The Princess of Denmark (25 page)

The galliard with which the play ended spilt out onto the marble floor and the actors whirled within feet of their
audience. Applause reverberated the length of the whole room. King Christian IV, the Christian king, clapped until his hands were sore.

Westfield’s Men took their bows with particular pleasure. They were relieved to have the opportunity to stage a play on which they had spent so much time, and they put their hearts and souls into it. The whole company knew how close they had come to disaster and their performance was, to some extent, a visible sign of gratitude to the king who had averted it. No wedding might have taken place but the feast was nevertheless held after the play and the actors were invited to join in the celebrations. It was a fitting end.

Owen Elias’s head wound still throbbed but it had not stopped him from giving a commendable performance as Peder Mikkelson, pickpocket and itinerant ballad singer, a loveable rogue who made the ladies titter at his lewd behaviour. Before too much drink robbed him of coherent thought, the Welshman wanted clarification from Nicholas Bracewell, who sat beside him at the feast.

‘Why exactly was Bror Langberg arrested?’ he asked.

‘How much do you know already, Owen?’

‘Only that our patron was being hoodwinked. He was given a portrait of a woman that he was never going to marry.’

‘A beautiful woman at that,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve seen her.’

‘What of her sister? Is she ugly?’

‘Not in the least but her face would never have brought Lord Westfield all the way to Denmark. I’ve spoken with
the lady.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘The irony is that Sigbrit Olsen never wanted to get married to anyone. Her uncle talked her into it.’

‘But why, Nick?’

‘To achieve his ends. He needed somewhere in England from which his confederates could work. They would have gone there as attendants to our patron’s bride. Lord Westfield is often at court,’ said Nicholas, ‘and, as a result, is very much aware of Her Majesty’s movements. That information would have been crucial.’

Elias was scandalised. ‘They meant to kill Queen Elizabeth?’

‘Bror Langberg wanted her out of the way so that King James of Scotland could succeed. Her Majesty is old but in good health. If they wait for her to die, it might take years and he feared that another claimant might find favour in the meantime.’

‘So they assassinate a queen for the sake of a Scottish king.’

‘He has a Danish wife, Owen.’

‘Ah! So that’s the rub.’

‘Bror Langberg is a close friend of hers,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Were she and her husband to sit on English thrones, he could look for great rewards from her.’

‘Was this plot first hatched in Scotland then?’

‘No, King James and his wife are completely unaware of it.’

‘Then how did King Christian learn about it?’ asked Elias. ‘When he arrived here, he called Master Langberg a traitor.’

‘He was set to betray the honour of Denmark,’ said Nicholas. ‘In raising a hand against Queen Elizabeth, he would have been attacking a true friend of this country. The king had suspicions of him for some time. Letters that were sent to from here to Flushing were intercepted. They were addressed to Rolfe Harling but intelligencers seized them and broke the cipher. Now I understand why Master Harling was so eager to call in at Flushing on our way here,’ he decided. ‘He did not want such dangerous correspondence to go astray. Unbeknown to him, it had already been seized.’

‘I never liked that dried fish of a man,’ said Elias. ‘If Rolfe Harling was part of this conspiracy, the villain deserved to die.’

‘He was working as a spy for Sir Robert Cecil and found that he and Master Langberg had similar ambitions. Both wanted a Danish queen in England. The difference was,’ Nicholas said over the babble of voices around him, ‘that he was prepared to let Her Majesty die a natural death. When he refused to condone assassination, he was killed outright because he was in a position to reveal Bror Langberg’s plot.’ He paused to sip his wine. ‘My own suspicions were aroused when Lord Westfield told me how he had come to meet his friend. It was through the offices of Sir Robert Cecil, a man who keeps a small army of intelligencers. Master Harling was one of them.’

‘A filthy spy, was he?’ said Elias with contempt. ‘Never trust a man who prefers chess to women, Nick. It’s a game that perverts the mind. As for our patron,’ he went on, glancing towards the end of the table where Lord Westfield
was laughing merrily beside the king, ‘he must learn to choose his friends with more care – and his wives.’

‘I’m sure that he knows that.’

‘So what happens now, Nick?’

‘We’ve seen the last of Denmark for a while,’ said Nicholas, looking around at the happy faces of the actors. ‘The company has prospered from the three plays that we presented, and we made many admirers, but I cannot say that I am sorry to leave. Tomorrow, we board the
Cormorant
again. Anne will finally reach Amsterdam and we will head for home.’

Elias cackled. ‘Think of all those broken-hearted women who will welcome me back,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Think instead of the man who has twice tried to kill you.’

‘Oh, I’ve not forgotten him, Nick.’

‘His name is Josias Greet and my guess is that he’s probably sailing to London now. We’ll catch up with him one day.’

When he reached the capital, Isaac Dunmow rode straight to the inn and took a room. He then sent word to Josias Greet and counted out the money while he waited for the man to arrive. A letter from Anthony Rooker had informed him that Greet had returned and claimed to have good news for him. Dunmow had set out from York at once. Instead of dulling his urge for revenge, the passage of time had merely sharpened it. If their mission had been completed, his hired killers deserved their reward.

An hour later, Josias Greet was shown up to the room, almost panting with eagerness. He was carrying a blood stained bag. Taking off his greasy cap, he gave an ingratiating smile.

‘Good day to you, Master Dunmow,’ he said, displaying a row of misshapen teeth. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you in the city again.’

‘Well, I get no pleasure from looking at your vile face. The sooner we settle this matter, the better.’ He regarded his visitor critically. ‘I had a letter from Master Rooker. He says that you’ve done my bidding.’

‘That’s right, sir. Of course, I did not tell him what that bidding was. I obeyed your orders, sir. I simply went to his office and gave him the message that you wanted.’

‘Owen Elias is dead?’

‘As a doornail.’

‘Burnt?’

‘To a cinder.’

‘How do I know?’

‘Because I brought something for you,’ said Greet, opening the bag to take out a charred hand. ‘I cut this from his arm, sir.’

Dunmow stared at the hand with distaste then looked away.

‘Where is Ryden?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that’s the sad part of the tale, sir. He’s dead.’

Greet went on to give a rambling account of the murder of Owen Elias. He claimed that Ben Ryden had been killed when he fought with the Welshman, leaving Greet to overpower and burn Elias. The details he gave
of their voyage and of their brief stay in Elsinore sounded convincing enough but the rest of his story struck a false note. Dunmow scowled at him.

‘You’re lying, you scabby knave,’ he said.

‘I’d swear on the Bible that it’s the truth, sir.’

‘Then your tongue would turn black.’

‘I did as you told me,’ insisted Greet, waving the scorched hand in front of him. ‘Where else could I have got this?’

‘From anyone. How do I know it belonged to Elias?’

‘You have my sacred word.’

Dunmow sneered. ‘You’ve never told the truth in your life.’

‘As God’s my witness, this is his hand.’

‘Get out of here!’

Greet slapped the hand on the table. ‘I want the money.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait until Westfield’s Men come back to England. If Elias is still alive, you’ll not get a penny.’

‘Pay up, sir,’ growled the other. ‘You promised.’

‘What I promised was to pay you and Ben Ryden. That means you get only half of the fee – or none at all, if you failed to kill Elias for the second time.’

‘I want it all, Master Dunmow. I earned it.’

‘We’ll only know that when Westfield’s Men return.’

‘Give it to me!’

‘I give nothing to liars,’ said Dunmow, crossing to open the door. ‘Now clear off before you stink the place out – and take that foul hand with you.’ Greet glowered at him. ‘Go on – get out.’

Greet bowed his head obediently and put the hand into the bag. As he did so, he kept his back to the other man
so that he could take a dagger from his belt. Dunmow would not be fooled. If they waited until Westfield’s Men returned, then Greet’s lies would be exposed and he would get nothing. If he wanted the money, he had to take it now. When he turned to face Dunmow, therefore, he brought his hand upwards with full force, sinking the dagger into his stomach then twisting it sharply to give maximum pain. Isaac Dunmow goggled. He opened his mouth to cry for help but all that came out was a faint gurgle. Grinning with pleasure, Greet continued to twist the blade. It was only when Dunmow fell slowly to the floor that he pulled the dagger out again.

Stepping over his victim, he opened the bag that held the hand and scooped all that money on the table into it. Then he looked down at Isaac Dunmow, still writhing in pain as his lifeblood drained out of him. Greet gave him a gratuitous kick.

‘You should have paid me when I asked,’ he said.

Leaving the inn by the back door, he walked back to his lodging through the crowded streets, knowing that he had enough money to last him for a year. He began to speculate on how he could best spend it. There was no thought of Ben Ryden now. The reward belonged entirely to Josias Greet and he would enjoy it to the hilt. The long walk took him to one of the more squalid areas of the city, a narrow, twisting lane with an open sewer running down the middle of it. When a dog came sniffing at him, he swung the bag to knock it away and it went yelping off down the lane.

Greet entered a tenement and climbed the stairs to his room. Opening the door, he crossed to the bed and emptied
his booty over the soiled mattress. He let out a harsh laugh. Then he heard the door slam shut behind him. Someone had already been in the room.

‘Hello, Josias,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Remember me?’

Greet was horror-struck. ‘No, sir,’ he gabbled. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

‘That’s because you always crept up behind me before – both here in London and in Elsinore.’ He glanced at the mattress. ‘Would that be Ben Ryden’s hand, by any chance?’

‘There’s been a mistake. You have the wrong man.’

‘It was you who made the mistake, Josias Greet – not once, but twice.’ He pulled out his sword. ‘You tried to kill me.’

‘Keep away from me,’ said Greet, moving to the window with his dagger in his hand. ‘I’ll not warn you again.’ As Elias took a step towards him, Greet raised his weapon. ‘Stand back, I say.’

He flung the dagger across the room. Elias ducked out of the way and it flew past him before embedding itself in the door. Greet did not stay. Flinging open the window, he jumped through it and dropped down until he landed in a pile of offal. Before he could move, a hand closed around his neck and forced his back against the wall. Nicholas Bracewell had been waiting to cut off any attempted escape.

‘Stay a while,’ he ordered. ‘We need to talk to you.’

‘What do you want with me?’ jabbered Greet.

‘We have several scores to settle with you. That’s why we came here as soon as we landed. Master Rooker was kind enough to give us your address,’ said Nicholas. ‘You left it with him for Isaac Dunmow, we hear. We came straight to this rat hole to find you.’

Greet tried to break free but Nicholas was far too strong. Owen Elias came out of the house to join them. He looked at the prisoner with absolute disgust then flexed both hands.

‘Let me go,’ pleaded Greet. ‘I have money. I’ll pay you.’

‘Oh, you’ll pay,’ said Nicholas. ‘We can promise that.’

‘Master Dunmow hired us. He is to blame.’

‘You were the one who attacked me,’ said Elias. ‘You and that other villain whose throat you cut back in Elsinore.’

‘I did that as a favour to Ben,’ said Greet. ‘He was in agony.’

‘It’s my turn to do a favour for a friend now,’ said Nicholas. ‘Before we hand you over to a magistrate, Owen would like a private word with you.’ He released Greet. ‘He’s all yours now, Owen.’

Alexander Marwood pointed across the inn yard to the work that had been abandoned by the builders. The main timbers had been erected and the roof had been started, but that was all. There was still much to do before that side of the Queen’s Head could ever be in use again.

‘Look, Master Rooker!’ he cried. ‘This is how they have left it.’

‘That’s of no concern to me,’ said Rooker.

‘But you pay their wages.’

‘I was enjoined to release funds to the builder once a week.’

‘Then why have you stopped? said Marwood. ‘Give them their money and bring them back here.’

‘I’ve no power to do that.’

‘But you must.’ He waved a document in his face. ‘I’ll seek redress in court for this. You are bound by the terms of the contract.’

‘The contract no longer exists,’ said Rooker coldly. ‘It was signed by Isaac Dunmow. When he was murdered, the contract died with him. And I have to say that I am very glad. Now that I know the full details of the bargain that you struck, I wish that I’d never been involved in it. You are a disgrace, sir.’

Marwood was offended. ‘I deny that charge.’

‘Isaac Dunmow sent hired ruffians after Westfield’s Men. One of them returned to kill him. I have no love of actors,’ he went on, ‘but they are entitled to the freedom to practise their craft. According to the contract you had with him, you are nothing but a hired ruffian with murder in your heart. You set out to destroy the company as well.’