Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘To the town.’

‘Come now — you went to Anne’s bedchamber.’

‘Because of you,’ said Nicholas, ‘I had to forego that particular delight. The two men who attacked you gave false names to the landlord of the White Hart but they did not do so to the captain of the Speedwell . They would have had to show him their passports. I rowed out to the ship and told him about the attempt on your life. He was more than ready to give me their names.’

‘What were they?’ demanded Elias, anger rising.

‘Ben Ryden and Josias Greet.’

‘I’ll kill the pair of the knaves.’

‘Ryden is already dead,’ said Nicholas. ‘They found his body in a ditch behind the church. He was not killed by the shot that was fired. They say that his throat had been slit.’

‘Then his accomplice must have murdered him.’

‘He did more than that, Owen. Not content with taking his life, Greet seems to have cut off his hand as well.’

The Endeavour had sailed on the morning tide. She was a three-masted brig with plenty of canvas to catch the gusting wind and send her scudding over the waves. Seven passengers were aboard the merchant vessel. Six of them stood at the bulwark to survey the Danish coast as they headed towards the Kattegat but the other remained below. Josias Greet was already feeling slightly seasick but his nausea was eased by his sense of relief. He had escaped alive. Ben Ryden had had to be sacrificed but he would never have survived for long. Instead of subjecting him to a slow, protracted, agonising death, Greet had dispatched his friend quickly. In his purse, he now had all the money that they had been given and there was the promise of much more.

Greet glanced at the blood-soaked bag beside him and smiled.

After a couple more hours, Firethorn brought the rehearsal to an end and, although it had gone well, he felt the need to deliver a series of reprimands in order to keep the actors on their toes. Gill, inevitably, was singled out for a few barbs. More work was needed on specific scenes and Firethorn intended to concentrate on those after dinner when he expected a visible improvement. The actors were chastened by his comments. Before they could disperse, however, their patron strutted into the ballroom in his finery.

‘Is all well here, Lawrence?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ returned Firethorn, greatly impressed by his blue and gold doublet with its matching breeches. ‘May I say how resplendent you look today?’

‘With good cause.’

‘Are you dining with the future Lady Westfield?’

‘I am indeed,’ said the other uxoriously. ‘While you rehearse one princess of Denmark, I go to meet another.’

As their patron strode off down the ballroom, Nicholas watched with mingled affection and trepidation. He was fond of him. With all his faults, Lord Westfield was a good-hearted man. Nicholas did not want to see him hurt but he feared that pain was unavoidable if the wedding went ahead. The bridegroom was being duped. What taxed Nicholas’s brain was how many people were involved in the ruse. He needed time alone to think. Since he would get no privacy over dinner, he waited until the others had left then he slipped off to the one place in the castle where he could count on solitude.

The chapel had been consecrated only fifteen years earlier and it still had an air of newness about it. Nicholas came into the balcony and what struck him at once was the rich elaboration of the whole place. Skilled craftsmen had left small masterpieces on every side. The wooden pews were superbly carved and ornamented, and the altar was even more extravagant. Gold leaf glistened. Tall, white stone pillars supported the beautiful vaulted ceiling. Light streamed in through the high windows to reveal the extraordinary range of colours that had been used and to show off the vivid black and white pattern in the marble floor.

Nicholas knelt down and offered up a prayer for guidance. He then returned to the event that had first jangled the company after their arrival in Kronborg. Still unsolved, the murder of Rolfe Harling continued to mystify him. One possible clue had emerged when Lord Westfield had knocked an ivory chess set to the floor in a moment of pique, but it was far from conclusive. Nicholas had come around to the view that Harling’s death might in some way be related to the conspiracy that was taking place. When inebriated, Lord Westfield might have been deceived but someone as quick-witted and observant as his friend would never be taken in. Had he been killed before he could discover the truth about Sigbrit Olsen?

That thought led him to speculate on why the deception was necessary. Was it so important for her to marry Lord Westfield that a portrait of her sister had to be dangled in front of him as bait? And what would happen when the husband realised that he was the victim of a trick? Having been joined in holy matrimony before God, he could hardly turn his wife out. Nicholas brooded. During their time at the castle, a number of inexplicable things had happened there. What he lacked was a common thread to pull them all together. His mind went back to a piece of paper hidden in Harling’s chess set. What secret did it hold? Why had it been concealed inside the black king?

Nicholas was still wrestling with imponderables when he heard a door open below. He looked over the balcony. Wearing a cloak and hood, a woman tripped across the floor and stepped into one of the pews. As she knelt in prayer, Nicholas drew back in embarrassment, feeling uneasy at trespassing on someone else’s devotions. Curiosity soon got the better of his discomfort. Peeping over the balcony again, he watched her for a long time, wondering who she was and what had brought her there. Why did she spend such an age on her knees? Was her mind troubled or was she involved in some kind of penance?

Her prayers eventually came to an end and she rose to her feet. As she did so, the hood fell back from her head to expose blond hair in a beautiful coiffure. Nicholas could see that she was young, delicate and, from the quality of her embroidered cloak, clearly belonged to a wealthy family. Moving across the marble floor, there was nobility in her bearing. But it was only when she suddenly looked up at the balcony that he knew for certain who she was. It was Sigbrit Olsen. She was not the woman in Lord Westfield’s portrait but the likeness was strong enough to deceive a casual observer. Anne Hendrik had only seen her in profile and had described her as pretty. Nicholas was able to see her whole face and she was alarmed.

Pulling the hood quickly back up, she fled from the chapel.

Invited to join them for dinner, Anne Hendrik chose to eat alone in her room. It was not because she felt out of place as the only woman in a male assembly. Having been so closely associated with Westfield’s Men over the years, she was completely at ease with them. Mindful of the effect her presence had on the actors, she had withdrawn out of consideration. It was not only the coarse banter that was suppressed when she was there. It was the comradeship that held Westfield’s Men together, a unity of which she could never truly be a part.

Her meal was simple but palatable and she valued the time alone. Having set out originally for Amsterdam, she now found herself in Elsinore, caught up in the drama that surrounded Kronborg. She was not dismayed. Being involved in two performances had given her the most intense pleasure and she was eager to unravel some of the mysteries that the castle held. When she had finished her dinner, she put the cup and plates outside the door on their wooden tray.

‘Did you save none for me?’ asked Nicholas as he approached.

Anne straightened up. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Scavenging for food.’