House of Shadows (20 page)

Metz, France, August 1635

C
raven was several days late. He had ridden to within a mile of the city and walked the rest of the way. It had been a long journey with plenty of trouble. The countryside was alive with rumour. Marauding bands of Spanish soldiers, masterless men, ill-disciplined and violent, terrorised the villages. He had almost run into such a gang south of Liege and only by the greatest good luck saw their camp before he stumbled into the middle of it. It went against the grain with him to hide and to run rather than stand and fight, but this business was too important to risk. Only once had he been obliged to draw blood when three drunken cavalrymen had cornered him in an alleyway. They had been looking for trouble and they had found it.

Ahead of him was the Germans’ Gate, a mediaeval castle with ridiculous little round towers that looked as though
they belonged in a fairy tale. The yellow limestone gleamed in the pale morning sun. Craven did not like these foolish little continental toy castles that looked as though one blast of the cannon would send them toppling. He missed England. One day, perhaps, he would go back again.

The soldier, in French uniform, stepped from the guardhouse and gave him a cursory glance. On foot, in a plain cloak, serviceable boots and a battered hat William Craven could pass for anyone – or no one. That was his skill. The soldier did not even notice the sword beneath the cloak.

‘I have business with the Duke of Simmern.’ Craven spoke execrable French. His education had been much neglected, by his own choice, since he had preferred to join the army.

The soldier raised a supercilious brow and jerked his head vaguely towards the cathedral. ‘Saint-Croix Square,’ he said. ‘Past the cathedral and on the left. The palace of Livier.’

‘Thank you,’ Craven said.

‘He won’t see you,’ the soldier said. ‘He sees no one—’

But Craven had gone. ‘English,’ the soldier said, and spat on the dusty cobbles.

Craven kept in the shadow of the buildings as he skirted the vaulted arcades of the Saint-Louis Square and took the narrow alley towards the cathedral. There was no point in drawing attention to himself and to his errand. Here the old timbered houses leaned close across the street like lovers long parted. The early sun tipped the tiled roofs with gold. The air was fresh and almost free of the stench of rottenness that would haunt the streets later when the heat increased.

The cathedral seemed to fly against the blue of the sky.
Craven passed the east end without pausing to glance up at the stained glass and soaring buttresses. The streets were quiet in the early morning. He saw no one but a messenger in a livery he did not recognise, a merchant pushing a cart loaded with cloth and a mangy dog foraging amongst the rubbish.

The Duke of Simmern was still breaking his fast in his chambers according to his steward.

‘Excellent,’ Craven said. ‘I’ll join him.’

The man looked askance. ‘Pardon, sir, but I doubt he would care for that—’

‘Is that Craven?’ a voice enquired from within the great hall. A moment later a man appeared through the arched doorway, a man of middling years whose hollow cheeks and serious mien made him look older. He shook Craven’s hand.

‘It is good to see you again, Von Rusdorf,’ Craven said. Von Rusdorf had been Frederick’s first minister and since Frederick’s death had belonged to the council that had administered the Palatine lands for Frederick’s son. ‘Is all well?’

‘As well as it can be trapped within these city walls with a corpse,’ Von Rusdorf said.

‘Surely he is not here?’ Craven looked around almost as though he expected to see a coffin propped in a corner. ‘Or do you refer to the Duke of Simmern?’

Rusdorf’s face crumpled in horror. ‘Softly, Craven! You have no respect.’

‘I acknowledge it,’ Craven said easily. He stripped off his gloves. ‘Is there food and drink? I’m half-starved.’

‘We must talk privately,’ Von Rusdorf said. He shepherded Craven down the corridor, issuing instructions to the steward over his shoulder. ‘Bring refreshment to the parlour room and make sure we are not disturbed.’

‘Von Rusdorf!’

Craven felt the other man pause, stiffen. The Duke of Simmern was hurrying through the hall towards them still brushing crumbs from his chin as he came. Craven made a magnificent bow.

‘Your grace.’

Von Rusdorf gave a faint sigh. ‘This is Lord Craven, your grace. He comes from the Queen.’

‘Of course.’ Simmern’s dark gaze appraised Craven. He felt quite comfortable under the scrutiny. This was not a man of any great power or moral fortitude though he might wish to pretend to both. Frederick’s younger brother was in fact very like him; short, dark, with a handsome, melancholy visage, a hint of petulance about the mouth and more than a hint of indecisiveness in his eyes. Craven understood Von Rusdorf’s sigh.

‘You had no trouble on the road, I hope,’ Simmern said.

Craven’s hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword. ‘Nothing serious, your grace.’

He saw a faint flicker of a smile touch Von Rusdorf’s mouth. ‘It is the return journey to The Hague you need to fear most. Many men would kill for the goods you will be carrying.’

‘I know it,’ Craven said. Even so, he was not afraid. It was not an emotion he wasted time upon. It could paralyse a man and freeze his sword arm when he most needed it.
Besides, it was too late to fear death when the sword was already at your throat.

The steward was still hovering. Simmern dismissed him with a flick of the hand and gestured to Craven to walk beside him. Tapestries covered almost all the walls, hunting scenes in vivid colours, making the narrow passageway seem all the more dark and closed. At the end Craven stooped to follow the Duke beneath the lintel of a low door. They were in a small room plastered white and set with plain wooden furniture. No fire burned in the grate and the morning sun could not reach them, making the room cold.

‘I hope you are comfortable here at Metz, your grace,’ Craven said, doubting it. Simmern was an exile now just as his brother had been years before, thrown out of his family’s ancestral lands by the advancing army of the Holy Roman Emperor.

‘Her Majesty sends you her greetings,’ he added, withdrawing a letter from within his jacket.

‘She is well, I hope.’ Simmern’s query sounded perfunctory. He opened the letter and scanned it briefly before placing it on the table.

‘Extremely well, your grace,’ Craven said, ‘and most active in arguing the case for support for her son in regaining his ancestral lands.’ He saw Simmern’s eyes narrow and focus on him inimically. It was no secret that the Duke had been less than eager in promoting his nephew’s interests. He had struggled in his dealings with the French, he had struggled in his dealings with the Swedes and now he had run away from the Spanish.

After a moment Simmern gestured him to sit in a
particularly uncomfortable chair. ‘I am sure we all long for the day that Charles Louis comes into his inheritance,’ he said smoothly, ‘but alas, now that the Spanish threaten our lands once again …’ He let the sentence hang as though it was a shrug, disclaiming responsibility.

‘Hence the need to find a new resting place for His Majesty,’ Von Rusdorf put in anxiously.

‘Of course,’ Craven said. ‘Her Majesty understands that need. She asks me to tell you that she agrees that you should take King Frederick’s body to Sedan, to be interred in the mausoleum of his uncle, the Duc de Bouillon.’

‘That is impossible now.’ Simmern brought his open hand down on the table with a slap to emphasise his point. ‘It is too dangerous. We had the devil of a job getting this far. Her Majesty does not understand the perils—’

‘Her Majesty understands very well,’ Craven cut in swiftly. Hunger sharpened his impatience. That damned steward had forgotten his breakfast.

He fixed the Duke with a steely gaze. ‘She relies upon your courage as well as your goodwill to escort your brother’s body to Sedan for dignified reburial.’

Simmern was the first to drop his gaze. High colour mottled his cheeks. ‘Naturally I shall do my best,’ he muttered, ‘but there can be no guarantees in times of war.’

‘Her Majesty,’ Craven said softly, ‘would be extremely distressed to hear of the late King’s body being taken by his enemies. I am persuaded you will not permit that to happen, Duke.’

‘Of course not,’ Von Rusdorf put in swiftly. His gaze travelled from Craven to the Duke and back again like a hunting
dog anxiously scenting the air. ‘The Council will ensure His Majesty’s safety, my lord. Have no fear of that.’

‘The Council must not know anything of the late king’s reburial,’ Craven said. ‘The Queen entrusts that duty to you alone, gentlemen. For safety’s sake the site must remain a secret.’

‘Preposterous!’ Once again, Simmern could not restrain his anger. ‘I am not traipsing across the continent on a fool’s errand for my sister-in-law’s sake when I have other more important matters to attend to. I am not her flunkey!’

There was a silence. Craven allowed it to settle. Outside he could hear a faint peal of bells, the rumble of carriage wheels, the call of a street seller, all separate and distinct sounds. He prolonged the silence to a point where it was uncomfortable. Von Rusdorf fidgeted.

‘Did I mention that the King of England takes an interest in this affair?’ Craven said at last. ‘He wishes everything possible to be done to aid his unfortunate sister.’ He lifted his gaze at last to meet that of the duke. ‘I am sure that King Charles will be interested to hear of your involvement.’

Simmern flushed a deep, unbecoming red. Craven could see the man wanted to tell him to go fuck himself but did not quite dare. King Charles, quixotic and weak, had been as laggard in supporting his sister’s cause as their father before him. That did not mean that it was wise to antagonise him, however.

‘It is pleasing to hear that His Majesty is so eager to support our cause,’ Von Rusdorf put in hastily. ‘We had heard that he had offered his sister and her family a home in England—’

‘Which the Queen would not accept, of course,’ Craven said. ‘She is completely dedicated to seeing her son regain his patrimony.’

‘She could do that from the comfort of her brother’s court in England,’ Simmern muttered.

‘Her Majesty would not wish to appear to be deserting her son’s cause in Europe,’ Craven said.

Von Rusdorf’s shoulders slumped. ‘Of course she would not,’ he said.

Craven hid a smile. Everyone saw Elizabeth and her stateless brood of children as a problem that they wished would simply vanish into thin air. But if Elizabeth was a thorn in the side, the dead body of her husband was even more of an inconvenience to his relatives. Poor bastard, even in death he was a liability.

‘So,’ Craven said, as though there had been no dissension, ‘we are agreed then that you two gentlemen will deliver His Majesty to safe repose in Sedan. But before that is done …’

‘You will rob his coffin,’ Simmern said.

Craven grinned. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

The first creak of the iron crowbar was followed by a splintering sound that echoed to the stone rafters of the crypt then fell back into dead silence. Although it was high noon and the sun was hot outside, here in the bowels of the church it was dim and dusty. Shards of sunlight struck across the floor from the sunken stained glass windows.

Frederick’s coffin rested on a slab alongside stone knights with blank, carved faces. They watched with incurious eyes
as Craven inserted the crowbar beneath the lid once more and levered it upward.

Neither the Duke of Simmern nor Von Rusdorf was so stoical. Simmern had positioned himself a good twenty feet away as though distancing himself completely from the violation of his brother’s coffin. His expression was one of polite distaste. Von Rusdorf hovered at Craven’s elbow. He looked as though he might be violently sick at any moment yet he seemed transfixed.

‘Stand back,’ Craven said tersely, as he drew his arm back for a third attempt. ‘I don’t want accidentally to injure you.’

The coffin nails succumbed; the lid fractured with a groan and Von Rusdorf leaped away like a cat whose tail was alight. Craven had not known quite what to expect. He had a strong stomach and Frederick had only been dead a couple of years and his body embalmed. In the event the smell was unpleasant but not overwhelmingly so, the scent of herbs and spices, once sweet and strong, now dulled by decay. Nothing could ever conceal the stench of death completely, though. Craven had seen men die in battle and peacefully in their beds and was not afraid of death but he did not like what it left behind. Frederick’s face was the colour of wax beneath a discoloured silver crown. His skin was like leather that was dissolving around the edges.