The Lion of Midnight (16 page)

Dohna smiled. ‘The Queen has always exerted a – let us say, a
powerful
influence upon Count Magnus.’ So maybe Lord Conisbrough was right; perhaps the curious queen (who was, my uncle said, perhaps a hermaphrodite, or else a follower of the rites of Lesbos) had found love with a man after all. ‘But before I left Rome, a second and far more secret element was added to my mission.’

‘Namely to further the schemes of Lord Montnoir,’ I said.

Dohna nodded. ‘He came to Rome with full accreditation from King Louis, deploying the force of argument that only the gold and power of France can provide. He insinuated that De La Gardie and the Queen Regent were increasingly unfriendly toward the Most Christian’s cause – indeed, that they planned to join England in her war against France. Queen Christina had seen enough of the dire effects of endless war upon her kingdom while she reigned,’ said Dohna sadly, ‘and was easily
convinced
that it was her duty to prevent further needless loss of Swedish life. Thus I was sent to assist Lord Montnoir in frustrating the High Chancellor’s schemes and ensuring that Sweden was not committed to a new war.’

Hence, of course, the reason why Lydford North had been unaware of De La Gardie’s new advisor: Dohna, closeted with Christina in Rome, would not have figured in Arlington’s lists and assessments of the men of power in the kingdom of the Three Crowns.

‘I know Montnoir of old,’ I said, ‘and I find it difficult to conceive of him – or his king, in truth – having such an altruistic concern for the preservation of peace.’

Dohna grimaced. ‘So it proved,’ he said. ‘Once we were in Sweden, it soon became clear to me that Montnoir had another plan – whether of his own devising, or that of his master King Louis, I am still not certain. It was true that he wished to prevent an alliance between your king and ours, which was the position he took publicly with the High Chancellor after I introduced him secretly to De La Gardie at Lacko. But we had no inkling of the lengths to which Montnoir would go to achieve that objective, namely his killing of poor Lord Conisbrough and his
abduction
of yourself, Sir Matthew. But then, of course, I believe he also had very personal reasons for wishing to have you in his power.’ I nodded. These were plainly difficult words for Count Dohna to utter; in effect, he was confessing that he had been duped, and such an admission is never easy for any man. ‘But Montnoir also had a greater goal in mind. A far greater goal, which only became clear to me when we had actually arrived in this country. He envisaged the restoration of Christina to the throne, if necessary by means of a French army, and the forced reconversion of Sweden to Rome.’

The revelation should have been shocking, but somehow, when I thought of the Seigneur de Montnoir, it was not. King Charles the Second himself had once told me that Montnoir was the sort of man whose dearest wish was to see Protestants herded onto bonfires, and I also recalled the Knight of Malta’s own words to me when he had me in his power. In Montnoir’s twisted notion of reuniting Christendom for a final apocalyptic crusade against Islam, what could be more natural than his seeking to turn to his cause Christendom’s most formidable military power?

‘The restoration of Christina and a forced conversion of an entire nation? With respect, My Lord, that seems ambitious even for
Montnoir
.’

‘I am not sure that Montnoir’s ambition knows any bounds, Sir Matthew. His self-belief certainly does not. And yet he has a curiously simplistic view of the world. In France, of course, what King Louis says becomes law, and I think Montnoir believes kingdoms which permit the existence of institutions representing the people – your Parliament, say, or our
Riksdag
– have them only because of their monarch’s craven unwillingness to exercise the unbridled power that Louis wields
without
restraint. In the case of your own king, he attributes the continued existence of Parliament entirely to Charles Stuart’s laziness.’ I thought for the first time that perhaps I did not entirely disagree with Gaspard de Montnoir on every point. ‘Montnoir cannot conceive of
constitutions
as being anything other than unnecessary inconveniences, and he as good as told me once that all the restored Christina would have to do would be to issue a decree declaring Sweden to be Catholic and it would be so. Especially if the decree was implemented by fifty thousand of Marshal Turenne’s best men, that is.’

‘But you are a Catholic, My Lord,’ I said, seeking to assure myself that my reading of the man Dohna was correct. ‘Surely a Catholic
Sweden
would be welcome to you?’

‘A Sweden that becomes Catholic by persuasion, by a willing
recognition
of the eternal truths of the Holy and Apostolic Church – yes, of course, Sir Matthew! But honest Swedish burghers and peasants forced to convert at the point of French pikes? Never! When I was –’ Dohna stopped himself, thinking better of whatever words he had been about to utter. ‘Swedes might be ill-educated and boorish, but they are
honest
, and they are stubborn. A simple people made for a simple religion. They hold to their faith with a conviction and tenacity that the Queen respects. She would never wish to see her people forced to adopt the faith that she chose out of love and truth. Sweden is tolerant, and Christina is tolerant – she detests bigotry, Sir Matthew, whatever its origin. She may think her people mistaken in their religion, but she respects their right to believe as their consciences dictate.’ Dohna was now speaking with
some passion. ‘And she would certainly never permit her dear country, the land that her father and her own generals built into one of the most potent on earth, to be reduced to a mere puppet of France.’

‘You know her mind well,’ I said.

‘I trust that I do. Remember that I have known her since we were children, Sir Matthew. I was one of those of her own age brought up with her to provide friends for a fatherless child.’ Dohna’s words struck a chord, for Queen Christina and I would have been the same age when we both lost our fathers in battle. ‘And that being so, I knew what she would have wished me to do once Montnoir’s true ambition became apparent. Besides, there was no time to send to Rome for her
instructions
and to await their return.’

‘Then I am grateful to both you and the Queen for rejecting the way of Lord Montnoir.’

‘I will convey your gratitude to Her Majesty. But tell me, Sir
Matthew
,’ said Dohna, ‘now that Montnoir is beyond the reach of either of us, do you intend instead to pursue the regicide Bale?’

‘John Bale’s presence in Gothenburg is an abomination, My Lord,’ I said with righteous indignation. ‘It is a slur upon Sweden, which
shelters
him, and frankly upon the High Chancellor and the Queen Regent, who permit this abomination in the name of the young king.’

Dohna’s large, penetrating blue eyes narrowed. ‘And by implication, Sir Matthew, a slur upon myself, who has not advised the High
Chancellor
to act to the contrary?’

‘I cast no aspersions, My Lord,’ I said, but I do not doubt that my voice betrayed my true feelings. ‘But I fear that even if you and the Chancellor were to reconsider, Landtshere Ter Horst’s antipathy and the citizens of Gothenburg themselves will stymie any attempt to get him back to England. As you yourself made all too clear at Lacko.’

Dohna looked out, over the side of the galley, toward the distant snow-capped shore of the mainland. ‘I remember the Queen’s reaction when news came to Stockholm of the beheading of your King Charles,’
he said. ‘I was with the Queen when she first heard the news,’ he said sadly. ‘Along with the likes of De La Gardie, of course. None of us had ever seen her so upset, Sir Matthew. She retired to her chamber for two days, and would not eat or drink. That her fellow monarch, one of God’s anointed, should be done away with in such a manner, was truly unspeakable. Although the murdered king was your sovereign and not mine, you can only have been a child when he was beheaded – you cannot conceive of the horror and rage that the other crowned heads of Europe felt. Even our violent neighbour the Tsar Alexis was outraged.’

‘My uncle told me something of the reaction among the other kings and princes,’ I said. ‘Even as the merest child, I resented the fact that they seemed to have issued countless proclamations denouncing the enormity of the crime, yet none raised a finger to help our martyred monarch’s son and lawful successor, his present Majesty.’ My anger grew apace within me. ‘Tell me this, then, My Lord Dohna. Perhaps you can enlighten me a little, as you were there. You witnessed how Christina received the news of King Charles’s murder, as you say. Did she retire to her chamber and not eat or drink for two days truly out of anger at the enormity of the crime committed against my king, or out of fear that perhaps her own head might be the next upon the block?’

Dohna seemed genuinely perplexed, even shocked, by my question: the first time I had seen that poised and confident man seemingly at a loss for words. At length, and very slowly, he said ‘Now that is a thought, Sir Matthew Quinton. Do you know, in all these long years I have never considered it in that way? Perhaps that was indeed in the Queen’s mind – I have very little doubt it was in that of Tsar Alexis, but then,
beheading
is regarded as one of the milder fates for sovereigns of Muscovy.’

I was in no mood to contemplate the response of a ruler we English then regarded as a wild tyrant in a barbaric land far away, of which we knew or cared but little. My anger still welled up against Sweden, and John Bale, and a Queen who had done nothing to avenge my King’s death. ‘Whether she cried her tears out of sympathy or fear, Lord
Dohna, did not Queen Christina swiftly dry them, recognise the
Commonwealth
and receive Cromwell’s ambassador?’

The large eyes flashed angrily. ‘Politics, Sir Matthew. A vile but
necessary
evil that sometimes forces monarchs to act against their better judgements. The Queen did her utmost for your cause, as your brother well knows.’
My brother
– ‘Perhaps I shall be able to prove that to you, too. A double proof, indeed. Proof of what Christina did, those long years ago, and proof that Sweden is indeed a kingdom where honour prevails.’ Dohna called over Erik Glete and spoke rapidly to him in Swedish. The enigmatic Count was more animated than I had seen him before, again with one foot in front of the other in martial stance, his arms waving as he emphasised a point. I recognised very few words in the entire discourse: several times, though, Lord Dohna uttered the names ‘Ter Horst’ and ‘Bale’. The minute general listened intently, but appeared shocked at what he was hearing. He asked several questions, but each time, Dohna seemed abruptly to dismiss his concerns. Finally Glete raised his hand to his helmet’s visor in the age-old gesture of salute, turned, and went below to his cabin.

At last Count Dohna turned back to me. ‘I spoke too peremptorily of Gothenburg, during your audience at Lacko. Now I can see a way of ensuring that Gothenburg does not erupt if justice is allowed to prevail.’ Gothenburg? Justice prevailing? The man was speaking in riddles. And then, quite abruptly, he was not. ‘You want the regicide Bale,’ he said. The exuberance that had been in his eyes and voice when he spoke to Glete was gone, replaced in a moment by the same arrogance and
determination
that had been evident at Lacko. ‘Very well, Sir Matthew. You and England shall have him.’

The
Fortuna
’s boat landed Count Dohna at the jetty of Vasterholm
Castle
and proceeded to Gothenburg, putting me ashore at the dock below the ruins of the Old Elfsborg Castle. Glete despatched a young officer to escort me to Gothenburg as far as the inn of the Sign of the
Pelican
, where I could safely await the return of the
Cressy
. Lukins greeted me like a long-lost son and provided a lavish repast of stewed venison washed down with Rostock beer, the first proper meal I had seen in days. I set about it with vigour, only to be disturbed after a few
mouthfuls
by the arrival of Phineas Musk and Lydford North. The latter was effusive, giving me joy of my liberation and declaring that he had ridden post-haste from Lacko upon learning of my capture; albeit not before he had given the High Chancellor a lecture on the gross affront to the honour of King Charles that had been committed by my abduction upon Swedish soil. De La Gardie was most abashed, North said, and he had left Lacko with assurances ringing in his ears. The treaty terms we offered would be reconsidered, the embargo on cutting mast-trees would be reviewed, and so on and so forth: but North, this strangely old young man, did not believe a word of it, and was indeed half-convinced that De La Gardie was complicit in my detention. He listened avidly as I gave him a full account of Montnoir’s machinations, of the seemingly genuine remorse of Lord Dohna, and of our fruitless sea-chase after the
errant Knight of Malta. Above all, though, he responded to the news of Dohna’s assurance about John Bale with a momentary reversion to the enthusiastic youth he must have been so very recently. He very nearly sprang from his stool and thumped his fist upon the table.

‘By God, Sir Matthew, we have him! We have the traitor!’ But as he settled back down, a cloud passed over his face and the mask of the calculating diplomatist – or assassin, perhaps – returned. ‘But you are certain we can trust this Count Dohna? And what means does he
propose
for taking Bale? Are the Swedes to arrest him themselves?’

‘No, Mister North. We are to devise and execute the means of taking him. Count Dohna assures me that the Swedes – Ter Horst, in other words – will not interfere. But he did not specify how he would assure that. As for trusting him, well, perhaps that is for you to judge. This is your world, Mister North, not mine. But if we are to take Bale, do we have a choice?’

North did not reply. Instead, Musk spoke up; and his words were among the least expected, and the least welcome, I have heard in the course of my perversely long life. ‘Seems to me we’ve got the choice not to take him at all, Sir Matthew. Especially as you should be grateful to him. Especially as he was the one who told us where you were.’

I sensed my mouth was open as I gawped at Musk. I closed it rapidly and in that performed better than Lydford North, who continued to stare at my clerk in frank astonishment.

‘Seen panic many times,’ said Musk. ‘You should have seen how the Parliament-men in London beshat themselves when the King’s army reached Turnham Green back in the year Forty-Two. But that was as nothing to the panic among our party coming back from Lacko when we realised you were gone after the snowstorm cleared. That Swedish major despatched men in all directions, but it was MacFerran who got the first inkling of what had happened. Good lad, that, despite being a stinking Scots ball-scratcher.’ Coming from Phineas Musk, this praise for one of our Caledonian brethren was rare indeed. ‘Even with the fresh
snow, he found the blood where you fell and signs of riders making off for the south-west. We followed in that direction, but it was impossible, that it was. Snowfall after snowfall, we had, until not even MacFerran could find a trail. Besides, the Major reckoned they must be too far ahead for us to stand any chance of catching them. So back we came to Gothenburg. Lieutenant Farrell was beside himself – stormed off to see Ter Horst at once, who was all hand wringing and tears but did bugger all. A good three days this went on, with us trying to find even the
smallest
clue to your whereabouts. The crew were getting mighty fractious, too. They were convinced Bale’s men or the Dutch must have done away with you – there was a running fight down the side of the Great Canal with a crew of lousy Dutchmen, another with some of the Scots from that privateer –’

‘Musk!’ I said sharply. ‘In God’s name, man, get to the heart of the matter! Bale. What was his part in it?’

‘That was the thing, Sir Matthew. Evening of the third day, which must have been the fifth since you were taken, Mister Farrell got an anonymous note telling him to go to a Dutch inn over on the other side of the town from this place. I went with him and as stout a band of Cressys as could be assembled. There he was, large as life, lording it from a settle in the corner. And he says just one thing to Mister Farrell and me. “There is a castle upon an island to the south of this place. The Swedes call it Vasterholm. That is where Sir Matthew is being held, if he still lives.” As God’s my judge, those were his exact words.’

North and I exchanged astonished glances. ‘How would Bale know that?’ I demanded. ‘And why should he offer this help unsolicited when he knows full well what we seek to do with him?’

‘Mister Farrell and I asked each other much the same questions,’ said Musk. ‘But a man can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it is a foul king-killing sort of a horse. The Lieutenant took advice of some of the loyal old men of these parts and decided to sail the
Cressy
down there on the next day’s tide, as the wind stood fair. Meanwhile I was sent
overland with a good strong party – three dozen men, no less. And while we were in position around the end of the castle causeway, waiting for the ship to come down to us, along comes a small party of five horsemen riding hell-for-leather for the castle. So we detained them, and it proved to be that Lord Dohna and his attendants. He was agitated, that he was, but said he could put all to rights if only we’d draw away from the causeway. That we did, and an hour later we saw Montnoir and a dozen of his Frenchies ride out. We loosed off a few shots, but that Count had ordered us too far back to have any chance of doing them harm. So then we made our way into the castle and secured it while the
Cressy
anchored opposite it in case Montnoir or this Dohna had any tricks up their sleeves.’

So much was not right. I had an explanation of Dohna’s motives and actions from his own mouth, but whether his words could be trusted was another matter entirely. Yet if the noble Swedish Count’s deeds were mysterious, they were as nothing to those of John Bale. Somehow he had discovered where I was and had offered that information gratis to my friends; and if that was so, he, the regicide and arch-enemy of all I stood for, had undoubtedly helped to save my life from a slow,
tormented
death at the hands of the Seigneur de Montnoir.

‘Cunning,’ said Lydford North. ‘Very cunning. I had not thought Bale capable of such a Machiavellian stratagem.’

‘Mister North?’

‘Whatever he might be, Sir Matthew, Bale has no love for the papists. He would certainly have no love for the likes of Lord Montnoir, even if in the present war the French happen to be allied to Bale’s friends, the Dutch. So giving us your whereabouts and thwarting Montnoir’s
intentions
is hardly counter to his inclinations, especially as saving your life might serve him well.’

‘How so?’

‘Why, is it not obvious, Sir Matthew? If he comes before an English court, what can a man who signed the death warrant of England’s king
possibly offer in mitigation? By saving the life of an English hero, might he not improve the prospect of sparing his own life from the gallows?’

Musk snorted derisively. ‘As if the King will let him escape the noose just for that!’ As an afterthought, he hastily added ‘Begging your
pardon
, Sir Matthew.’

‘Bale knows he is a dead man walking,’ said North, ‘and in my
experience
such men will clutch at any straw.’ I was not entirely convinced by North’s certain explanation, but kept my peace. ‘Our duty is clear, Sir Matthew. As soon as your ship returns and we have her men available to us, we must form a plan to seize the person of John Bale and return him to England.’

Strangely, this prospect now seemed to me altogether less attractive, inevitable and just than it had done only days before.

The
Cressy
returned to her anchoring place in the Road of Gothenburg that night, and late in the morning North, Musk and I were rowed out to her. Kit Farrell greeted me with a side party and a proper salute from himself when I stepped onto her deck, but he seemed somewhat
hesitant
and nervous. I soon understood the reason why. As I entered the familiar surroundings of my cabin, I realised that it contained a most unfamiliar inhabitant: the Maiden Ter Horst. She was clad modestly in grey skirts and a manly jacket, and she bowed at my entrance.

‘You have had her aboard, Lieutenant?’ I demanded.

‘She proved greatly useful to us in our voyage to Vasterholm, Sir Matthew. She knows the islands and the castle well, and between them, Ali Reis and Jeary command enough Swedish to be able to translate her advice.’

‘That may be so,’ I said, struggling to restrain my feelings, ‘but you are aware of the Duke of York’s many injunctions against keeping women aboard ship?’

Kit was unexpectedly defiant. ‘By my observation, Sir Matthew, those
injunctions seem more honoured in the breach than in the observance.’ Kit Farrell quoting Shakespeare; the times were strange indeed. ‘Women are commonly aboard ship in coastal waters by the immemorial custom of the navy. And does not Captain Jennens have his wife aboard every one of his commands, all of the time?’

‘He doesn’t trust what she might get up to ashore while he’s afloat,’ said Musk, who was evidently enjoying our argument hugely.

‘Women are permitted aboard ship in
England
’s coastal waters,
Mister
Farrell. As for Captain Jennens…’ I did not complete my sentence, for I knew I was upon dangerous ground; Will Jennens might be a strange and contrary man, but I knew full well that he was not alone in flouting our Lord High Admiral’s commands against officers having women aboard ship. Indeed, my Cornelia had used very much the same arguments with me in her efforts (as yet futile, albeit repelled only with difficulty) to persuade me to do what other captains did and install her in my cabin, perhaps under a man’s name as a ‘captain’s servant’ so I could then pocket her pay, as several of my fellow captains were known to do. I even knew of a gentleman captain who had entered his dog in the ship’s books as an able seaman named Bromley.

Perhaps sensing the weakness of my position, Kit stood his ground as I had never known him to before. ‘But of course, Sir Matthew, Captain Jennens is a gentleman. Might there perhaps be one law for him, and one for the plain tarpaulin?’

And so we came to it. The royal preference for gentleman captains, like Will Jennens and myself, was widely criticised in the coffee houses, in scurrilous pamphlets and in many a steerage and forecastle, where those masters, boatswains and gunners who saw their paths to
command
blocked by feckless sprigs of gentility were said to mutter darkly into their cups. I had never imagined Kit Farrell to be of such a metal, and could only imagine that too much discourse with the mast-ship skippers had poisoned his mind. Yet I could not deny the uncomfortable truth of what he said. In their dealings with their sea-officers, the royal
brothers Charles and James undoubtedly did enforce one law upon the well-born, another for the rest.

‘Very well, Lieutenant, I shall take the matter no further on this
occasion
,’ I said stiffly, aware of Musk’s and North’s eyes open me. The latter’s expression was openly contemptuous, conveying the very clear message that he, Lydford North, would have exerted a very different discipline over this upstart tarpaulin. ‘But you will please arrange for the Maiden Ter Horst to be landed at the earliest convenience. Naturally I shall require the use of my own cabin again, and I take it you would agree that a
lieutenant’s
cabin in the steerage is hardly an appropriate lodging for a lady.’

Whether the Landtshere’s daughter was either a maiden or a lady seemed to me a point worthy of debate. I had no doubt that the acting captain of the
Cressy
had accommodated her in my cabin, and I doubted whether they had spent their entire time learning each other’s languages and discussing the geography of the archipelago. As it was, Kit took the dismissal of his mistress with good grace, or at least with a polite nod of the head. But I sensed something between us had changed, perhaps for ever.

Once the lovers had said their farewells, Kit, North and I settled to the business of plotting the arrest and deportation of John Bale.
Inevitably
, Phineas Musk inveigled himself into the meeting by claiming that none of my young servants could be trusted to serve on us while we discussed such weighty matters; besides, Musk possessed information about Bale that none of the rest of us had. We did not know for certain where the regicide lived, whereas at least Musk had been to the inn which had to be the prime candidate for his abode.

‘A quarter full of Dutchmen and other such low creatures,’ said Musk, ‘the other side of the Great Canal, over toward what they call the Karl the Ninth bastion. Should have seen the number of evil eyes we got. But for our numbers and the weapons we had in our hands, there’d have been a battle to outdo the Lowestoft fight there and then.’

‘The King Johan Inn,’ said Kit, still evidently somewhat abashed
following
our discourse of the Maiden Ter Horst. ‘That’s what the place is called. Larger than this, with a warren of outbuildings at the back in a walled yard. Easy to defend but hard to attack, Sir Matthew, especially with the surrounding streets full of our enemies.’