Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘And who is that?’

‘Why, your niece, of course — Sigbrit.’

‘A princess in all but name.’

‘Is she really as beautiful as we are led to believe?’

‘Sigbrit is truly blessed,’ said Langberg airily. ‘She is an angel sent from above. Your patron is a most fortunate man, my friend. He is about to marry a heavenly vision.’

Nicholas Bracewell was stunned by the news. His mind was racing.

‘When was this, Anne?’ he asked.

‘Not five minutes ago.’

‘And you are certain that it was her?’

‘Yes, Nick. Her aunt spoke the name — Sigbrit.’

‘But you only saw her for a second.’

‘It was enough,’ said Anne.

They were in her little room and Nicholas was trying to take in the import of what he had been told. If her instinct was right, then a number of things were suddenly explained.

‘Do you remember what I told you about that servant, Nick?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She gave you a strange look.’

‘Now I know why. Sigbrit is not the beauty we all think.’

‘But you saw her on the back stairs that night.’

‘I saw someone who looked very much like her,’ said Anne, ‘but it was not the woman who walked past me earlier. Sigbrit Olsen is a very pretty young lady, nobody would deny that.’

‘Prettiness is not real beauty.’

‘It’s only a pale version of it.’

‘So what is your conclusion?’

‘Lord Westfield does not have a portrait of Sigbrit.’

‘Then who is the lady?’ he asked.

‘The same one that I saw on the back stairs and that you caught sight of in the ballroom. The likeness is so strong that they must be sisters.’

Nicholas was shocked. The implications were farreaching. It began to look as if they had been lured there under false pretences, and he wondered if Rolfe Harling had been party to the deception. Something that Lord Westfield had told him popped into his mind.

‘Our patron complained how little he had seen of her,’ said Nicholas. ‘When they met in the hall one evening, the place was so full that he could not get near her. Since he had been drinking all day, his eyesight was probably blurred.’

‘A fair point, Nick,’ she said, thinking of the face she had just seen in the corridor. ‘In subdued light, Sigbrit might conceivably have passed for the woman we saw in the portrait but not if Lord Westfield got really close to her.’

‘I suspect that she was carefully shielded from him.’

‘By whom — and for what reason?’

‘I wish that I knew.’

‘Lord Westfield is in for a dreadful surprise,’ said Anne with sympathy. ‘He has fallen in love with one woman yet is about to be wed to another. Are you going to warn him, Nick?’

‘Not until I have more proof. I’ll make enquiries.’

‘I’ve said from the start that something odd is going on.’

‘Odd or ominous? I have uneasy feelings about all this. When he went to the hall that evening, Lord Westfield met everyone of importance in the castle. If Sigbrit Olsen has a sister, then the lady was certain to be there — yet she was not.’

‘We can guess why.’

‘Yes, Anne,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘I’m very grateful to you. Ever since we left London, you’ve been a source of immense help to the company. Even Barnaby Gill has admitted that now and it’s an achievement for any woman to win a compliment from him. Since we’ve been here, you’ve made yourself indispensable. And in providing this latest intelligence, you’ve rendered the greatest service yet.’

‘I would like to think so.’

‘There’s no question about it.’

‘Does that mean you are glad you came here this evening?’

‘Very glad.’

She prodded his chest. ‘Is that all?’

‘What more do you require — a letter of gratitude?’

‘I just want to be appreciated,’ she said, nestling against him.

Nicholas grinned. ‘I think that I can manage that.’

Breakfast was served in the hut where the actors had spent the night and they were joined by the select few who had their own rooms in the castle. Lawrence Firethorn noticed at once that someone was missing.

‘Where’s Nick?’ he asked.

‘He went out an hour or more ago,’ replied James Ingram. ‘He said that he wanted some fresh air.’

‘Then I think we’ll know where he’ll find it.’

Firethorn’s sly grin set off a round of muted laughter. Everyone assumed that their book holder had sneaked off quietly to be with Anne Hendrik and envious comments were passed around the table. It was not until they had finished their meal that Nicholas finally returned. When he told them that he had been to the town, everyone dismissed the explanation jocularly as an excuse. He had his own breakfast then went immediately to work. After collecting the items they needed for rehearsal, they went to the ballroom and Firethorn was delighted to see that Bror Langberg had honoured his promise. All the things that the actor-manager had asked for had been provided.

Though he had come with the others, Owen Elias was not well enough to take part in the rehearsal. He sat in a chair as their sole spectator, still groggy from the potion he had taken. Before they began, Nicholas addressed the whole company.

‘A curtain will be hung from the balcony,’ he said, ‘so that we have a tiring house behind. Entrances can be made from either end of the curtain, or from a gap in the middle.’ He pointed upwards. ‘Our music will come from above and the scenes in Sigbrit’s bedchamber will be played up there.’

‘Our patron will play those best,’ said Firethorn, chortling.

‘That’s why I changed the hero’s name,’ said Hoode. ‘Sigbrit and Frederick will be married in the chapel. Then they will have a second wedding here on stage.’

‘Let us think only of the play,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘We must leave Lord Westfield to his own devices. Now, although we will have a stage, my feeling is that we should step down from it during the dance at the end of the performance. This was built as a ballroom so we should take full advantage of that fact.’

Barnaby Gill led the chorus of agreement. When the book holder had finished his instructions, he volunteered to read Elias’s role in the play then handed over to Firethorn.

‘This is no rough-hewn performance in a town square, lads,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘We are here to honour our patron and his bride, and to entertain King Christian and his court. Nothing but the best of our art will suffice. This play, as you know, began life as The Prince of Aragon , a stirring tragedy. New-minted by Edmund, it has transcended itself and is now a sprightly comedy to excite the mind and dazzle the eye. Let us do it justice.’

The rehearsal began. In spite of his severe misgivings, Nicholas worked with his usual commitment, controlling everything behind the scenes while listening with a critical ear to all that took place on stage. There were several mistakes and some scenes had to be done again and again, but the quality of The Princess of Denmark shone through nevertheless. During a break, Elias made that point to Nicholas.

‘Edmund is a miracle worker. He has turned water in wine.’

‘That is unfair on The Prince of Aragon ,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was a fine play in its own right. What Edmund has done is to turn wine into a form of nectar.’

‘I have only one complaint,’ said Elias.

‘And what’s that?’

‘You have usurped my role as Lars and are better than me.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘I’ll gladly surrender it on the day itself, Owen.’

Elias rubbed his bandaged head. ‘If I’ve recovered by then. My eyes are still bleary and my mind wanders. I have all of the ill effects of drinking with none of its pleasures.’ He stood up and took Nicholas aside. ‘Where did you really go this morning, Nick?’