House of Shadows (8 page)

‘Very good, Miss Ansell.’ Shurmer was nodding his approval. ‘The Knights of the Rosy Cross were many things to many men.’ Then as she smiled, he said: ‘Forgive me. I sound like a teacher, I know, but it is rare to meet someone who has heard of the Order of the Rosy Cross.’ He sighed. ‘Legend has it that the Knights used a number of tools in their scrying, but that the jewelled mirror was the most important because it had the power to reflect the future. It had been forged in fire, you see, and it was said that as from fire it had come, so into fire it would lead its enemies.’

Holly gave a little involuntary shiver. She found she did not want to look directly at the mirror now, but paradoxically it almost felt as though it was willing her to turn, beckoning her gaze. Very deliberately she shifted so that her back was towards it.

‘The mirror was said to have caused the death of Henry, Lord Darnley, in an explosion and fire,’ Shurmer said. ‘It was also rumoured to have foretold the Gunpowder Plot. On the very day of the Princess Elizabeth’s christening, her nurse saw a vision of hellfire and flame in the mirror and the child upon the throne of England.’

‘I know that the plotters planned to set Princess Elizabeth up as a puppet queen,’ Holly said, ‘but since the Gunpowder Plot didn’t actually succeed, technically it can’t be said that the mirror predicted the future.’

Shurmer’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I see that you are a most logical person, Miss Ansell.’

‘I try to be,’ Holly said.

Shurmer’s smile deepened. ‘Then I doubt you will believe for a moment the tales of the Knights and their soothsaying,’ he said. ‘Or a mirror that can destroy its enemies through fire.’

‘It’s certainly a great story,’ Holly said. ‘How did the mirror come into your collection?’

‘That was by fortunate chance,’ Shurmer said. The bright white lights of the exhibition cases threw the shadows of his face into stark relief. Suddenly he looked frail, the skin stretched too taut across his cheekbones, his eyes tired.

‘For many years the mirror was missing,’ he said. ‘It was believed buried with Frederick, but Frederick’s tomb was lost during the Thirty Years War. Then the mirror miraculously reappeared in the late twentieth century at a car boot sale in Corby in Northamptonshire.’

Holly almost choked. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but you do not strike me as the sort of man who spends his time attending car boot sales.’

Shurmer laughed. ‘What I should have said is that I was alerted to the fact that there was a very old, very fine mirror for sale. An … associate of mine bought it and mentioned it to me. He knew that I was interested in seventeenth-century artefacts, particularly those from the Bohemian court.’

‘I suppose it had no provenance?’ Holly said.

Shurmer shook his head. ‘Naturally not. But it matches the known descriptions and pictures of the Murano crystal mirror.’

‘Did you have it authenticated?’ Holly asked. It would be the natural thing to do; call in a group of experts to assess the mirror and confirm its age and origin. Yet Espen Shurmer was shaking his head again and she sensed that his belief in the mirror and its myth was so strong that either he believed it absolutely without the need for proof or he did not want to question it too closely in case he destroyed the legend.

Of course he might be right. It could indeed be the very mirror that the Winter King had used to foresee the future. Holly glanced at it again and felt the same disturbing pull. A breath of wind seemed to ripple through the still air of the gallery. The lights seemed to shimmer and the mirror glowed in its case as though it were alive. She shuddered, closing her eyes. When she reopened them the gallery swam back into her vision, all bright lights and clean modern lines. It looked normal, just an empty room with old objects in display cases.

‘That brings us to the Sistrin pearl,’ Shurmer said, ‘for the crystal mirror was not the only gift bequeathed to Elizabeth by her grandmother. It was matched with a jewel of rare beauty and price.’ He waved a hand towards the miniature of young Elizabeth that was displayed in the glass cabinet. Holly saw that she was wearing a string of pearls with one huge drop pearl in the centre. The simplicity of the necklace and the radiance of the jewels suited the innocence of the portrait. Curiously though, the big pearl was shaped exactly like the crystal mirror. It was a pear shape, or teardrop.

‘The Sistrin pearl was also said to hold great magic.’ Shurmer, too, was looking towards the cabinet where the pearl gleamed at Elizabeth’s neck. ‘It was supposedly a
powerful talisman for good, but like the mirror it also possessed the power to wreak destruction if it was misused.’

‘Old pearls almost always have some sort of legend attached to them, though, don’t they?’ Holly said. ‘I mean, usually they have belonged to pirates or they are cursed or something. It was a very superstitious age.’

‘That is true,’ Shurmer said. ‘Certainly the Knights of the Rosy Cross believed the legends and used the pearl and the mirror together in their necromancy. They used their magic to create firewater, a medium through which the future could not only be seen but could also be transformed.’

‘That sounds rather dangerous to me,’ Holly said. ‘If you believe in these things …’ She hesitated. ‘Well, you’re meddling with forces you cannot control, aren’t you.’

‘Yes,’ Shurmer said. There was an odd note in his voice. ‘Indeed you are.’

‘Was this what Ben wanted to know?’ Holly asked. ‘The legend of the Sistrin pearl?’

Shurmer shook his head. ‘Dr Ansell already knew the history of the pearl,’ he said. ‘No—’ His eyes met hers and Holly felt something akin to an electric shock. ‘Your brother wished to find out what had happened to the pearl after it passed out of the possession of the Winter Queen.’

Holly felt even more bewildered. ‘Why on earth would he want to know that?’

‘I have no notion,’ Shurmer said calmly. ‘He would not say. That was why I wanted to meet him. I thought that perhaps he had found it.’

‘Found
it?’ Holly felt completely bewildered. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Shurmer, I don’t quite understand …’

‘After the Winter Queen’s death, the pearl disappeared,’ Shurmer said, ‘but unlike the crystal mirror it never reappeared. We do not know its fate. It is lost.’ He made a slight gesture and the light flashed on the expensive gold watch he wore. ‘It is the holy grail of collectors, Miss Ansell. Everyone wants to find the Sistrin pearl. I myself have sought it for forty years.’

There was silence in the gallery. Holly could hear nothing except the soft hum of the air conditioning. She was very aware of Espen Shurmer watching her, gauging her every expression. She was not sure what was showing on her face. It had been astonishing enough to discover that Ben had been involved in some sort of family history research. Now to discover that he had been making enquiries about a long-lost pearl was extraordinary. It felt as though there should be a connection between the two but Holly could not imagine what it was. The story of the mirror and the pearl seemed no more than superstition and legend.

‘You should know,’ Shurmer said, and Holly realised that he was picking his words very carefully, ‘that after Dr Ansell contacted me I did make some enquiries into his background and history.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Forgive me, but I am a rich man and sometimes criminals will try to target my collection. Naturally I quickly realised your brother was no such person.’ His smile was disarming. ‘Yet equally I could find no obvious connection between your family and the Winter Queen to suggest why your brother might possess the Sistrin.’

‘Did you ask him?’ Holly said. ‘Whether he had the pearl, I mean?’

‘Yes,’ Shurmer said. His tone was pensive. ‘He was … evasive. He suggested we meet and I agreed.’

There was silence. Holly tried to remember her conversations with Ben. None of them had involved anything as arcane as lost treasure. She thought about the mill. She had spent much of the day tidying it up and she had found nothing unusual or unexpected. The lack of clues towards Ben’s disappearance had frustrated her.

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said helplessly. ‘Ben said nothing to me. I really don’t think I can help.’

‘No matter,’ Shurmer said graciously. ‘I would ask, though, that if you discover anything, you let me know?’ He took a card from his inside pocket and passed it to Holly. It felt crisp and smooth beneath her fingers, the edges sharp.

‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘Of course I will.’

She stood up, suddenly wanting to be gone from this place, the supernatural stories and the crystal mirror’s sinister gleam. It was easy to believe in superstition when she was encased in a world like the Ashmolean, where thousand-year-old tribal masks watched her with blank eyes as she passed and she could hear the whispers of history.

‘I understand that you are most anxious to uncover the reasons for your brother’s disappearance, Miss Ansell,’ Shurmer said quietly, getting to his feet too. ‘I hope that you find what you are looking for.’

‘Thank you,’ Holly said. ‘I …’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sure he will turn up soon.’

She saw the smile that touched Shurmer’s eyes and knew that he knew she was lying.

‘Let us hope so,’ he said. He held out a hand and Holly shook it.

‘It was … very interesting … to meet you, Mr Shurmer.’

‘A pleasure, Miss Ansell,’ Shurmer said. He sounded as though he meant it.

Holly had already taken five steps away when she stopped and turned back. Espen Shurmer was standing where she had left him, beside the display case that contained the crystal mirror.

‘What was the special power that the pearl was said to possess?’ she asked. The words seemed to spring from her of their own volition. She was not even sure what had put them in her mind. Then, when Shurmer did not immediately reply, she added:

‘You said that the mirror destroyed its enemies through fire. What did the pearl do?’

She saw it then, the flicker of disquiet in Espen Shurmer’s eyes, and knew that for some reason he had deliberately kept this from her.

‘Mr Shurmer?’ she said.

‘The pearl’s power came from water,’ Shurmer said. ‘It destroyed its enemies through the medium of water.’

Holly thought of the mill, of the splash of the stream running beneath the wheel and the lazy glare of the sun on the pond. It had to be a coincidence, and yet she felt a deep chill in her bones. She thought of Ben and for a terrifying moment her mind was full of darkness. There was the rushing sound of water in her ears and a pressure in her lungs that smothered her breath. Coldness gripped her limbs and there was fear that cut like a blade.

‘The Winter Queen’s eldest son died from drowning,’ she said slowly. ‘And her brother – did he not die after swimming in the Thames?’

‘That is indeed so, Miss Ansell,’ Shurmer said. ‘Those who dismiss such magic as mere superstition are perhaps complacent.’

A huge shudder shook Holly. If Ben truly had the Sistrin pearl, had it destroyed him, too? She turned, practically running from the gallery, down the stairs and out of the main door oblivious to the curious glances of the people she passed. Her breath was coming in short bursts and she had a stitch in her side and when she reached the bottom of the steps she had to stop and steady herself against the wall.

Out in the street there were crowds gathering outside the theatre opposite, spilling into the road. The normality of noise and people and light slowly wrapped about Holly, banishing the mysteries of the museum. She straightened up and started to walk slowly towards St Giles, all the while wondering what had happened to her. Stories of cursed mirrors and legendary pearls, magic and superstition, were so alien to her that she was puzzled that she had entertained them for a moment. She used such ideas as inspiration for her engraving designs but she did not really believe in them. Or she had not, until tonight.

Now, though, she felt on edge, adrift, rocked by uncertainty. She told herself that in ten minutes she would be back at her grandparents’ house and they would be bursting to tell her that they had had a message from Ben. He would be safe, he would be on the way home to Tasha and all would be well. Later, when all the fuss had
died down, she would ask him about the pearl and Espen Shurmer, and he would explain that it had just been a casual enquiry as a result of something he had stumbled across in the family history …

Holly turned left into the Woodstock Road, heading for Summertown, walking briskly even though she was so tired. It was raining a little, the pavements slick, the raindrops running down the car windows and stinging Holly’s face, blurring the city lights to an endless string of pearls that was finally swallowed in darkness.

Palace of Rhenen, June 1632

W
illiam Craven had kept quiet about the soothsaying. Elizabeth was grateful he had held his tongue. At the same time she was ashamed he had seen her weakness. She owed him no apology for believing in the power of the mirror and the pearl, but she did regret revealing to him, however tacitly, her doubts in Frederick’s ability to lead, to fight, to win back his lands. She had been weak and had shown too little faith. Time had revealed her mistake. Frederick’s letters to her were full of joy and good news; Gustavus Adolphus had received him with all the ceremony due to a king and included him in his military councils. Plans were advancing for the retaking of the Palatine lands. Kreuznach had been reclaimed. Soon he would be sending for her to take their rightful place in Heidelberg once more.

Craven was Frederick’s squire now and had been his

constant messenger, carrying the news from the campaign in Germany and taking Elizabeth’s more domestic correspondence back to the King. He had ridden in just as she had been about to set out from the palace that morning to hunt in the woods above Rhenen. Elizabeth had insisted that he accompany the party and give her the news as they rode. It had perhaps been unkind of her given that he was weary and travel-stained, and only three months before had been injured in the taking of the castle at Kreuznach. Frederick had commended him for his bravery, saying that Craven had been first through the breached walls and that the King of Sweden himself had praised him for being a fine soldier.

Elizabeth glanced at him now as they rode side by side through the dappled shade. They had outrun the rest of the hunting party who even now were crashing through the woods below, calling out, frightening away any deer in earshot. She had allowed her elder sons to join her that morning, but sometimes she despaired that they would ever learn the cunning and guile of the true hunter. Yet they were young still, and eager for the chase. She supposed she would reproach them more had they been timorous creatures who stayed at home whilst she rode out.

Craven’s face was, as always, quite severe in repose. He made no attempt to entertain her or to chatter inconsequentially as so many courtiers did. Elizabeth wondered what it felt like to be him; to be so reckless of his personal safety that he would fight without reserve, without fear. It was no wonder that her sons admired him as a hero. They were uncomplicated boys, fired with the zeal to regain their inheritance. They wanted to be soldiers, understood
nothing of politics and cared even less. A man of such straightforward convictions as William Craven commanded their loyalty.

‘You have not yet told me the news from Munich,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I heard that my husband supped with the Duke of Bavaria.’

‘And wished you present, madam, to add beauty to the proceedings,’ Craven said.

Elizabeth laughed. ‘Frederick’s words, I’ll wager, not yours, Lord Craven. You are not known for your courtly address.’

‘As to that, madam,’ Craven said, ‘I can vouch that there are no beauties in Bavaria other than the scenery.’

They were still laughing when the first of the hunting party broke through the trees into the dappled clearing. Elizabeth felt a wilful urge to wheel her horse around and dig her heels into its flanks, leaving them standing. Then she saw Charles Louis, his expression hovering on the edge of mutiny at the prospect of his mother outrunning him again, so instead she reined back and allowed them to surround her, chattering, and rode forwards decorously out of the shadows and onto the open hill.

From here there was a beautiful view of the little town of Rhenen, clinging to the hillside, and the curl of the river to the east. The sunlight twinkled on the gables of the hunting lodge Frederick had built, finished only the previous year. They’d had so little time to enjoy this place together before war had come again. Elizabeth felt a chill premonition that they never would.

The servants were spreading out a meal on a plateau in
the shade of the trees. They scurried around unpacking boxes, setting rugs and cushions. There was glazed ham and pastries, roasted meats and red wine. Craven had gone to fetch a glass for her. She was about to dismount – Billingsley, her Master of the Horse, had come forwards to help her.

‘Why such a long face?’ she asked him, knowing full well it was because she had chosen to ride ahead with Craven leaving him to watch over the princes.

Billingsley flushed. He did not have Craven’s easy way of responding to her comments, whether they were teasing or serious. He was too stiff and formal, conscious of his status and of hers too. She supposed William Craven ought to show a similar deference but he never did and she had given up expecting it of him. Besides, something about Craven’s uncomplicated approach was refreshing. He told her the truth as he saw it. He could be blunt, but he was never disrespectful.

There was a sudden crashing sound of a branch falling and shouts from across the clearing where the Princes were playing hide and seek, climbing trees, their irrepressible high spirits toppling over into dangerous risk-taking. Elizabeth spun around in the saddle.

‘Don’t let them—’ she said to Billingsley, but it was too late, one of the trees was rotten. The falling branch had been a precursor and now the whole trunk shook and with a roaring sound like the tide rushing in it fell, the branches clashing together. Some fool screamed. Elizabeth’s horse took fright, rearing and taking her by surprise. She lost the reins and made a grab for the mane as the horse bolted, plunging back into the trees the way they had come.

Elizabeth saw a jumbled vision of images flash past: Craven, running for his horse, Billingsley, his mouth hanging open in shock, the servants frozen to the spot, the boys pausing in their shrieks of excitement to stare after her in horror. Then all hell broke loose behind her with screams and shouts, but all she could do was cling on for dear life, crouched low as the trees whipped overhead and the horse ran and ran, propelled onwards by its own panic until at last it slowed and then stopped.

She slid down to the ground and sat for a moment half-lying, half-tumbled whilst she caught her breath. Her first sensation was relief and her second, following swiftly, was anger. She was the best female equestrian at court, one of the best riders there was. Yes, the horse was skittish and high-spirited – even now she was shying at her own shadow, ears flat as she blew out her breath in great heaving pants – but Elizabeth had prided herself on the fact that she was one of the few who could ride her. Her pride had been richly served now.

There was no sound, no one calling for her, no noise of men or carts, nothing but the wind in the trees and the chirps of the birds, so loud they seemed to fill her ears. She reached for the reins and started to stroke the horse’s nose, speaking softly to her, calming her until she too felt calmer. Soon she would be able to remount and try to follow her tracks back to the edge of the wood. It could not be difficult. She would find her way back to Rhenen. Besides, had she not always said she wanted to be alone? Now, unexpectedly, she had as much solitude as she could deal with.

The bushes rustled on her right, but it was only a bird
foraging in the undergrowth. She got to her feet stiffly and, leading the horse, started to walk in what she hoped was the right direction. There was little sunlight through the thick canopy and the branches sprouted low, tangling with the thick and thorny bushes. Within a few minutes Elizabeth was hot and scratched and dirty, hungry too, and resenting the picnic left so far behind. Being alone was not as enjoyable as she had thought it would be. There was something unfriendly about the wood, its darkness and silence. It felt as though someone was watching her.

The horse picked up on her nervousness, flicking her ears, whisking her tail. When a noisy bird crashed through the leaves above and flew off with a startled alarm call Elizabeth thought she would bolt again and gripped the reins more tightly, but the horse was too tired. They both were.

The bird had been warning of an approach. Elizabeth could hear footsteps and turned sharply just as a man stepped onto the path in front of her. The sun was behind him and for a moment she could not see his face, then she realised it was William Craven.

‘Craven!’ she said. Her voice wobbled, betraying her. She wondered if he was going to berate her for poor horsemanship or make light of her headlong flight, but he did neither. His face was white and he looked afraid. He dropped to one knee and took her hand, kissing it.

‘Madam! You are safe?’

‘As you see,’ Elizabeth said. She felt shock and something more intimate that shocked her all the more. She resisted the urge to touch his bent head.

‘Thank God.’ His voice had strengthened. He scrambled to his feet. ‘I was afraid for you.’ He corrected himself. ‘We were all afraid, for she set off at such a mad gallop with you. Everyone has been searching the forest.’

‘Then you had better lead me back to them,’ Elizabeth said. She looked about her. ‘I have no notion where we are. It was lucky you found me.’

‘You are almost at the edge of the trees.’ Craven had taken the horse’s bridle, leading her between the trees, at the same time holding back the brambles and briars that snatched at Elizabeth’s skirt. ‘You would doubtless have found your way back safely before too long.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Elizabeth said, ‘it was you who found me. I owe you a debt of gratitude, Lord Craven. Another one. As does my husband.’

‘Your husband?’ Craven paused. They were on the edge of the wood. ‘Yes, of course.’ His voice changed. ‘His Majesty would be distraught to know of your accident.’

‘There is no harm done,’ Elizabeth said. She looked closely at his face as she stepped past him, out into the sunshine and light and fresh air. ‘You, though,’ she said, noting the lines etched deep on his face, ‘you look as though you need a physician. I had forgotten you were wounded lately. Are you in pain?

A smile lightened his expression, lifting the lines of anxiety from about his eyes. ‘I am quite well, thank you, madam.’ He came up to her and set his hands on her waist to lift her up into the saddle. They were very close together. Elizabeth looked up into his face, the strong line of his jaw, the cleft in his chin, the light in his hazel eyes. Something
shifted inside her and warmed and she caught her breath on a wave of longing.

He looked down then, catching her desire, and suddenly he was close enough to kiss and she saw the heat in his eyes and for one long moment they stared at one another. Then he took a step back and lifted her, very gently, into the saddle and turned his back as he led the horse out onto the open hillside towards home.