Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘Why?’

‘Because I have an obligation here,’ said Rooker uneasily. ‘When he was here in the city, Will Dunmow was a guest in my home. I had a duty of care towards him. I failed in that duty. As a result, I’m bound to help an anguished parent.’

‘Westfield’s Men were anguished by his death as well.’

‘They barely knew him.’

‘What they did know, they liked,’ she said. ‘My husband told me what a pleasant young man he was. But let’s return to this favour you are doing for the father. If he handed you a dagger and asked you to stab someone to death as a favour to him, what would you do?’

‘You pose an absurd question.’

‘Do I, Master Rooker. Think about it.’

‘I’ve no need to do so.’

‘In agreeing to help a friend, what you are really doing is to stab Westfield’s Men to death. This is no tragic accident like the fire that killed Will Dunmow,’ she said forcefully. ‘It is premeditated murder.’

‘All that I am doing is paying someone to rebuild an inn.’

‘With blood money.’

‘I’ve no more to say on the matter.’

‘Well, I have a great deal, sir.’

‘Then you will have to say it to someone else,’ he told her as he got to his feet. ‘Frankly, I have no interest whatsoever in whether a theatre company does or does not perform at the Queen’s Head. Nothing would persuade me to enter a playhouse of any kind. But,’ he went on with controlled anger, ‘I’ll not be browbeaten in my own office by a complete stranger. Good day to you, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Margery with blistering scorn. ‘I mistook you for a gentleman. I see you now for what you really are.’

Storming out of the office, she left the door wide open.

As a former sailor, Ben Ryden had suffered no ill effects from the voyage but that was not the case with Josias Greet. Hampered by seasickness for days, he still felt queasy and his feet took time to adjust to the fact that they were back on dry land. When he walked, he moved slowly with his legs wide apart as if trying to compensate for the roll of the ship. They took a room at the White Hart, an English haven in a Danish town. The landlord had told them about Westfield’s Men. Troubled by nausea, Greet had only half-listened to the details. After a long night in bed, his stomach was still in minor rebellion. Over breakfast next morning, his companion gobbled his food with undisguised gusto but Greet had no appetite.

‘I could never be a sailor, Ben,’ he said. ‘I hate the sea.’

‘You get used to it after a time.’

‘Is it always that rough?’

‘Much worse, as a rule,’ said Ryden, munching away. ‘The North Sea was very placid for a change.’

‘Placid! The Speedwell was tossed hither and thither.’

‘No, Josias. We sailed across a mill pond.’ He paused to release a loud belch then punched his chest with a fist. ‘Think on this. It was worth the effort of coming here. Chance contrives better than we ourselves. We are in Elsinore less than a day and we already know when and where to strike.’

‘Right here at the White Hart.’

‘This is where the actors will come after their performance.’

‘Do we watch it, Ben?’

‘Why not?’ asked Ryden with a snigger. ‘We’ll let that scurvy Welshman entertain us before we kill him.’

‘Burn him alive. That was our command.’

‘We’ll have to knock him senseless first.’

‘Yes,’ said Greet, ‘or he’ll fight like the devil. I still have the scars from that brawl we had with Owen Elias and I’ll make him pay for each one of them.’

Ryden was pensive. ‘I see a way to do it,’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘There’s straw and hay in the stables at the back of the inn. If we lug the body in there, we can roast him like a pig.’

‘Then what?’

‘We sail on the next ship to England.’

‘Master Dunmow wanted certain proof of his death.’

‘We’ll give it to him, Josias.’

‘How?’

‘We’ll cut off that ugly Welsh head and take it home in a sack.’

Though it had a similar rural setting, The Wizard Earl was a very different play from the one performed on the previous afternoon. It had the same vitality and the same farcical brilliance but the resemblance ended there. Written by Edmund Hoode, it had been inspired by a visit the company had once made to Silvermere, a country estate in Essex, owned by Sir Michael Greenleaf. A munificent host and a devotee of theatre, Sir Michael was also an experimental scientist and inventor. Unbeknown to him, he had become the Earl of Greenfield, the eponymous hero of the comedy, and he was about to demonstrate his wizardry to the townspeople of Elsinore.

Since it was a far more intricate and sophisticated play than Cupid’s Folly, it was rehearsed at length behind the wooden screens that morning. Those who crossed the square were intrigued by the sounds they heard coming from the improvised stage and they vowed to attend the performance later on. The weather was, however, less than promising. The wind had died down but a fine drizzle had replaced it, coating the actors’ faces like dew. They were not discouraged. Westfield’s Men were so elated after their earlier success in the town that only a hurricane could have dampened their ardour.

By the time of the performance itself, a large audience had flocked to the square and the screens had to be moved outwards on three sides to accommodate them all. The mayor was in the front row once more with the local worthies, and Bror Langberg had brought his wife down from the castle for the second time. There was a loud buzz of expectation. It was followed by a communal sigh of gratitude as the drizzle relented and the sun made a first appearance in the leaden sky. In the tiring house at the rear of the stage, Lawrence Firethorn was quick to claim the credit for the improvement.

‘ The Wizard Earl has done it again,’ he announced proudly. ‘My invention of a machine to control the weather clearly works.’

‘Then raise the temperature,’ said Barnaby Gill petulantly. ‘It’s far too cold for us.’

‘My performance will produce the heat of a furnace.’

‘That will make a change. You were more like an iceberg when you played the part last. I almost froze to death beside you.’

‘There is nothing new there, Barnaby,’ countered the other. ‘You are like a standing statue in every role you take. Old age has seized your limbs. On stage, you are a block of wood.’

‘Tell that to yesterday’s audience. They worshipped me.’

‘Then they worshipped a false god. Today, I will rule.’

Nicholas interrupted the banter and called the actors to order. It was time to begin. They took their places. At a signal from the book holder, Martin Yeo blew a fanfare on his trumpet then Owen Elias stepped onto the stage in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue that had been penned by Edmund Hoode after their first visit to the town square.

The Welshman’s voice rang out like a clarion call.

Today, good friends, in Denmark’s pretty town,

A tale of mirth and magic we set down

For your delight. Enchantment we’ll unfurl

Before your eyes as you behold our Earl

Of wizardry, a conjurer supreme,

Whose wondrous powers will charm you like a dream.

He comes from England to this foreign shore

To spread amazement throughout Elsinore.

Elias surged on, listing various streets, statues and landmarks in the town so that, if nothing else, the Danes in the audience would at least recognise some elements in the Prologue. Broad gestures and explicit facial expressions also helped to convey meaning. At the conclusion of his speech, with a trick devised by Nicholas Bracewell, he clapped his hands hard and a small explosion took place behind his feet, loud enough to startle the audience and to give the actor time to vanish from the stage. The Wizard Earl was under way.