Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

Our lovers suffered pain while kept apart

Then royalty did bring them heart to heart.

For, mark it well, there is no better thing

Than being rescued by a Christian king.

The galliard with which the play ended spilt out onto the marble floor and the actors whirled within feet of their audience. Applause reverberated the length of the whole room. King Christian IV, the Christian king, clapped until his hands were sore.

Westfield’s Men took their bows with particular pleasure. They were relieved to have the opportunity to stage a play on which they had spent so much time, and they put their hearts and souls into it. The whole company knew how close they had come to disaster and their performance was, to some extent, a visible sign of gratitude to the king who had averted it. No wedding might have taken place but the feast was nevertheless held after the play and the actors were invited to join in the celebrations. It was a fitting end.

Owen Elias’s head wound still throbbed but it had not stopped him from giving a commendable performance as Peder Mikkelson, pickpocket and itinerant ballad singer, a loveable rogue who made the ladies titter at his lewd behaviour. Before too much drink robbed him of coherent thought, the Welshman wanted clarification from Nicholas Bracewell, who sat beside him at the feast.

‘Why exactly was Bror Langberg arrested?’ he asked.

‘How much do you know already, Owen?’

‘Only that our patron was being hoodwinked. He was given a portrait of a woman that he was never going to marry.’

‘A beautiful woman at that,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve seen her.’

‘What of her sister? Is she ugly?’

‘Not in the least but her face would never have brought Lord Westfield all the way to Denmark. I’ve spoken with the lady.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘The irony is that Sigbrit Olsen never wanted to get married to anyone. Her uncle talked her into it.’

‘But why, Nick?’

‘To achieve his ends. He needed somewhere in England from which his confederates could work. They would have gone there as attendants to our patron’s bride. Lord Westfield is often at court,’ said Nicholas, ‘and, as a result, is very much aware of Her Majesty’s movements. That information would have been crucial.’

Elias was scandalised. ‘They meant to kill Queen Elizabeth?’

‘Bror Langberg wanted her out of the way so that King James of Scotland could succeed. Her Majesty is old but in good health. If they wait for her to die, it might take years and he feared that another claimant might find favour in the meantime.’

‘So they assassinate a queen for the sake of a Scottish king.’

‘He has a Danish wife, Owen.’

‘Ah! So that’s the rub.’

‘Bror Langberg is a close friend of hers,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Were she and her husband to sit on English thrones, he could look for great rewards from her.’

‘Was this plot first hatched in Scotland then?’

‘No, King James and his wife are completely unaware of it.’

‘Then how did King Christian learn about it?’ asked Elias. ‘When he arrived here, he called Master Langberg a traitor.’

‘He was set to betray the honour of Denmark,’ said Nicholas. ‘In raising a hand against Queen Elizabeth, he would have been attacking a true friend of this country. The king had suspicions of him for some time. Letters that were sent to from here to Flushing were intercepted. They were addressed to Rolfe Harling but intelligencers seized them and broke the cipher. Now I understand why Master Harling was so eager to call in at Flushing on our way here,’ he decided. ‘He did not want such dangerous correspondence to go astray. Unbeknown to him, it had already been seized.’

‘I never liked that dried fish of a man,’ said Elias. ‘If Rolfe Harling was part of this conspiracy, the villain deserved to die.’

‘He was working as a spy for Sir Robert Cecil and found that he and Master Langberg had similar ambitions. Both wanted a Danish queen in England. The difference was,’ Nicholas said over the babble of voices around him, ‘that he was prepared to let Her Majesty die a natural death. When he refused to condone assassination, he was killed outright because he was in a position to reveal Bror Langberg’s plot.’ He paused to sip his wine. ‘My own suspicions were aroused when Lord Westfield told me how he had come to meet his friend. It was through the offices of Sir Robert Cecil, a man who keeps a small army of intelligencers. Master Harling was one of them.’

‘A filthy spy, was he?’ said Elias with contempt. ‘Never trust a man who prefers chess to women, Nick. It’s a game that perverts the mind. As for our patron,’ he went on, glancing towards the end of the table where Lord Westfield was laughing merrily beside the king, ‘he must learn to choose his friends with more care — and his wives.’

‘I’m sure that he knows that.’

‘So what happens now, Nick?’

‘We’ve seen the last of Denmark for a while,’ said Nicholas, looking around at the happy faces of the actors. ‘The company has prospered from the three plays that we presented, and we made many admirers, but I cannot say that I am sorry to leave. Tomorrow, we board the Cormorant again. Anne will finally reach Amsterdam and we will head for home.’

Elias cackled. ‘Think of all those broken-hearted women who will welcome me back,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Think instead of the man who has twice tried to kill you.’

‘Oh, I’ve not forgotten him, Nick.’

‘His name is Josias Greet and my guess is that he’s probably sailing to London now. We’ll catch up with him one day.’

When he reached the capital, Isaac Dunmow rode straight to the inn and took a room. He then sent word to Josias Greet and counted out the money while he waited for the man to arrive. A letter from Anthony Rooker had informed him that Greet had returned and claimed to have good news for him. Dunmow had set out from York at once. Instead of dulling his urge for revenge, the passage of time had merely sharpened it. If their mission had been completed, his hired killers deserved their reward.

An hour later, Josias Greet was shown up to the room, almost panting with eagerness. He was carrying a blood stained bag. Taking off his greasy cap, he gave an ingratiating smile.

‘Good day to you, Master Dunmow,’ he said, displaying a row of misshapen teeth. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you in the city again.’

‘Well, I get no pleasure from looking at your vile face. The sooner we settle this matter, the better.’ He regarded his visitor critically. ‘I had a letter from Master Rooker. He says that you’ve done my bidding.’

‘That’s right, sir. Of course, I did not tell him what that bidding was. I obeyed your orders, sir. I simply went to his office and gave him the message that you wanted.’

‘Owen Elias is dead?’

‘As a doornail.’

‘Burnt?’

‘To a cinder.’

‘How do I know?’

‘Because I brought something for you,’ said Greet, opening the bag to take out a charred hand. ‘I cut this from his arm, sir.’

Dunmow stared at the hand with distaste then looked away.

‘Where is Ryden?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that’s the sad part of the tale, sir. He’s dead.’

Greet went on to give a rambling account of the murder of Owen Elias. He claimed that Ben Ryden had been killed when he fought with the Welshman, leaving Greet to overpower and burn Elias. The details he gave of their voyage and of their brief stay in Elsinore sounded convincing enough but the rest of his story struck a false note. Dunmow scowled at him.

‘You’re lying, you scabby knave,’ he said.