind, ‘these crimes are definitely not connected. Bror Langberg is certain that the two men who stabbed Master
Harling worked as cooks. They fled for their lives. It would be madness for them to lurk in the town when they were being hunted. Would you do so in their situation?’

Hoode pondered. ‘Nick argues well. He is right.’

‘I disagree,’ said Firethorn testily. ‘The coincidence is too great to ignore. We have enemies here. In future, we must stay together and arm ourselves if we go abroad.’

‘There is no need of that, Lawrence,’ said Nicholas.

‘I say that there is.’

‘Then I ask you to look at the way Master Harling was killed.’

‘He was stabbed to death.’

‘Why was Owen not dispatched in the same way?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters a great deal,’ asserted Nicholas. ‘I was a witness when Owen was knocked out with the butt of a pistol. Those ruffians could easily have thrust a dagger through his heart or simply shot him dead. Instead, they wanted him to be burnt alive.’

‘Such a hideous way to die!’ gasped Hoode.

‘Does it remind you of someone else?’

There was a long pause. ‘Will Dunmow.’

‘Exactly,’ decided Nicholas. ‘That’s the explanation here. My guess is that the two men who lay in wait for Owen today were the selfsame villains who ambushed him in London.’