Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

‘Uncle Bror,’ said Sigbrit in alarm. ‘What are you doing?’

Langberg was baulked. His niece was walking down the corridor towards him. He could not commit murder in front of her. Letting the sword fall to his side, he turned a reassuring smile on her and mumbled an excuse. Sigbrit stared at him in horror. Out of the corner of his mouth, he gave an order to the guards.

‘Lock him in the dungeon,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with him later.’

After long hours in rehearsal, Westfield’s Men were relaxing that evening in their hut, drawing themselves free tankards of beer from the cask and deciding that the effort of reaching Elsinore had been more than worth it. Some played cards, others waged money in games of dice and the rest indulged in friendly badinage. None of them were prepared for what happened next. Flinging open the door, Lawrence Firethorn burst in and barked a command.

‘Come with me, lads,’ he yelled. ‘Nick has been arrested.’

‘Why?’ asked Owen Elias.

‘I’ll explain on the way. Hurry up — there’s no time to waste. Bring whatever weapons you have.’

‘Weapons? Are we going to fight?’

‘If need be, Owen.’ The actors were on their feet immediately, reaching for swords and daggers. ‘Follow me,’ said Firethorn, going out, ‘and stay close together. They can’t kill the whole lot of us.’

With the others at his heels, he marched across the forecourt and went through one of the gateways into the main courtyard. Elias ran to catch him up.

‘Whatever’s happened, Lawrence?’

‘We’ve all been mightily abused,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Lord Westfield was brought here under false pretences and the villain who did it was Bror Langberg.’

‘But he’s been the perfect host.’

‘That was just a guise, Owen. He’s a black-hearted rogue who had Rolfe Harling murdered. Nick went to search his room for evidence and was caught before he could get away. I saw guards taking him to the casemates.’

‘That’s where Master Harling was found.’

‘Exactly.’

As they surged across the courtyard, most of them had heard what Firethorn had said. They were roused to a pitch of anger. If their book holder were in danger, they would do everything in their power to rescue him. They gave an early demonstration of intent. Two guards stood beside the steps that led to the casemates. When they crossed their pikes to stop anyone passing, they were grabbed by the actors and thrown rudely aside. Westfield’s Men went into the casemates in a solid body, picking their way through the cavernous interior by the light of torches they stole from their brackets. Finding anyone in the bewildering maze of tunnels was not easy but Firethorn knew how to do it. He filled his lungs then bellowed at the top of his voice.

‘NICK! WHERE ARE YOU?’

‘Here!’ came a reply from Nicholas. ‘I’m over here, Lawrence.’

Guided by the voice, they hurried down a passage to the left until they came to section of the casemates that widened out into a square. Across one corner, a series of iron bars had been fixed to the walls, creating a triangular dungeon. Nicholas Bracewell was in it. The two guards who put him there were waiting with Bror Langberg. When they saw a dozen armed men coming at them, they drew back.

‘Stay away!’ warned Langberg. ‘There are hundreds of men in the garrison. I could have you all hacked to pieces.’

‘You’d die before us,’ said Firethorn, using his sword to force the man back against the bars. He looked at the prisoner. ‘Are you hurt, Nick?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I soon would have been.’

‘Give that here,’ demanded Elias, snatching a key from one of the guards. He unlocked the door of the cage. ‘Come on out, Nick.’

‘Thank you, Owen.’

‘Our turn to save you for a change.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, stepping out of the dungeon. ‘And you were never more welcome.’

The sound of running feet made him look up. Hearing the noise from the dungeon, almost thirty armed soldiers had come to investigate. When they saw what was happening, they stood in a double line to block the exit. Langberg emitted a laugh of triumph.

‘I think that you are outnumbered, Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘Stand back!’ Firethorn ordered the soldiers, ‘or I’ll put this sword through his heart.’

‘Certain death would follow for the whole pack of you.’

‘At least I would have the pleasure of taking you with us.’

‘You are beaten, man,’ said Langberg, gloating. ‘Have the sense to admit it. Nothing can save you now.’

Even as he spoke, a long, strident fanfare rang out from the Trumpeter’s Tower, muffled by the casemates but audible enough for all of them to recognise what it signalled.

‘The king!’ exclaimed Langberg. ‘I must bid him welcome.’

‘Then we’ll go with you,’ said Firethorn, slipping his dagger into Nicholas’s hand so that he could hold a weapon against their prisoner as well. ‘Tell them to stand aside.’

With a sword at his throat and a dagger at his back, Langberg waved an arm to his men and the soldiers moved reluctantly out of the way. Firethorn and Nicholas pushed him forward, holding him tightly. Followed by the soldiers, the actors took a tortuous route back to the exit, glad to get out of the casemates again. When they climbed the steps into the courtyard, they were met by a blaze of light that surrounded the visitors. Dozens of torches were aflame. In the middle of them, adorned in bright attire and striking an imperious pose, was King Christian IV with his personal bodyguard.

As he saw them all emerge from the casemates, the king was astonished. Firethorn and Nicholas felt obliged to release their prisoner. In the presence of the king, they had to show deference. Langberg beamed. He was safe. He spread his arms wide.

‘Welcome to Kronborg, Your Majesty,’ he said with a bow. ‘You could not have come at more appropriate time.’

‘Arrest that man,’ snapped the King. ‘He’s a traitor.’

Members of his bodyguard promptly seized Bror Langberg and pinioned his arms behind him. When he tried to speak, he was clubbed into silence. Westfield’s Men were saved.

The Princess of Denmark was performed in the ballroom on Saturday night after all but not in celebration of any wedding. It was at the command of King Christian IV, the young monarch with a love of the arts and a respect for English actors. Lord Westfield sat beside him in the audience, grateful that he had been rescued from an unfortunate marriage and able to take an especial delight in the skills of his company. There were notable absentees from the ballroom. Bror Langberg was held in the dungeon while his wife and Hansi Askgaard, accomplices in the plot, were locked in their respective apartments. Completely innocent herself, Sigbrit Olsen was shocked to learn of their perfidy, and appalled at the way that she was being used for political ends. She could not bear to attend a play that had been inspired partly by her.

Since the drama now had a different purport, Edmund Hoode changed the names of its principal characters to Harald and Sophie, removing all hint of their patron and his intended bride. In its first performance, therefore, The Princess of Denmark was seen for what it was, a sparkling comedy set in the castle at Elsinore, replete with fine poetry, poignant romance, comic brilliance, lively dances and a plot that held them all firmly together with invisible strength. The spectators were captivated throughout, none more so than the King, who laughed in the wrong places at times but who was thrilled by the performance. Edmund Hoode had even included a reference to him in the concluding lines of the Epilogue. Owen Elias declaimed them with great feeling.