House of Shadows (12 page)

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I … think he has.’

‘Fuck!’ Guy was staring at her. ‘Are those real diamonds?’ He glanced at the letter again. ‘Who is this Espen Shurmer bloke?’

‘He’s a Dutch collector and philanthropist,’ Holly said. ‘He’s an acquaintance of Ben’s.’

‘Jeez.’ Guy sounded shocked. ‘I had no idea your brother knew such influential people. I mean … The diamonds must be worth at least half a million, probably more.’

‘I imagine so,’ Holly said. Her voice sounded odd in her own ears. She had never felt stranger, shaky, disconnected and only half-comprehending. She touched the letter lightly with her fingertips. She had left the museum trying to persuade herself that the tale of the mirror and the pearl was no more than a garbled myth, a legend spun over hundreds of years, belonging to another time. She had tried to convince herself that it could have nothing to do with Ben’s research.

The mirror is a gift.

She didn’t want it. It was ridiculous that Espen Shurmer should have given it to her and that he would think it might help her find out what had happened to Ben. It was even more insane to think that she might find the Sistrin pearl.

Guy sat down opposite her.

‘Hol,’ he said cautiously. ‘Do you think we should talk? About us, I mean? It’s just that it’s all happened so fast—’

The mirror lay between them, glittering in the sun.

‘Guy,’ Holly said. ‘Really. You are so transparent.’

Guy flushed. ‘I mean it. We’ve been together a while, we’re good together. We were going to get married—’

‘Except that we were always too busy to set a date,’ Holly said, ‘which says something in itself.’ She touched the back of his hand lightly.

‘Guy,’ she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not going to sell the mirror. I wouldn’t get rid of it and buy a better flat or an Aston Martin or a place in the Seychelles. That’s not going to happen.’

Guy was looking at her as though he had never seen her before. ‘What?’ he said. Colour came into his face, hot and confused. ‘What do you mean you aren’t going to sell it? What the fuck
are
you going to do with it then – keep it on your dressing table like you’re Elizabeth the First?’

The words, spiteful and corrosive, seemed to spill across the quiet room and once again Holly felt a huge gulf yawning between them. It really was over.

‘I don’t want to keep it because I like it.’ Even as she tried to find the words to explain, Holly was aware just how inadequate they were. ‘It’s an antique,’ she said. ‘It feels as though I’ve been given it in trust. I can’t just get rid of it.’

Guy shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ He stood up. ‘It’s probably fake anyway,’ he said. ‘Clearly that bloke’s barmy. And what did he mean about you wanting to find out about Ben’s disappearance? You should leave that to the police.’

Without another word he walked out of the kitchen and
a few moments later Holly heard the bedroom door slam behind him. A beam of sunlight cut across the rooftop and played over the table, pinning the mirror in a ray of white. The diamonds sparkled with dazzling brightness. Yet it felt as though the air still hummed with Guy’s antagonism, and remembering what Espen Shurmer had said about the destructive power of the mirror, it seemed to Holly that it had already started its malevolent work.

She did not feel as though she had received a gift. It felt more like a curse.

Wassenaer Hof, The Hague, November 1632

E
lizabeth was having her portrait painted. There seemed to be little else to do. The weather was too inclement to walk, with a spiteful wind gusting in from the sea carrying grey drizzle with it. She did not feel like singing or playing or making music today. Last night they had held a masque and had danced and laughed and drunk and eaten their fill as though they were back in Heidelberg and the years of exile had vanished as if they had never been. It had felt a little mad, a little feverish, and this morning Elizabeth felt weary and heavy-eyed and all the pleasure had fled.

Perhaps they should not have been celebrating at all. A great victory had been won at Lutzen and Frederick was so close to regaining his ancestral Palatine lands, but the cost of success had been appallingly high. The Swedish King,
Gustavus Adolphus, had died on the field of battle and at the moment of victory the Protestant cause had been plunged back into confusion.

It had been a strange year. In the spring Frederick’s messages had been full of hope for the future but as spring had slipped into summer the tone of his letters had changed to melancholy. The advance on Heidelberg had stalled. He suffered from pain and deafness. Gustavus Adolphus would not grant him a command of his own and so he kicked his heels in idleness and frustration. Elizabeth had seen the pattern before; the way in which inactivity stifled hope, and confidence became mired in disappointment. Frederick travelled deep into his principality and his letters became gloomier still. Towns had been burned, devastated. His patrimony was ruined.

Elizabeth had felt so helpless. She and Frederick were accustomed to being apart; it had happened a great deal during their married life. Yet this time it felt different, more threatening, more dangerous. When Frederick had plunged into melancholy in the past she had been the one to cajole him back to good spirits or at least to lighten the burden. Now she was so far from him and she felt the separation in spirit as well as miles.

She also felt a new emotion, a sense of exasperation that Frederick could not be the strong, decisive ruler they needed. It felt horribly disloyal and yet it seemed she could not help herself. Dissatisfaction had lodged in her like a canker.

She had not seen William Craven since Rhenen. Others had taken on his role as Frederick’s messenger. She did
not know whether this was by his choice or Frederick’s own. The gossip was that Gustavus Adolphus had offered Craven a command in his army, a most flattering promotion reflecting the worth the King placed on his skill and valour, which Craven had refused out of loyalty to Frederick. Elizabeth wished he had taken the commission; ever since Rhenen she had felt differently about Craven, too aware of him, too vulnerable to her feelings for him. They were feelings a queen should not have for her husband’s squire, especially a queen such as she with a reputation for devotion and a hopeful brood of children.

It had been a shock to her to realise that she wanted William Craven. She wanted his strength and his certainty. She wanted his touch, his hands on her. She had been a faithful wife. She had never expected to want anyone except Frederick but she had never felt for him an ounce of the naked hunger she had for William Craven. It was a sickness, a fever. Whether she saw him or not made no difference. She thought it was because of the contrast between Craven’s strength and Frederick’s weakness, Craven’s certainty and Frederick’s indecision. But knowing the reason did not take away the longing.

She shifted slightly in the chair. It felt inordinately uncomfortable with the fat velvet cushions too thick and lumpy and the wooden arm digging into her side. Or perhaps it was just that she was feeling so restless today, uncomfortable in her own skin, uncertain, hopeful yet despairing that with Gustavus Adolphus now dead there was still a chance Frederick’s lands would be snatched away once more.

Frederick had no such qualms. The letter he had sent her reporting on the victory had been full of triumph:

The Knights of the Rosy Cross have scried for me. The crystal mirror showed that I will regain all I have lost. Soon all shall be well, my love, and I will send for you …

Such promises should have made her happy, but Elizabeth did not trust the crystal mirror. Frederick, she thought, had made the mistake of believing that the magic that the pearl and the mirror possessed could be bent to man’s will. She knew better. Old magic was not easily controlled and the trouble with prophecy was that it could be so blunt an instrument, promising much, delivering a sting.

‘Majesty,’ Von Honthorst, the artist said, half-pleading, half-irritated, and Elizabeth realised that she had been fidgeting with her pearl necklace, turning the Sistrin pearl in the centre over and over between her fingers. She wished that she had worn something different. It felt almost like a yoke about her neck.

‘May I have a book to read, mama?’

Beside her was the fifteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth, her eldest daughter, wriggling and fidgeting on her cushion. The child was strange, preferring her book learning to hunting or games. Her daughter was not a true beauty, Elizabeth thought, at least not yet, although she might grow out of her youthful heaviness. If she smiled more it would be an advantage. She had inherited her grandmother’s solemnity and her father’s glum countenance. Still she was handsome enough to make a good match and now that her father would be Elector Palatine once more,
Princess Elizabeth would be very eligible. It was time to start thinking of matches for her children …

The door flew open. With a growl Von Honthorst threw down his brush. Paint splattered. ‘Enough of interruptions! How is it possible to work when people are forever crowding around to petition you for favours, Majesty?’

It was not an importunate courtier who was hurrying across the chamber, though, but Doctor Rumph, black robes flapping, a letter in his hand, pages and pages of writing that he was waving in a frantic fashion. Elizabeth heard the chatter and hum of the outer chamber well up and then wane as the door closed behind him. There was a curious silence in the room. She could hear nothing but the tap of Rumph’s shoes on the stone and marble floor and the sudden hitch in her breathing.

Something was terribly wrong.

She waited. Time spun out. It seemed to be taking Rumph forever to cross the floor to her.

‘Mama?’ Her daughter had turned towards her. The princess’s expression was questioning with a hint of panic. Von Honthorst had frozen still in the act of retrieving his paintbrush. He straightened up slowly. Elizabeth noticed the smear of paints, red and blue, drying on the floor.

‘Come along, madam Elizabeth.’ The artist held out a hand towards the princess. ‘You have sat very patiently and now you deserve an ice.’

Elizabeth was still young enough to be charmed by the offer of a treat but she went with a long backwards glance at her mother.

‘Majesty …’ Rumph, in his agitation, had forgotten
to bow. ‘I regret to inform you … The most shocking news …’

There was a pit of cold fear opening up beneath Elizabeth’s breastbone. She could not breathe.

‘His Majesty the King of Bohemia was taken suddenly with a pestilential fever …’

Elizabeth did not hear his words properly but she already understood their meaning. She would not see Frederick again. He was gone from her. She was alone, terribly alone, to face the future on her own.

The fear in her grew like a living thing, eclipsing all else, setting her shaking. Her breath would not come. She was suffocating. She clawed at her throat, snapping the string of pearls and sending them scattering across the floor in a cascade of iridescence. Dimly she could feel Rumph trying to support her, calling for help. The darkness beckoned to her. It was an escape and she took it.

‘She breathes. There is still hope.’

‘The children … What do we tell them?’

‘It is three days. No food, no water. Surely the end will be soon.’

Elizabeth heard the voices but she had neither strength to move nor the will to do so. She floated, half-conscious, wanting never to wake. Figures moved about the bed, shadow forms. Time passed. She had no notion how much and no desire to return.

‘Send for the chaplain. It cannot be long now.’

There was a crash, the door banging open. It roused
Elizabeth because it was so loud. Higgs was evidently anxious to hasten her into the next world. So often the chaplain was late; this time he was early. It would have amused her if she had had the will to feel anything but despair.

‘My lord! You cannot go in there—’

Voices, louder. Hurried footsteps. There was a commotion about the bed, movement. It irritated her when all she wanted was the comfort of the darkness and silence.

‘Majesty.’ She recognised that voice. It was William Craven. She must be dreaming. He had been with Frederick in Mainz. He could not be here.

‘Madam. Wake up. Wake up, I say!’ Craven’s voice sounded rough with emotion, cutting through the fuss about her bed.

It was far easier to refuse than to obey him. She knew Craven could not have good news and she did not want to have to confront the bad, to accept that Frederick was dead and start trying to live again. Yet it seemed Craven would not leave her in peace.

‘Elizabeth!’

No one ever used the Queen’s name. There was a gasp of absolute horror from those courtiers gathered about her. But Craven was not done. He seized hold of her. His fingers bit into her shoulders. She thought he was going to shake her. Her eyes flew open in shock.

‘Lord Craven!’

‘That’s better.’ Craven sounded grimly amused. ‘Where persuasion fails a lack of proper respect will so often provoke a response.’ He turned to confront the gaping court.
‘Fetch food and water for Her Majesty. She needs to build her strength. Hurry!’

Within seconds the chamber was cleared, all but for Dr Rumph who stood stiffly to attention like a soldier refusing to surrender his post.

‘You bled her?’ Elizabeth could hear the searing scorn in Craven’s voice. ‘Then it is no wonder she is so weak.’

She pushed herself up on to her elbows and tried to sit. It was true. She was as weak as a kitten.

‘It’s not Dr Rumph’s fault,’ she said. ‘He did his best.’

‘You have no knowledge of medical matters, my lord.’ Rumph hated to have his authority questioned. He drew closer to the bedside as though to protect her.

‘That’s true enough,’ Craven said easily, ‘but I know what it is like to lose a great deal of blood and it does not make one stronger.’

He strode across to the windows and threw the curtains wide. Light streamed in. Elizabeth blinked. Then he threw open the windows and she shivered.

‘Enough!’ she said. ‘Now
you
are trying to kill me.’ But it was too late for dying now. She recognised that the chance was past. Somehow she had to go on though even the mere thought of it exhausted her.

Craven turned back towards her and she saw the dust of the roads on him, saw too the lines of grief and tiredness that pulled his expression tight. He dropped to one knee beside the bed and took her hand.

‘I am truly sorry for the loss of His Majesty,’ he said and she could hear sincerity in his voice. She knew that men had thought Frederick weak, ineffectual and no statesman.
Craven had thought it too but it had not influenced his loyalty. Elizabeth liked that in him but it also shamed her. He had honoured Frederick with his service and now she had to honour Frederick’s memory and put aside disloyal thoughts.

She gestured Craven to a chair by the side of the bed. He moved one of her dogs gently off the cushions and sat.

‘Were you with my lord at the end?’ Elizabeth asked. Her throat was dry and tight with tears but she would not cry.

‘Yes.’ Craven’s gaze was sombre, fixed on the shadows beyond the bed hangings. ‘His Majesty faced his death with true fortitude and noble spirit, madam. I have letters for you that he wrote in the days before …’ He took them from his pocket, hesitated then laid them on the table beside the bed.

‘He wrote of his love for you, madam, and instructed your children to obey you in everything.’