The Princess of Denmark (16 page)

‘I agree, sir.’

Nicholas was reassured. He was also grateful for the readiness shown by the other to discuss the murder with him. Bror Langberg was a statesman who had the ear of the young king. Nicholas, on the other hand, was only a hired man with a foreign theatre company yet his opinions were treated with respect. Langberg leant forward.

‘Why do
you
think that anyone would want Rolfe Harling dead?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Nicholas, concealing the vague suspicions at the back of his mind. ‘Do you, sir?’

‘Yes. I believe he was killed for his money.’

‘Money?’

‘He must have had a substantial amount,’ Langberg went on, ‘and, being Rolfe, he would always carry it about his person. I know that your patron had rewarded him handsomely for his services and that he intended to travel extensively in Germany after the wedding, so he would need funds to do that. He would have been very much richer than the average scholar,’ he commented. ‘No wonder his purse was missing when we searched the body.’

‘What of his room?’

‘I had that locked as soon as word of the murder reached me.’

‘Might he not have concealed his money in there?’

‘It’s unlikely,’ said Langberg, rising to his feet, ‘but we can easily find out. Let’s search the room this instant.’

Nicholas was pleased to go with him. Desperate to learn more about Harling, he was glad of the opportunity to go through the man’s effects. Striding along with his gown brushing the floor, Langberg led him along a series
of corridors before turning a corner. After a dozen paces or more, he stopped outside a room and unlocked it with a key on the ring that dangled from his belt. A single candle burnt on the table. Snatching it up, Langberg used it to light all the other candles. Small and compact, the room was also clean and comfortable. They began a methodical search.

Rolfe Harling had travelled with relatively little luggage. Since he was less interested in clothing than in scholarship, he had far more books than anything else. Nicholas leafed through them and noted their titles. Langberg, meanwhile, scoured the room for hiding places but found none. Nor did he discover any cache of money. Nicholas was not looking for a purse. What he was after were documents that told him more about the murder victim, letters that might explain the reason for his visit to Germany or revealing papers of another kind. He searched everywhere without success. What he did uncover, hidden away beneath a shirt, was a chess set with large, beautifully carved ivory pieces. They were the most expensive items in his baggage.

It was Harling who eventually gave up the hunt.

‘His purse is not here,’ he decided. ‘Did you find anything?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head. ‘Nothing at all.’

Occupying the room of a servant had a severe disadvantage and Anne Hendrik was made rudely aware of it. In their search for the killer, the castle guards did not stand on ceremony when they reached the servants’ quarters. They simply barged into the rooms unannounced and looked in every nook and cranny. Even though she was a guest,
Anne was told to stand in the corridor while her room was thoroughly searched and while – to her annoyance – one of the guards went through her wardrobe. Without explanation, they then moved on. It was only by speaking to one of the servants that Anne learnt about the murder.

She was stunned. Like the others, she had not found Rolfe Harling in any way likeable or forthcoming but she was still upset to hear of his death. Her compassion also went out to George Dart, who had had the misfortune to find the body. Knowing how sensitive and vulnerable he was, she could imagine the shock he had suffered. But her immediate sympathy was reserved for Nicholas Bracewell. If a killer was on the loose in the casemates, the book holder might be in danger. She had to reach him.

When the initial commotion had died down in the castle, therefore, she left her room and went downstairs to the courtyard. It was pitch dark but a series of torches in iron holders threw dazzling patterns across the stone. Shivering in the cold, she walked swiftly towards the steps that led to the casemates. Before she could descend them, however, a guard came out of the shadows to block her way. Though she could not translate the curt Danish command, she understood it perfectly when it was reinforced with a drawn sword and a hostile gesture.

Forbidden to enter the casemates, Anne withdrew at once. If Nicholas and the others were still down there, they were at least being protected. She began to retrace her steps. But this time, instead of climbing the main staircase, she elected to use the back stairs that she had been shown. It was a fortuitous decision. Though she had to grope her
way up in the dark, she got to the top without difficulty. As she reached out for it, the door opened in front of her and a young woman in a hooded cloak came through it, holding a lighted candle. When she saw Anne, she gave her only a cursory look, clearly thinking her no more than a servant. Brushing past, she went down the steps.

Anne was bewildered. In that startling moment of recognition, she had beheld the beautiful face of Sigbrit Olsen. Eyes, nose, cheeks, chin, even the gloriously pale complexion were identical to those in the cherished portrait carried by Lord Westfield. The only difference was that, in real life, the woman was slightly older. Evidently, she had lost none of her charms. It was perplexing. Since Lord Westfield had called his new bride a princess of Denmark, and since she was palpably from aristocratic stock, Anne was bound to wonder why such a noble lady was furtively using the back stairs reserved for the servants.

Westfield’s Men set out from the castle the next morning with a mixture of relief and jubilation. They were at long last able to stage a play. With their carts loaded to capacity, they rumbled through the Dark Gate and into the sunshine beyond. They had not forgotten the fate of Rolfe Harling, and they spared him the tribute of a passing sigh, but their minds then turned to what lay ahead. Having been on tour many times, they were accustomed to performing in town squares though, usually, when it was rather warmer. But there was no carping. The actors had an opportunity to entertain a large audience and they were determined to create a memorable experience for them.

Nicholas Bracewell always supervised the erection of a stage, the hanging of curtains and the setting of scenery for the beginning of any play. As a rule, he and Thomas Skillen had a bevy of assistant stagekeepers to help them but George Dart was the only survivor and he could not cope alone. Most of the company therefore rolled up their sleeves and offered their services. The only exceptions were Lawrence Firethorn, too busy meeting the mayor, and Barnaby Gill, who spurned manual labour because it might damage his hands. When the makeshift stage had been set up, a tiring house was constructed behind it where the actors could change into their costumes and wait for their entrances. Predictably, it was Gill who had a criticism.

‘I refuse to change while a lady is present,’ he declared.

‘Anne is our tireman,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need someone to make repairs to our costumes and she has nimble fingers.’

‘That’s what Barnaby is afraid of,’ taunted Owen Elias. ‘There’s nothing he fears more when he takes his breeches down than a lady’s nimble fingers.’

‘Theatre is the sole preserve of men!’ maintained Gill.

‘Then find me one to look after the costumes,’ said Nicholas.

‘George Dart.’

‘He already has a dozen other tasks allotted to him.’

‘Oswald Megson.’

‘And so does he. Necessity compels us to break with tradition, Barnaby. We play
Cupid’s Folly
this afternoon. In the rough and tumble of the village scenes, costumes always get torn and buttons always get lost. Anne will be waiting in the tiring house to stitch and mend.’ He
raised his voice. ‘Does anyone object to that?’

‘No!’ came the collective response.

‘It’s wrong,’ said Gill peevishly. ‘It’s against all custom.’

Elias cackled. ‘Seeing you half-naked in the presence of a woman is against all decency,’ he jested merrily, ‘but we’ll bear it for the sake of the company. Remember who we are, Barnaby – Westfield Men’s. We do not follow tradition – we create it.’

When Gill tried to argue on, several voices shouted him down.

Benches were set out in front of the stage and wooden screens were placed in rectangular shape to mark out the auditorium and keep out those who did not pay. The sea breeze was as stiff as ever but the buildings around the square deflected its bite and the sun provided a stark brightness that could easily be mistaken for warmth. Absorbed in their work, the actors did not even notice the weather.
Cupid’s Folly
was a staple comedy in their repertoire and, as such, it needed little rehearsal. Nevertheless, Firethorn insisted on taking his company through some of the longer scenes, giving them chance to lose themselves in their parts while, at the same time, arousing the curiosity of everyone who heard the raised voices behind the screens. The murder on the previous evening was soon a distant memory.

During a break in rehearsal, Firethorn spoke to the book holder.

‘I hope that we’ve chosen the right play for them, Nick.’

‘
Cupid’s Folly
is ideal,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s bursting with life and laughter. But its main virtue is that it’s easy for a foreign audience to understand. It has plenty of dances and comic brawls that need no words to explain them.’

‘It’s also about a folly common to every nation.’

‘Yes, Lawrence. Love can make a fool of any man The Danes know well that Cupid’s arrows can sometimes go astray.’

‘They have an example of it right before their eyes.’

‘Do they?’

‘Of course,’ said Firethorn. ‘They merely have to look at what is happening at the castle. Lord Westfield is yet another victim of Cupid. Whenever he talks about his bride, he becomes a babbling imbecile.’

‘I excuse the lady of that. She is hardly marrying for love.’

‘Could
any
woman be enchanted by our patron?’

‘You are unkind.’

‘Any respectable woman, that is.’

‘I think that Lord Westfield has a battered charm.’

‘His charm lies largely in his title and – now that he has finally shaken off his creditors – in his purse. Why else would this princess of his even deign to look at him?’

‘Stranger marriages have been arranged.’

‘Most of them founder in the bedchamber.’

‘We must pray that that does not happen in this case.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it affects our survival,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our patron has no heir. With a young wife, he must surely hope to produce children so that one of them can inherit. Should he fail in that ambition, his greater age and constant resort to pleasure mean that he’ll certainly die before his wife. Our future would then rest with Lady Westfield.’

Firethorn pondered. ‘That’s a worrying thought, Nick,’
he said at length, ‘and one that had not even entered my head. Our patron will not live forever. Unless his widow takes his place, we’ll vanish into thin air like so much smoke from a fire.’

‘Barnaby would rebel against a female patron.’

‘He rebels against everything we do.’

‘But chiefly against our use of a woman in the company. If he baulks at Anne acting as our tireman for a few days, what will he say if we became, in time, Lady Westfield’s company?’

‘I hope we never find out,’ said Firethorn anxiously. ‘Thank you for raising the matter, Nick. There’s a moral here, I fancy. We need to carry favour with the new Lady Westfield.’

‘The best way to do that is to woo her with our art.’

‘
The Princess of Denmark
will achieve that end. Edmund has tailored it carefully to her particular taste and I will pluck at her heartstrings with my performance. The play is an act of seduction in itself. But I cannot say the same of this afternoon’s offering,’ he said, looking across at the stage. ‘
Cupid’s Folly
is fit only for rougher palates.’

‘I disagree. Some of its wit can be savoured by anyone.’

‘It’s not a dish dainty enough to set before a lady.’

‘Have no fear on that account, Lawrence. She will not be here.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Master Langberg told me as much,’ Nicholas confided. ‘It seems that Sigbrit Olsen was so disturbed by the murder at the castle, that she will not even stir from her room.’

‘But she cannot stay there forever,’ pleaded Lord Westfield, wringing his hands. ‘I need to
see
her.’

‘You saw her last night, my lord.’

‘Yes, Master Langberg, but that’s about all I did do. Sigbrit and I were kept apart in that crowd. I want some private conference.’

‘And so you shall,’ said Bror Langberg. ‘In time.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Locked in her apartment, afraid to come out until the killer has been caught. Sigbrit sees what happened as an evil portent.’

‘It was simple misfortune, nothing more.’

‘But it occurred so close to the wedding.’

‘I’ll not let that steer us off course,’ said Lord Westfield, jaw thrust out with determination. ‘I grieve for poor Rolfe, of course, and I look for the early capture of the villain who stabbed him. But he would not want his demise to throw our wedding into jeopardy.’

‘That will not happen,’ vowed Langberg. ‘I give you my word.’

It was late morning and they were sitting in his apartment. Lord Westfield had come with a smile of anticipatory delight, certain that he would be now allowed to spend time alone with Sigbrit. Instead he was, like before, politely rebuffed. Murder in the casemates had put her tantalisingly out of his reach. He was more exasperated than ever. Langberg tried to appease him.

‘I’m glad that you came, my lord,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘As it happens, I have a gift for you.’

‘A gift?’

‘Strictly speaking, it is a form of bequest.’

‘From whom?’

‘Our mutual friend, Rolfe Harling, of course.’ He indicated the large oak chest in the corner. Set out on it was a board with the ivory chessmen in their rightful positions. ‘He told me how often you and he played during the voyage here.’