House of Shadows (13 page)

The children. She had not even thought of them. She spent so little time in their company. Elizabeth’s mind grappled with the necessity of speaking to them about their father’s death. Charles Louis was Prince Palatine now, but he was still a child, underage. There was no possibility that he would succeed to the lands his father had struggled so hard to regain, not in this climate of war. Everything that Gustavus Adolphus had gained, everything Frederick had yearned for, could be lost now.

‘You should go to them, the children.’ Craven was watching her face. ‘All of them. They are young and they are in grief. They need you.’

It was more unasked for advice, more unwarranted
interference. He expressed his views too freely. Yet she was too tired to rebuke him. Besides, someone had to deal with her directly, and never more so than now. She would need plain counsel in the days ahead.

Her attendants returned then, eager, with water and sweet wine, broth, bread and all manner of other food to tempt her. Craven withdrew to the outer chamber whilst they tended to her but she could still hear his voice. It comforted her. It felt as though he were the only stable thing in a world that was suddenly become unfamiliar.

She could not eat much but she soothed her parched throat and it felt good.

‘I want to talk to Lord Craven again,’ she said when she had finished.

Her courtiers did not like it. She could see it in their faces. Craven was not one of them. He had overstepped the mark. Elizabeth could see that they already thought he had too much influence with her but she did not care. She waved them back to the edges of the room and propped herself up against her pillows, waiting for Craven to come.

He came back with the quick, impatient stride of a soldier. He had found time to wash at least, though he was in the same travel-stained clothes. Elizabeth could smell the dust of the journey on him, mixed with leather and horses, overlaid by the fresher scent of water.

‘You came all this way to find me,’ she said, realising at last exactly what he had done for her, ‘when you must still have been on your own sickbed with the wounds you received at Lutzen.’

‘They are healing,’ Craven said shortly.

‘And a brisk ride will have done them the world of good,’ Elizabeth said.

He smiled reluctantly. ‘I see you are yourself again, madam.’

‘Why did you do it?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Why did you come?’

She saw the moment when he realised just how difficult her question was and she waited to see how he would answer it. Would he turn it away with a light reply? Or would he deal honestly with her?

The laughter died from his eyes. He walked slowly towards the window, pausing with one hand on the sill. Elizabeth had had the servants stop the draught but the light still poured in, illuminating his face, his frown.

‘Word came that you had died,’ he said. ‘They said that you had heard the news of the King’s death and died on the spot.’

‘Fools,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Yet not so far from the mark. If I had not woken you—’

‘I would have regained my strength. Pray do not take the credit for saving my life.’

She was lying now. She knew it and he knew it. He smiled reluctantly.

‘Assuming that were the case,’ he said, ‘and you had rallied, you would still have been alone. Or so I thought.’ His voice had fallen. ‘Foolish of me.’ He made a self-deprecating gesture that encompassed the room and the hovering courtiers. ‘You are never alone.’

‘No,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But I can still be lonely in a room full of people.’

He inclined his head. ‘So my mother said, when my father died. She was a strong woman with a mind as sharp as a rat trap yet she still missed him.’

‘I’m grateful to you,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Truly.’

Craven shrugged. She could tell he felt ill at ease. Elizabeth wondered if it was the weakness in her, the vulnerability she felt now that she was on her own, that made her want to push him into acknowledging that there was more between them than simply the respect of a courtier for his queen. It was foolish of her. She knew she had to let it go. There could be nothing between a widowed queen and her late husband’s squire, nothing that was not unseemly or scandalous.

‘What will you do now?’ she asked. ‘Now that my lord is gone?’

Craven looked surprised, as though he had not even considered the future. Other courtiers, she knew, would be scrambling for position elsewhere, deserting Frederick before his body was cold. They would scurry back to England, to her brother’s court. She expected William Craven to do the same once he had had time to consider. It would be wise of him, and wise of her to let him go.

‘I am your liegeman, Majesty,’ Craven said. ‘I swore my sword to your service many years ago.’

‘You promised allegiance to Frederick,’ Elizabeth said. ‘His death releases you from that debt.’

He dropped to one knee by the bed, in front of the whole court. ‘What do
you
want of me, madam?’ he demanded. ‘What is
your
command?’

I want you to stay.

She needed him but she could not say so. She could not make her feelings so plain.

‘I think you should go to England,’ she said, forcing out the words, pinning on the brightest smile she could muster. ‘My brother has a great need of men such as you, Lord Craven. He will gain your wise counsel and you will also gain much in return.’

‘Advancement.’ Craven smiled, without mirth. ‘You know how little I value such things.’

‘I value them for you,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Then I should thank you for your interest in my future, Majesty.’ He stood; bowed. He was going, and so soon. Elizabeth felt desolate and then angry with herself. This was what she had wanted. This was what she had commanded. Was she to abandon all dignity and beg him to stay?

Don’t go. I need you …

It was impossible. A queen did not beg even when it was for her heart’s desire. She should not want the things that were bad for her.

‘I should be grateful if you would delay your departure by a few days so that we may talk more of my husband before you go,’ she said formally.

‘Of course.’ Craven bowed again. ‘I will leave Your Majesty to rest now.’

‘Craven.’ Elizabeth injected some strength into her voice, to remind him once more who made the decisions.

‘Madam?’

‘Wait.’

She waved the rest of her court away, watching as they massed like a flock of starlings at the end of the room, their
excited chatter mocking the sober black of their mourning. She turned back to Craven and gestured him closer. She wanted no one to overhear this.

‘His Majesty … she said. ‘Did they bury him immediately?’

She saw a shadow touch Craven’s face. ‘Yes, madam.’ There was unfamiliar hesitation in his voice. ‘It was the plague, you understand. We had to act quickly.’

She did understand. No doubt that horrible report that Doctor Rumph had brought with him would detail it all, the fever, the swellings, the delirium. She shuddered, her mind shrinking from the thought of the pestilence ravaging Frederick’s body. He had been so handsome when first they had met. She wanted to remember him that way, forever young, forever hopeful.

‘There was the mirror studded with diamonds …’ She was so tired now that she needed to rest, but this was more important. ‘You know of it. The one that my lord and the other Knights of Rosy Cross used for the scrying.’ She saw Higgs, the chaplain, turn towards her, ears straining to hear, and beckoned Craven closer still. ‘What happened to it?’ She whispered. ‘What happened to the crystal mirror?’

At such close quarters she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the shadow of his lashes, the stubble darkening his jaw. She felt a huge longing all of a sudden to be out in the fresh air and riding with him, shaking off the fetters of her role, being free.

‘We buried the mirror with him, madam.’ Craven spoke without inflection. ‘I hope we did right. He wanted to take with him the miniatures of you and his highness Prince
Charles and he asked for his sword and the insignia of the Knights of the Rosy Cross.’

So Frederick had gone to his grave with the globe and compasses, the rosy cross and the mirror. Elizabeth knew she should be glad that they were all gone, buried, lost. Now it was over. They could be forgotten. The mirror and the Sistrin pearl together, with their false promises and dangerous enchantment, had wrought misery and destruction. It was good that the bond was now broken.

She lay back against the pillow, relaxing, her eyelids fluttering closed.

‘Thank you, Craven,’ she said. ‘You may go.’

She would sleep, she thought. Then when she was stronger she would ride to Leyden to see her children. She would manage very well without William Craven. He was just one man amongst many at her court. There was nothing special about him. She had no real need of him. He would go to England, where her brother Charles would honour him with titles and appointments. She would stay here to continue to push for Charles Louis to be recognised as his father’s heir. They would do very well apart.

Or so she told herself, because she had no other choice.

‘H
ow’s it going?’ Fran asked.

It was only ten o’clock but it already promised to be a baking hot day. The door of the café was open, the tables and chairs arranged outside on the patio, stripy umbrellas shading the visitors. Fran was busy making sandwiches for the lunch orders from the building site, her fair hair bundled up under a white cap, humming under her breath as she worked.

‘Can I help?’ Holly asked. She was feeling lazy simply sitting watching Fran work. But it was relaxing too. The little café and deli was bright with sun and the smell of freshly brewed coffee was strong. Holly stirred her mug slowly, watching the swirl and ripple of the milk, breathing in the aroma. She had been in to see Fran the previous two mornings as well. She could see how this might become a habit.

Fran shook her head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Paula and
I have it covered and besides, you look like hell. You need a rest.’

‘Thank you,’ Holly said. ‘I feel a lot better knowing that.’

‘I like what you’ve done with the posters of Ben,’ Fran said. ‘It’s a good idea. Someone might remember seeing him. There’s no news, I suppose?’ She caught Holly’s expression. ‘No, of course there isn’t. If there was you would be singing it from the rooftops.’

‘I’m doing everything I can think of,’ Holly said. ‘I’ve put out a call on social media and spoken to a couple of charities who help the families of people who go missing. And at least the police have started to take notice now. They’ve searched his house and the mill, and they’ve checked with all the hospitals.’

‘I saw them searching the woods again yesterday,’ Fran said. ‘And it was mentioned on the local news last night with a help line number.’

‘Yes,’ Holly said. ‘Apparently there’s been a good response. He’s been seen just about everywhere from Dorset to Dubai.’

‘I suppose that’s to be expected, isn’t it?’ Fran asked. ‘I mean if only one of those sighting is true then it has to be worth it.’

‘Yes of course,’ Holly said. She wanted to feel optimistic but somehow she didn’t. She was exhausted and flat. It had felt such an effort to push forwards through the last few days. Even so she had kept busy, cleaning the mill from the attic to the cellars, tidying up the workshop and arranging her engraving equipment. She still fell into bed exhausted at midnight each night and was up at six to start all over again. She had done that for three days and wanted the place
spotless before her grandparents arrived to deliver Bonnie that evening. It gave her focus and in an odd way, also strength.

There was no doubt, though, that the mill had lost its air of neglected whimsy and started to look clean and a great deal more cheerful. It was fortunate that it was already pretty much fully furnished, but there was no doubt the house benefited from the addition of her two deep armchairs even if their grey herringbone upholstery had originally been designed for the London flat. Seeing her possessions mingled with Ben’s odds and ends had given Holly a curious wrenching feeling inside, a mixture of unfamiliarity, nostalgia and regret, as though the neat pattern of her life had gone fundamentally awry. She kept hoping there would be a knock at the door and Ben would walk in; time never altered the hope but over the days she could feel it changing from an edgy expectancy to a duller determination to keep going, as though she was settling in for the long haul.

On the table her phone blinked at her – a message. She felt her heart lift, as it always did, then sink dizzily back down as she saw it was only from her grandmother confirming arrangements for that evening.

Fran picked up her mug and came around to the table where Holly was sitting.

‘Five minutes,’ she said, sliding into the seat with a little sigh of pleasure. ‘I need a rest.’ She fixed Holly with her shrewd blue gaze. ‘So how are you feeling? Do you think it’s going to work out, you being here?’ A small frown dented her forehead. ‘I mean, leaving aside all the complicated stuff, you always hated the country.’

Holly was stung. ‘That’s not true. I don’t hate the country. I just didn’t want to live in it.’

‘And now here you are.’ Fran put down her mug. ‘I suppose if it doesn’t work out you can always go back.’

‘I haven’t worked my fingers to the bone cleaning up the mill house for nothing,’ Holly said with feeling.

‘I’m sure Ben will appreciate it when he comes back,’ Fran said.

Holly smiled at her. It was comforting that Fran had said ‘when’ not ‘if’ about Ben’s return and she was grateful for it. There were no rules for situations like this and nothing to guide her. If she felt even a moment’s doubt that Ben would return she also felt the most terrible guilt at losing hope.

‘It’s a lovely building, the mill house,’ Fran said. ‘A bit run down, I suppose, but so full of charm. I’m not surprised Ben enjoyed spending time here. It must have been a nice break from inner-city Bristol.’

‘He wasn’t here much though, was he?’ Holly said. She savoured a mouthful of coffee. ‘I mean, it wasn’t every weekend, or anything like that.’

‘He was here more towards—’ Fran caught herself up. ‘More often just before he went away,’ she said. She frowned. ‘I wondered …’ She stopped again.

‘Well?’ Holly paused, her cup halfway to her lips.

‘I wondered if he was thinking of moving here,’ Fran said in a rush. ‘He didn’t seem very happy with Tasha.’ She gave Holly a half-furtive look. ‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘No. Nothing.’ Holly wasn’t shocked any more, not after the things that Tasha had said, but she was taken aback that even Fran had noticed it. Had Ben told her stuff and she
hadn’t been listening? Had she made too many assumptions? Missed signs?

She put her cup down slowly. ‘I know there were problems but I find it so hard to believe,’ she said. ‘There wasn’t someone else here, was there?’

‘No, no.’ Fran avoided her eyes, tracing circles on the table with her finger. ‘Not as far as I know. It was just an impression I had. Ignore me. You know I have lousy intuition. It was just that he was suddenly here a lot, and Tasha never came with him, and so I wondered …’

‘He told me he was coming here to do his historical research,’ Holly said.

Fran’s blue eyes opened wide. ‘Historical research? Ben?’

‘I know,’ Holly said. ‘But apparently Ben had been researching our family history and there was a connection to Ashdown Park.’

‘Perhaps Mark might know,’ Fran said. She eyed Holly closely. ‘I just thought we should get his name out there between us,’ she said. ‘I know you said it was a one off and that you didn’t want to talk about it—’

‘I don’t,’ Holly said.

A frown touched Fran’s forehead. ‘This is a small village, Holly,’ she said, ‘and you are going to see Mark around. In fact I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already. So you need to be OK with people mentioning his name.’

‘I’m fine with it,’ Holly said, not entirely accurately. ‘I’d be better with it though if you didn’t keep going on about it.’ She looked out across the courtyard, where the red post office van had pulled up by a tiny, ancient post box in the wall.

‘That’s Des,’ Fran said, getting up. ‘I’ll make him a coffee to take away.’

‘How have people around here taken the plans for the new development?’ Holly asked.

‘Not too badly,’ Fran said, reaching over for a packet of cookies and ripping it open. She took one out and pushed the rest towards Holly. ‘They like Mark. He’s very popular in the village because he helps people out with their building problems and stuff like that. All these old houses …’ She shrugged. ‘They were never really built to last this long.’

‘Built for farm workers and now the last word in desirable country living,’ Holly said. ‘That’s the way it goes.’

Fran took the coffee over to the open door. ‘Des! Here you go!’

‘Gran said that there are a lot of legends about Ashdown,’ Holly said. ‘Ghost stories and stuff.’ She was thinking of the glimpse of the house she thought she had caught through the trees, a ghostly presence in its former setting. It had seemed so real that night, and a couple of times since she had been convinced she had seen a flash of white walls or a gleam of the golden dome.

‘So I’ve heard, but I’ve never seen anything myself.’ Fran sounded miffed. She loved the paranormal; Holly smiled as she remembered the time at college when Fran had been to see a hypnotist because she wanted to recover her lost lives and had come back saying that she had been Anne Boleyn.

‘Mark could probably tell you more,’ Fran said. ‘He saw something quite spooky himself a couple of years back, up near the mill. It was the ghost of a woman running away
through the trees. She had red hair, he said, and she was very young.’

‘That’s very specific,’ Holly said. ‘Sounds as though he got a good look at her.’

‘Well, I expect it’s all nonsense,’ Fran said vaguely. ‘Mark was drinking in those days – it was just after his marriage break up – so he could quite easily have dreamed it all up in a drunken stupor and he’s—’

‘Standing right behind you,’ Holly finished even more dryly. She had forgotten how excruciatingly embarrassing Fran’s habit of tactlessness could be. On the other hand she was grateful to Fran for eclipsing her own mortification on meeting Mark again.

Mark was standing at the counter, hands thrust into the pockets of a pair of battered moleskin trousers. A cream coloured shirt had replaced the china blue one he had been wearing the last time Holly had seen him but the general effect was the same; broad shoulders, long legs, thick, dark ruffled hair. Her heart gave a little jolt in her chest to see him. She had wondered if the effect Mark had had on her before had only been a product of the strangeness of her feelings that day. Now she knew it wasn’t.

‘Mark!’ Fran leapt up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Sorry. I didn’t see you there.’

‘I gathered that,’ Mark said. ‘You were in full flood, though I think you forgot to mention the bit about my addiction to prescription drugs as well as alcohol.’ He released himself gently from Fran’s rather overenthusiastic grip. ‘How are you, Fran?’ His cool dark gaze travelled over Holly and he gave her a slight smile. ‘Hello, Holly.’

Holly liked the way he said her name and wished she didn’t. She was a sucker for nice voices and Mark’s was delicious, low, mellow and very smooth.

‘Hello,’ she said. She wished she had thought of some sparkling conversational gambits in advance. Soon she would be falling back on some banality about the weather.

‘Is there any news of Ben?’ Mark was taking a battered wallet out of his back pocket and wasn’t looking at her. She had the strangest feeling that although he was asking the polite question he didn’t really want to know the answer.

‘No,’ Holly said.

‘Holly’s moved into the mill,’ Fran put in brightly.

‘Is that right?’ Mark sounded indifferent.

Holly could feel her skin prickling with antagonism and something more. Fran threw her a beseeching look as though begging her to throw Mark an olive branch before the entire deli froze over.

‘My grandparents are coming over tonight,’ she said. ‘They’re bringing Bonnie back. I think you know them – John and Hester Hurley?’

‘Sure,’ Mark said. ‘Mrs Hurley and my godmother are as thick as thieves.’

‘Army families,’ Holly said. ‘Like the mafia, only different.’

‘Well, I know what you mean,’ Mark said. He turned slightly away as though the subject bored him. So much for the olive branch, Holly thought.

‘I was telling Holly that you know all the Ashdown ghost stories,’ Fran said.

‘I heard what you said,’ Mark said.

Even Fran was not that bomb proof. She took refuge behind the counter and busied herself slapping butter on a roll.

‘You’ll give your customers a heart attack with that much fat,’ Mark said. He turned to Holly. ‘Fran was right when she said that I had a bit of a drink problem when I first moved down here,’ he said. ‘I was in a bad way. PTSD from Afghanistan, a messy divorce …’ He shrugged as though it did not matter.

‘I’m sorry,’ Holly said. She was startled by the abrupt disclosure. ‘That must have been very tough.’

‘Holly understands all about broken relationships,’ Fran put in.

‘Sure,’ Holly said dryly. ‘I’m an expert.’

‘She’s just split up with Ghastly Guy,’ Fran said. ‘We always thought he was awful but no one wanted to say so until now.’

‘Thanks,’ Holly said. ‘It’s good to know that you were protecting me from the truth about my bad judgement.’

She thought she saw a flicker of a smile touch Mark’s eyes but it was gone before she could be sure. ‘I heard you’d moved down from London,’ he said.

‘Of course you did,’ Holly said. Villages were like that. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.

‘I hope you don’t find it too much of a culture shock,’ Mark said. ‘I used to travel a lot and found the change of pace difficult to adapt to at first, but it’s a nice place. But of course you know that,’ he added. ‘You’ve been here before.’

‘People make the mistake of thinking it’s sleepy around here,’ Fran said, ‘but they know nothing.’ She caught Mark’s
look. ‘Okay, so it’s not Afghanistan. I realise that but at least you’re unlikely to suffer from PTSD over anything in Ashdown.’