House of Shadows (30 page)

Mark put his arms about her and pulled her close to him.
With her head against his chest she could feel the steady beat of his heart and felt warmth and strength flowing back into her.

‘There’s more I need to tell you,’ she said. ‘About the mirror and the pearl …’

‘Later,’ Mark said. He tilted up her chin and kissed her. ‘Just now I think you need warming up.’ She felt him smile against her lips. ‘I hope you didn’t like that coat too much,’ he added. ‘It’s ruined,’ and he kissed her again.

Holly’s stomach dropped crazily. She pulled up his T-shirt, running her hands over his skin, feeling the beat of his heart. He kissed her more fiercely, with heat and desire. It was so unlike the cool detachment that normally characterised him that it made her feel drunk. Her body ached for him. She dragged off her robe with hands that shook, pulling him down onto the bed with her, hearing his gasp as she fumbled with his flies and pulled open his jeans. His mouth was on her breast now; she could feel his stubble against her skin. It was all heat and blinding light and driving need, like it had been before but different too, tender, more real because with each touch she knew this was Mark she was with and it was him she wanted.

When he moved inside of her he had his fingers laced with hers and they kept their eyes open so that the connection was even more real and intense. Holly lost herself in sensation, felt the climax build and let it take them together. She felt the press of Mark’s lips against the damp skin of her neck and when he pulled her into the curve of his arm she resisted the instinctive urge to pull away and let herself stay there, trying out the new feeling of intimacy.
It was unfamiliar and yet it felt as though she had known this before, held him, loved him. The sense of recognition merged with her dreams until the terrible sense of loss she had experienced through Lavinia started to heal and she slept peacefully at last.

The Palace of Rhenen, Netherlands, October 1639

W
illiam Craven had done his best to get himself killed at the Battle of Vlotho. Elizabeth knew it instinctively but she did not understand why. She only knew that the thought that she might have lost him forever gave her such pain she could not bear it. He was as essential to her as breathing. She could not risk losing him again.

She watched him walk across the cloister gardens towards her. The day was mild and the sun warm. He looked so much older that she felt her heart stumble to see him. There was a grey pallor to his face, and deep lines were etched around his mouth and his eyes. She wanted to run towards him and throw herself into his arms. She had missed him so much.

‘Majesty.’ Craven bowed, very formally and stood waiting for her to speak. She swallowed hard. There were tears in
her throat, a weakness she seemed unable to control. Craven had been gone almost three years and she had thought of him every day. It had felt as though a piece of her was missing.

First he had gone with her sons on the visit to their uncle the King of England, to raise men and money to take back the Palatine lands. The fundraising had been successful but the subsequent campaign had not. They had lost the battle against the imperial army and Craven had been captured and imprisoned. Elizabeth had been frantic, not knowing his fate for the longest time, unable to get news.

‘You are well?’ She could feel the pitiful inadequacy of the words and the barriers that were between them. He felt like a stranger. Something had changed within him. She could sense it. He felt cold and distant and she did not know how to change that.

‘I am well, Your Majesty.’ She saw a flicker of grim humour in Craven’s eyes and knew he lied. How could he be, when he had been injured in battle and then incarcerated? He was telling her what he wanted her to hear rather than being honest with her.

She gestured for him to sit beside her on the stone bench. They were in the shade of an old apple tree that had been part of the nunnery orchards before Frederick had transformed Rhenen into a hunting lodge. Elizabeth’s ladies hovered just out of earshot. There was always curiosity to see Lord Craven. He was a hero even in defeat, especially now that he had saved the life of the Queen’s son.

Craven sat silent, his hazel gaze fixed on the sloping gables and pediments of the little palace. He was not making it easy
for her, Elizabeth thought. But perhaps he was not making it deliberately difficult either. There was a new quality about him, a sense almost of desolation, as though he had lost something precious.

‘I have messages for Your Majesty.’ Craven put a hand inside his jacket and withdrew a couple of letters. Elizabeth took them but laid them aside.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll read them presently. First I would rather know how you are. And Rupert.’

‘The Prince was well when I left Linz,’ Craven said. He fell silent again.

‘Is he well cared for in his imprisonment? Does he want for anything?’ Elizabeth lost her patience. ‘For God’s sake, Craven, tell me the honest truth! Is it not bad enough that we have lost all hope of retaking the Palatinate now? If Rupert is sick, or broken in spirit as well, I would rather know than that you pretend.’

He turned to look at her. Now he was smiling properly and she felt warmer at last, as though a few of those layers of stifling formality had been peeled away and they were approaching the friendship they had once known even if the intimacy she ached for was gone.

‘Prince Rupert wants for nothing but his freedom,’ he said slowly. ‘You know what he is like. You might as well try to confine a hawk.’ He shrugged. ‘Arundel gave him a dog for company, a great big fluffy white creature that is devoted to him.’ There was a degree of humour in his voice now. ‘Rupert has also developed a certain regard for the daughter of his gaoler, Count von Kuffstein. I know that you asked me to ensure that he did not fall into any trouble but …’
he spread his hands, ‘Not even I can undo the damage that Cupid’s arrows inflict.’

Elizabeth laughed. ‘You saved Rupert’s life at Vlotho,’ she said. ‘That is enough for me. I shall never reproach you.’

‘Not for anything?’ There was an odd tone in Craven’s voice now. She noticed it; she almost stopped to question him but eagerness swept her onwards. She wanted to hear about Rupert. She wanted to hear how Craven had fought so valiantly and saved her son.

‘I will never reproach you for anything at all,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I swear it.’ She placed a hand on his. ‘But tell me how it was you came to save Rupert.’

‘I did nothing so dramatic, I assure you.’ Craven swept the claim aside. ‘His forces were surrounded. I came to his aid. He’s a good soldier,’ he added. ‘He could be a great one if he learns discipline to match his courage.’

‘And Charles Louis?’ Elizabeth asked. Charles Louis was her favourite but she knew few people shared her preference for him over his brother. As his father’s heir he needed guile as well as courage. Where Rupert seldom troubled with tact, Charles Louis was skilled at playing all sides and was already an accomplished politician. His ignominious escape after Vlotho had been contrasted with Rupert and Craven’s heroic defence and refusal to leave the field, but Elizabeth was stung by the criticism of him for what else could Charles Louis have done? He was the Prince Palatine now even if he had not lands to rule over. It would avail them nothing if he were to be captured too, or worse, to die in battle.

‘Charles Louis fought well,’ Craven said. No more.

Elizabeth smothered a sigh. ‘You were wounded, I hear,’ she said.

‘A scratch.’

‘You always dismiss your injuries thus,’ Elizabeth complained.

‘Because they are.’ Craven sounded abrupt to the point of rudeness. Elizabeth wondered if it was the pain of his wounds that made him so gruff. She bit her tongue rather than suggest it. If it were true he would give her an even more abrupt answer.

‘You look ill.’ She abandoned courtesy and matched his bluntness. ‘I was going to ask if you wished to accompany me riding later, but I fear you would fall from the saddle at my feet.’

‘I think that possible.’ He sounded grimly amused. ‘Some other day, perhaps, if it please Your Majesty.’

It pleased her very much to be with him even in this poor mood that she was prepared to sit there all afternoon talking rather than ride out.

‘They wish Rupert to change his faith,’ she said. ‘They say they will free him if he converts to Catholicism.’

‘Then he will have a long imprisonment.’ Craven turned towards her and his expression softened. ‘Do not fear, Majesty. Prince Rupert will never swear allegiance to the Emperor. He is stubborn. If the Queen failed to persuade him when he was in England – and believe me his head was turned by so much attention accorded to him – then nothing the Emperor can do will make a ha’p’porth of difference.’

‘Then we shall need to broker his release in a different way,’ Elizabeth said. She felt a little comforted. She did indeed know her son and he was as stubborn as Craven said. ‘But how? They would not accept a ransom. They would not even allow you to pay a fee in order to stay with him.’

‘Trust me,’ Craven said. ‘We will find a way.’

Elizabeth wanted to reach out then and touch him again, for reassurance, in hope that he was right. And for more than comfort. Her emotions felt jumbled but she knew she was tired of standing apart. A pedestal could be a lonely place.

She pulled her shawl more closely about her. The day was drawing cooler; the sun had gone.

‘How was England?’ she asked.

‘Unfamiliar.’ A shadow touched Craven’s face. ‘I felt almost a stranger there.’

‘I heard they gave you a degree from Oxford University,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Even with the paucity of your Latin.’

That won her a laugh. ‘Your Majesty is correct,’ Craven said. ‘It was the least appropriate honour they could have conferred on me.’

‘You could have stayed.’ After his release from imprisonment after Vlotho he had gone back to London with Charles Louis but neither of them had stayed there long. Charles Louis’ return Elizabeth could understand; there was nothing to keep him in England. It was not his home. But Craven had estates there and responsibilities.

‘I could have done.’ He sounded indifferent.

‘Yet you chose to return here.’

You chose to return to me.

She did not dare say it aloud after the way he had rejected her before. She was too proud. Which meant she would live on crumbs.

‘There will be trouble in England soon.’ He was thinking of politics whilst she was thinking of love. His gaze met hers suddenly, sharply. ‘I dislike the way matters tend. The country is full of rumours.’ He glanced away from her, across the gardens. Elizabeth followed his gaze. Everything looked so neat, so precise, but it was an illusion of order. Both here and at home – if England could be said to be her home any more – there was turbulence close to the surface, chaos. Men disputed and argued with increasing fierceness. Soon it might spill over into physical bloodshed.

‘They say there will be war in Scotland soon,’ she said, remembering the most recent letter from Sir Thomas Roe.

‘There will,’ Craven agreed. ‘The Covenanters will not accept either the Book of Common Prayer or the imposition of Anglican bishops, and your brother—’

‘Is a stiff-necked fool who does not listen to the counsel of reasonable men,’ Elizabeth finished dryly.

‘Quite so, Majesty.’ Craven relaxed into a smile. ‘I am rebuilding the gatehouse of my castle at Stokesay. It is in the Welsh borders,’ he added, seeing her look of puzzlement. ‘It is one of the few properties I own that is defensible, though it could not withstand a prolonged attack.’

A quick fear chilled Elizabeth’s heart. ‘Then you think the war might spread?’ Was it not enough, she thought bitterly, that she had lost everything she had once owned? Must Charles squander his inheritance too, through folly
and bad judgement? So many hopes had turned to ashes. So many lives had been lost. She shuddered that there might be more killing, more bloodshed, more hatred. This was not what she had wanted when she had grasped at the hope for a new, more equitable world, a world that the Knights of the Rosy Cross had promised. She and Frederick had wanted to foster learning and knowledge, healing and charity. Somewhere, somehow, that vision had been corrupted.

‘I fear war may come to the whole of the three kingdoms.’ Craven’s mouth was set in a grim line. ‘It is not much of a step from leading an army against the Scots Covenanters to facing a greater conflict.’

‘Civil
War?’ Elizabeth started to tremble. Nothing was more heinous than father fighting son, brother against brother. Her father, King James, had striven so hard for unity amongst his kingdoms. Could all his work be undone in one generation? She could not bear the thought.

‘A melancholy prospect,’ she said, striving to keep her voice level. ‘A king set against his subjects is a terrible thing. Could Charles really take up arms against his people …’ She let the words fade because she knew he could.

‘I did not know you owned land near Wales,’ she said after a moment. ‘I have never been there. What is it like?’

‘It’s beautiful country,’ Craven said.

‘Good for riding?’

‘Not as good as my Berkshire estates.’ He smiled. ‘You would like those best, I think.’

‘Tell me more of your plans for your castle.’ It was a distraction and Elizabeth needed one. ‘Do you have any drawings?’

‘I have one here.’ Craven took a parchment from inside his jacket.

Elizabeth leaned forwards as he unrolled the scroll. ‘That is a very small plan.’

‘It is a very small castle,’ Craven said. ‘Here is the gatehouse—’ He pointed to a drawing of a wood and plaster building that looked for all the world like something from a fairy story of the middle ages and not, to Elizabeth’s eyes, particularly defensible.

‘And here is the inside of the main castle,’ Craven said. ‘I plan to create the most elegant panelled chamber for dining within the walls of what was the mediaeval solar.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Elizabeth said sincerely. She loved the ornate carvings and bright colours of the over-mantel. ‘You are a builder, not a soldier now,’ she teased. ‘I can imagine you have many more grand designs.’

‘I do.’

‘I hope to see them all one day.’

He looked up. Their gazes met. His hazel eyes were bright with sunlight and the pleasure of a project she could see he loved.

‘I hope you will grace the room at dinner many times,’ he said.

So many possible futures, but she was afraid that none of them would come true.

Craven rolled up the scroll so his plans for the future vanished. ‘If your brother goes to war he will need soldiers. Fighting first, building when peace comes.’

‘You will go to support him?’ Elizabeth asked. Her breath caught on an instinctive objection. She wanted to point out
that he was older now, his sword arm would be slower and so would his healing be after injury. He had been wounded badly twice already. A third time he might not be so lucky.