Free The Princess of Denmark by Edward Marston

business.’
    ‘And what is that?’
    Nicholas leant in closer to him. ‘I need to ask a favour of you.’
     
    The Dutch Churchyard lay wrapped in the thick blanket of night. Dutch, German and other languages were etched on the gravestones but they were unreadable in the darkness. All that could be seen were the blurred outlines of monument and tombstone. An owl perched on a stone cross. Moles were busy underneath the soft earth. Ratscame sniffing through the grass. Locked against intruders, the church itself loomed over the dead that were buried in its massive shadow. A homeless beggar slept on the cold stone in its porch.
    The old watchmen approached on their nightly patrol. When they got close to the churchyard, their lanterns threw a flickering light on an ancient cart abandoned near the entrance. All that they could see in it was a large pile of sacks and a broken wheelbarrow. They moved on to the churchyard to conduct their usual search and disturbed the owl. Leaving its perch, it flew high up into a tree before settling on a branch and keeping them under wide-eyed surveillance. As they meandered between the gravestones, they looked for signs of desecration. They found none. They sauntered back towards the gate.
    ‘Look at the wall, Tom,’ said one.
    ‘Aye,’ replied his companion.
    ‘That’s where they publish their damnable lies.’
    ‘Except that they’re not all lies.’
    ‘What’s that you say?’
    His friend did not reply. They left the churchyard and examined the wall that ran alongside it. Nothing had been left there. The first man repeated his question.
    ‘What’s that you say?’
    ‘There are too many of them, Silas,’ grunted the other.
    ‘Too many?’
    ‘Strangers – they are everywhere. I heard tell that they counted their numbers. Do you know how many we have in London?’
    ‘No, Tom. Hundreds, I expect.’
    ‘Over four thousand.’
    ‘Never!’
    ‘That’s the figure I heard and I believe it. They are never satisfied, Silas, that’s their trouble. They always want more.’
    ‘The foreigners I know all work very hard.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Tom grumpily, ‘but they do not work for us. They sneer at what we have in our shops and warehouses. They open their own instead. It’s not right. It’s not fair.’
    ‘That’s not for us to say.’
    ‘Strangers are strangers. They’ll never belong.’
    ‘Anyone would think that
you
wrote those libels, Tom Hubble.’
    ‘Not me, Silas. I despise most of what they say.’ He spat onto the ground. ‘But I do agree with bits of them.’
    ‘Shame on you!’
    ‘England must look first to the English.’
    ‘Let’s move on.’
    ‘Over four thousand of them, Silas – and the numbers grow.’
    ‘They are exiles, Tom,’ said the other with compassion, ‘driven out of their own countries.’
    Tom Hubble sniffed. ‘There are too many of them.’
    They trudged off down Broad Street until their lanterns were slowly extinguished in the gloom. There was a long pause. Someone then emerged warily from a doorway on the opposite side of the road and trotted across to the churchyard. Confident that he was alone, he unfurled a poster and started to fix it to the wall. He was soon interrupted. A figure suddenly rose up in the back of the abandoned cart and shook off the sacking under which hehad been concealed. The man at the wall was so terrified that he dropped his scroll and ran for his life. He did not get far.
    Nicholas Bracewell darted into the street from his hiding place and grabbed him by the shoulders, hurling him against a wall to knock some of the breath out of him. But the man was young and strong. Recovering quickly, he pulled out a dagger and slashed at Nicholas. The book holder eluded the weapon with ease. He had been involved in many brawls and knew how to stay light on his feet. When his assailant thrust the dagger at his heart, therefore, Nicholas turned quickly sideways and grabbed the man’s wrist as it flashed past him. There was