He unfolded the paper and held it up. One part of what was written on it had been smudged by water, and the rest was too far away for Jorrit to read, but the seal was still intact. Jorrit’s eyes widened. A seal all in Breda would recognise—the personal seal of Justinus van Nassau, Governor of Breda.

  Jorrit glanced up at the Schiavono to see he was staring at the paper as if at a ghost.

  “But why is…?” Then he seemed to gather his wits. “That is not what it seems. I did not know my name was on it.”

  “I am sure so.” The captain nodded almost sympathetically. “After all, it would have made your life a lot easier. You could just have presented this at the gate and walked from the city. No need to take a fishing boat at all.” He put the paper down on the table and looked at it for a moment then rubbed his ear with one hand before looking to the Schiavono with a puzzled expression. “You see, what I don’t really understand is how this fits in with your tale. Why would a man in the service of the Marquess be carrying a travel document signed and sealed by the Governor of Breda?”

  “It had been stolen by the man who betrayed me.”

  “Stolen? So why is the name ‘Philip Schiavono’ clearly written upon it?” The captain shook his head slowly. “No. It really does not make sense at all. Unless you have been lying to me and you are in truth working for the heretics. Then,” he paused and gave a little shrug, “well then it would make perfect sense.” His voice was almost gentle, and fingers of ice crept up Jorrit’s spine.

  Beside him, the Schiavono was swaying slightly on his feet and Jorrit realised with horror that he was struggling to stay upright.

  “It is not what you are thinking. The last time I saw that document it had no name on it. It had been acquired so that it could be used by the Marquess. I was supposed to be taking it to—”

  “Enough!” The captain slammed a fist on his table and Jorrit jumped back half a pace without being able to help himself. “I think I have heard enough of your tale, and it smells as bad as you do.”

  To Jorrit’s utter despair, the Schiavono had no reply to offer. Instead, he blinked as if confused and lifted a hand to his head.

  “I—” He staggered and caught himself, grabbing at Jorrit’s shoulder. “I have told you the truth,” he said. “Why would the fishermen have me locked up if I were of their party?”

  The captain lifted his hands.

  “Why indeed? It is not as if a purse full of guilders and a sword worth more than twice as much would be enough to persuade them.”

  “But then—” The Schiavono broke off and drew a fresh breath, but as if even that was an effort beyond his endurance. “Then they would have had no reason to keep me alive.” Jorrit was sure that at any moment he would pass out and if he did there was no doubt in Jorrit’s mind that the captain would simply throw them both into the sea. Because the captain did not want to believe the tale, he wanted the sword and the gold as much as the fishermen had.

  “Who knows what was in their minds? Perhaps they had some notion of ransoming you. But to me it is clear. You are not Spanish, you are not even Dutch. Your name may be Italian, but you admit you are English and they are a nation of heretics as vile as the traitorous rebels.” He paused and looked once more at the sword. That was when Jorrit knew for sure that they were going to die. He glanced up at the Schiavono and could see the same cold knowledge stamped on his face.

  The captain sat back and made a magnanimous gesture, spreading his hands wide.

  “But I am a pious man,” he said. “I give you one minute to make your peace with your god before Dirkx sends you swimming.”

  Jorrit had been taught to pray. All Moeder Machteld’s boys learned how to pray. But Jorrit was sure he had never been very good at it. He closed his eyes and found himself borne down to his knees by a sudden weight on his shoulder. For a moment he believed the Schiavono had collapsed but when he looked, he saw instead he was on his knees beside Jorrit, eyes closed and his hand moving across his body. Then, head bowed, and hands clasped he started speaking rapid words in a voice that was breathy and rasping. The words were in a language Jorrit did not know.

  “Sancta María, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.” Then the Schiavono paused and drew a breath before saying ‘Amen’. Jorrit echoed the familiar word and stayed on his knees as the Schiavono got up again. But Jorrit’s legs were suddenly too weak with fear to lift his body.

  “I am ready,” the Schiavono said, although there was a tremble in his voice. “Do what you will.”

  “So, you are no heretic.” The captain’s tone had changed and something in it sent a fresh spring shoot of hope into the frosty winter of Jorrit’s despair. He glanced up and saw the captain’s expression had also changed. It now held more of doubt and less of certainty.

  “I told you I spoke the truth,” the Schiavono said. “I serve the Marquess, I serve the Archduchess, I serve the Spanish crown and I serve and revere Our Lady.”

  The captain cast a quick glance to the picture of the woman with stars about her head and then looked back at the Schiavono. Their gazes locked for what seemed a small eternity.

  “Then never forget,” the captain said, “that it is to Our Lady that you owe your life.”

  Jorrit was still on his knees, and he looked from the captain to the Schiavono scarcely daring to believe what he was hearing. They were not going to be thrown from the ship. They were not going to die. It was too much, and the tears welled up and started running down his face, even as he tried desperately to knuckle them away.

  “However,” the captain went on, “I can’t take you where you wish to go. We are heading in a different direction to do much harm to the rebels and to do much good to our purses and those of our armateurs—those who have invested in the voyage and funded our endeavours. There is no room on my ship for passengers so you will need to earn your keep.” He nodded at Jorrit. “You and your boy.”

  “We will do that and gladly, sir, if by doing so we strike at the enemy.” The Schiavono sounded as if he meant it. His face was deathly pale apart from red patches on each cheek.

  Jorrit had managed to stop the tears by then, or at least enough that he could scramble to his feet, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention now.

  “You will,” the captain said. “Dirkx will find you a place to sleep. I expect you to be ready to work at dawn.”

  “My sword—”

  The captain put a covetous hand over the hilt and smiled thinly.

  “I will keep that safe. And the purse.”

  A short time later Jorrit was lying on a flat pallet that was little more than a mat, sharing a blanket with the Schiavono and the two of them, perforce, pressed close together for warmth.

  “Who are they?” he whispered, afraid to speak any louder in case he was heard.

  “They are Dunkirkers,” came the short reply, as if that explained everything.

  “What are—?”

  “They are pirates, privateers, who work for Spain and hunt Dutch ships and those carrying Dutch cargoes.”

  “But what—?”

  The Schiavono groaned.

  “For the love of God, Jorrit, my head hurts enough already. Go to sleep.”

  Jorrit thought that would surely be impossible with the cold and his fear still so strong, but somehow despite it all, sleep was creeping in. His last thought before he slipped into its welcome embrace was to wonder how he was ever going to explain this all to Moeder Machteld.

  Chapter Nine

  And Mansfeld, you will not know, is being paid by France.

  The words had set a chill about Kate’s heart. Of course, everyone knew Mansfeld had been promised French cavalry, he had been in Paris not long ago to arrange that. It was part of the French diplomacy around the marriage negotiations, showing willingness to support English interests. But a few thousand cavalry sent to help redeem the French king’s new sister-in-law’s patrimony was not a major commitment. And it became less so if Lord Brooke’s words were true.

  France was not so concerned whether the Palatinate was recovered, or Bohemia reclaimed. France was more concerned at that time with the defeat of Spain in any way possible. If Mansfeld had been taking bribes from France he would use his army to relieve Breda as the anti-Spanish faction, men like Buckingham, wanted rather than to rescue the Palatinate.

  This was not something Kate could send to her queen through usual means, even by ciphered message. It was too urgent and too dangerous. She was not free to leave England herself, so she did the only thing she could do and sent Xenie with Jan to protect her. They left the next day with Kate making an excuse for their departure. Not that she didn’t trust Lucy with the news, but the fewer who knew at this point, whilst perhaps things could still be redeemed, the better.

  She also made a point of visiting Mansfeld herself, although she stopped short of accusing him of taking money from France, merely seeking his reassurance that he would indeed march to the Palatinate and not be distracted by other conflicts that might arise. Mansfeld was quick to assure her that was his intention.

  “My dear Lady Catherine.” His German accent gave her name a hard letter T. “I am pledged to the service of the King and Queen of Bohemia, and I can promise you that nothing will sway me from fulfilling what I have pledged.”

  Only after she had left him did it dawn on Kate that he could have said the same if he were pledged to the emperor, for it was Ferdinand who now held that title having stolen it from the legally elected sovereign, King Frederick.

  But whoever might be his paymaster, the army that had been gathered for Mansfeld to lead, over twenty thousand strong, was mostly made from sweeping up the unemployed and emptying gaols—twelve thousand from England and ten from Scotland. Kate realised that the brave manhood of England who had been so quick to avow themselves to Elizabeth’s cause in their cups seemed less inclined to carry through their oaths when faced with the reality of going to war. This would not be the much hoped for citizen army of gentleman volunteers; it was mostly a pressed force of reluctant soldiers. They were now assembling at Dover from where they would sail to Calais and then march across France to the Palatinate.

  As December went on, Kate found herself more and more wishing she could complete all her work and go home to the comfortable house where she lodged in Lange Voorhout close to Elizabeth’s residence in Kneuterdijk.

  Christmas approached, indeed it had already come and gone for most of Europe, but here in England where the new calendar was still viewed as a vile Catholic plot, the date trailed behind by ten days. Lucy prepared the house for the expected increase in visitors since the king was returning to Whitehall. Kate penned another letter to Elizabeth.

  I hope my dear Xenie has reached you and found you in good health. I had expected to hear from her a while since but perhaps the letters have been lost as all too often happens these days.

  Here rumour is that the Duke of Buckingham will go himself to fetch the French princess, sometime before the spring, if the king will spare him. My source tells me the duke was much taken by Queen Anne and is keen to make her reacquaintance, although after last time he was there King Louis is unlikely to allow him any opportunity to be with her alone.

  Smiling at the thought as she copied the words into ciphered script, Kate realised there was just one more piece of information she needed to add before she could send the letter, and dipping her pen into ink again she went on in cipher.

  I have just received word that His Majesty the King, your father, requires me to attend upon him tomorrow. He is returning to Whitehall for the Christmas season and has sent a messenger to escort me to him at his house of Theobalds where he intends to receive me quietly. I shall let you know in my next what it is that he wishes to speak about.

  Having blotted the words, she folded the page with care and put it in a packet with her letter in plain and then sealed it ready to send. But her hands went through the motion almost untended as Kate wondered again about the royal summons.

  Clearly this was not to be a public reception by the king or any kind of acknowledgement of her as his daughter’s personal emissary. This was to be a meeting away from the gaze of the court. His messenger, who was waiting to conduct her first thing in the morning, said she should travel to Theobalds, privily and without ceremony.

  Probably, she assumed something to do with the letter she had carried from Elizabeth and sent on to the king the day she had arrived at Harington House by the trusted hands of Jan Drees. It was bound to be a very personal letter. She had no precise knowledge of its contents, although she could guess. But when she had spoken to Lucy about the summons, the countess was dismissive.

  “It will be that the king has heard how active you have been here in drumming up support for Count Mansfeld’s army. I would not be surprised if he does not plan to tell you to cease and desist from what he will see as encouraging warmongering. Your presence is a reminder to our men of the queen herself and the king fears you bring out their chivalric determination in a way an old woman such as myself could never do.”

  The thought that she might be subject to royal censure was not a comfortable one and it meant Kate went to bed that night with a troubled mind.

  She rose early as it was the best part of a day’s journey from Harington House to Theobalds which lay near Cheshunt some thirty miles to the north. But despite the distance Kate refused Lucy’s offer of her own coach, preferring to ride. Tempted as she was to simply don breeches and go astride, she settled instead for a sidesaddle as decorum demanded and on Lucy’s recommendation, accepted a gentle dapple palfrey with a smooth stride. Thinking to travel as fast, light and discreetly as she might be able, she took a very small escort—two of Lucy’s retainers for protection and the man who had brought the king’s message as their guide.

  Theobalds was perhaps not the most beautiful house Kate had ever seen but it had a definite majesty. She was taken quickly through from one enclosed courtyard to the next, led like an acolyte approaching the holy of holies. Each gate and door was guarded, but her guide was clearly known because a nod from him was sufficient to grant them passage. The courtyards and buildings were inevitably bustling, but the further in they went the less activity there seemed to be.

  Once in the innermost courtyard they entered the house itself and Kate had a brief impression of the grand parlour before being taken up a broad staircase. Along a short gallery, they reached a dramatic room that seemed to run the whole length of the wing. It offered spectacular views of the formal gardens set out in a very French style through large paned windows which filled the wall on one side. The rest of the room was panelled with liver-stained oak on which had been painted colourful pictures of Roman and Greek gods and heroes set in gilded frames. The ceiling above had swirls and loops around what must once have been prominent Tudor roses, but with the change of dynasty were now painted white and gold, floating like clouds in the blue of the ceiling’s vault. The impression was breathtakingly light even on a grey December day.

  But what struck Kate was that there were no more than a dozen courtiers when usually such a place would be thronging. Her guide must have seen her puzzlement.

  “The king has been unwell recently and ordered all of quality who have no reason to be here to go to their own counties and the rest of the court has already gone ahead today to Whitehall at his majesty’s insistence, where his majesty will come tomorrow.”

  Smiling politely to those she passed, all of whom were men whose rank owed her deference, Kate realised that this was as close to total discretion as the King could ever hope to achieve. But for all that, she did not doubt that word of her presence here would be around the entire court within a day or so at most.

  The discreetly silent man showed her into a small ante-chamber close to the end of the grand chamber, before leaving her. The room there was clearly designed as a place to wait, cushioned chairs set near a small hearth with a warm fire. She barely had a chance to take a seat, before the discreet gentleman returned and bowed politely.

  “If you would come with me, my lady.”

  Instead of taking her back into the grand chamber, he moved aside a tapestry hanging on the opposite wall to reveal a door. Kate realised then that a king used to living on a public stage since infancy would also have learned how to ensure his privacy when he wished for it.

  She had expected to be received in a cold and majestic chamber designed to impress by its magnificence, no doubt exactly the kind of room that the grand chamber led onto. Instead, she was taken into what she had to assume was the king’s private withdrawing chamber. There were small touches which betrayed his intimate life—a large portrait of Buckingham in pride of place with smaller ones of the late Prince Henry and of Prince Charles and Princess Elizabeth as children. His late wife, Queen Anna, was notable by her absence.

  The king himself was not an imposing figure. He had clearly dressed more for comfort than to impress. He did not rise from his well padded seat close to the hearth as Kate was shown in. She made a deep curtsey as she was announced by the man who had escorted her.

  “The Lady Catherine de—”

  The king spoke before he could finish.

  “I know who she is, man. I asked you to fetch her to me.”

  The man bowed and then straightened up, moving to stand by the door at a discreet distance.

  Even in the two years since she had last seen the king, Kate noticed he had aged. On that previous occasion he had been hunting and she and Lucy had been invited. He had ridden like a centaur and been bright and boisterous the entire time, but now he looked diminished, and it was clear he was in some pain.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, your majesty.” Kate rose from her curtsey and kept her gaze demurely lowered, but then it was impossible not to focus on the heavily bandaged foot.

  The king moved it a little as if easing position.

  “You’ll have noticed I’m not so spry. The gout, or so that man, Mayerne, tells me.”

 

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