The Lion of Midnight (19 page)

I looked up and met Dohna’s gaze. ‘This is the equipage of an entire army,’ I said in amazement. ‘And the Queen made it a personal order, to the extent of writing out the entire inventory herself?’

‘So it was,’ the count replied. ‘The equipage of the army that would win back the throne for your King Charles. Remember I told you how deeply the Queen felt about it, Sir Matthew.’

As I studied the two documents, I recall how my mother had railed against the duplicity of the crowned heads of Europe, who claimed to have been outraged by the execution of one of their own yet then did not lift a finger to help his son’s cause. It was clear now with that she was mistaken: one monarch had taken up the gauntlet on behalf of the young, exiled King Charles, and that was the one monarch who was not a man.

‘Queen Christina provided the arsenal that could have defeated Cromwell and won back the kingdom,’ I said admiringly. ‘If only, My Lord Dohna.’

Dohna nodded. ‘Indeed, Sir Matthew. If only. The Queen’s generosity could have and should have won back your kingdom, but for the petty hatreds and staggering incompetence alike that then prevailed among your king’s supporters.’ The noble Swede’s features were animated now; it was though a dam had been broken, and the
enigmatic Lord Dohna’s true thoughts were pouring through in a torrent. ‘Take Lord Montrose, for instance. The best, the most valiant of men. I met him, you see, along with your brother, during those fateful months in the year Forty-Nine. Sweet Mother Mary, there were legends and heroes galore stalking Europe in that year of all years, when the war of thirty years had just ended – Field Marshals, Generals, all of them with dozens of battles to their name, yet whom did they all respect? Montrose. To fight the campaigns he fought, against the odds he faced… And yet what became of him, Sir Matthew? Betrayed, executed and chopped into pieces by those who claimed, like him, to be fighting for your King Charles the Second. Christina would have done better to arm the idiots and lunatics that infest the alleys of Gamla Stan in Stockholm than to provide such an equipage to the treacherous crew of incompetents that made up your so-called Cavalier party at that time. I can still recall how the good men – the likes of your brother and Lord Conisbrough – fretted and raged against the vicious factions in your exiled court. Her Majesty told me much later that she realised the mistake she had committed in that March of 1649. You English royalists did not need weapons, Sir Matthew – you had plenty enough of your own. Instead, she should have sent you just three of our Swedish generals, fresh from thirty years of battle against the best generals in this world. They would have hit heads together, rooted out your chaff, put paid to your factions and given you victory in three months. After all, Sir Matthew, what was your Cromwell, your proud, strutting Lord Protector, other than a mere farmer but ten years before?’

I detested the memory of Cromwell: in one sense he, like Bale, was but one of the fifty-nine king-killers, but he was so much more than that, for his rule as Lord Protector of England had both denied the rightful king his inheritance and very nearly brought the House of Quinton to ruin. But Cromwell was yet an Englishman, from the same soil as myself (give or take the very few miles that lay between Ravensden Abbey and
Huntingdon), and for all the Cavalier spirit that lurked within me, I secretly cheered the chilling dread of old England that his success in arms had driven like a dagger into the heart of every foreigner. Every foreigner, it seemed, except the Count Dohna.

My honour prevented me from defending Noll Cromwell; thus I blustered, and endeavoured to change the subject.

‘A mere farmer, as you say. But tell me, my Lord – do you think there might be at least some prospect of the High Chancellor reconsidering his position over the treaty that was proposed?’

‘I think England should not be sanguine,’ said Dohna. ‘I know de la Gardie. He will be outraged against Montnoir for the crimes he has committed in this kingdom, but he is intelligent enough to see that Montnoir is not France. And as I said to you at Lacko, Sir Matthew, the inducements offered by your king are feeble – hardly enough to make the three crowns abandon the rare state of peace it now enjoys.’

‘And the cutting of trees, my Lord?’

Dohna smiled. ‘Ah, your precious wood again. In truth, I
cannot
see the High Chancellor abandoning an embargo he imposed so very recently. And no man can deny that forests need to recover from the despoiling of recent times. But Sweden is a large country, Sir Matthew. There are few troops to patrol it. Most of the army is garrisoned across the Baltic, holding down our new empire. And I shall be returning to Rome within a few days.’ The enigmatic Count shrugged. ‘In my absence, it is not unlikely that evil men will seek to circumvent the embargo by cutting down trees on the Queen’s estates and then, let us say, shipping them to England from one of the Queen’s more secluded harbours, where they are unlikely to trouble the High Chancellor’s customs officers. Perhaps in ships flying false neutral colours – those of Spain are said to be particularly immune to searches. Why, it would not surprise me if those evil men were even now seeking out some of your English merchants in Gothenburg to seal contracts to that effect.’

I nodded as the true meaning of Dohna’s words dawned on me. ‘England would be eternally grateful for such a blessing, my Lord.’

‘A blessing, Sir Matthew? A manifest crime against Sweden? The high Chancellor would be appalled to hear you speak so, as would her
Majesty
Queen Christina.’

I bowed my head slightly. ‘As you say, my Lord Dohna.’

Glete turned away from his conversation with Kit Farrell and
Lydford
North. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘we had best be away to make best use of the flood tide.’

Dohna nodded, and we escorted our guests back to the entry ladder on the starboard side of the
Cressy
.

Dohna turned to me one last time. He signalled to his serving-boy, who ran forward with what seemed to be a small package. The lad handed it to his master, who in turn held it out toward me in his gloved hand. ‘A token of my respect, Sir Matthew,’ said Count Dohna, ‘and thanks for the service you have rendered Sweden.’

He pressed the object into my hand. It was evidently a book; I could feel the worn leather binding, and my thumb traced the outline of an ingrained armorial. But the curious, long face and large penetrating eyes of Count Dohna still held my attention, and I did not look in detail at the imprint.

‘Service to Sweden, My Lord?’ I said. ‘I fear I have rendered precious little.’

‘Do not be so certain of that.’ Dohna smiled. ‘The mysteries of the world are manifold, Sir Matthew. And yet for every mystery, there is an answer. So it is. So it has always been. Adieu, my friend, and may God guide and defend you in your perilous voyage to come.’

I did not quite know what to make of such an ambiguous speech. ‘Adieu, My Lord,’ I said hesitantly, ‘and my gratitude for your gift.’

With that, Count Dohna stepped over the side of the
Cressy
and went down onto the deck of the
Fortuna
. I handed the book to young Kellett, instructing him to place it in my sea-chest, and thought no more of it.

The galley cast off, and the last I saw of her was heading north-east, back toward Gothenburg. The oars cut the still icy water with their accustomed precision. At the stern rail stood General Erik Glete,
waving
his sword about his head like a madman possessed, and the Count Dohna, as still as a statue, his eyes evidently intent upon the fast-
receding
shape of the
Cressy
.

At dawn I ordered a gun to be fired and the fleet weighed upon the ebb, at first making clumsy progress west-by-south before tacking north-
by-west
. By noon, though, we had progressed no more than a dozen miles or so, the
Delight
in particular wallowing dreadfully and the
Cressy
having
constantly to shorten sail to accommodate her inadequacies. Truly, there are few experiences more galling to a sea-captain than command of a convoy: knowing that one’s own ship can veritably race across the oceans, yet having constantly to fall back and dawdle so that the last sluggard under one’s charge can manage to keep up, if only barely. And this was the Sound, one of the busiest sealanes in the world; far busier now than it had been in our outward voyage, as the first tentative signs of spring brought forth not only snowdrops but sails, an abundance of them. Large Eastland fluyts, outward bound, crossed our path, staying well away from us, while small fishing craft and coasters plied hither and thither. None of these concerned me, not even an odd little ship three or four miles in our lee which flew the unusual flag of the great Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania. As the
Cressy
’s bell rang for one of the afternoon, my concern was fixed entirely upon two sails, at first no more than specks upon the western horizon, now clearly identifiable as ships bearing down rapidly upon the wind. Large ships. One, the more southerly, very large indeed.

I fixed my telescope upon this larger ship as it drew nearer. There was no mistaking it: the botched repair of the beakhead, the odd alignment of the gunports beneath the poop, the eccentric stepping of the mizzen.

‘Our old friend, gentlemen,’ I said to the company upon the
Cressy
’s quarterdeck, ‘Captain Rohde and the
Oldenborg
.’

‘Come to escort us out of the Sound,’ said Musk sarcastically. ‘That’s good of him.’

‘We have had no word of a declaration of war,’ said Kit. ‘But I’d say she has a distinctly warlike air about her, Sir Matthew.’

‘A distinctly warlike air indeed, Mister Farrell.’

‘Perhaps he intends only to affright us,’ said Musk. ‘Doing a good job of it, by my reckoning.’

I could now see the men upon the upper deck of the
Oldenborg
. Her guns were manned, and pike-points glinted in the sunlight. And yet, what if Musk was right? What if Rohde sought only to alarm us, as Erik Glete and the
Fortuna
had done so successfully in the anchorage at New Elfsborg? Perhaps he sought to provoke us into firing first – a second outrage by the perfidious English would surely give the hesitant King Frederik an even stronger excuse to declare war –

‘Her consort,’ said Seth Jeary, peering intently through his own
eyepiece
, ‘is a Dutchman, though she flies Danish colours. Presumably one of the frigates that the States-General has loaned to King Frederik as an inducement for him to enter the war. Cut for thirty-eight guns, by the looks of her, but she seems to bear only thirty-six.’

‘A blessing,’ I said with feigned merriment. ‘Two guns fewer – that will make all the difference, gentlemen.’

In truth, we all knew that two guns made almost no difference to the odds against us. The enemy ships had twice as many guns, could fire
double
our weight of shot, probably carried at least two hundred more men than we did. If the Danes were intent upon battle, declaration of war or no, then by any rational calculation the
Cressy
ought to be doomed, and with it the mast-fleet. Every man on the quarterdeck – no, every man on my ship – could see that as plainly as I. But was that indeed the Danes’ intent?

A flurry of movement at the maintop of the
Oldenborg
put the matter beyond all doubt.

‘Sir Matthew,’ said Kit, ‘they are hoisting a flag at the main.’

Had the Danes given us the honour of being despatched by a full admiral, then? Perhaps even their famous commander Niels Juel? To die at his capable hand would at least be an honour –

I was immediately disabused, for the colours that broke out at the maintopmast head of the
Oldenborg
were not the white and red of Denmark. They were the fleur-de-lis upon a white ground of the Most Christian King of France. Any ship that flew those colours was at war with England and an enemy of the
Cressy
; and in those waters, there could be only one Frenchman for whom such colours had been hoisted.

‘Him,’ said Musk wearily. ‘Will we never be rid of that foul death’s head?’

I knew not how Montnoir had been able to appropriate two
Danish
men-of-war, including one of her greatest, but immediately chided myself for wondering at it: if the Knight of Malta had been convinced that he could singlehandedly bring about Sweden’s reconversion to Rome, then persuading King Frederik to grant him two ships would have been a mere detail. But the Frenchman’s arrogant presumption deserved a response, and I vowed he would have it.

I called for Kellett and told him to go below to Lydford North, requesting him to come to the quarterdeck at once. The lad complied eagerly, and Arlington’s protégé duly emerged onto the deck, evidently in bad grace at having been diverted from yet another interrogation of John Bale (if a one-sided litany of abuse can be distinguished in such a way).

‘You summoned me, Sir Matthew?’ he said brusquely.

I pointed toward our oncoming assailants. ‘Behold our difficulty, Mister North,’ I said.

For once the confidence drained from the face of Lydford North, leaving in its place a markedly affrighted young man. ‘I – Sir Matthew, I do not see what I can – how I can –’

‘Observe the flag upon the mainmast of the
Oldenborg
, Mister North.
The larger ship. The one to larboard – to the left,’

‘The colours of France. Upon a Danish man-of-war. She bears a French admiral, perchance?’

‘No, Mister North. She bears the Seigneur de Montnoir, my recent abductor, a Knight of Malta once accredited by King Louis as an
ambassador
. Presumably he claims a right to that flag by virtue of that rank, for ambassadors are entitled to fly their nation’s colour at the main as though they were a monarch or an admiral, are they not, Mister North?’

‘I believe My Lord Arlington once told me something to that effect, Sir Matthew.’

‘Well then, Mister North – in your opinion, would Lord Arlington and His Majesty the King object if an ambassador of theirs, albeit merely a confidential one without full accreditation, matched the impudence of yonder puffed-up Frenchman by bearing their own colours into battle?’