The Princess of Denmark Read Online Free Page B

Lord Westfield was a short,plump man of middle years with a reddish complexion lighting up a round, pleasant face. Thanks to a skilful tailor, his slashed doublet of blue and red gave him a podgy elegance and his breeches cunningly concealed his paunch. He had been married twice before but had outlived both of his wives. Though he led a sybaritic existence that involved the pursuit of a number of gorgeous young ladies, he had now decided that it might be time to wed for the third time.
    ‘How do you think that Sigbrit would look on my arm, Rolfe?’
    ‘You will make a handsome couple, my lord,’ flattered Harling.
    ‘She would be the envy of all my friends.’
    ‘That thought was in my mind when I chose her.’
    ‘You have done well, Rolfe.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Harling with an obsequious smile. ‘It has taken time, I know, but a decision like that could not be rushed. I did not wish to commit you until I was absolutely convinced.’
    ‘I would have preferred it if you had actually
seen
Sigbrit.’
    ‘So would I, my lord, but she was visiting relatives in Sweden when I was there. Her uncle is eminently reliable, I assure you, and I’ve had good reports of the lady from others. Until her marriage, she was a lady-in-waiting at court.’
    ‘That, in itself, is recommendation enough.’
    ‘The Dowager Queen likes to surround herself with beauty.’
    Lord Westfield beamed. ‘And so do I, Rolfe.’
    They were in the house that Lord Westfield used when he was staying in the city. His estates were in Hertfordshire, north of St Albans, close enough to London to allow easy access to and fro yet far enough away to escape the stench and the frequent outbreaks of plague that afflicted the capital. He had been waiting for weeks for the return of Rolfe Harling. Since his reputation for promiscuity was too well-known in England, Lord Westfield had chosen to look elsewhere for a wife and Harling had been dispatched to find a suitable partner for him, searching, as he did, through three other countries before settling on the woman whose portrait he had brought back.
    Rolfe Harling was a tall, thin individual in his thirties with long, dark hair and a neat beard. He wore smart but sober apparel and, with his scholarly hunch and prominent brow, he conveyed an impression of intelligence. The fact that he spoke four languages had made him an ideal person for the task in hand.
    ‘Do you ever regret leaving academic life?’ asked Lord Westfield.
    ‘Not at all, my lord. Oxford has its appeal but it can seem very parochial at times. Travel has taught me far more than I could learn from the contents of any library.’
    ‘That depends on where you travel.’
    ‘Quite so,’ said Harling. ‘As an Englishman, there are some countries that I have no desire to visit – Spain, for instance. I would never have dared to foist a wife from that accursed nation upon you. Spain is our enemy, Denmark our friend.’
    ‘And likely to remain so.’
    ‘That, too, was taken into consideration.’
    ‘You have been diligent on my behalf,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘and I thank you for it. My brother’s death was a bitter blow but it brought a welcome change of fortune to me. Hitherto, I baulked at the idea of asking a woman to share my poverty with me. Now that I can afford to marry again, I will do so in style.’
    ‘Sigbrit Olsen will not disappoint you. Through her uncle, she makes only one request, and that is for the wedding to be on Danish soil. I was certain that you would abide by that condition.’
    ‘Gladly. Let her nominate the place.’
    ‘She has already done so.’
    ‘Copenhagen?’
    ‘No, my lord,’ said Harling. ‘The lady prefers her home town. In her native tongue, it is called Helsingor.’
    ‘And what do we call it in English?’
    ‘Elsinore.’
     
    Preben van Loew was a very private man who had remained single by choice because of his excessive shyness and because of a lurking fear of the opposite sex. He liked and