The Princess of Denmark (3 page)

‘I am fully recovered now,’ he told her.

‘Your face belies it, Preben. That stone was thrown hard.’

He gave a pale smile. ‘You do not need to remind me.’

‘If you feel the slightest discomfort, you have my permission to leave at once. Do not tax yourself. Every commission we have has been finished ahead of time. You are under no compulsion.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And when you do want the dressing changed, come to me.’

‘I will,’ he said.

But she knew that he was unlikely to do so. He had such a strong sense of independence that he hated to rely on anyone else, especially a woman. Preben van Loew was an odd character. When he had been struck on the head, he was less concerned with the searing agony than with the embarrassment he felt at having been attacked in Anne’s presence. Having set out that morning as her protector, it was he who now needed protection. It was an affront to his pride.

‘Do not tell them about this in Amsterdam,’ he requested.

‘But they will all ask after you, Preben.’

‘Tell them that I am well.’

‘But you are not,’ she said.

‘I want them to hear only good news about me. If they know about the attack, my family and friends will only worry about me.’

‘And so they should.’

‘Spare them the anguish,’ he said. ‘Tell them the truth –
that I live a happy life among people I admire, and do a job that I have always loved. I want no fuss to be made of me, Anne.’

Anne became reflective. ‘You sound like Jacob,’ she recalled. ‘During his last illness, when he lacked the strength even to get out of bed on his own, he kept telling me not to cosset him. He hated to put me to the slightest trouble. I was his wife yet he would still not let me pamper him. Can you understand why?’

‘Very easily.’

‘Then you and he are two of a kind.’ She thought about the narrow, dedicated, industrious, almost secret existence that he led and she changed her mind. ‘Well, perhaps not. As for your injury …’

‘These things happen. We just have to accept that.’

‘Well, I’ll not accept it,’ she said with spirit, ‘and neither will Nick. You saw how angry he was when we told him about it.’

‘But there was no need to do so, Anne. It’s far better to remain silent. All that I had was a bang on the head. Think of the problems that Nicholas is facing after that fire,’ he said. ‘You should not have bothered him with this scratch that I picked up.’

‘It was much more than a scratch, Preben.’

‘It will heal in time.’

‘Someone deserves to be punished.’

‘We do not know who he was.’

‘Nick will find out.’

‘How can he?’ asked the old man. ‘He was not even there.’

‘Perhaps not, but he cares for you, Preben. That’s why he took such an interest in the case.’

‘I’d rather he forget it altogether.’

‘Then you do not know Nick Bracewell,’ she said proudly. ‘If his friends are hurt, he’s not one to stand idly by. You may choose to forget the outrage but he will not. Sooner or later, Nick will make someone pay for it. You will be avenged.’

After toiling away for most of the morning with the others, Nicholas Bracewell left the Queen’s Head to call on their patron. Lord Westfield liked to be kept informed about his troupe and this latest news would brook no delay. Having cleaned himself up as best he could, therefore, Nicholas made his way to the grand house he had often visited in the past. In times of crisis for Westfield’s Men – and they seemed to come around with increasing regularity – the book holder always acted as an intercessory between the company and its epicurean patron. He had far more tact than Lawrence Firethorn and none of the actor’s booming self-importance. As a result of Nicholas’s long association with the company, Lord Westfield appreciated the book holder’s true worth. It made him the ideal messenger.

The servant who admitted him to the house was not impressed with his appearance but, as soon as he gave the name of the visitor to his master, he was told to bring him into the parlour at once. Nicholas was accordingly ushered into the room and found Lord Westfield, sitting in a chair, scrutinising a miniature that he held in his palm. It was moments before the patron looked up at him.

‘Nicholas,’ he said with unfeigned cordiality. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘What brings you to my house this time?’

‘Sad tidings.’

‘Oh?’

‘There has been a fire at the Queen’s Head.’

‘A serious one?’

‘Serious enough,’ said Nicholas.

He gave Lord Westfield a detailed account of what had happened, speculating on the probable cause of the blaze and emphasising the dire consequences for the company. To Nicholas’s consternation, their patron was only half-listening and he appeared to be less interested in the fate of the troupe that bore his name than he was in the portrait at which he kept glancing. When he had finished his tale, the visitor had to wait a full minute before Lord Westfield even deigned to glance up at him.

‘Is that all, Nicholas?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Sad tidings, indeed.’

‘We have been wiped completely from the stage.’

‘And you believe this man started the fire?’

‘It is only a conjecture,’ admitted Nicholas.

‘Then it could just as easily have been arson.’

‘Oh, no, my lord.’

‘But we have jealous rivals,’ Lord Westfield reminded him. ‘They have often tried to bring us down before. Someone employed by Banbury’s Men could have burnt us out of our home.’

‘There is no suggestion of that.’

‘But it is a possibility.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they would not have lit the fire in that part of the inn,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Had someone wanted to inflict real damage on us, they would have started the blaze on the other side of the building so that the rooms where we keep our wardrobe, our scenery and our properties would have been destroyed. Without all that, we would be unable to stage a play anywhere.’

‘A fair point,’ conceded the other.

‘The seat of the fire was in Will Dunmow’s bedchamber. That much is certain. It was started by accident.’

‘Accident or design, Banbury’s Men will applaud the result.’

‘There is nothing we can do to stop them,’ said Nicholas. ‘They and our other rivals will gloat over our misfortune. That is why I came to you, Lord Westfield.’

‘Go on.’

‘We are hoping that you may lighten our burden.’

‘In what way?’

‘It may be possible for us to play at the Rose on rare occasions but that will hardly keep our name before the public. You have many friends, my lord. In the past, you have been kind enough to commend us to them and we have been invited to play in their homes.’

‘True.’

‘May we prevail upon you to do so again, please?’

Lord Westfield gazed down at the miniature again and
went off into a trance. Nicholas tried to catch his attention by clearing his throat noisily but the other man did not even hear him. He was far too preoccupied. The book holder grew steadily more annoyed. He had just brought terrible news about Westfield’s Men yet all that their patron could do was to ignore him. At length, Lord Westfield did raise his eyes, blinking when he realised that he had company.

‘Did you want something, Nicholas?’ he said.

‘Yes, my lord. I begged a favour of you.’

‘Ah, yes. You wanted to be recommended to my friends.’

‘We would be most obliged,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘Actors like Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill will always be in demand for private performances, and Owen Elias can sing sweetly enough to make a living at it. But for most of the company, that fire is the road to penury and suffering. If you could find us work from those in your circle, you would lessen that suffering. May we count on you to do that, my lord?’

‘No,’ said the other flatly.

Nicholas was taken aback. ‘No?’

‘I would not even consider it, Nicholas.’

‘As you wish, my lord – though I find your decision surprising.’

‘It was made for me,’ said Lord Westfield, getting up from his chair and coming across to him. He held out the miniature. ‘Look at this, please.’ Nicholas hesitated. ‘Go on – take it.’

The book holder did as he was told. He studied the portrait and wondered why it held such fascination for the other. Lord Westfield watched him carefully.

‘Well?’ he prompted.

‘It is well painted, my lord. The limner knows his trade.’

‘Forget the artist. Consider only his subject.’

‘The lady is very beautiful,’ observed Nicholas.

‘Is that all you have to say about her?’

‘What else is there to say except that she is young, well-favoured and of high birth? She has great poise and charm, my lord. Who the lady is, I do not know, but I think that she might well hail from a Scandinavian court.’

Lord Westfield was pleased. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘This is not an English face,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I’ll wager that you will not find any of the ladies at court with their hair worn like this. The limner has painted a foreigner.’

‘You are very perceptive.’

‘I do have an advantage, my lord.’

‘Advantage?’

‘Yes,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘There have been occasions when I’ve worshipped at the Dutch Church in Broad Street. It does not only serve the needs of those from the Low Countries. Other nations are also represented – Germans, Swedes, Norwegians – and you learn to pick out the differences between them.’

‘And what does this tell you?’ said the other, taking the portrait back so that he could feast his eyes on it once more. ‘This dear lady is the reason that I will not let my company spend their talents in the draughty halls of my friends. Where does she come from, Nicholas?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Answer the question – it’s important to me.’

‘Then I return to my first guess,’ said Nicholas, still
mystified. ‘What you hold in your hand is a Scandinavian aristocrat. If you force me to name a country, I will do so.’

‘Then name it.’

‘Denmark.’

Lord Westfield shook with laughter. Slapping his visitor on the back by way of congratulation, he thrust the portrait in front of Nicholas’s gaze once more.

‘You have hit the mark,’ he said jubilantly. ‘This is no English beauty. She transcends anything that we could produce here. You are looking at a veritable saint. Her name is Sigbrit Olsen – a princess of Denmark!’

Though they worked extremely hard to clear the debris from the inn yard, they neither expected nor received any thanks from Alexander Marwood. Westfield’s Men knew the landlord too well to look for any sign of gratitude from him, still less for any reward. Pessimistic by nature, Marwood was plunged into despair, seeing the end of the world foreshadowed in the destruction wrought by the fire. Instead of planning to rebuild his inn, he was mentally composing his will. The taproom of the Queen’s Head was virtually unscathed but the troupe did not even consider retiring there at the end of their exhausting labours. Marwood still blamed the troupe for the disaster and neither he, nor his flint-hearted wife, Sybil, would serve them. The actors therefore walked up Gracechurch Street to the Black Horse, a smaller and less comfortable tavern but one where they were at least guaranteed a warm welcome.

Seated at a table, three of the leading members of
the company picked away desultorily at their food and discussed their prospects. They looked bleak. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode were not the only sharers but it was they who customarily made all the major decisions affecting Westfield’s Men. Hoode, playwright and actor, felt that, in this case, the decision had been made for them.

‘We must disband until next year,’ he said gloomily.

‘That would be fatal, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘We must stick together at all costs or the company will lose heart. Who knows? There may be room for us at The Rose from time to time, and we may even have the opportunity to perform at court in due course.’

‘Neither outcome is likely,’ said Gill with a dismissive flick of his hand. ‘The Rose already has its resident company and we will hardly be invited to play at court if we disappear from sight. We have to be seen on stage in order to catch the eye.’

‘Barnaby is right,’ agreed Hoode. ‘To all intents and purposes, Westfield’s Men have ceased to exist.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, banging the table.

‘We have nowhere to perform, Lawrence.’

‘There may be another inn ready to help us out.’

‘We’ve never managed to find one before. The Queen’s Head is our home. When people hear the name, they think of us.’

‘And so they should,’ said Firethorn, thrusting out his jaw. ‘I’ve given some of my finest performances on the boards there. And you have helped me to do so, Edmund. Your plays have inspired me to reach the very peak of my art.’

‘What about me?’ asked Gill peevishly.

‘You frolic down in the foothills.’

‘I surpass you in everything I do, Lawrence.’

‘You surpass me in pulling faces, dancing jigs and singing bawdy songs, that much I grant you. As a tragedian, however, I cannot be matched in the whole of Christendom.’

‘Your modesty becomes you,’ said Gill waspishly.

‘Where would the company be without me?’

‘Better off in every way.’

‘It could certainly spare
your
meagre talents, Barnaby.’

‘Stop this argument,’ said Hoode, taking his usual role as the peacemaker. ‘You two never agree but you fall to quarrelling. The truth is that all of us – whatever our talents – have been put out of work by this fire.’ He chewed the last of his meal meditatively. ‘What does Nick say?’

‘What does it matter?’ countered Gill sharply. ‘You seem to forget that Nicholas is merely a hired man with no real standing in the company. It is
we
who decide policy, not the book holder.’

‘Nevertheless, his advice is always sound.’

‘Not in this case,’ said Firethorn with a sigh. ‘Nick thought that we should take to the road and hawk our plays around England.’

‘I’ll not turn peddler for anyone,’ said Gill defiantly.

‘You’ve done so before.’

‘Only under duress – and only in spring or summer.’

‘Strolling players are on tour throughout the year,’ noted Hoode. ‘They take no account of bad weather.’

Gill was insulted. ‘We are not strolling players, Edmund,’ he said huffily. ‘We are members of a licensed company. We
have a patron and wear his livery. That sets us worlds apart from the ragamuffins who call themselves strolling players.’

‘For once, I agree with Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have high standards and we must never fall below them. As for touring, it’s the wrong time of the year to walk at the cart’s arse.’

‘I dispute that,’ said Hoode. ‘If we have no audience in London, we must go in search of one. We can brave a little rain for the sake of keeping our art in good repair.’

‘I refuse to stir an inch from London,’ declared Gill with finality.

‘Then we’ll have to go without you.’

‘I’ll not allow it.’

‘I side with Barnaby on this,’ said Firethorn. ‘In another month, it will not only be rain that will harass us. Frost, fog and freezing cold will hold us up. Roads will be like swamps. Rivers will be swollen. Icy winds will get into our very bones.’

‘Stop it, Lawrence,’ ordered Gill. ‘My teeth chatter already.’

He pushed away the remnants of his dinner and reached for his wine. His companions fell silent. The despondent atmosphere that hung over the table pervaded the whole taproom. Actors sagged in their seats or conversed in muted voices. There was none of the happy banter that normally invigorated them. For the sharers – those with a financial stake in the company and who therefore enjoyed a share of its profits – the future was cheerless. For the hired men – jobbing actors employed for individual plays – it was far worse. Being out of work was a form of death sentence for
them. With no wages to sustain them, and with a harsh winter ahead, many would fall by the wayside.

The sense of dejection was almost tangible. Nicholas Bracewell noticed it as soon as he entered the inn. He collected a few nods and words of greeting but none of the raillery for which the actors were famed. When he stopped beside Firethorn’s table, he was met with blank stares from all three men seated around it.

‘I’ve been to see Lord Westfield,’ he announced.

‘Did you tell him that his company is posthumous?’ asked Gill. ‘For that is what we are now – mere ghosts that no longer have any corporeal shape or function.’

‘Speak for yourself, Barnaby,’ chided Firethorn. ‘I am no ghost but a flesh and blood titan. All that I lack is a stage on which to unleash my power.’ He looked at the newcomer. ‘Find a seat, Nick, and tell us the worst. Was our patron shocked by the news?’

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, bringing an empty stool to the table and lowering himself onto it. ‘Lord Westfield was not shocked.’

‘Horror-struck, then?’

‘No, Lawrence.’

‘Alarmed?’

‘Not even that.’

Hoode was puzzled. ‘Lord Westfield is not insensible,’ he said. ‘When you told him about the fire at the Queen’s Head, he must have expressed
some
emotion.’

‘He did, Edmund.’

‘Anguish – fear – disappointment?’

‘None of those things.’

‘I do not believe it,’ said Gill irritably. ‘You’ll be telling us next that he was glad his company were driven out of their home by the blaze. Let’s have no more of this jest, Nicholas. It’s in poor taste.’

‘It’s no jest, I assure you,’ Nicholas promised. ‘Our patron was sad that we had been evicted from the Queen’s Head but he was far from crestfallen. He saw it as an Act of God.’

‘Except that God, in this instance, went by the name of Will Dunmow for it was
he
who started the fire that ruined us. Act of God, indeed!’ said Gill, clicking his lips. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’

‘Lord Westfield thinks otherwise.’

‘Was he not even upset at our loss?’ said Firethorn.

‘To some degree.’

‘Does he
want
us swept from the boards?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Nicholas, ‘but, given the situation, he is quick to take advantage of it.’

‘Advantage!’ howled Firethorn. ‘What advantage?’

‘I see none,’ said Gill. ‘You are teasing us, Nicholas.’

‘I would never do that,’ said the book holder.

‘Then stop speaking in riddles,’ urged Hoode. ‘The troupe is a credit to our patron. We bear his name and proclaim his status. Since we are the best company in London, we add lustre to Lord Westfield. Can he sit calmly by and watch all that cast away?’

‘No, Edmund,’ said Nicholas. ‘He would never do that. He has our best interests at heart.’

‘Then why is he not as downcast as the rest of us?’

‘For two reasons.’ He took a deep breath before
imparting the news. ‘First, Lord Westfield is to marry.’

Firethorn was astounded. ‘Marry?’ he exclaimed. ‘That old goat? Why does he need to take another wife when he can enjoy all the pleasures of marriage without one?’

‘I did not know that there
were
any pleasures in marriage,’ said Gill, a man who looked upon any relations between the two sexes with a jaundiced eye. ‘The love of man for man is the only source of true happiness.’

‘How would you know, Barnaby? The only man you ever loved is yourself. You’ve spent a whole lifetime courting mirrors. But no more of that,’ he went on, turning back to Nicholas. ‘Are you in earnest?’

‘Never more so,’ said the other.

‘Who is the lady?’

‘Her name is Sigbrit Olsen.’

‘A foreigner?’

‘She lives in Denmark and comes from good family.’

‘Whatever possessed him to marry a Dane?’

‘She is a lady of exceptional beauty. I saw her portrait.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Still young, Lawrence.’

‘I can understand Lord Westfield pursuing
her
,’ said Hoode, ‘but what does he have to offer a Danish beauty? Nobody could call him handsome and he relishes every vice in the city.’

‘Not all of them,’ murmured Gill to himself.

‘He means to mend his ways,’ said Nicholas. ‘As to what must have attracted her, I would have thought it was obvious – he is wealthy since his brother’s death, he has a title and he has us.’

‘Westfield’s Men?’

‘Our reputation goes before us, Edmund. It seems that her uncle – and it is he who has brokered this match – saw us perform when we played at Frankfurt as we travelled across the Continent. He had never forgotten the event and has filled his niece’s ears ever since with tales of our excellence.’

‘That’s gratifying to hear,’ said Firethorn, ‘but the lady is not being asked to wed
us
. She will be sharing a marriage bed with our patron, an ageing voluptuary.’

‘Just like you, Lawrence,’ remarked Gill nastily.

‘I resent that jibe.’

‘Truth is always painful.’

‘Nothing could be more painful than the sight of your repulsive face, Barnaby. It’s a monument to sheer ugliness.’

‘Many people account me well-featured.’

‘Blindness is a terrible handicap.’

‘You are at it again,’ scolded Hoode, pushing them apart with his hands. ‘Forbear, both of you. Listen to Nick. I think he has something very important to tell us.’

‘I do,’ confirmed Nicholas.

‘You said that there were two reasons why Lord Westfield was not as worried as he might have been. What’s the second?’

‘Our loss is his gain, Edmund.’

‘Could you speak more plainly?’

‘You are all very slow to pick up my meaning,’ said Nicholas, amused by their bafflement. ‘In short, the position is this. Since our patron means to marry – and since his future wife is fond of the theatre – he intends to take us with him.’

Firethorn gaped. ‘Take us where, Nick?’

‘To Denmark.’

‘Is that where the wedding will be held?’

‘Yes, Lawrence. At Kronborg castle in Elsinore.’

‘That’s hundreds and hundreds of miles away,’ complained Gill.

‘It matters not. We are offered work.’

‘But only after an interminable journey.’

‘Why must you always see only the hazards of an enterprise?’ said Hoode, grinning broadly. ‘This is splendid news. We are to perform at the Danish court.’

‘And we will doubtless be invited to show our skills elsewhere,’ said Nicholas. ‘Remember what we discovered on our other visit to Europe. We have no rivals there. English companies excel all else. If we go to Elsinore, we will be feted.’

‘Then we’ll go, Nick.’

‘Nothing would stop me,’ said Firethorn, elated. ‘Westfield’s Men will be the toast of Denmark. We’ll tell you of our many triumphs when we return, Barnaby.’

Gill was disconcerted. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You will be discarded from the company.’

‘But I’ve every right to go.’

‘Earlier on, you said that you refused to stir from London.’

‘True,’ admitted Gill, ‘and I still have qualms about this new venture. But, then, it has its undeniable attractions. A court is my natural home. I flourish before royalty.’

‘We will all flourish,’ said Firethorn, leaping to his feet to address the whole room. ‘Do you hear that, lads?’ he yelled.
‘Cast off your misery. Order more drink. Lord Westfield is to marry and we will perform a play to celebrate the occasion. Kiss your wives and mistresses goodbye, dear friends. We are going to Denmark!’

Owen Elias was so pleased at the turn of events that he sang to himself in Welsh as he strolled down Gracechurch Street. Chance had contrived their salvation and turned unhappiness into sheer joy. He was still exercising his rich baritone voice as he turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head. When he confronted the scene of destruction once more, however, the ditty died on his lips. Because of the concerted efforts of the company, much of the debris had been burnt or taken away but enough still remained to bring him to a halt. Instead of looking at one side of the inn, he was staring over piles of rubble at the houses beyond. It was dispiriting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement and swung round to see the landlord shuffling towards him with a stranger. The other man was in his forties, tall, stooping and in need of a walking stick. From his appearance, Elias could tell that he was a man of substance. He wore a smart brown suit, a fine hat and he had an air of prosperity about him.

‘You come upon your hour, Master Elias,’ said Marwood. ‘This gentleman has come in search of a friend who stayed here last night.’