House Of Shadows. Nicola CornickЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Wassenaer Hof, The Hague, February 1632

      The palace was in chaos. Light spilled across the cobbles, torches flared, men hurrying, women calling with an edge of panic to their voices. As William Craven rode through the arched gateway into the courtyard, Dr Rumph, the Queen’s chief physician, loomed up out of the dark and caught his reins, causing the horse to shy. Cursing, Craven brought it under control and Rumph stepped back, his long face growing even longer.

      ‘Your pardon.’ He spoke stiffly.

      ‘It’s no matter,’ Craven said. He jumped down and handed the reins over to a groom. It had been a long ride from Frederick’s campaign lodgings at Hanau and he had letters for the Queen but what he wanted most was a meal and some hot water. Judging by the disquiet in Rumph’s face, however, he seemed destined to have neither.

      ‘What can I do for you, doctor?’ he said.

      ‘We have lost the Queen!’ Rumph said.

      For one shocking moment Craven thought Rumph meant that Elizabeth was dead. It would not be so surprising. The winter had been notably wet and mild, encouraging all manner of fevers, and the Queen had been taken with an ague that had confined her to her bed for several weeks. But then he realised what the doctor meant. The chaos, the men milling around, the air of panicked confusion …

      ‘Her Majesty has disappeared?’ he said.

      ‘That is what I’m telling you,’ Rumph snapped.

      ‘You have searched the palace?’

      ‘Of course.’ Rumph fell into step beside him, his long black robe flapping agitatedly as he walked. ‘She was last seen in her chamber several hours ago. Her ladies say she was in a melancholy frame of mind. We were afraid …’ He hesitated. No one would articulate it but they feared that the Queen, borne down by fear and loneliness whilst her husband was on campaign, might commit the heinous sin of taking her own life.

      ‘Nonsense,’ Craven said. It was easy in such a febrile atmosphere to imagine the worst. Rumour spread panic like a contagion. Yet he knew that the Queen would never abandon her cause.

      He had left The Hague with Frederick six weeks before and they had made slow progress towards a meeting with the Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus at Hochst. During that time Craven had taken a number of letters back and forth between the king and his wife. It had not taken him long to see which of them had the greater heart, spirit and stomach for the fight. Frederick would always be a broken reed. Elizabeth would always be the stronger.

      ‘Have you searched the gardens?’ he said.

      ‘Yes.’ Rumph sounded offended to be asked so obvious a question.

      ‘Stables? Outbuildings?’

      Rumph’s look said quite clearly what he thought of the idea of the Queen of Bohemia hiding in an outbuilding.

      ‘Our Lord took refuge in a stable,’ Craven said mildly, and was rewarded with a glare.

      ‘You mock the scriptures, my lord?’

      ‘Of course not,’ Craven said. ‘What about the water tower? Have you looked there?’

      There was a pause, a minute hesitation. Craven glanced at the physician. Rumph knew full well what ceremonies had been held in the water tower and disapproved of them. Or perhaps, Craven thought, he was superstitious, scared. Physicians sometimes were. Rumph would not like to think that the Queen would dabble in dangerous occult practices. If it came to it, Craven felt much the same himself, although for different reasons. He deplored the use of magic.

      ‘The tower is locked,’ the physician said.

      ‘But the queen would have access to a key.’

      Silence.

      ‘We have not looked there,’ Rumph admitted.

      ‘Then let us waste no more time.’

      By the time they had crossed the garden to the tower they had gained a motley retinue; pages with lanterns, ladies holding up their skirts in order not to dirty them on the gravel, gentlemen with hunting dogs. Craven put his hand to the door of the tower and it swung open silently. He took a torch from one of the servants.

      ‘I’ll go down alone,’ he said.

      The faces around him swam in the flare of light; avid, speculative, malicious. Craven felt a wave of disgust. God protect Her Majesty from such ghoulish curiosity. It was no wonder she sought solitude, surrounded every moment by such a crowd.

      Rumph blocked his way. ‘It would not be seemly for you to be alone with the Queen, my lord.’

      ‘Forgive me, doctor, but His Majesty the King insists no layman should enter the tower that holds the secrets of the Order of the Rosy Cross,’ Craven said, an edge of steel to his tone now. ‘Does anyone wish to gainsay him?’ He let the question hang.

      It was enough. A ripple of disquiet went through the crowd like wind through corn. No one wanted to incur the wrath of the Knights of the Rosy Cross. Only Rumph’s face bore indecision.

      ‘I must insist—’

      ‘Be assured, sir—’ Craven laid a hand lightly on his arm, ‘that I will call for you at once should Her Majesty be in need of medical assistance.’

      He started down the stone stair. There was absolute silence below and darkness that fell about him like a shroud. The air was still and musty. It made him want to sneeze. He could almost feel the layers of dust tightening his chest. This was an unwholesome place. Even if a man did not believe in necromancy and its secrets it was impossible not to feel a shudder of repulsion.

      ‘Your Majesty!’ His voice sounded loud, met by nothing but the muffling darkness. He reached the bottom of the stairs and carefully opened the door into the water chamber.

      There were no knights in black and gold tonight. At first Craven thought the room was completely empty and he felt a rush of relief mingled with respect for Elizabeth that she should not cheapen herself with foolish superstition. Then he saw the torchlight falling on the quiet waters of the pool in banners of orange and black. It glanced off the arched spans of the roof and the tall pillars of stone. Shadows rippled, then one of them formed into a figure, small, slight, kneeling at the side of the pool.

      Craven’s heart jumped. He almost dropped the lantern in his haste to reach her side. ‘Your Majesty!’

      She made no response, no movement.

      ‘Madam!’ He dropped down on one knee beside her. He had never thought her a small woman before, yet she seemed as insubstantial as air tonight, a ghost in a white gown, huddled over the water as she wove her spell.

      He saw it then, the pearl shimmering on a ledge at the edge of the pool. He felt a deep visceral coldness, as though the marrow were freezing in his bones. It was not fear he felt but anger. Frederick was weak and needed the magic of soothsaying to prop him up. He was its puppet. But Elizabeth should have been too strong to require the comfort of such illusions.

      He snatched the pearl from the water and threw it aside. He heard the clatter as it bounced off the stone pillar and wondered if it was lost. He hoped so.

      Elizabeth jumped to her feet and spun to confront him. ‘You forget yourself, Craven.’ Her voice cracked like a whip. Her skirts were soaked. Water gleamed on her bare arms. She looked like a creature of magic herself, all light and fire, her hair flowing loose about her shoulders. He had never seen her like this, never expected to see her like this.

      ‘Who are you to interrupt the mysteries of the Knights of the Rosy Cross?’ Elizabeth demanded.