The Princess of Denmark (6 page)

‘Then why are we taking Barnaby?’

Margery laughed. ‘Do not be so wicked, Lawrence!’

‘Have you spoken to our patron again, Nick?’

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I’ve just come from Lord Westfield’s house, as it happens. He and his servants will sail with us tomorrow on the
Cormorant
– and so will his adviser.’

‘Adviser?’

‘A man named Rolfe Harling. I met him earlier on. It seems that he was responsible for helping to arrange this match. He has been combing Europe for a suitable bride.’

‘I found mine right here in England,’ said Firethorn, slipping an affectionate arm around his wife’s plump waist, ‘and she has been the light of my life. But more of that later,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘I have never heard of Rolfe Harling,’ he admitted, turning back to the book holder. ‘Is he part of Lord Westfield’s circle?’

‘Far from it,’ said Nicholas.

‘Why so?’

‘Because he would look out of place among the other hangers-on. Our patron likes the company of flamboyant young men and powdered young ladies. Rolfe Harling is too sober and diffident a man in every way,’ said Nicholas. ‘He’s quiet, watchful, intelligent. I take him to be a scholar of some sort.’

‘Perchance he is tutoring Lord Westfield in Danish.’

‘Our patron relies heavily on him, I know that.’

‘And we rely heavily on you, Nick.’

‘I would never trust myself to pick out a bride for another man.’

‘When are you going to marry the one you have picked out for yourself?’ asked Margery bluntly. ‘Anne clearly adores you.’

‘And I, her,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘But she prefers to remain a widow for the time being and I respect her wish. A lady should not be rushed into marriage.’

‘I was – and happy to be so.’

‘And what about this Sigbrit Olsen?’ said Firethorn. ‘It seems that she is being taken to the altar at a mad gallop. Lord Westfield has not even met the lady yet he wants to move post-haste to the marriage bed.’

‘It would appear that she is agreeable to the plan.’

‘Then we must abide by it ourselves and perform
The Princess of Denmark
by way of celebration. How does Edmund fare?’

‘Four acts are completed. Even now, he works on the last one.’

‘Changing an old play is swifter work than writing a new one.’

‘Trust him – the piece will be ready in time.’

‘I hope that the same is true of everyone else,’ said Firethorn sternly, ‘for the
Cormorant
will not tarry. It leaves on the morning tide. I know that the others will want to take a fond farewell from their wives and lovers tonight, but we do not want them still sleeping between the thighs of a woman while we sail down the Thames. Did you make that clear to them, Nick?’

‘Crystal clear. The whole company will be there tomorrow.’

‘What of you, Nick? Will you roister with them tonight?’

‘No, I’ll spend a quiet evening in Bankside with Anne. We will have to be up early to get to the quayside.’

‘So will we,’ said Margery. ‘I have a husband, two
children and four apprentices to roust out of bed. I’ll manage it somehow.’

Firethorn chortled. ‘You’ll have us up, washed, dressed and fed long before dawn, my love. If only everyone had someone like you to haul them from their slumbers.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Owen Elias is my real concern.’

‘He’s as eager as any of us to go to Denmark,’ said Nicholas.

‘I do not question his eagerness, Nick. What troubles me is the way that he’ll spend the night. Owen is a Welsh mountain goat. The rest of us – except Barnaby, that is – are content to lie in the arms of one woman. Owen will seek out three or four and swear undying love to each. Do you see why I worry?’ he asked. ‘What state will he be in in the morning?’

Owen Elias was determined to enjoy his last night in London. In the company of James Ingram and Frank Quilter, two other actors who would be going to Denmark, he spent a couple of riotous hours in the Black Horse, drinking his fill. Aware of the passage of time, he then peeled off from his friends and strutted off towards the first house he intended to visit that night. A buxom young woman was awaiting him, her appetite whetted by the fact that she might not see him again for some time. Elias planned to spend an hour or so with her before rolling on to his second port of call. He was so elated at the thought of what lay ahead that he did not hear the footsteps behind him or sense any danger.

The attack came when he turned down an alleyway.
Seizing their moment, the two men who had been trailing him ran forward and started to belabour him with cudgels. Taken unawares, Elias was beaten hard around the head and shoulders. He put up his arms to protect himself and spun round to face his attackers. Two brawny men were flailing away with their cudgels, trying to knock him senseless. One blow opened a gash above his eye, another sent blood cascading down from his nose.

Elias surged with anger. He was a powerful man and he fought back with fury. Ducking and weaving, he managed to catch one of the cudgels in his hand and wrested it from the grasp of the man who had been holding it. With a weapon of his own, he was not such an easy target. The second man continued to strike at him but Elias was able to parry the blows with his own cudgel, punching at his attacker with the other fist. Swerving out of the way of another murderous blow, he kicked the man in the groin and made him double up in pain. Elias increased his victim’s agony by rapping him hard on the skull with his cudgel and making blood spurt out.

The first man was not finished. Deprived of his cudgel, he drew a sword and tried to run the Welshman through. Elias reacted swiftly. He parried the blade, grabbed the man’s jerkin and lifted him a foot into the air before hurling him to the ground. Elias stamped on his hand to make him let go of the sword then landed a series of stinging blows with the cudgel. His attackers had had enough. Dragging himself to his feet, the man limped away as fast as he could. His companion was close behind him, still clutching his groin and moaning with pain. Bruised, dazed, panting for
breath and covered in blood, Owen Elias forgot all about the women on whom he had promised to call.

He tossed the cudgel aside and staggered off into the night.

The
Cormorant
was a small galleon used, for the most part, as a cargo vessel but ready to take a certain number of passengers as well. Built in the Netherlands, it had recently been bought and renamed by an English merchant. It was a three-masted ship, square rigged on the fore and main, and with a lateen sail on the mizzen mast. It had good carrying capacity and its shallow draught allowed it to sail along inshore waters with comparative safety.

Nicholas Bracewell was pleased with what he saw. Having sailed on many vessels during his youthful apprenticeship to his father, he could assess the finer points of a ship at a glance. Anne Hendrik stood beside him on the quay and appraised the
Cormorant
.

‘Why are there so many cannon guns?’ she asked.

‘Piracy is still a hazard in the North Sea,’ he replied. ‘That’s why she is so well-armed. There are gun ports along the main deck and the quarterdeck. At a guess, I say that she had at least thirty cannon aboard.’

‘Well, I hope they are not needed.’

‘They will frighten off smaller vessels, Anne. A show of strength is sometimes all the defence that you need.’ He indicated the gangway. ‘You may as well go aboard.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll wait here to check off all the names.’

There was a flurry of activity at the quayside. The last of
the cargo was being loaded and the passengers were starting to embark. When he saw Edmund Hoode, the book holder beckoned him over.

‘Good morrow, Edmund.’

‘Good morrow to you both,’ returned the other.

‘Have you brought
The Princess of Denmark
with you?’

Hoode patted the leather satchel slung from his shoulder. ‘She is right here, Nick.’ He smiled at Anne. ‘But I see that you have your own princess.’

‘Thank you, Edmund,’ she said, beaming at the compliment.

‘Be so good as to take Anne aboard,’ said Nicholas. ‘I must stay here until the last.’ He consulted the list that he held. ‘We are still missing four people.’

‘What about Lord Westfield?’ asked Hoode.

‘He and his servants are already aboard. Take the trouble to introduce yourself to Rolfe Harling, who travels with our patron. It was Master Harling who found this young bride and who therefore made possible our voyage to Denmark.’

‘Then he deserves all our thanks.’ He turned to Anne. ‘Are you ready to come aboard?’

‘Yes.’ She tossed a worried glance at the cannon. ‘I think so.’

Hoode led her to the gangplank and let her walk up it first. Nicholas, meanwhile, was able to cross another name off his list as Barnaby Gill came into view, marching along the quay in a peach-coloured suit and an elaborate wide-brimmed hat. In his wake was a porter, groaning under the weight of the luggage he carried. Of all the actors, Gill was easily the most vain and he was taking by far the largest wardrobe with him.
Since nobody had come to see him off, he went aboard immediately.

Some members of the company preferred to stay on land until the very last moment in order to be with the families and friends who had come to see them off. Oswald Megson was entwined with his young wife. Frank Quilter was caressing the cheek of his new mistress. Unable to go to Denmark himself, Thomas Skillen, the wrinkled old stagekeeper, was giving copious advice to George Dart. Lawrence Firethorn was part of a tearful huddle that comprised his wife, children and the boy apprentices.

What touched Nicholas was the number of hired men who had come to wave the company off even though – like Skillen – they would not be part of the adventure. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, and Nathan Curtis, the stage carpenter, were both there along with several actors whose main source of income was Westfield’s Men. They put on brave faces as they wished their fellows well. Two more of the travellers arrived with their bags and Nicholas was able to cross off the names of Harold Stoddard and James Ingram. As the latter strolled along the quay, Nicholas went to greet him.

‘Well-met, James,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry if I am late, Nick,’ Ingram apologised, a hand to his brow. ‘I drank far too much last night and I am paying for it now.’

‘Where is Owen?’

‘I thought that he would be here by now.’

‘He’s the one person who is missing.’

‘Owen will be here anon,’ said Ingram confidently. ‘He
talked of nothing else when we were in the Black Horse with him last night.’

‘Your lodging is close to his,’ said Nicholas. ‘I expected that the two of you would come together.’

‘No, Nick. He told me that he had calls to make first thing this morning. Owen Elias spreads his love far and wide. He did not want three or four ladies turning up here together, each thinking that she alone would get a farewell kiss.’ Ingram smirked. ‘Owen is probably visiting them in turn.’

‘Then he needs to visit the
Cormorant
as well – and be quick about it.’ Nicholas looked back at the ship. ‘The cargo is loaded and everyone else is starting to go aboard. You go and join them, James.’

‘I will.’

‘And pray that Owen gets here in time. We’ll not wait.’

Ingram hurried on down the quay to be greeted by the other actors. They moved excitedly across to the gangway. Nicholas saw that Lawrence Firethorn was simultaneously holding his children in his arms and kissing his wife. It was an affecting scene. Other farewells were being taken yet there was still no sign of Owen Elias. The book holder was alarmed. It was far too late to go to the Welshman’s lodging and he might, in any case, not even be there. It was worrying.

Nicholas remembered the fear that Firethorn had expressed the day before, that an excess of pleasure might hinder Elias. If that were the case, Westfield’s Men would be deprived of one of their finest actors as well as of someone whose sunny disposition helped to keep spirits high in the
company. He would be a grave loss and Firethorn would never forgive him for letting them down. Nicholas was hurt. Elias was a particular friend of his. He felt betrayed by his absence.

The last of the passengers were clambering aboard and the crew would soon be preparing to cast off. Nicholas could delay no longer. He walked sadly down the quay towards the
Cormorant
.

‘Nick!’ cried a familiar voice. ‘Wait!’

The book holder turned to see Owen Elias, moving gingerly towards him with a large bag slung from his shoulder. Nicholas was shocked. Not only was the Welshman walking with difficulty, he was patently injured. There was thick bandaging beneath his hat, around one knee and on both hands. His face was covered in bruises and one eye was virtually closed. Nicholas ran towards him.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

‘Bullies set upon me in an alleyway,’ replied Elias, his swollen lips making speech painful. ‘But I fought them off in the end.’

‘Give me the bag,’ said Nicholas, taking it from him then helping his friend along with the other hand. ‘We thought we would have to leave without you.’

‘No hope of that. I’d have crawled all the way here, if need be.’

‘You obviously took some punishment.’

‘The two of them had cudgels.’

‘Were they after your purse?’

‘No,’ said Elias. ‘They wanted something else – revenge.’

‘For what?’

‘The way I helped to catch that villain at the Dutch Churchyard. He has desperate friends. You are lucky that they did not come after you as well.’

Nicholas was puzzled. ‘Are you sure that this has something to do with those libels against strangers?’

‘Of course, Nick. I’m a foreigner myself, remember – I’m Welsh.’

‘Why should they pick on you and not on me?’

‘I had no chance to ask them that,’ said Elias, wincing as he struggled along. ‘I was too busy fighting for my life.’

‘I am still not convinced.’

‘I am – those cudgels were very persuasive.’

‘They might have simply been trying to rob you.’