The Princess of Denmark by Edward Marston

unpleasant smells hung in the air to assault their nostrils and their feet squelched through all kinds of filthy refuse.But they knew their duty. When they reached the Dutch Churchyard, they paused to look inside, using their lanterns to illumine even its darkest corners. All that they found was a dog, curled up beside one of the gravestones. Dispatched with a kick, it yelped aloud and scurried away. The watchmen were content. Leaving the churchyard, they checked every inch of the wall to see if anything had been hung there again.
    ‘Nothing,’ said one.
    ‘We are good scarecrows,’ said the other.
    ‘Yes, Tom. We frightened them away at last.’
    Chuckling quietly, they went on their way, patrolling the streets of the parish at the same slow, tireless, unvarying pace. They were soon swallowed up by darkness. When the distant echo of their footsteps finally died away, someone came out of a doorway opposite the churchyard and trotted across to it. Seconds later, another vile attack on foreigners was attached to the wall.
    The villains had struck again.

Chapter Four
    Margery Firethorn was a gregarious woman who loved to have people around her. Her house in Shoreditch was not merely home to her husband and children, it also contained two servants and the four boy apprentices who belonged to Westfield’s Men. In addition, it was the regular meeting place for certain members of the company so visitors were coming and going all the time. Margery greeted them all with maternal warmth and made sure that refreshment was always on hand. That morning, however, her pleasure at seeing her friends was tempered by the thought that she might not lay eyes on them again for a long time. When the troupe sailed off to Denmark, five people who slept under her roof would disappear along with all of her most cherished callers. The house in Old Street would seem very empty.
    Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive and she always reserved her most cordial welcome for the book holder. When she embraced him this time, however, therewas sadness in her face and a hint of desperation in the way that she clung to him. He understood why. Margery stepped back to appraise him.
    ‘I shall miss you, Nick,’ she said.
    ‘Not as much as I’ll miss you,’ he said gallantly. ‘There’s nobody in the whole of Denmark who will look after us as well as you.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘The pity of it is that we cannot take you with us.’
    ‘The same must be true of Anne, surely?’
    ‘No, Margery – she will be joining us.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Anne is going to Amsterdam to visit relatives and friends of her late husband. She’ll sail with us part of the way.’
    ‘Well perhaps I could do so as well!’
    ‘We’d be honoured to have you.’
    She kissed him on the lips, gave him an impulsive squeeze then took him into the parlour, where Lawrence Firethorn was poring over a manuscript. He looked up.
    ‘Nick, dear heart,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘As ever, you are the first here even though you have to travel further than anyone.’
    ‘I enjoy a long walk,’ said Nicholas.
    ‘It must have taken you past the Queen’s Head.’
    ‘It did. The place looks forlorn. By now, I fancy the landlord will have pulled out the last remaining tufts of hair in vexation. It will be months before the inn returns to anything like its former glory.’
    ‘It can only do that when Westfield’s Men play there again,’ said Margery loyally. ‘The sooner that happens, thebetter.’ The doorbell clanged. ‘That will be Edmund.’
    She left the room and let the newcomer in, enfolding him in her arms for a moment before ushering him into the parlour. Margery then vanished into the kitchen. After an exchange of greetings, the three men sat down. Firethorn picked up the manuscript on the table.
    ‘I’ve been reading your latest play again, Edmund,’ he said. ‘I know that it did not find favour with the Master of the Revels but it might have a kinder reception