Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘Do you wish me to see you off, Anne?’ he asked.

‘We’re not sailing for another couple of days.’

‘Will you want me at the quayside?’

‘No, Preben,’ she replied. ‘You are much better off here, carrying on with your work and helping Jan to improve even more. If he or any of the others have letters or gifts they wish me to take to Amsterdam, they only have to ask.’

‘I’ll pass that message on to them.’

‘Good.’

‘It’s a pity that you cannot go on to Denmark as well.’

‘Oh, I do not have time enough for that.’

‘But you would like to be with Nicholas, would you not?’ he said with a quizzical smile. ‘And you have always enjoyed watching Westfield’s Men — do not deny it.’

‘I would never dare to do that. I’ve spent many happy afternoons at the Queen’s Head and hope to spend many more in the future. And yes,’ she added, warming to the thought, ‘I would love to go with them to Denmark. But then — if truth be told — I’d gladly go anywhere with Nick Bracewell.’

On the eve of their departure, Nicholas Bracewell called at the house in Shoreditch to confirm arrangements with Lawrence Firethorn. Once again, he was clasped to Margery’s surging bosom, hugged for a long time then kissed repeatedly.

‘Let him go, my love,’ said Firethorn with a chuckle, ‘or you’ll squeeze the life out of him. Above all else, we need Nick on this voyage. He’s the one true sailor among us.’

‘Then I charge you to bring him back safely to me,’ she told her husband, releasing the book holder. ‘For I have my needs as well.’

‘It’s always a delight to satisfy them, Margery.’ She let out a merry cackle and gave her husband a playful push. ‘Well, Nick,’ he continued, ‘is everything in order?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Where are our costumes, scenery and properties?’

‘Awaiting us at the quayside. I rented space in a warehouse.’

‘What of the items we leave behind?’

‘Hugh Wegges has stored the costumes in his own home. All else has been stowed with our carpenter in Bankside. It hurt me to tell Nathan Curtis that he would not be sailing with us, but there is no room in the company for someone who does not act.’

‘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.