Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘The irony is that I will not be there at the wedding,’ she said.

Johanna pulled a face. ‘It might cause a few problems if you were, Hansi. With regard to princesses, there is a golden rule.’

‘Is there?’

‘No husband needs two.’

‘Talking of husbands,’ said Langberg, ‘that’s another person who has earned our undying thanks — your own husband, Wilhelm. I will make a point of writing to tell him what a clever wife he has.’

‘Willhelm knows the importance of this match,’ said Hansi.

‘We will all benefit as a result.’

‘Sigbrit will wed and I will go home to my husband. I do not envy my sister. She can have Lord Westfield with my blessing.’ She looked at Langberg. ‘Will she ever learn the truth, Uncle?’

‘No,’ he said, firmly. ‘She must never know about this little trap we set for her husband. Ignorance is a kindness to her. If she were not so trusting, we could never have embarked on this deception.’

‘What of the wedding itself?’

‘What of it?’

‘Will he not realise then that I am not Sigbrit?’

‘There’s no risk of that, Hansi,’ said her uncle. ‘I’ll make sure that he has had so much to drink beforehand that he will not know whom he is marrying. Lord Westfield is the only one of our visitors who has seen you properly. The others will have no suspicions.’

‘You have thought of everything, Uncle Bror.’

‘It’s not all my doing.’

‘I’ll do my share as well,’ Johanna pointed out. ‘By the time I’ve finished powdering Sigbrit’s face, I will have covered up the little scar that worries her so much. In her wedding dress, with her face half-hidden, she’ll be the image of her elder sister.’

‘Everything is in our favour,’ said Langberg with complacence. ‘On Saturday, all our ambitions will be fulfilled. And the most satisfying part of it is that Lord Westfield will not have the slightest notion of what is really going on.’

Lord Westfield was so thunderstruck by what he had heard that he collapsed into a chair and put his head in his hands. Though Nicholas Bracewell had broken the news as gently as he could, the impact had still been shattering. Having spent the last couple of hours in a state of euphoria, Lord Westfield had now been plunged into utter dejection. When their patron’s chest began to heave ungovernably, Lawrence Firethorn feared that he might be having some kind of seizure. He leant solicitously over him.

‘Are you ill, my lord?’

‘Not in body,’ said the other, ‘only in the mind.’

‘We felt that you had to know at once.’

‘I still refuse to accept it.’

‘The evidence is clear,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘There can be no equivocation here. Anne and I have seen both sisters.’

‘A pox on it!’ cried Lord Westfield, removing his hands from his face. ‘So have I, so have I! Today, I dined with one sister and, the other evening, I met her exact likeness in the hall. Which is which, please tell me! Am I to marry twins and spend my wedding night playing three-in-a-bed? What sorcery is this?’

‘It’s not sorcery, my lord. It’s a deep-laid plot.’

‘Am I to be gulled?’

‘Not any more,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are rescued. Nick and Anne have saved you from making an irretrievable mistake.’

Lord Westfield glowered. ‘Well, expect no thanks from me.’

He lapsed into a bruised silence. All that the others could do was to stand there quietly while he wallowed in his desolation. During the meal, he had experienced an intense joy that he had never known before, an ecstasy that came from simply gazing upon his beautiful Danish princess. If she could excite such feelings in him when she was at the other end of the table, she would lift him to an even higher plane of exhilaration when she lay in his arms. It was a vision of paradise and Nicholas had abruptly snatched it away from him. He glared at the book holder.

‘What’s afoot here?’ he asked.

‘I’ve yet to find out, my lord,’ said Nicholas.

‘But you must have your suspicions, man.’

‘I do.’

‘Then, for God’s sake, let’s hear them. If you are to deprive me of the greatest love I have ever felt, then give me something in return. I want reasons, Nicholas. I want explanations.’ He banged the table beside him and made the ivory chessmen jump in the air. ‘And most of all, I want solace.’

‘That’s the one thing I cannot offer you, alas.’

‘Then what can you give?’ howled the other.

‘Calm down, my lord,’ soothed Firethorn.

‘I’ve no wish to calm down.’

‘There’s no point in upsetting yourself like this.’

‘Then what else would you have me do?’ challenged the other. ‘Dance a jig around the room? By Jesu! Can you not see how much I’ve lost by this expedition? I invest time and money and every sinew of my being to prove my love and for what? I am made to feel like a country yokel at Bartholomew Fair, robbed of everything he owns and jeered at by his tormentors.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll have this out with Bror Langberg immediately.’ He marched to the door. ‘I’ll not be his dupe a moment longer.’

Nicholas blocked his way. ‘I suggest that you stay here.’

‘Out of my way, man!’

‘For you own sake, my lord, I must stop you.’

‘And I must do the same,’ said Firethorn, standing beside him.

Their patron spluttered. ‘What kind of conspiracy is this?’ he yelled. ‘Do you dare to keep me against my will?’

‘We have to, my lord.’

‘In the name of all that’s holy — why?’

‘Because we cannot let you put yourself in such jeopardy,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you challenge Master Langberg while you are choleric, there will be only one outcome.’

‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘You’ll not leave this castle alive.’ Lord Westfield recoiled with horror. ‘And you would not be his first victim, my lord. Bror Langberg already has blood on his hands.’

Firethorn started. ‘What do you mean, Nick?’

‘He contrived the murder of Rolfe Harling.’

‘There is not long to go now, Sigbrit,’ said Hansi Askgaard. ‘In two days’ time, you will be the new Lady Westfield.’

‘Yes,’ said her sister dully.

‘Try to sound happier about it.’

‘I wish that I could, Hansi, but I feel so unworthy.’

‘Unworthy?’ echoed the other. ‘That is ridiculous. No bride was ever more worthy of her husband. You will be the perfect wife for him.’

‘Will I?’

Sigbrit was seated at a little table in her apartment. On it was a gilt framed mirror and she studied her face in it for a moment, running a finger along the scar on her chin. Hansi stood behind her.

‘It will fade in time,’ she said.

‘I see it more clearly than ever,’ sighed her sister. ‘When I met Lord Westfield in the hall that evening, Uncle Bror taught me to keep my head to one side so that it did not show. What will my husband say when he learns the truth?’

‘He will be too much in love with you to notice.’

‘He is bound to notice. Yesterday, he sent me this letter,’ she said, picking it up from the table. ‘My English is not good enough for me to understand every word but I can see that it is in praise of my beauty. He will be so disappointed.’

‘Let me see,’ said Hansi, taking the letter and reading through it. ‘There you are,’ she added, putting it down again, ‘he is ensnared by your charms, Sigbrit. Lord Westfield sees only what he wishes to see and that is his gorgeous Danish princess. Love is blind.’

Sigbrit rallied slightly. She got up from the table and walked to the window, looking down at the place that had been her home for so long and realising that she would at last have to leave it. She was overcome by a sudden onset of nostalgia.