Читать книгу House Of Shadows - Nicola Cornick - Страница 14

Wassenaer Hof, The Hague, February 1632

The palace was in chaos. Light spilled across the cobbles, torches flared, men hurrying, women calling with an edge of panic to their voices. As William Craven rode through the arched gateway into the courtyard, Dr Rumph, the Queen’s chief physician, loomed up out of the dark and caught his reins, causing the horse to shy. Cursing, Craven brought it under control and Rumph stepped back, his long face growing even longer.

‘Your pardon.’ He spoke stiffly.

‘It’s no matter,’ Craven said. He jumped down and handed the reins over to a groom. It had been a long ride from Frederick’s campaign lodgings at Hanau and he had letters for the Queen but what he wanted most was a meal and some hot water. Judging by the disquiet in Rumph’s face, however, he seemed destined to have neither.

‘What can I do for you, doctor?’ he said.

‘We have lost the Queen!’ Rumph said.

For one shocking moment Craven thought Rumph meant that Elizabeth was dead. It would not be so surprising. The winter had been notably wet and mild, encouraging all manner of fevers, and the Queen had been taken with an ague that had confined her to her bed for several weeks. But then he realised what the doctor meant. The chaos, the men milling around, the air of panicked confusion …

‘Her Majesty has disappeared?’ he said.

‘That is what I’m telling you,’ Rumph snapped.

‘You have searched the palace?’

‘Of course.’ Rumph fell into step beside him, his long black robe flapping agitatedly as he walked. ‘She was last seen in her chamber several hours ago. Her ladies say she was in a melancholy frame of mind. We were afraid …’ He hesitated. No one would articulate it but they feared that the Queen, borne down by fear and loneliness whilst her husband was on campaign, might commit the heinous sin of taking her own life.

‘Nonsense,’ Craven said. It was easy in such a febrile atmosphere to imagine the worst. Rumour spread panic like a contagion. Yet he knew that the Queen would never abandon her cause.

He had left The Hague with Frederick six weeks before and they had made slow progress towards a meeting with the Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus at Hochst. During that time Craven had taken a number of letters back and forth between the king and his wife. It had not taken him long to see which of them had the greater heart, spirit and stomach for the fight. Frederick would always be a broken reed. Elizabeth would always be the stronger.

‘Have you searched the gardens?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Rumph sounded offended to be asked so obvious a question.

‘Stables? Outbuildings?’

Rumph’s look said quite clearly what he thought of the idea of the Queen of Bohemia hiding in an outbuilding.

‘Our Lord took refuge in a stable,’ Craven said mildly, and was rewarded with a glare.

‘You mock the scriptures, my lord?’

‘Of course not,’ Craven said. ‘What about the water tower? Have you looked there?’

There was a pause, a minute hesitation. Craven glanced at the physician. Rumph knew full well what ceremonies had been held in the water tower and disapproved of them. Or perhaps, Craven thought, he was superstitious, scared. Physicians sometimes were. Rumph would not like to think that the Queen would dabble in dangerous occult practices. If it came to it, Craven felt much the same himself, although for different reasons. He deplored the use of magic.

‘The tower is locked,’ the physician said.

‘But the queen would have access to a key.’

Silence.

‘We have not looked there,’ Rumph admitted.

‘Then let us waste no more time.’

By the time they had crossed the garden to the tower they had gained a motley retinue; pages with lanterns, ladies holding up their skirts in order not to dirty them on the gravel, gentlemen with hunting dogs. Craven put his hand to the door of the tower and it swung open silently. He took a torch from one of the servants.

‘I’ll go down alone,’ he said.

The faces around him swam in the flare of light; avid, speculative, malicious. Craven felt a wave of disgust. God protect Her Majesty from such ghoulish curiosity. It was no wonder she sought solitude, surrounded every moment by such a crowd.

Rumph blocked his way. ‘It would not be seemly for you to be alone with the Queen, my lord.’

‘Forgive me, doctor, but His Majesty the King insists no layman should enter the tower that holds the secrets of the Order of the Rosy Cross,’ Craven said, an edge of steel to his tone now. ‘Does anyone wish to gainsay him?’ He let the question hang.

It was enough. A ripple of disquiet went through the crowd like wind through corn. No one wanted to incur the wrath of the Knights of the Rosy Cross. Only Rumph’s face bore indecision.

‘I must insist—’

‘Be assured, sir—’ Craven laid a hand lightly on his arm, ‘that I will call for you at once should Her Majesty be in need of medical assistance.’

He started down the stone stair. There was absolute silence below and darkness that fell about him like a shroud. The air was still and musty. It made him want to sneeze. He could almost feel the layers of dust tightening his chest. This was an unwholesome place. Even if a man did not believe in necromancy and its secrets it was impossible not to feel a shudder of repulsion.

‘Your Majesty!’ His voice sounded loud, met by nothing but the muffling darkness. He reached the bottom of the stairs and carefully opened the door into the water chamber.

There were no knights in black and gold tonight. At first Craven thought the room was completely empty and he felt a rush of relief mingled with respect for Elizabeth that she should not cheapen herself with foolish superstition. Then he saw the torchlight falling on the quiet waters of the pool in banners of orange and black. It glanced off the arched spans of the roof and the tall pillars of stone. Shadows rippled, then one of them formed into a figure, small, slight, kneeling at the side of the pool.

Craven’s heart jumped. He almost dropped the lantern in his haste to reach her side. ‘Your Majesty!’

She made no response, no movement.

‘Madam!’ He dropped down on one knee beside her. He had never thought her a small woman before, yet she seemed as insubstantial as air tonight, a ghost in a white gown, huddled over the water as she wove her spell.

He saw it then, the pearl shimmering on a ledge at the edge of the pool. He felt a deep visceral coldness, as though the marrow were freezing in his bones. It was not fear he felt but anger. Frederick was weak and needed the magic of soothsaying to prop him up. He was its puppet. But Elizabeth should have been too strong to require the comfort of such illusions.

He snatched the pearl from the water and threw it aside. He heard the clatter as it bounced off the stone pillar and wondered if it was lost. He hoped so.

Elizabeth jumped to her feet and spun to confront him. ‘You forget yourself, Craven.’ Her voice cracked like a whip. Her skirts were soaked. Water gleamed on her bare arms. She looked like a creature of magic herself, all light and fire, her hair flowing loose about her shoulders. He had never seen her like this, never expected to see her like this.

‘Who are you to interrupt the mysteries of the Knights of the Rosy Cross?’ Elizabeth demanded.

‘One who would not see you bend to superstition,’ Craven said grimly, adding a perfunctory ‘madam.’ It sounded more derisive than he had intended and he saw her expression harden. For a moment he thought she might strike him.

‘Be careful that you do not trip over your own self-importance,’ Elizabeth snapped. ‘Why should I care about your judgement, milord? You have no education. You are no more than a soldier. I do not need your permission or your approval for what I do.’

‘All men’s opinions matter when a kingdom is at stake,’ Craven said. ‘Do you want the world to think that you cast spells like a witch because you do not believe you will regain your patrimony any other way?’ He straightened up. A glimmer of iridescence caught his eye; in the corner of the chamber the pearl gleamed mockingly. Elizabeth made a rush for it but Craven was before her, grabbing it, holding it out of her reach. As soon as he touched it all colour seemed to leach from it. It looked a dull grey, sulky and malevolent. It was a toy, a chimera. He detested it.

He raised his gaze to Elizabeth’s face. ‘If you call on the pearl they will think you weak,’ he said softly. ‘They will dismiss you as a tool in the hands of the magicians. Or they will seek to burn you for witchcraft.’

Shock flared in her eyes. He had spoken harshly on purpose because he wanted her to understand. The Holy Roman Emperor and his allies would use every means available to discredit her. She was putting herself in danger and suddenly he was fearful for her.

He could feel the tension wrapping about them, thick as cobwebs, and then Elizabeth gave a sigh and her shoulders slumped. She looked so young and vulnerable all of a sudden, fragile in the white gown. The torchlight cast its slanting shade across her cheek and deepened the warm curve of her mouth. Her blue eyes were shadowed and dark. In that instant Craven could see why hard-headed soldiers and romantic fools alike dedicated themselves and their swords to her service. She was both gallant and beautiful.

Craven remembered Ralph Hopton telling him once of how he had carried the pregnant Queen ahead of him on his horse during the retreat from Prague after the Battle of White Mountain, of how she had ridden mile after mile without complaint whilst her husband had shed bitter tears over the loss of his kingdom. Such courage commanded men’s respect as well as their love.

‘Don’t you see – I need certainty?’ He could hear the plea for reassurance beneath Elizabeth’s defiant words. ‘I need to know if Frederick will win,’ she said. ‘I need to know if our lands will be restored or whether …’ She let the words trail away before she betrayed herself too far.

‘You will not find truth in magic, only deception.’ Impatience made him short. Frederick would not win. Craven needed no soothsaying to tell him that. He wanted to be honest with her, to state the facts baldly:

‘Your husband is no soldier and men will die because of him.’

But that was needlessly cruel, and in making her face up to her lack of belief in her husband he would commit an unforgivable act of treachery. Besides, he had chosen his loyalty. He had pledged himself to Frederick’s cause. The least he could do was honour that pledge until he was released from it.

‘Frederick took the mirror with him.’ She spoke softly so that Craven had to draw nearer to hear her words. A fold of her gown brushed his leg. For a moment he smelled the scent of the orange flower perfume she wore. She glanced up at him, almost shy. ‘We agreed; he would have the mirror and I the pearl. Two halves of a whole.’ Her voice dropped still further. ‘They do not work so well apart. The pearl would not reveal itself tonight without the mirror as its foil.’

Craven knew the Winter King had taken the mirror. Barely a day passed without him peering into its depths for some pointer to his future fortunes. It was pitiful. He clenched his fists and, in doing so, realised that he still held the pearl. He resisted the urge to throw it into the pool and let the waters of the Bosbeek wash it away.

There were sounds from above now, footsteps on the stone stairs and the flaring of torches. Clearly Rumph had decided he had been absent long enough and had come to find out what was happening.

‘They are looking for me.’ He saw Elizabeth straighten. She reached for her cloak, smothering the white gown in darkness. Her tone had changed. The doubt, the desolation had gone. She had shown her weakness to him but now she was a queen again.

Her gaze fixed on him, formal now. ‘I did not ask what you were doing here, Lord Craven. I suppose you are come from Hanau with letters from His Majesty?’

‘I am.’ He was put neatly back in his place, a messenger boy.

‘Then present them to me in an hour in the Great Chamber.’

She held out her hand for the jewel.

Craven looked at it again. It was instinctive, that glance downwards. He expected to see nothing but a big fat pearl that should have been locked away, or reduced to what it truly was; no more than an insignificant part of a royal collection of jewels. Yet in that second, as he stared at it, the pearl was transformed. It glowed, radiating a soft light that should have been warm and yet felt as cold as the winter sea. The surface shifted like clouds covering the moon and then he saw. A bedchamber cloaked in death, the royal standard of the lion rampant hanging limp and still. He could feel the heat of the room and smell the stench of sickness. He could hear the voices of the attendants and the murmurings of a priest.

‘Craven?’ Elizabeth’s voice called him back. He shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. The pearl burned his palm. He handed it gently to her.

‘What did you see?’ she asked. As she took it from him their fingers touched.

‘I saw nothing,’ Craven lied. ‘Nothing at all.’