House Of Shadows. Nicola Cornick
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a perfunctory ‘madam.’ It sounded more derisive than he had intended and he saw her expression harden. For a moment he thought she might strike him.
‘Be careful that you do not trip over your own self-importance,’ Elizabeth snapped. ‘Why should I care about your judgement, milord? You have no education. You are no more than a soldier. I do not need your permission or your approval for what I do.’
‘All men’s opinions matter when a kingdom is at stake,’ Craven said. ‘Do you want the world to think that you cast spells like a witch because you do not believe you will regain your patrimony any other way?’ He straightened up. A glimmer of iridescence caught his eye; in the corner of the chamber the pearl gleamed mockingly. Elizabeth made a rush for it but Craven was before her, grabbing it, holding it out of her reach. As soon as he touched it all colour seemed to leach from it. It looked a dull grey, sulky and malevolent. It was a toy, a chimera. He detested it.
He raised his gaze to Elizabeth’s face. ‘If you call on the pearl they will think you weak,’ he said softly. ‘They will dismiss you as a tool in the hands of the magicians. Or they will seek to burn you for witchcraft.’
Shock flared in her eyes. He had spoken harshly on purpose because he wanted her to understand. The Holy Roman Emperor and his allies would use every means available to discredit her. She was putting herself in danger and suddenly he was fearful for her.
He could feel the tension wrapping about them, thick as cobwebs, and then Elizabeth gave a sigh and her shoulders slumped. She looked so young and vulnerable all of a sudden, fragile in the white gown. The torchlight cast its slanting shade across her cheek and deepened the warm curve of her mouth. Her blue eyes were shadowed and dark. In that instant Craven could see why hard-headed soldiers and romantic fools alike dedicated themselves and their swords to her service. She was both gallant and beautiful.
Craven remembered Ralph Hopton telling him once of how he had carried the pregnant Queen ahead of him on his horse during the retreat from Prague after the Battle of White Mountain, of how she had ridden mile after mile without complaint whilst her husband had shed bitter tears over the loss of his kingdom. Such courage commanded men’s respect as well as their love.
‘Don’t you see – I need certainty?’ He could hear the plea for reassurance beneath Elizabeth’s defiant words. ‘I need to know if Frederick will win,’ she said. ‘I need to know if our lands will be restored or whether …’ She let the words trail away before she betrayed herself too far.
‘You will not find truth in magic, only deception.’ Impatience made him short. Frederick would not win. Craven needed no soothsaying to tell him that. He wanted to be honest with her, to state the facts baldly:
‘Your husband is no soldier and men will die because of him.’
But that was needlessly cruel, and in making her face up to her lack of belief in her husband he would commit an unforgivable act of treachery. Besides, he had chosen his loyalty. He had pledged himself to Frederick’s cause. The least he could do was honour that pledge until he was released from it.
‘Frederick took the mirror with him.’ She spoke softly so that Craven had to draw nearer to hear her words. A fold of her gown brushed his leg. For a moment he smelled the scent of the orange flower perfume she wore. She glanced up at him, almost shy. ‘We agreed; he would have the mirror and I the pearl. Two halves of a whole.’ Her voice dropped still further. ‘They do not work so well apart. The pearl would not reveal itself tonight without the mirror as its foil.’
Craven knew the Winter King had taken the mirror. Barely a day passed without him peering into its depths for some pointer to his future fortunes. It was pitiful. He clenched his fists and, in doing so, realised that he still held the pearl. He resisted the urge to throw it into the pool and let the waters of the Bosbeek wash it away.
There were sounds from above now, footsteps on the stone stairs and the flaring of torches. Clearly Rumph had decided he had been absent long enough and had come to find out what was happening.
‘They are looking for me.’ He saw Elizabeth straighten. She reached for her cloak, smothering the white gown in darkness. Her tone had changed. The doubt, the desolation had gone. She had shown her weakness to him but now she was a queen again.
Her gaze fixed on him, formal now. ‘I did not ask what you were doing here, Lord Craven. I suppose you are come from Hanau with letters from His Majesty?’
‘I am.’ He was put neatly back in his place, a messenger boy.
‘Then present them to me in an hour in the Great Chamber.’
She held out her hand for the jewel.
Craven looked at it again. It was instinctive, that glance downwards. He expected to see nothing but a big fat pearl that should have been locked away, or reduced to what it truly was; no more than an insignificant part of a royal collection of jewels. Yet in that second, as he stared at it, the pearl was transformed. It glowed, radiating a soft light that should have been warm and yet felt as cold as the winter sea. The surface shifted like clouds covering the moon and then he saw. A bedchamber cloaked in death, the royal standard of the lion rampant hanging limp and still. He could feel the heat of the room and smell the stench of sickness. He could hear the voices of the attendants and the murmurings of a priest.
‘Craven?’ Elizabeth’s voice called him back. He shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. The pearl burned his palm. He handed it gently to her.
‘What did you see?’ she asked. As she took it from him their fingers touched.
‘I saw nothing,’ Craven lied. ‘Nothing at all.’
When Holly reached the Ashmolean Museum that evening she found huge posters flanking the entrance, proclaiming the forthcoming exhibition of artefacts from the Court of Elizabeth Stuart, the Winter Queen. It was, the poster proclaimed, an extraordinary showcase for an outstanding collection of the finest seventeenth-century glass, china, and portraiture.
The curator on duty at the door was reluctant to let Holly in until she mentioned her name and that she was meeting Mr Shurmer, whereupon he stood back with what was almost a bow and directed her to the second floor. The door of the lecture room stood wide; Holly could see the detritus of canapés and empty wine glasses strewn about. The guests were still chatting, however, and the roar of conversation was like a wall of noise.
She didn’t want to go in, to engage in conversation, to try to find Espen Shurmer in the crowd. Instead she turned away and immediately felt the shock of quietness fall about her. The roar of voices faded. There was nothing but the faint tap of her footsteps and beyond the floor to ceiling windows at the end of the corridor, the tumble of Oxford roofs, spires and towers and the glitter of the city lights.
Holly loved Oxford. She had grown up in the city and she loved the crackle of excitement, the same sense of opportunity in the air that she felt in London. It felt like a city of limitless possibilities as well as a place steeped in history. Tonight though it just felt lonely and the bright white walls and bare spaces of the museum made it all the more stark.
At the end of the corridor a thick red rope now blocked the entrance to the exhibition. Holly had been to similar events in London and knew that earlier in the evening, all the guests would have wandered through, exchanging professional opinions on the rarity and quality of the collection. Now the gallery was empty and she could see the gleam of glass in the display cases. It beckoned to her, forbidden, tempting. She slipped past the rope and went in, ignoring the portraits and the other objects, concentrating solely on the engraved glass.
As always when she saw such exquisite workmanship Holly felt her heart quicken. This was the long tradition she worked within. She had wanted to be a glass engraver almost