by Norah Lofts
“He was ill when he wrote this,” she said, “or in great distress.”
Schack remembered every second of the examination. Struensee looked gaunt and ill, his eye sockets and cheeks hollow, his clothes hanging loosely upon him; but he’d had an answer for everything, a refutal of all the suspicious-seeming circumstances which, given a center, could be significant, and without a center were trivial and meaningless. He had been stout in his denials, as stubborn as his paramour was now being; but the sight of the rack had unmanned him; two turns, inflicting some pain but no real damage, had set him babbling.
It was impossible to subject the Queen to a racking, but Schack was prepared to subject Caroline to some mental torture.
“He was under certain pressure,” he admitted. “This is not the kind of statement that a man makes voluntarily. And as it is it is very imprecise and inconclusive. Spring 1770 is very vague. He will be obliged to amplify...” He noted with satisfaction that though one thought she could not have turned more pale, she did, and that shot went home. “And there is,” he went on, “another way of looking at this whole affair. Your Majesty denies the truth of this statement. If this,” he tapped the paper which she had dropped on to the table between them, “is a mere tissue of lies, invention, imagination, the man has violated Your Majesty, not in a way which any ordinary man could consider as human, and thus understandable, but in a particularly vicious and obscene way. For such a man there could be no hope at all. The utmost penalty would then be enacted, because otherwise any liar could claim to have been Your Majesty’s lover. I trust I make myself clear.”
She was beginning to look confused—always a good sign. But she had understood; there was a threat; a renewal of pressure whatever he meant by that, in order to oblige Johann to amplify. And the pressure must have been hideous to lead to this...betrayal. There was also in the baron’s speech a hint of promise; if the confession were a lie there would be no hope, which seemed to imply that if it were true there might be.
Something rose in her mind and spread—she might save him yet. In doing so she would ruin her name forever, but it was already so damaged that it hardly mattered. What did matter was that Johann should be spared more of that pressure and saved from death.
She said, “Baron Schack, without admitting anything at all, may I ask you this? If I did; if I said it was all true and that the blame was wholly mine, that I took advantage of my superior position to instigate the affair—would that exonerate him?”
“It would go a long way toward it.” Most fortunately she had used the word exonerate, not liberate or save. Nothing could save Struensee now, but exoneration was possible; any crime could be exonerated once it was expiated.
“Then I will do that. I will confirm the truth of this statement and take complete responsibility.”
They would run her out of Copenhagen on a hurdle; but Johann, spared, would join her; there would be life together in another country. She would make up to him somehow for the ambition which love had frustrated. She had never boiled an egg in her life, or made a cup of tea, but she now had a small vision of herself presenting Johann with a tasty meal, prepared by her own hands, in some cozy place like the Davies’ kitchen, when he came back from seeing a lot of patients, all doing well.
“Will you write it, or shall I?” she asked, hoping that he would do so, for her heart was laboring and her hands as shaky as his must have been.
“I came prepared,” Schack said, producing two papers. “This is a denial, this an admission—both in reference to what Count Struensee confessed. It is your wish that I should add to this one words to the effect that you, and you alone were culpable? That you were, in fact, the seducer?”
“Yes,” she said. “Add that.”
He scribbled and handed her the pen and she wrote Caro...and halted. Stupid. Caroline was her unofficial, family name. Here she was Matilda. She looked up, about to apologize for this slip. Something in Schack’s face rang an alarm bell in her mind. I am giving all, and getting nothing!
She said, very breathlessly, “I think that...before I sign...away my good name...forever, I should have...some assurance, in writing, that taking all the blame on myself means that Count Struensee will be liberated. And,” she said, remembering the look, “we will have a witness. Lieutenant Colonel von Hauch, the Governor here. Would you ring that bell...”
Schack said, “Your Majesty, that is an assurance that I cannot give. I am only one man. I have no power...”
“Enough to come here and trick me. I see now. I have been shamefully deceived...”
A violence in her, suppressed all these years—be pleasing to Mamma, to George, to Christian, to Johann—broke loose.
“I will not sign,” she said, and took the pen, a handsome gilded quill and threw it against the wall. Then, gasping and spent, whiter than chalk, she sagged in the chair.
Schack took stock of his position; what he wanted lay there half signed. Until that bell rang they would not be disturbed. She was a woman, already shocked and distraught, on the verge of collapse. He was a man. He retrieved the pen, its nib undamaged, redipped it and put it into her limp hand, closing his own over it. While she screamed “No, no! Mantel!” the pen propelled by two hands, completed the signature “...line Matilda.”
On his way back to Copenhagen, Schack was conscious of triumph. He had judged her accurately; he had acted with decision. But under these satisfactory feelings something nagged; he couldn’t help asking himself whether any of the women with whom he had consorted would have been willing—supposing him to be in Struensee’s position—to have acted so...chivalrously. Not that he envied Struensee...He would die. But he had been loved.
COPENHAGEN; MARCH 1772
Everything had gone most disastrously wrong and the Prince Regent was appalled. The double confession completely changed the nature of the plot to which he had committed himself. He had been so certain in his own mind that even from Struensee no confession could be wrung. He knew about pain; he had lived with it as long as he could remember; his back had always ached; fearful attempts had been made to force the crooked shoulder into line; he had spent three years of his early boyhood in a kind of iron cage. And he knew, he knew, that if Caroline had picked him, instead of that great lumbering oaf, to be her lover he would have let himself be torn in pieces between two frantic horses, burned alive, racked till every joint gave way, and never said a word. Struensee, not even injured, merely frightened, had told all. On top of everything else, a coward.
Of the trickery behind Caroline’s own confession, he knew nothing; the four commissioners had kept silent about that; the Prince Regent imagined that faced with Struensee’s confession she had felt that further denial was useless. Her taking all blame upon herself was typical; he’d always known that she was gallant.
There were other troublesome aspects of the situation. He had not found it as easy as he had supposed to shake loose his mother’s hold on the new administration. Because he was young and inexperienced they’d all taken the attitude that he was a figurehead, she the real power. What does Her Majesty the Queen Mother think, say, feel? We must wait for, consult with, be guided by Her Majesty the Queen Mother. They’d set him up as the driver of a clumsy coach, harnessed to an unruly tandem team, handed him the reins, threads of cotton and given her the whip.
He feared even to make too open a stand in his attempt to shield Caroline; for one thing he had his own secret to preserve; for another, she was now being so vilified that one incautious move on his part would set people asking, Why? Was he also one of her lovers? Anybody really determined to do so could have made out a case in that respect; he had always sought her company, ridden with her, danced with her and when the child was at Fredericksborg had on more than one occasion gone with her on her visits—he liked the little boy and a man had the right to visit his nephew. Now, when they were all willing, indeed eager, to believe that she was lecherous and indiscriminate as a cat, he had to be very careful.
; But he had faced the four commissioners, and his mother, and said, “This has now gone far enough. The evidence appears to be incontrovertible and in my opinion it should be used to obtain a divorce and then shelved and forgotten.”
Five blank and uncomprehending faces looked at him; then Juliana said, “A divorce? What purpose would that serve.”
“It would enable the King to marry again. As recent events have shown, a second son is sometimes a form of insurance...” He spoke in the flippant way that had lightened some tedious hours for Caroline. He was delighted to see his mother flinch. That was something she had not thought of.
She said, “In Christian’s present condition that is unthinkable.”
“What has been done once can be done again,” Frederick said. Think of that.
Baron Juel-Wind said, “But, Your Royal Highness, are we to condone treason? Both these statements admit criminal communication and in the circumstances that is treason.”
“True. But we must remember the little matter of treason being a thing apart—if I read rightly, judges are not considered competent to try cases of high treason.”
“That is so. There will be no trial in the ordinary sense; a Tribunal of Notables will examine the evidence in private and reach a decision.”
Frederick said, still almost casually, “I do not feel entirely comfortable about it. Struensee, you admit, was under pressure; Her Majesty was alone, without a legal adviser. The whole thing smacks of connivance. And we must remember that she is an English Princess.”
“Who became Queen of Denmark and admits, openly admits, that she indulged in an adulterous relationship with the King’s physician.”
To that there was no real answer; Struensee, weak evil man, had cut his own throat; Caroline, poor silly girl, had cut hers.
Juliana said thoughtfully, “The English would, I do not doubt, suspect evidence given by Danes, and even the Queen’s own statement, given, without witness, to a Dane. You were wrong there, Baron Schack; some witness, preferably the castle Governor, should have been present. But no matter. We can bring evidence from an unsuspect source—the word of another Englishwoman.”
“They’ve come to take me away,” Alice said, “and they’ve got an order. But they were good enough to let me come and tell you.”
“Oh, Alice,” Caroline said; she began to cry inside, the worst way of crying; not tears of salt water spilling down the face, tears of blood, leaching away inwardly. This was the projection of the threat, felt long ago, with Alice doing her hair and announcing that she, too, was coming to Denmark.
“What is the charge?” she asked.
“Count Struensee is accused, among other things of mishandling His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince. This person is not charged, but her evidence is needed.”
“And I’ll give it,” Alice said. “He was well on his way to being an idiot; the doctor saved him, and I helped. And that,” she looked straight at Caroline, “is all I can say.” The look said, Your secret is safe with me!
“Is it necessary for her to be taken away? Would her statement not suffice?” Mine did; and from the moment that my signature was forced, there has been a steady diminution in respect and consideration.
“We have our orders,” one of the three soldiers said.
Caroline thought of Struensee, a strong man, her lover, broken, abject. She said, in English, “Alice, say anything. Tell them what they want to hear. Never mind me. I confessed and my reputation is gone. You mustn’t suffer a moment’s pain or ill usage on my behalf. Nothing can help me now.”
“We’ll see about that,” Alice said.
The soldier who had spoken before said, “This leave-taking has lasted long enough. We must go.”
The Queen and the foundling girl embraced for the first time in their lives. Alice’s kiss was timid and restrained, kisses were not a currency with which she was familiar; Caroline’s was wild and passionate, with something in it of the quality that her mother had detected. Carrying the memory of it with her—she’s fond of me, too—Alice knew that she could, if necessary, face lions.
“You are being extremely stupid,” Baron Juel-Wind said. “Your mistress and her lover have both confessed. It is useless for you, the one closest to her, and for two years occupying an adjoining apartment, to deny that these things went on.”
“But I do. That is what I am saying. I was always there. I must have known. There was a door between her room and the nursery; it was never shut. I went in and out, all the time; often in the middle of the night, if one of the children was restless. I was there...”
Baron Juel-Wind, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, knew a moment’s regret that he had not agreed with the Prince Regent and let the thing go. Really, interrogating an ignorant serving girl was not his province. The Queen and Struensee, through their lust, had not only undermined the majesty of the throne, but also the dignity of the law!
In a voice sharp with irritation he said, “Then may I ask how you account for these confessions? Listen!” He read out the salient sentences. “Yet you, in the next room, the door, you say, not closed, saw and heard nothing?”
“There was nothing to hear or see. Something happened to him to make him say what he did. They say he was off his head for three weeks. And she was tricked. That I do know. She’s never been the same woman since she wrote her name—if she did write it, and that I doubt—on that bit of paper. Shamefully deceived, she said. I think myself there’s been some funny business going on.”
Too near the truth to be comfortable. He shifted his ground.
“We have here the deposition of one, Anna Peterson.”
“A born liar,” Alice said. “I’ve seen some liars in my time; but her, why if you asked her the time of day, she’d tell you wrong.”
“I am not asking you for your opinion of Anna Peterson’s character,” Baron Juel-Wind said, a little wearily. “I do ask you to listen to her deposition. She says that, troubled by suspicion, on two occasions, she scattered a white powder by Her Majesty’s bed and in the morning found, upon the treated surface, the imprint of footprints; large, male, footprints.”
“That’d be the pages,” Alice said. “They always draw the bed curtains. They come small, but a year’s good feeding and they’re men, almost.”
“Perhaps I should draw your attention to the fact that we have methods for extracting the truth from unwilling witnesses.”
“I know,” Alice said. She had seen it, a dreadful looking thing, blocks and ropes and pulleys, just inside the door, a little to one side but in clear view as you came in. “May I say something?”
“We are anxious to hear whatever you have to say.”
“Hurt people enough,” she said, “and they’ll say anything. A rabbit in a trap’ll make a noise like a baby, that isn’t to say it is a baby. So far, as well as I can, I’ve told you the truth. If I’m hurt I might say anything, but it wouldn’t be the truth; it’d just be to stop being hurt anymore.”
Chilblains that festered and rubbed in the ill-fitting shoes, toothaches, earache, slaps across the face, real beatings when Mrs. Brewster was in a bad temper, and terrible pains every month since was fourteen. Alice knew what pain was and reckoned she could bear as much as most.
When it began, she clamped her upper teeth into her lower lip and screamed, and screamed through her nose.
It was a mild racking; less even than Struensee had borne; but though Alice’s muscles were stringy and tough, her bones were a foundling’s bones. The beef pudding which she had remembered in Mrs. Davies’ kitchen had been a treat all too rare. Bread, gruel and turnip stew had built her skeleton and it was frail. Under a turn that should not have dislocated a joint, one of her thigh bones broke and pierced an artery.
For Alice it was suddenly spring again; spring at Kew, flowers everywhere and birds singing. They were all young together, happy in the sunshine. Princess Caroline said, “Alice must have some too.” Heaven.
The body was easily and quickly disposed
of.
Once again, cut off from all communication, Caroline waited, certain that something dreadful must have happened to Alice. My fault, my fault.
“Sir Robert, will you please inquire? She was...is...English, too. They said she was wanted as a witness. I told her to say whatever would make things easy for her. She must be in prison...or dead.”
“Or unable to re-enter the Castle, lacking a pass,” Sir Robert said.
“You never knew Alice,” said Caroline, beginning to cry again. “If she were alive and free, she would have got in somehow.”
On the day after Alice died, William Smith, the non-marrying man, was back in Copenhagen, nose down on the track of Alice. At the Christiansborg he was told that the Queen was at Kronborg; he hired a horse and set off. Without an official pass nobody was allowed to enter the castle and his attempts at bribery failed. He’d noticed in Copenhagen, and it was the same here, everybody seemed scared of something, all of a jump. He returned to the capital, intent on getting a pass but with no idea how to set about it or to whom to apply. However, as he had lounged about Count Bernstorff’s stables and the riding school, he had come in contact with several young officers and he patiently sought them out, one by one; “Sir, how do I go about getting a pass into Kronborg?” The question appeared to cause dismay, alarm, suspicion; but at last somebody pointed out that this was not a military matter; it was lawyer’s stuff. And—”You’re English, aren’t you? You go about trying to get into Kronborg and you’ll find yourself somewhere else in double-quick time.” As though he could save the Queen single-handed! She was doomed; they’d cut off her head. And then what would happen to Alice? Alone and without a job?
He found a lawyer in a dim office up two flights of stairs and put his question adding, “Just tell me who to ask. I can pay.” That was true, he had a pocketful of money; Sir William had been delighted with Peppo and sent practical proof of his gratitude. But even the mention of money seemed not to serve here, and Smith said, his patience wearing thin, “Who’s the head of the lot? Who’s the top lawyer. Tell me that.”
