The Princess of Denmark (7 page)

‘No,’ said Elias firmly. ‘They were hired ruffians, ordered to break my bones. I’ve had the whole of the night to think about it, Nick, for I could get no sleep in this condition. The assault
must
be linked to what we did at the Dutch Churchyard that night.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘Who else could possibly want to have me beaten like that?’

Dressed in black, the man was tall, thin, angular and beetle-browed. His features were unprepossessing enough in repose. When he was roused, as now, his face turned into a mask of ugliness, eyes staring, teeth bared and veins standing out on his forehead.

‘You let him get away!’ he yelled, glaring at them. ‘There were two of you against one of him – and he
escaped
?’

‘Only after we gave him a sound beating,’ said the man with the black eye. ‘We thrashed him hard.’

‘I ought to do the same to the pair of you.’

‘We’re here for our money, sir,’ said the second man, nursing a badly bruised arm. ‘You told us to come to the tavern this morning.’

‘Only if you’d done what you were told to do.’

‘We deserve something, sir.’

‘He helped to kill my son,’ snarled Isaac Dunmow, clenching a fist. ‘A beating is not enough. I wanted him dead.’

‘We did our best,’ said the first man, ‘but he fought like a demon. You can see what he did to us.’ He smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Give us another chance, sir. We’ll track him down, I swear it, wherever he’s gone to. We’ll murder him next time.’

‘Yes,’ added his companion. ‘I’ll shoot him, sir. Then we’ll cut off his head and bring it to you.

Isaac Dunmow studied them through narrowed lids. Since he was a rich man, money was no problem to him. He could afford to pay handsomely for vengeance. He remembered the moment when his son had arrived back in York in a wooden box. He had forced open the lid and seen something that he would never forget. Will Dunmow had been turned into a black, shrunken monster. Someone had to atone for that. Extracting some coins from his purse, he tossed them onto the table in front of him and the men snatched them up.

‘No,’ he said vindictively. ‘I don’t want you shoot Owen Elias. That would be too kind a death. I want him burnt him alive.’

The
Cormorant
made good speed. With a strong wind filling its sails, she glided down the busy Thames estuary and out into the sea beyond, creaking all over as she dipped and rose over the waves. Since it was a dry day, with the sun occasionally peeping out from behind the clouds, most of the company stayed on deck to watch the coastline of England recede slowly behind them. Nicholas Bracewell stood at the bulwark with Anne Hendrik, hoping that the rest of the voyage would be as smooth as its beginning but knowing that many hazards could well lie ahead. George Dart joined them on the crowded deck.

‘Are you reminded of your days as a sailor, Nicholas?’ he said.

‘Yes, George,’ replied the other.

‘This ship must be much smaller than the
Golden Hind
.’

‘Oh, no. The
Cormorant
is bigger in every way.’

Dart was disappointed. ‘But the
Golden Hind
is famous.’

‘Not for its size,’ said Anne. ‘I’ve seen her.’

‘I lived in her for almost three years,’ recalled Nicholas, ‘so I know her dimensions by heart. She was seventy feet in length whereas the
Cormorant
must be at least twenty feet longer. The
Golden Hind’s
beam was nineteen feet, narrower than the one we have here. While we carried eighteen cannon, they have almost double that number on board today. Our reputation made the ship seem much larger than she really was, George.’

‘If you were to sail around the world again,’ asked Dart, ‘which of the two vessels would you choose?’

‘Neither of them,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘because I never wish to undergo such trials and tribulations again. When we left London, we had five ships. Only one returned to Plymouth – that tells its own story. I lost a lot of good friends on the voyage,’ he went on wistfully. ‘The sea can be a cruel tyrant.’

‘I hope you lose none of us on this ship.’

‘So do I, George.’

‘Nothing could be worse than drowning.’

Dart looked anxiously down at the sea, smacking the bows of the ship as it plunged into another wave. Spray was thrown up into his face and there was a salty taste on his lips. He was soon diverted. When he saw Owen Elias come up on deck, he moved across to the Welshman to stare at his injuries with ghoulish interest. Anne noticed the battered face for the first time.

‘Whatever happened to Owen?’ she asked.

‘He was set on by two ruffians last night.’

‘Why?’

‘Drink had probably been taken,’ said Nicholas, not wishing to divulge what he had been told. ‘It’s all that some men need in order to pick a fight.’

‘There must have been more to it than that, Nick.’

‘I think not. Owen is a strong man – he beat them away. His injuries will heal in time. They will have to, because he could not act on a stage like that. The sea air will be good for him.’

She eyed him shrewdly. ‘You are hiding something.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘You must tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell, Anne.’

‘I know you too well,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘When you conceal things, it’s usually because you want to protect me. What is it that you are keeping from me this time?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘It is only a silly idea of Owen’s.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll not be baulked, Nick. I have a feeling that this might concern me.’

‘It does,’ he conceded, electing to tell her the truth. ‘Owen believes that he was attacked because of the way he helped to catch that man at the Dutch Churchyard.’

She blenched. ‘Then I
am
involved here.’

‘No, Anne.’

‘Had I not told you about that incident there, you and Owen would not have mounted a vigil at the churchyard. In other words,’ she said guiltily, ‘I must take some of the blame for his injuries.’

‘That’s foolish talk.’

‘Preben told you not to bother on his account.’

‘I thought only of you, Anne,’ he said, taking her hand.
‘The stone that hit Preben could just as easily have been hurled at you. Imagine that. You might have been disfigured or even blinded.’

She tensed slightly. ‘That did occur to me at the time.’

‘I wanted to catch the man responsible and put an end to the foul messages he was leaving at the churchyard. Owen agreed to help me. But what happened to him last night,’ he added rapidly, ‘has no connection to the arrest we made. If someone really sought revenge,
I
would have been the person they attacked, not Owen. He did not even touch the fellow. It was I who fought with him.’

‘Then you are in danger as well.’

‘There
is
no danger, Anne. Put the whole thing out of your mind. Owen was set on by some thieves, that is all.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. That’s the end of the story.’

Anne was not so certain but she did not press the matter. She glanced across at Elias again, making light of his injuries in front of the others but evidently in pain. When she turned back to Nicholas, he was gazing contemplatively out across the sea. Rolling waves seemed to stretch to infinity.

‘I wonder if they have an
English
Churchyard there,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘In Elsinore.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘When we get to Denmark,’ he pointed out, ‘we will know how it feels to be the outsiders –
we
will be the strangers.’

Lord Westfield occupied a small cabin below deck in the stern of the ship. It was tidy, compact and equipped with solid oak furniture. Ensconced in a chair, he sipped a cup of wine and discussed plans with Lawrence Firethorn and Rolfe Harling.

‘Life is full of surprises,’ he observed genially. ‘A month ago, I would never have dreamt that I would one day be sailing to Denmark to meet my young bride.’

‘We, too, have been swept away by the tide of events, my lord,’ said the actor. ‘But for that fire, we would still be entertaining our audiences at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Instead of which, you will play before royalty.’

‘We intend to conquer the whole of Denmark.’

‘Your journey may not end there, Master Firethorn,’ said Harling, knowledgeably. ‘When an English company visited the court ten years or more ago, they were sent on to Dresden to earn even more plaudits. King Frederick II also recommended them to the Elector of Saxony and word of their excellence spread.’

‘That’s encouraging to hear, Master Harling.’

‘Expecting to stay weeks, they remained abroad for months.’

‘Oh, I do not think that my wife would approve of that,’ said Firethorn with a chuckle. ‘If I stay away too long, Margery is likely to swim the North Sea in order to drag me back home.’

‘I will stay in Denmark for as long as Sigbrit wishes,’ said Lord Westfield, taking the miniature from his pocket to pass to him. ‘Here, Lawrence. This is the reason we are all sailing on the
Cormorant
. Is she not divine?’

‘Words could not describe her, my lord,’ said the actor,
almost drooling over the portrait. ‘She is the perfection of womanhood.’

‘You are looking at the next Lady Westfield.’

‘How ever did you find her, Master Harling?’

‘It took time,’ said Harling, ‘for there are so many things to be weighed in the balance. Beauty is only one attribute required. In Sigbrit Olsen, I found someone who answered every demand.’

Firethorn studied him. Try as he might, he could not warm to the man. Harling was too cold and reserved. There was no doubting his intellectual brilliance but such a quality rated little with Firethorn. He preferred wit and conviviality in his friends. After another glance at the miniature, he gave it back to its owner.

‘You did well, Master Harling,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Was this lady your sole reason for going to Europe?’

‘By no means. Government business took me there in the first instance but it allowed me a deal of leisure. I was therefore able to make enquiry on behalf of Lord Westfield and my search eventually led me to Denmark.’

‘The most important thing is that she
wants
me,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘Age does not matter to her. Quality is all. She accepted me as soon as she realised who I was.’

‘It involved a lot of negotiation, my lord.’

‘I leave all that to you, Rolfe.’

‘Fortunately, her uncle was very amenable.’

‘What about her parents?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Both dead, alas,’ said Harling. ‘She lives with her Uncle Bror. His full name is Bror Langberg and you will see a lot of him. He’s a man of great influence.’

‘Does he know that an entire theatre company is on its way?’

‘You were mentioned in all my letters.’

‘How are we likely to be received?’

‘With open arms,’ said Lord Westfield. ‘According to Rolfe – and he has been to Denmark – they will not stint us. The king is very wealthy, is he not?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Harling, ‘and he has Kronborg Slot to thank for that. It’s the name of the castle in Elsinore,’ he explained to Firethorn. ‘That’s the source of his fortune for it controls the way in and out of the Baltic Sea. Every ship has to sail through a sound less than a mile wide. For centuries now, Denmark has imposed Sound Dues on the vessels. They are not only paid in money. Sometimes, part of a cargo is taken as well.’

‘What if a ship refuses to pay the dues?’ said Firethorn.

‘Nobody would dare to do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they would be blown out of the water by the cannon mounted on the ramparts. It all began well over a hundred and fifty years ago when Erik of Pomerania was on the throne. Not that that was his real name,’ he said pedantically, ‘but that’s beside the point.’

‘Rolfe is steeped in Danish history,’ noted Lord Westfield.

‘King Erik declared that every ship wishing to sail past Elsinore should dip its flag, strike its topsails and cast anchor so that its captain might go ashore to pay a toll to the customs officers in the town. Well over a thousand vessels a year were involved,’ continued Harling, ‘so the amount of money collected was enormous.’

‘What did the ships get in return?’ wondered Firethorn.

‘Free passage to or from the Baltic Sea and protection from the pirates who used to haunt it.’

‘Pirates?’

‘They are still there but in far smaller numbers. The Danish navy has hunted them for generations. In the days of King Erik, any pirates captured were first broken on the wheel and then executed. Their heads were stuck up on poles as a warning.’

‘The same fate should meet those who pirate our plays,’ said Firethorn vengefully. ‘We’ve had more than one stolen from us. There was a comedy printed last year that bore a close resemblance to one that Edmund Hoode had written for us long ago.’

‘What was the name of the author?’

‘None was given. He skulked behind anonymity. But I’ll swear that he filched Edmund’s work and sold it as his own. That man’s head should be stuck on a pole outside the Queen’s Head.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’d suggest that the landlord’s head stood beside it but that would only frighten our audiences away.’

‘Nothing will frighten them away in Denmark,’ said Harling.

‘As long as we can keep the company together.’

‘You will have no difficulty doing that,’ said Lord Westfield.

‘We might, my lord. Were we not told that each vessel that sails into Elsinore Harbour had to yield up a portion of its cargo?’

‘True,’ confirmed Harling. ‘Customs officers have the right to come aboard to see what a ship is carrying. At first,
the toll was levied on the vessel itself then, about thirty years ago, a man called Peder Oxe, treasurer to King Frederick II, pointed out that they could increase their revenue substantially if the weight of the cargo was the deciding factor. Within twelve months, they had trebled their income from Sound Dues. Most ships carry large and valuable cargoes. The Danes are entitled to a fixed proportion of it.’

‘That’s what disturbs me,’ joked Firethorn. ‘
We
are part of the cargo. I do not want any of my actors confiscated by way of a toll.’

‘They are quite safe, sir – unlike your patron.’

Lord Westfield blinked in astonishment. ‘Me?’

‘Yes,’ said Harling, his thin smile warning them that he was about to make a rare jest. ‘When Erik of Pomerania first imposed harbour dues, the toll was paid in gold. It was one English noble.’ He gave a brittle laugh. ‘The only English noble aboard is Lord Westfield.’

Their good fortune soon deserted them. After a couple of hours of relative calm, the
Cormorant
ran into choppier water. The wind gusted, the skies darkened and the ship began to heave much more. Most of the actors began to feel queasy and only a gallant few had the courage to stay on deck. The others went below and huddled together, their gaze fixed immovably on a wooden bucket in case they have need of it. Informed that a woman was travelling with the company, Lord Westfield kindly invited Anne Hendrik to share his cabin for a while and, with a storm brewing, Nicholas Bracewell insisted that she take advantage of the offer. The book holder was interested to hear her opinion of Rolfe Harling.

Nicholas remained steadfastly on deck and so, improbably, did Owen Elias. Clutching the bulwark to steady himself, the Welshman was talking to James Ingram. Nicholas adjusted his feet to the roll of the ship and went over to them.

‘I would have thought you’d be sleeping below by now, Owen,’ he said. ‘You need rest.’

‘I cannot settle if I lie down,’ complained Elias. ‘Strange as it may seem, I find it easier to stand up.’

‘You’ll not find it easier for much longer.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s a squall coming. Stay on deck and you’ll be soaked.’

‘Yes,’ said Ingram, looking up at the sky. ‘Those clouds are ominous. When the rain comes, I’ll join the others.’

‘How do you feel now?’ asked Nicholas, taking an inventory of Elias’s injuries. ‘Are you still in pain?’

‘Every part about me throbs or aches, Nick,’ replied the other, ‘but it’s my pride that hurts the most. I was so careless.’

‘Careless?’ repeated Ingram.