by David Elias
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” I began one evening. We were alone in my bedchamber, and Amalia was busy seeing to my bed and toiletries.
“Madam?”
“Why do you stay with me?”
“I am bound. It is my duty.”
“You are no more bound than those who have already seen fit to depart, and I must concede I hardly blame them for doing so.”
“I suppose they must see to their own needs.”
“And what of your needs?”
“They shall be seen to in good time.”
There had been many difficult days and I had begun to feel like myself again, thanks in no small measure to Amalia’s efforts. She had laboured herself into a state of near exhaustion to see me through, but I could hardly think why.
“By now you could have made your way back to England, I have no doubt of it, yet you suffer yourself to endure these privations, not to mention my thankless abuses.”
“You are too harsh. I grant the conditions are less than favourable but I am determined to remain.”
“The future holds little promise these days,” I said.
“Things are sure to get better.”
“Your assurance is admirable, though perhaps ill founded. Our plight grows daily more difficult and hopeless. I want you to know you are entirely free to look to your own ends should you choose to do so.”
“Your Highness, mine was a very modest upbringing, as you are aware. Austerity and deprivation were my daily companions. But you, Madam, have from the moment you were born known only luxury and opulence.”
“If you say this to impeach me, I have no defence.”
“Where I might hope for a new dress once every year or two, you would think twenty or thirty barely adequate.”
Though Amalia had little in the way of resources for a decent wardrobe, she nevertheless managed to attire herself tastefully, and bore herself with a refinement that belied her station.
“This sounds a harsh judgment.”
“It is not intended to be so. The fault is no more yours than mine. Naught but circumstance made it so. You were a princess, and then a queen.” Amalia was dressed plainly enough, but wore an elegant lace wrap about her shoulders that provided a decorous touch.
“A queen no more.”
“A queen still, to be addressed as such whether in exile or no. I’m afraid I must insist on that. The future may yet bring fortune’s favour upon you. We are not easily defeated, you and I.”
“By my reckoning the odds are not in our favour. I had thought that at the very worst I might find myself once again ensconced in the English Wing at Heidelberg Castle, but now it is hard for me to believe things will ever get better.”
***
My pessimism might well have turned out to be warranted had it not been for Lord Craven. His arrival from England brought about an unexpected and welcome change in prospects. I had been told of an English nobleman coming to The Hague, intent on mounting an attack against the Hapsburgs which would see Frederick restored to the throne of the Palatinate. He had apparently been born into a poor family in North Yorkshire but thereafter his father had moved the family to London and become a man of considerable means. Upon inheriting that vast fortune Lord Craven had managed to amass additional wealth, to the point that his worth was said to be greater even than that of the king himself. He had bought and paid for his own army and crossed the channel with it, determined to throw himself into a campaign alongside my husband.
Upon Lord Craven’s arrival, Frederick arranged for a dinner to be held in his honour, and I did what I could to see to a proper gown and a decent spread of dishes upon the table. I had for some time, unbeknownst to Frederick, been selling off my jewellery, some of those same items I’d managed to escape from Prague with, and now I pawned the last of it, save for the Medici collection, to bring about the necessary purchases. The evening was hardly an elaborate affair, and rather informal at that, as there was little in the way of amenities at Binnenhof and not much of a court. The modest apartments we had been granted use of, thanks to Frederick’s cousin the Prince of Orange, were hardly sufficient to allow for much more than a miniature court-in-exile, but I had managed to cobble together something of a guest list for the occasion.
Sitting at dinner and observing Lord Craven’s youthful manner, I was reminded in some ways of that first time Frederick was introduced to me at Whitehall. It seemed so long ago now, and I felt so very much older. Lord Craven, though considerably younger than I, had about him an air of maturity and wit, and he made conversation in a calm and courtly manner. The ladies found him altogether agreeable, with the slight cleft in his chin, his long hair curly and dark, and his somewhat sculpted nose.
“Lord Craven, we should be pleased to learn, if only for the sake of this company,” Captain Hume enquired, “how it is you have come into our midst.”
“I understand you have been appointed commander of the English forces,” said Frederick, “levied by the Marquis of Hamilton to ally with those of Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden.”
I had asked Captain Hume to join us for the evening, intent that he should exercise the same unfailing judgement of character he had ever been possessed of. He had as usual dressed for the occasion in less than stellar fashion, having arrived looking as though he might have come straight from a public brawl. Lord Craven nevertheless met him with equanimity, and if he took exception to the Captain’s appearance gave no expression to it.
“And that you intend to march with us against Ferdinand II?” Frederick added.
“If I may be allowed,” Lord Craven replied. His narrow moustache and thin goatee were trimmed with a neat flourish around a generous mouth, and his dark eyes wrestled with a restrained intensity. He had about him the kind of enthusiasm only a young and naive gentleman could evince. As he talked of the campaign to come, Frederick and Captain Hume exchanged knowing glances, suspecting they had in their company a soldier who should soon discover the harsh realities of the battlefield.
“I can’t imagine why you should want to bother,” the Captain declared, to which Lord Craven took immediate exception.
“Sir, why would you say such a thing?”
Captain Hume stroked first one side and then the other of his ragged moustache. “I have it on good authority that you are a man of considerable chinks, Sir — exceedingly wealthy, in fact.”
“What of it?”
I addressed myself to Lord Craven. “I think Captain Hume means that you could just as easily have taken up some other, perhaps less perilous, pursuit.”
Over the course of our dinner conversation I had not failed to notice Lord Craven looking at me more than once the way young men were wont to do. I thought it nothing more than the usual sort of infatuation. In those days it happened quite often that a young soldier or musician, perhaps artist or nobleman, would come into my company and be stricken thus. It happened with surprising frequency and I considered Lord Craven, though many years my junior, but another of these. I was not a great beauty nor possessed of those attributes associated with voluptuousness or carnality, but whether aught appealed of voice or mannerism, charm or personality, I had no need to contrive it.
“I’m told you campaigned here once before.” Captain Hume exchanged a knowing glance with Frederick. “Isn’t that so?” It was clear the two of them doubted this young man’s sincerity and intended to press the matter of his intentions. “And that you served under Maurice and his successor, Frederick Henry, that same Prince of Orange whose roof we dine under even now?”
“And for which you were knighted upon your return,” Frederick chimed in, “by that same brother of my wife’s who now sits upon the throne of England.”
“Ah.” The Captain leaned back a little in his chair. “We speak now of that same monarch who sees fit to finance endless and elaborate constructions to his palace
s, yet fails to send his sister so much as a farthing” — he poked up a slab of beef from the plate before him — “that she should be reduced to serving her guests only three kinds of meat at table.”
“Knighted, you say.” My deference was poorly feigned. “Perhaps we were better to address you as Sir Craven.”
Lord Craven turned to address me. “I should very much prefer if you would call me William.”
“And so let us be frank, young man” — Captain Hume lowered his gaze directly at Lord Craven — “and insist that you tell us in all honesty why you seek to join our cause. It is not unusual that a nobleman such as yourself should seek to undertake such a venture for the sake of enhancing his reputation, making sure all the while not to put himself in any real danger.”
Lord Craven had not taken his eyes from me. “I come because a queen most fair has been torn from her rightful place, and I would see her restored to it.”
“And how for her husband, the king?” asked Frederick.
“That goes without saying.” Lord Craven’s gaze remained fixed upon me.
“A brash young man boldly declares himself to my wife’s service,” Frederick said to no one in particular, “and this would seem to be another of those. They are invariably enamoured of the Queen’s affection.” He held up his chalice for the attendant to refill. “And being full of callow youth and vigour, wear their passion like a second garment easily shed.”
“Doubtless not in this case, though.” Captain Hume allowed a sideways glance at Frederick. I grant my husband had witnessed his share of such fervour — extravagant compliments, not to mention bold remarks and selfless gestures — and I could hardly blame him for his behaviour, but if he let slip his jealousy he had no cause to be so! I had never indulged these harmless overtures. I was not unfaithful. And yet on this occasion I had to admit I felt my guard slip a little. There was an innocent charm about Lord Craven I found disarming.
“I suppose next you will be hoping to wear a glove of Her Majesty’s into battle.” Captain Hume leaned forward in his chair.
“She shall take it as an affront if you don’t.” Frederick raised his cup again to drink.
“Madam, I would be honoured to receive such,” said Lord Craven.
“Then I must grant it,” I said defiantly.
“You see?” Frederick fashioned a crooked smile. “My wife would not withhold from a gallant soldier her favours for such a worthy cause.”
“And what of me?” Captain Hume made a great show of holding his folded hands up to his heart.
“You, Sir, shall have a scarf,” I said.
***
When the day arrived that they had made their preparations and were set to depart, the three of them came to stand before me. They were all of them dressed in full armour and quite dashing, although the Captain somehow managed to look dishevelled even in such attire, his greaves unpolished, his breastplate poorly fastened.
“I see you intend to play for your evening’s rest, as always,” I said to Captain Hume, noting that one of the pages stood waiting next to a horse with a viola da gamba encased and firmly fastened upon its back.
“I shall compose something for you, Madam,” said the Captain, “to hear upon our return.” With his beard and moustache in disarray as always, greying locks sticking out at odds and ends from under his helmet, nose red and bulbous, he carried a glint of merriment in his eyes.
Lord Craven, dressed all in black armour and with his plumed helmet under his arm, his long black locks curling over the shoulders of his shiny doublet, stepped forward and knelt before me.
“Madam.” He looked up at me. “I am in your service and declare to you my loyalty with all my heart.”
“Then take this.” I offered my glove, which he took from me, brought to his lips, and gently kissed before rising to his feet.
“And this” — I turned to the Captain and produced a scarf — “is for you.” He bowed and took it from me.
“And to you, my husband, I offer this kiss, for all good fortune and a swift return.”
Frederick, though smartly attired in a well-fitting suit of armour, seemed to me to have aged overnight, his features pinched, eyes sunken, cheeks collapsed into hollow pockets of care. I thought it might just be that the previous night’s drinking had taken its toll, but I did not recall his hair so wispy, his ears so wrinkled. I kissed him on the cheek and he returned it dutifully. “Farewell, dear wife. I pray when we meet again I shall have good news to tell.” He turned to the others. “Gentlemen, the King of Sweden awaits.”
“Madam,” announced Lord Craven, “I shall wear this upon my helmet for all to see.”
“And if you should lose it?”
“Then I should prefer to lose my head with it.”
“As for his heart,” the Captain rolled his eyes at me, “’tis already lost, I fear.”
They mounted and rode off, leaving me, by Frederick’s reckoning at any rate, to do little more than stitch the standard and pray for their safe return. But I had other ideas. If my children had been relegated to an impassive mother disinclined to expressions of love and affection, such would not be the case when it came to their education. To that end I set myself the task of procuring placement for them in the best schools, the services of the most accomplished tutors, that they should develop into adults possessed of self-reliance and resourcefulness, exhibit neither expectation nor desire for privilege or entitlement, for these were the very seeds of disappointment and folly. I would turn such favours as I might, muster assistance where I could get it, persuade and cajole and bribe, do whatever was necessary to see them properly schooled. Some of it would be unpleasant and perhaps even demeaning, but it would be that much easier to accomplish with Frederick out of the way.
Chapter Fourteen
Months passed with little news of the campaign save for reports of advances and setbacks, and the occasional letter from Frederick in which he poured out affection and longing, misgivings and promises, all in equal measure and in which I took little interest. If I judged myself cold-hearted that correspondence from my husband, engaged in battle almost daily, should meet with such an appalling lack of enthusiasm, it was only that if I had read one such letter I had read them all. They were of far greater benefit to him to write them than for me to read, and thus it has ever been and will ever be with letters from the battlefield. My interest lay in the upshot of their efforts. I wanted results.
The outcome remained uncertain and I had not heard any news for some time when they returned at last without Lord Craven in their company. The three of them had fought side by side in the siege of Creuznach and on February 22, 1632, had emerged victorious. Captain Hume reported that Lord Craven had fought bravely and suffered quite a bad wound to his leg in battle, after which he had seen fit to cart himself back to England. But then came the truly disappointing news. Although the campaign had been successful, the same could not be said of the negotiations that followed. Gustavus, having led the greater forces into battle and emerged triumphant, gave over that he should be allowed to keep control of the lands thus acquired for the Swedish interest, rather than cede them to the Palatinate.
I could not hide my disappointment at this news and understood at once why I had not heard from Frederick for some time. More than anything he should have liked to return with the news that we should soon be on our way back to Prague, and now to bring word instead that it was not to be made the occasion an awkward one for both of us. I grant I might have seen fit to show more understanding of his feelings in the matter, but in his absence the circumstances of my day-to-day life in The Hague had only grown worse, and now to be told that I must continue in penury indefinitely put me in a less than charitable mood. Even so, it was obvious from Frederick’s demeanour what a terrible blow it was to him, one he would never fully recover from.
Not long after his return he began to suffer intermittent
bouts of infirmity that debilitated him for days on end, sent him to his bed, where he would lie in the gloom, beyond the help of any remedy from the physicians who attended him. These repeated afflictions took their toll, and by the autumn of the year he showed signs of more serious illness. It occurred to me that I might be guilty of exacerbating the situation with my obvious dissatisfaction, and I went to his bedside one evening after he had suffered a particularly difficult day. He turned to look at me when I entered the room, lifted his head from the pillow.
“I came to see how you’re feeling,” I said. “A little better, I hope.”
“How do you do it?” he asked.
“Beg pardon?”
“Even after all this time, the mere sight of you never fails to cheer me. It has ever been so, even from the first time I saw your likeness painted upon that miniature portrait. Do you remember? I wrote to you about it in my first letter.”
“I made sure to send up some supper. Did you eat it? You have to keep up your strength.”
“My affliction is one of sunken spirits, I fear.” He reached for my hand, and I let him take it. “But now you have raised them a little with this unexpected and welcome visit.”
“I wanted to talk to you.” I sat down on the bed.
“I’m afraid I have little to offer in the way of conversation, nor much else but that which I seem best able to fashion in generous measure, namely hardship and disappointment.”
“You place too great a burden upon yourself. You did what you could. Captain Hume himself reports that you fought bravely and proved a pillar of strength to your men upon the battlefield.”
“And look where my gallantry has gotten us.”
I took him gently by the shoulders, as I had all those years ago when I first brought his lips to mine for the assembled banquet guests, and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. “I have something I want to say to you. Perhaps I should have said it sooner, but I say it to you now. You have been too eager to shoulder the blame in all of this, and I have been too eager to allow it. It was my ambition brought us here. Better to have left Prague to the Hapsburgs.”
