Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘You seem unduly well-informed, Rolfe.’

‘I have travelled widely in Europe. One picks up all the gossip.’

‘This is more than gossip.’

‘When I was in Copenhagen,’ explained Harling, ‘I found out all I could. You must remember that I am a scholar at heart. I’ve been trained to gather all the evidence before reaching a judgement.’

‘I have been the beneficiary of your thoroughness.’

‘You paid me well.’

‘No man can set a price on happiness.’

‘I like to render good service.’

‘And so you did,’ said Lord Westfield, raising his glass. ‘I toast my future wife — the divine Sigbrit Olsen!’

‘Sigbrit Olsen,’ echoed Harling as they clinked glasses.

‘She will be so thrilled with my wedding present.’

‘Which one, my lord?’

‘My theatre company, of course,’ said the other.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘What other bridegroom could turn up at the altar with the finest troupe in Europe at his side? And there’ll be another surprise for her, Rolfe.’

‘Will there?’

‘Westfield’s Men are to perform a play in her honour.’

‘What is it called?’

‘What else, man? The Princess of Denmark. ’

‘But there is no such play in our stock,’ said Owen Elias, ‘and even someone with as fluent a pen as Edmund’s could not write one in the short time before we leave.’

‘Nevertheless, we will perform The Princess of Denmark .’

‘How can we, Nick, when she does not even exist?’

‘But she does,’ said Nicholas, ‘hidden beneath another name.’

‘Well, I do not know what it is.’

‘Think hard, Owen.’

The two of them were in Elias’s lodging and the Welshman was eager for any information relating to their imminent trip abroad. As a sharer and as one of the company’s most versatile actors, he was among the first to be listed among those making the voyage. Others had been less fortunate and it had fallen to Nicholas Bracewell to pass on the bad tidings to many of the hired men who served the troupe. It had been an ordeal for him. Bitter tears had been shed and heartbreaking entreaties made but he had no authority to alter the decisions that had been made. Having at last finished his thankless task, he had called in on his friend.

‘Do you remember our visit to Prague?’ asked Nicholas.

Elias was rueful. ‘I am hardly likely to forget it,’ he said, ‘and neither is Anne. She was abducted in the city.’

‘What was the title of the play we performed at the wedding?’

‘ The Fair Maid of Bohemia .’

‘No, Owen.’

‘It was — I swear it.’

‘What the audience thought they saw was a play of that name,’ said Nicholas. ‘In fact, what they were watching was The Chaste Maid of Wapping , an old comedy new-minted by Edmund to give it the sheen of novelty. He will use the same trick again.’

‘Turn a chaste maid into a princess?’

‘Find a play from the past that will fit an event in the future. With my help, Edmund has done so. We chose The Prince of Aragon .’

‘But that is a dark tragedy.’

‘Not in its new incarnation,’ said Nicholas. ‘The prince becomes a princess, Aragon is translated into Denmark and the death of the hero is changed into the wedding of the heroine. All demands are satisfied. Lord Westfield and his bride will think the piece was conceived with them in mind.’

‘You are a magician, Nick!’

‘I merely provided the play. Edmund will fashion it anew.’

‘Oh, I am so looking forward to this adventure!’ said Elias.

‘I, too,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we have unfinished business first.’

‘Do we?’

‘I still worry that we’ve heard no more about Will Dunmow.’

‘There’s nothing else to hear. I told you about that man with whom Will was staying.’

‘Yes — Anthony Rooker.’

‘When the body was released by the coroner, he was going to have it transported back home for burial. He must have done that by now. A letter was sent to York in advance.’

‘That’s what perplexes me, Owen.’

‘Why?’

‘Put yourself in the father’s position,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Your son sets out for London on business. The next thing you hear is that he’s been killed in a fire. What would you do?’

‘Mourn his death.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Await the return of his body.’

‘Then we would make very different fathers.’

‘What do you mean.’

‘If a son of mine died in those circumstances, I’d be in the saddle the moment I heard about it. I’d come to London to find out every last detail of the tragedy. Nobody else would be allowed to send Will’s body north. I’d ride with it myself.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias, thinking it through, ‘I suppose that I would as well. I’d seek out those who last saw Will alive.’

‘Owen Elias and James Ingram.’

Elias shuddered. ‘We have that grim distinction.’

‘Has the father been anywhere near either of you?’

‘No, Nick. As far as I know, he is still in York.’

‘I find that odd.’

‘So do I. On the other hand,’ said Elias, ‘Will did tell us how glad he was to get away from him. There was no love lost between them. Will was bent on living life to the full while he was in London because he was not allowed to do that in York. His father was a martinet — Anthony Rooker confirmed that.’

‘I wish that I’d met him myself.’

‘He was not the most pleasant of men, Nick.’

‘That’s irrelevant,’ said Nicholas. ‘I still feel that this whole business is not yet over somehow. We were involved — you, especially. As a man, we liked Will Dunmow.’

‘He was a true friend.’

‘I would like to know what happened to him. When was the body dispatched and what sort of funeral will it have? What manner of man is the father? Why has he not been in touch with you?’

‘I think that he probably despises me, Nick.’

‘Why?’

‘I helped to get his son into that state,’ admitted Elias. ‘James and I carried him to his bed that night. I snuffed out the candle but I forgot that he had a pipe with him.’

‘We are not even sure that that is what started the fire.’

‘I’m sure, Nick — and I still feel culpable.’

‘No blame attaches to you or to James. You could not foresee what might happen. However,’ Nicholas continued, ‘let’s leave Will Dunmow and turn to the other unfinished business.’

‘And what is that?’

Nicholas leant in closer to him. ‘I need to ask a favour of you.’

The Dutch Churchyard lay wrapped in the thick blanket of night. Dutch, German and other languages were etched on the gravestones but they were unreadable in the darkness. All that could be seen were the blurred outlines of monument and tombstone. An owl perched on a stone cross. Moles were busy underneath the soft earth. Rats came sniffing through the grass. Locked against intruders, the church itself loomed over the dead that were buried in its massive shadow. A homeless beggar slept on the cold stone in its porch.

The old watchmen approached on their nightly patrol. When they got close to the churchyard, their lanterns threw a flickering light on an ancient cart abandoned near the entrance. All that they could see in it was a large pile of sacks and a broken wheelbarrow. They moved on to the churchyard to conduct their usual search and disturbed the owl. Leaving its perch, it flew high up into a tree before settling on a branch and keeping them under wide-eyed surveillance. As they meandered between the gravestones, they looked for signs of desecration. They found none. They sauntered back towards the gate.