Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

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.’