The Princess of Denmark by Edward Marston Read Free Book Online

royalty.’
    ‘We will all flourish,’ said Firethorn, leaping to his feet to address the whole room. ‘Do you hear that, lads?’ he yelled.‘Cast off your misery. Order more drink. Lord Westfield is to marry and we will perform a play to celebrate the occasion. Kiss your wives and mistresses goodbye, dear friends. We are going to Denmark!’
     
    Owen Elias was so pleased at the turn of events that he sang to himself in Welsh as he strolled down Gracechurch Street. Chance had contrived their salvation and turned unhappiness into sheer joy. He was still exercising his rich baritone voice as he turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head. When he confronted the scene of destruction once more, however, the ditty died on his lips. Because of the concerted efforts of the company, much of the debris had been burnt or taken away but enough still remained to bring him to a halt. Instead of looking at one side of the inn, he was staring over piles of rubble at the houses beyond. It was dispiriting.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement and swung round to see the landlord shuffling towards him with a stranger. The other man was in his forties, tall, stooping and in need of a walking stick. From his appearance, Elias could tell that he was a man of substance. He wore a smart brown suit, a fine hat and he had an air of prosperity about him.
    ‘You come upon your hour, Master Elias,’ said Marwood. ‘This gentleman has come in search of a friend who stayed here last night.’
    ‘Will Dunmow?’ asked Elias.
    ‘The very same. I’ll leave him in your hands. I am so weighed down by what has happened that I can barelyspeak.’ He shot them both a baleful glance. ‘Excuse me, sirs.’
    ‘The landlord was not very helpful,’ said the stranger as Marwood walked off. ‘I had difficulty prising a word out of him.’
    ‘Then you are fortunate, my friend. This morning, a whole torrent of abuse surged out of his mouth and it was aimed at us.’ He offered his hand. ‘My name is Owen Elias and I belong to Westfield’s Men.’ They shook hands. ‘What have you learnt about Will?’
    ‘Nothing beyond the fact that he spent the night here and died in the fire. I am Anthony Rooker, by the way,’ said the other, face lined with anxiety. ‘I’m a friend of Will’s father and offered the son bed and board while he was visiting London.’
    ‘He was very grateful, sir, and spoke well of you.’
    ‘That’s good to hear.’
    ‘Will told us that he was here to do business on his father’s behalf but that he intended to enjoy himself while he did so. He was cheerful company and generous to a fault.’
    ‘The lad has always been open-handed.’
    ‘His father is a merchant in York, I believe.’
    ‘Isaac Dunmow and I were partners in the city until I moved to London, but we still transact business together if the occasion serves. However,’ said Rooke, lips pursing in trepidation, ‘I am not sure that our friendship will survive this. I was meant to look after Will. I was
in loco parentis
.’
    ‘He was too old to be fathered and too young to drink with actors. That was Will’s undoing, alas.’
    ‘Tell me what happened.’
    Elias gave him an honest, straightforward account of Will Dunmow’s fateful visit to the Queen’s Head, ashamed of the way that he had helped to get him helplessly drunk, thereby making him so vulnerable. Anthony Rooker listened with a mingled sadness and unease, stunned by the details of the death and wondering how he could break the news to the father when he wrote to him. He was not surprised to hear of Will Dunmow’s readiness to carouse.
    ‘His father is inclined to severity,’ he explained, ‘and frowns upon most of the pleasures of life. It is only when he journeys south that Will can enjoy drink, lively company and entertainment.’
    ‘What about women?’ asked Elias.
    ‘He has not neglected them while he was here.’
    ‘I ask that because he was so enamoured of