The Princess of Denmark (24 page)

‘That’s what Uncle Bror told me.’

‘Then pay heed to what he says. Left to yourself, you would simply mourn your first husband and spend your days in lonely isolation. In England, you will have a new life. It will be such an adventure for you, Sigbrit. And the person you have to thank for it all is Uncle Bror.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Sigbrit, smiling. ‘He has been my salvation.’

Nicholas Bracewell needed proof. It was one thing to expose an act of duplicity and rescue Lord Westfield from marrying the wrong person, but it would be far more difficult to establish the purpose that lay behind the deception. In doing that, he believed, he would also solve the murder of Rolfe Harling. Looking back, Nicholas saw that Bror Langberg had been altogether too helpful. He had discussed the crime at length with the book holder then taken him to Harling’s room and allowed him to search it. The only reason he had done that, Nicholas now realised, was that he knew there would be nothing to find. Anything that might suggest a motive for his death had already been removed. If anywhere, it would be hidden in Langberg’s apartment.

A decoy was required and Lawrence Firethorn was the ideal choice. Instructed by Nicholas, he called on Langberg and took him off to the ballroom, claiming that certain practical problems had come to light during the afternoon’s rehearsal and asking for advice. As soon as the two men vanished around a corner, Nicholas came out of his hiding
place behind a large, ornate, oak cupboard that stood in the corridor. He entered the apartment quickly and closed the door behind him. He had no doubt where anything of value was kept.

Pulling out his dagger, he went across to the chest he had seen on his earlier visit. Reinforced with strips of iron, it had two large padlocks to keep out intruders. By deft use of the point of his dagger, Nicholas managed to prise open one of the locks but the other would not budge. He resorted to violence. Kicking hard with his heel several times, he loosened the clasp attached to the padlock then he inserted his weapon at the weakest point and used it as a lever. By applying steady pressure, he made the lock twist, squeak in protest then fall to the ground as the clasp was finally forced out of the wood.

The chest was open. He stood a candle on the shelf above it so that he could see more clearly. Lifting the lid, he was confronted by a mass of papers, some bags of money and an ornamental sword. On top of the papers was a small leather satchel that he recognised as having belonged to Rolfe Harling. He took it out. Inside was a mass of letters and documents. Nicholas went through them with painstaking thoroughness. Some were in Danish, even more in German, but the ones that interested him were in English.

When he saw the name of Bror Langberg at the bottom of the first missive, he read it eagerly but its contents disappointed him. The letter simply expressed thanks that Harling had taken the trouble to visit Denmark in order to discuss a possible marriage and told him that preparations would soon be in hand at Kronborg. The writer’s command
of English was good but his grammar was rather strange at times. Nicholas found that surprising. Having spoken to Langberg a number of times, he knew what a mastery of the language the man possessed.

When he read the second letter, the same pattern was repeated. Beyond the grammatical errors, there was nothing that could arouse the slightest suspicion. The truth then dawned with the force of a blow. Nicholas was not looking at one letter but at two. The trick that Langberg had used with his nieces was repeated in epistolary form. One thing was shown, quite another intended. From his pocket, Nicholas took out the tiny strip of paper that had been found in the chess set. It was the secret code. With its help, he saw that he was reading something entirely different. He also understood why the code had been concealed inside the black king. It represented James VI of Scotland, a name that recurred three times in the letter when it was translated.

Nicholas was excited. He had not only found clear proof that Langberg had been involved in the murder of Rolfe Harling, he knew exactly why such trouble had been taken to marry Lord Westfield to a Danish wife. It was disturbing. Langberg had ambitions that went far beyond arranging a match for his niece. Nicholas picked up another letter and discovered, when he deciphered it with the code, that it was even more explicit. He was at once shocked and fascinated by his discovery. So keen was he to look at another letter that he lost all track of time. He was barely halfway through it when the door opened and Bror Langberg came in.

‘What’s this?’ cried Langberg, pulsing with anger. ‘I
should have known that something was up when Master Firethorn asked me all those unnecessary questions.’

‘I’ve a few more pertinent ones to put to you,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll not bandy words with a thief.’

‘A thief is a higher vocation than a murderer.’ He held up the slip of paper. ‘We found the code in Master Harling’s chess set. It helped me to see the monster that you are.’

‘Be quiet!’

‘There’ll be no wedding now. Lord Westfield has been told the truth. You showed him one niece so that you could marry him off to her sister. Like everything else that bears your name,’ said Nicholas, ‘the marriage is fraudulent.’

‘I’ll hear no more of this,’ shouted Langberg, pushing past him to reach into the chest. He pulled out the ornamental sword. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, taking it from its jewelled sheath. ‘It’s the highest honour that Denmark can bestow. It was given to me by the late King Frederick for outstanding services to the state.’

‘Did they include your plan to assassinate our queen?’

‘Silence!’

‘I cannot believe that Rolfe Harling would condone such a plot,’ said Nicholas, backing away. ‘Is that why you had him killed?’

Langberg bristled. ‘You know far too much for your own good, Master Bracewell.’

‘I know that he was not murdered by two cooks from your kitchens. That was another case of deception. Tell me, sir, have you ever done anything honest in your life?’

Langberg was enraged. Leaping forward he swung the sword in a vicious arc, intending to slice off Nicholas’s head. The latter ducked just in time, letting the blade pass harmlessly above him. He then pulled out his dagger and parried the wild slashes and thrusts that followed. But he could not do that indefinitely. Langberg was a powerful man with a superior weapon. He was bent on murder. Nicholas had to escape quickly. As he dodged and weaved around the room, he suddenly dived for the chest and picked up a handful of documents, flinging them hard into Langberg’s face confuse him for an instant.

Nicholas seized his chance. He opened the door and ran into the corridor but Langberg had not come alone. Two armed guards were stationed outside the door and they grabbed Nicholas between them, pinning him against the wall. He fought back to no avail. They had too strong a grip on his arms. Still holding the sword, Langberg sauntered into the corridor with a malevolent grin. He was not going to be bested by a hired man from a theatre company. He held the point of the sword against Nicholas’s throat and was about to jab it hard when a woman’s voice cried out.

‘Uncle Bror,’ said Sigbrit in alarm. ‘What are you doing?’

Langberg was baulked. His niece was walking down the corridor towards him. He could not commit murder in front of her. Letting the sword fall to his side, he turned a reassuring smile on her and mumbled an excuse. Sigbrit stared at him in horror. Out of the corner of his mouth, he gave an order to the guards.

‘Lock him in the dungeon,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with him later.’

After long hours in rehearsal, Westfield’s Men were relaxing that evening in their hut, drawing themselves free tankards of beer from the cask and deciding that the effort of reaching Elsinore had been more than worth it. Some played cards, others waged money in games of dice and the rest indulged in friendly badinage. None of them were prepared for what happened next. Flinging open the door, Lawrence Firethorn burst in and barked a command.

‘Come with me, lads,’ he yelled. ‘Nick has been arrested.’

‘Why?’ asked Owen Elias.

‘I’ll explain on the way. Hurry up – there’s no time to waste. Bring whatever weapons you have.’

‘Weapons? Are we going to fight?’

‘If need be, Owen.’ The actors were on their feet immediately, reaching for swords and daggers. ‘Follow me,’ said Firethorn, going out, ‘and stay close together. They can’t kill the whole lot of us.’

With the others at his heels, he marched across the forecourt and went through one of the gateways into the main courtyard. Elias ran to catch him up.

‘Whatever’s happened, Lawrence?’

‘We’ve all been mightily abused,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Lord Westfield was brought here under false pretences and the villain who did it was Bror Langberg.’

‘But he’s been the perfect host.’

‘That was just a guise, Owen. He’s a black-hearted rogue who had Rolfe Harling murdered. Nick went to search his room for evidence and was caught before he could get away. I saw guards taking him to the casemates.’

‘That’s where Master Harling was found.’

‘Exactly.’

As they surged across the courtyard, most of them had heard what Firethorn had said. They were roused to a pitch of anger. If their book holder were in danger, they would do everything in their power to rescue him. They gave an early demonstration of intent. Two guards stood beside the steps that led to the casemates. When they crossed their pikes to stop anyone passing, they were grabbed by the actors and thrown rudely aside. Westfield’s Men went into the casemates in a solid body, picking their way through the cavernous interior by the light of torches they stole from their brackets. Finding anyone in the bewildering maze of tunnels was not easy but Firethorn knew how to do it. He filled his lungs then bellowed at the top of his voice.

‘
NICK
!
WHERE ARE YOU
?’

‘Here!’ came a reply from Nicholas. ‘I’m over here, Lawrence.’

Guided by the voice, they hurried down a passage to the left until they came to section of the casemates that widened out into a square. Across one corner, a series of iron bars had been fixed to the walls, creating a triangular dungeon. Nicholas Bracewell was in it. The two guards who put him there were waiting with Bror Langberg. When they saw a dozen armed men coming at them, they drew back.

‘Stay away!’ warned Langberg. ‘There are hundreds of men in the garrison. I could have you all hacked to pieces.’

‘You’d die before us,’ said Firethorn, using his sword to force the man back against the bars. He looked at the prisoner. ‘Are you hurt, Nick?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I soon would have been.’

‘Give that here,’ demanded Elias, snatching a key from one of the guards. He unlocked the door of the cage. ‘Come on out, Nick.’

‘Thank you, Owen.’

‘Our turn to save you for a change.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, stepping out of the dungeon. ‘And you were never more welcome.’

The sound of running feet made him look up. Hearing the noise from the dungeon, almost thirty armed soldiers had come to investigate. When they saw what was happening, they stood in a double line to block the exit. Langberg emitted a laugh of triumph.

‘I think that you are outnumbered, Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘Stand back!’ Firethorn ordered the soldiers, ‘or I’ll put this sword through his heart.’

‘Certain death would follow for the whole pack of you.’

‘At least I would have the pleasure of taking you with us.’

‘You are beaten, man,’ said Langberg, gloating. ‘Have the sense to admit it. Nothing can save you now.’

Even as he spoke, a long, strident fanfare rang out from the Trumpeter’s Tower, muffled by the casemates but audible enough for all of them to recognise what it signalled.

‘The king!’ exclaimed Langberg. ‘I must bid him welcome.’

‘Then we’ll go with you,’ said Firethorn, slipping his dagger into Nicholas’s hand so that he could hold a weapon against their prisoner as well. ‘Tell them to stand aside.’

With a sword at his throat and a dagger at his back,
Langberg waved an arm to his men and the soldiers moved reluctantly out of the way. Firethorn and Nicholas pushed him forward, holding him tightly. Followed by the soldiers, the actors took a tortuous route back to the exit, glad to get out of the casemates again. When they climbed the steps into the courtyard, they were met by a blaze of light that surrounded the visitors. Dozens of torches were aflame. In the middle of them, adorned in bright attire and striking an imperious pose, was King Christian IV with his personal bodyguard.

As he saw them all emerge from the casemates, the king was astonished. Firethorn and Nicholas felt obliged to release their prisoner. In the presence of the king, they had to show deference. Langberg beamed. He was safe. He spread his arms wide.

‘Welcome to Kronborg, Your Majesty,’ he said with a bow. ‘You could not have come at more appropriate time.’

‘Arrest that man,’ snapped the King. ‘He’s a traitor.’

Members of his bodyguard promptly seized Bror Langberg and pinioned his arms behind him. When he tried to speak, he was clubbed into silence. Westfield’s Men were saved.

The Princess of Denmark
was performed in the ballroom on Saturday night after all but not in celebration of any wedding. It was at the command of King Christian IV, the young monarch with a love of the arts and a respect for English actors. Lord Westfield sat beside him in the audience, grateful that he had been rescued from an unfortunate marriage and able to take an especial delight
in the skills of his company. There were notable absentees from the ballroom. Bror Langberg was held in the dungeon while his wife and Hansi Askgaard, accomplices in the plot, were locked in their respective apartments. Completely innocent herself, Sigbrit Olsen was shocked to learn of their perfidy, and appalled at the way that she was being used for political ends. She could not bear to attend a play that had been inspired partly by her.

Since the drama now had a different purport, Edmund Hoode changed the names of its principal characters to Harald and Sophie, removing all hint of their patron and his intended bride. In its first performance, therefore,
The Princess of Denmark
was seen for what it was, a sparkling comedy set in the castle at Elsinore, replete with fine poetry, poignant romance, comic brilliance, lively dances and a plot that held them all firmly together with invisible strength. The spectators were captivated throughout, none more so than the King, who laughed in the wrong places at times but who was thrilled by the performance. Edmund Hoode had even included a reference to him in the concluding lines of the Epilogue. Owen Elias declaimed them with great feeling.