The Lion of Midnight (14 page)

I did not sleep. Finally the room lightened a little as another grey
Swedish
dawn broke. I steeled myself for the door to open, for the walk to the courtyard, for the unimaginable horror of what was to follow. But no one came. Had Montnoir experienced a change of heart and decided to resume his campaign to convert me to Rome? Was he conjuring up an even more terrible refinement of my execution? Or was it merely taking him time to put in place all the dreadful elements of Ravaillac’s end?

I do not know how many hours passed. Then, at last, I heard
footsteps
in the corridor outside. Heavy footsteps. A man’s. An executioner’s.

Slowly, the door of the cell opened. It took me a moment, perhaps several moments, to realise that the person framed within the door was not an executioner, and he was not Montnoir. This man was shorter, and bulkier by far. He wore no cloak, and had no hair.

It was Phineas Musk.

‘I give you joy of your birthday, Sir Matthew,’ he said.

Musk led me up through empty, bare-walled and freezing cold
chambers
, each door jamb adorned with the initials GASR or CSR for King Gustavus Adolphus or his daughter Christina. He maintained a constant reassuring chatter. The
Cressy
was in good order, the mast fleet was
inviolate
, the ice was beginning to melt and break. No letter had yet gone for England, informing my wife of my abduction. I mumbled gratitude to Musk and God alike, but I could take in barely anything and could frame no more than a barely coherent word or two at a time as I
stumbled
along in his wake. I think I thanked him feebly for his wishes upon my birthday, although it seemed from his telling – for I had entirely lost track of the calendar – that it was but the twentieth-eighth day of February; admittedly, the nearest to a birthday that a leapling knows in three years out of every four. I was still half-convinced my liberation was but a waking dream, or even a dream proper, from which I would soon awake to be confronted once again by my tormentor Montnoir, or to be dragged to the place of execution in the courtyard of this great castle where the unbearable death-agony would begin.

I had a thousand questions to which I wished to give voice but could not. Above all, though, there was the one that weighed most heavily upon me: the one I now summoned up all my thoughts and strength to ask.

‘Musk,’ I said at last, ‘where is Montnoir?’

‘Gone. But another can tell you better than I.’

At last Musk led me up a broad staircase, stretching up toward a grand Doric wooden portal. Looking down, I saw that many of the steps bore names and inscriptions: gravestones, then, presumably
appropriated
from some churchyard or dissolved abbey. The doorway led into a great hall, of a similar size to that of De La Gardie at Lacko but lower and more plainly decorated. The wall to the left contained two great windows divided by a fireplace, upon which a great pile of logs blazed fiercely. There were a few paintings, one of which I recognised as the great Gustavus Adolphus, two or three of other kings or generals and one of a woman, but I paid little attention to them. At the far end was a dais bearing a chair of state, again all much plainer than the High
Chancellor
’s extravagances, upon which sat an evidently careworn man. His head lifted toward us as we entered, and I recognised the face of Count Dohna. He was attired more simply than at our last meeting, wearing a plain jacket of black velvet, but although the hall was tolerably warm his hands were still gloved.

‘Sir Matthew,’ he said, rising, walking toward me and bowing his head, ‘I trust you will accept my most profound apologies, and those of the High Chancellor. Your detention was reprehensible – an affront against the honour of the Three Crowns. The Lord Montnoir, a man in whom we reposed a certain confidence, has abused our hospitality.’

I had been profoundly shaken by my recent experience: I could still see Montnoir’s face, and hear his words. For the nightmare to have been ended by the unlikely combination of Phineas Musk and Count Dohna, and for the Count to be apologising for my detention by his ally, had my head spinning.

‘You did not know I was being detained here?’ My voice was yet barely more than a whisper.

‘I did not. I was still at Lacko in conference with the High
Chancellor
, and afterwards engaged elsewhere. As Montnoir knew very well. He
and his French retainers, the men who followed and seized you, had free rein here for days, and would have still, had it not been for your bold Englishmen.’ Dohna sighed. ‘The man’s presumption has been
boundless
and unforgiveable, Sir Matthew. It was bad enough to attack you at Lacko (for which affront the High Chancellor had already ordered him to leave the kingdom), but then to seize you, an ambassador of the British king, upon the soil of Sweden, and to incarcerate you here at Vasterholm –’ Dohna’s anger seemed genuine enough, and the
information
that De La Gardie had summarily expelled Montnoir was more than welcome. Perhaps now Lydford North’s sojourn at Lacko would not be entirely unproductive after all. ‘This is my castle, you see, so the dishonour is the greater,’ said Dohna. ‘Or at least, Vasterholm falls under my administration on behalf of – of another, who will be most displeased at the news of what has happened here. And you have it at a disadvantage, Sir Matthew.’

‘I?’ My thoughts still reeled from incarceration, the anticipation of a heretical death, and unexpected release. ‘Forgive me, My Lord, how can I –’

‘Didn’t think only Musk would show up to get you out, did you, Sir Matthew?’ growled the old man. ‘I know I’ve performed miracles for the House of Quinton, but I’d have had to out-do the raising of Lazarus this time.’ He nodded toward the windows along the west side of the hall. I took a couple of paces forward and looked out. There, beyond the snowy shore of the castle island, was the sea: we were probably
somewhere
in the archipelago south and west of Gothenburg, judging by the number of other islands in sight, with the mainland to the east. And in the midst of the sea lay the
Cressy
, at anchor, her larboard broadside run out, my men plainly visible along the ship’s rail. ‘Lieutenant Farrell’s compliments and apologies, sir,’ said Musk. ‘He reckons he might not have accorded the full honours due to the Landtshere Ter Horst and the castle of New Elfsborg when he sailed in haste.’

‘Now that Montnoir’s Frenchmen have gone, this place has no
garrison left to it other than a dozen or so servants,’ said Dohna. ‘The walls are high and ancient. Your broadside would reduce Vasterholm to rubble within hours, Sir Matthew. Thus I am now your prisoner, I think.’

Still confused by all that had happened and was happening, I neglected to ask two essential questions: first, why such a brazenly hostile act by the
Cressy
would not instantly bring on war between the Three Crowns of Sweden and the three crowns of the British Isles; second, and far more importantly,
how had Musk and Kit Farrell discovered where I was?

A young page boy entered the hall bearing a large silver plate laden with bread, cheese and salt beef, along with a goblet of wine. He held it out to me, bowing his head silently.

‘Pray, Sir Matthew,’ said Dohna, ‘take some refreshment after your ordeal.’

Hunger and thirst elbowed decorum aside. I grasped eagerly at the meat and took a long draught of the wine.

As I ate and drank, order slowly returned to my senses. I had so many questions for both Dohna and Musk; but Musk was eternal and would be there to answer my questions tomorrow and the day after that (or to evade them, which was more likely), whereas this enigmatic Swede was a very different matter. I had been convinced this man was an enemy, a close ally of Montnoir, yet now he played the part of my friend. With sincerity or not? I needed to know. Thus I addressed myself to the High Chancellor of Sweden’s confidential advisor.

‘Whose castle is this, My Lord?’ I demanded. ‘Whom do you serve?’

Dohna looked at me quizzically. ‘I was told you were an intelligent man, Sir Matthew,’ he said, a certain disappointment evident in his deep voice. ‘Nephew to Doctor Tristram Quinton, whose fame as a scientist bestrides Europe. Tell me – whom do you think I serve?’

Montnoir was at large, God knew what condition the mast-fleet was in, there was still John Bale to deal with, and yet this thin,
quietly-spoken
man wished to play games of the mind. With difficulty I resisted
the urge to order Musk to signal the
Cressy
to fire a warning shot into the walls of this ancient castle. But ever since my uncle Tristram had
introduced
me to such intellectual conundrums, I was unable to resist them.

‘This is not a castle of the king’s,’ I said slowly, ‘else it would be properly garrisoned. And you, My Lord Dohna… You would not permit yourself to be seen in public among the throng of the High Chancellor’s court at Lacko. Instead, you co-operated with Montnoir, the agent of France and above all of –’ Revelation, when it came, struck as a
thunderbolt
. ‘Of course! Of Rome. You are an agent of Queen Christina, My Lord. This is her castle. You and Montnoir are working together to inveigle De La Gardie into promoting the causes of France and the Catholic faith in Sweden.’

Lord Dohna smiled, nodded, and even made a little mocking clap with his gloved hands. ‘Bravo, Sir Matthew Quinton. You have much of your uncle in you after all. Yes, you are right. I serve, and am steward of this castle in the name of Her Majesty Christina, Queen of the Swedes, Goths and Wends.’

‘Sometime Queen, My Lord.’

Dohna shook his head. ‘Perhaps so, Sir Matthew. Lawyers are divided upon the matter, I believe. An act of abdication takes away the power, certainly, but does it ever take away the dignity? Does it ever take away the absolute power inherent in her very being, the power bestowed upon her by God at the moments of her accession and coronation, and which she continues to wield over her own, wheresoever she may be? Her
Majesty
thinks not. And after all, Sir Matthew, did not your King Charles insist that you bow the knee to him and address him as Majesty during all those long years in exile?’

‘His Majesty was still king by right, My Lord, even though he did not possess that which was rightfully his. He did not voluntarily renounce his title, it was forcibly torn from him.’

Dohna nodded thoughtfully. ‘It would be stimulating to debate this further with you, Sir Matthew. But we have more pressing matters to
attend to, I fear. Agent of King Louis or no, Montnoir must pay for the indignities to which he has submitted you. He must be prevented from leaving the realm, which means we must move quickly.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘I believe so. The High Chancellor’s order gave him a week to leave the kingdom and put at his disposal a small Dutch fluyt, lying at Wilde on the mainland to the south of here. His obvious course will be to take her and make for Denmark, firm friend to the Dutch and thus to her French allies.’

Through the window I could see the winter sun, and thus had my bearing, while the swallow-tail Swedish pennant flying from the
ramparts
gave me the direction of the wind.

‘A south-westerly,’ I said, and looked across to my ship. ‘Montnoir’s ship will have the weather gage. It will be difficult for the
Cressy
to beat up into the wind to prevent his escape.’

Dohna nodded. ‘For your ship, perhaps. But that is not the only course open to us, Sir Matthew. Sweden will redeem herself in your eyes. Sweden will make reparation for the wrong done to you.’

With that he called over the lad who had brought the victuals and spoke rapidly to him in Swedish. The lad left, returning after some
minutes
with paper, pen, ink, wax and a small writing tray. Dohna returned to the dais, sat, and hastily scribbled a note, sealing it in wax. He gave the paper to the lad, who bowed and left at a brisk pace. I had no idea what the Swede was about, and could not bring myself to trust a man who had seemed until so recently to be the ally of the Seigneur de
Montnoir
. But despite the food and drink, I was still weak, desperately tired, and more than a little confused; and Count Dohna had a strange,
persuasive
authority about him.

‘Now, Sir Matthew, you must wash, and we must find you fresh clothes – though finding in this castle raiment suitable for a man of your height may not be easy.’

‘Surely we have no time for such things, My Lord?’

Dohna smiled. ‘Time enough. And the time we take over this will make you fitter for the saddle, I think. You are well enough to
contemplate
a brief canter, Sir Matthew?’

‘Well enough indeed, My Lord Dohna.’

A little over an hour later, duly cleansed and changed into the plain garb of a particularly lofty servant who had once done duty in the castle’s bakehouse, I was rather less convinced of the confident assurance I had given Dohna. My legs, sore from incarceration and the flesh-tearing manacle, and my side, still painful from the fall when I was taken, protested at the violent motion of the horse beneath me as it galloped along the snow-covered road that led north from the causeway linking the castle-island of Vasterholm to the mainland. Count Dohna’s notion of a ‘brief canter’ was somewhat different to mine: he drove his own steed into an ever more thunderous and frenetic gallop, with a complete disregard for the treacherous nature of the ground beneath its hoofs. Whatever else Dohna might be, he was an astonishingly competent horseman. Either that or an astonishingly insane one.

I had little idea why we were riding north when Montnoir was meant to be to the south, but Dohna seemed confident in his strategy, whatever it might be. Before leaving Vasterholm I had implemented a strategy of my own, although I knew it had but little prospect of success: I ordered Musk back to the
Cressy
, there to pass on my command to Lieutenant Kit Farrell to get the ship out into the open sea, as far to the south and west as possible, by the most direct course Jeary could devise. But I knew it was a forlorn hope; the wind was too contrary, and in a smaller ship Montnoir could follow channels through this perilous archipelago that the
Cressy
simply dared not follow.

We had been on the road for perhaps half an hour, and my horse was already tiring noticeably. Conversely, I was strengthening: the bitterly cold air and the stimulation of exercise were reviving both my body and
my mind. And as my thoughts became clearer, so my doubts about the sincerity of Count Dohna increased.

Finally Dohna turned off, taking a track through some trees. I
followed
, although my sense of anxiety was growing. The path gradually sloped downwards, and finally emerged from the trees into a small bay with a snow-covered beach. Rocky headlands extended out into the sea on either side of the bay.

Dohna dismounted at the water’s edge, and I did the same, albeit warily. I was now very conscious of the fact that I was in an empty, wholly isolated place with a man who had been until recently the ally of Gaspard de Montnoir. What if Dohna still was that man, and had merely lured me away from Musk and my ship to a place where he could more easily deliver me back to my enemy, or else simply kill me? After all, I had only his word that he had rejected the wiles of the Knight of Malta; only his word that he was any of the things he said he was. Although I wore a sword, I still felt weak from my confinement. I did not know how good a swordsman Dohna might be, but if he wielded a blade as well as he rode a horse, he was probably a formidable one.
Perhaps
I had been delivered from the fate of Ravaillac merely to die here, on an empty strand, at the hands of a treacherous Swede.