The Lion of Midnight (10 page)

‘MacFerran? What is it, man?’

‘We’re being followed, Sir Matthew. Certain of it.’

I took MacFerran’s words seriously. He had grown to manhood in the far west of Scotland, in country not dissimilar to this, chasing the deer and avoiding the factors of the Earls of Argyll, who claimed ownership of those same deer. But as I looked all around me, I saw nothing: only the endless expanse of snow, rocks and trees.

‘Whereabouts, MacFerran?’

‘In the woods to the left, Sir Matthew. First thought I noticed
something
a few hours ago, but reckoned it might have been wolves. Can’t be anything but men, though. Two riders, I’d say, perhaps three. And they’re good, Sir Matthew. North wind would bring any sound from that forest down to us, but they’re taking care not to break branches. There’ll be less snow on the ground under the trees, so there’s less to muffle sounds of movement, too.’

I looked away toward the trees, but could see no sign of movement other than the rustling of the branches in the breeze and the occasional fall of snow as a bough shook. Two or three men would hardly attack more than a dozen, all of us heavily armed; besides, the wide expanse of open ground between the road and the forest would expose any advance against us in an instant. So our followers had to be just that: men sent to follow, to observe, and no doubt to report our movements to some distant and concealed presence. Yet to what end? Although the mission that North and I were upon was a close secret, our journey itself was not. We had left Gothenburg publicly, the Landtshere had been informed that we were bound for Lacko to seek audience with the High
Chancellor
, and there was but one direct road from the city to the castle. John Bale would surely have been relieved to see us leave Gothenburg, and would hardly have had cause to send men after us; unless, that is, he was playing some hidden game as sinister as Lydford North’s. But there was
the one remaining possibility, one that I did not wish to contemplate. If Bale spoke true and there really was a mysterious dark force at work in Sweden, might not our concealed followers be the agents of it?

‘Thank you, MacFerran,’ I said. The good and loyal Scotsman raised a finger to his forehead in salute and returned to the rear of our line.

‘You believe him?’ North asked.

‘I believe him. MacFerran has the keenest eye and the sharpest instincts of any man I have known.’

‘A mere
Scot
, Sir Matthew? But if you say it is so… You will inform Captain Larssen?’

‘No, I think not.’ North looked at me sharply, but I was certain of my reasoning. ‘Larssen is a dullard. He will either dismiss MacFerran’s report out of hand, in which case there is nothing to be gained by
relaying
it to him, or he will assume we are in imminent danger of attack by massed legions, in which he case he will either order a search of the woods or divert us to the nearest garrison for greater security. And if he reacts thus, Mister North, then just how many days are likely to be added to our journey?’

North was clearly unconvinced, but I was a warrior, and he was not; I was a knight, and he was not; and I was an ambassador of the King of
England
, albeit one of North’s own creation, and he was not. So he kept silent.

Through the rest of that third day I had MacFerran report to me at hourly intervals. The men were still there, he said, betrayed only by an occasional rustling in the trees or a sudden bird flight. Musk, who had resumed his place at my side, was for going off into the woods with MacFerran and two or three others to put paid to them, but I rejected his counsel. Our followers were bound to notice even one man
breaking
away from the party; such occurred frequently when calls of nature impelled each of us in turn to fall behind, dismount and go behind a rock, but it would be a rather different matter to detach several men simultaneously and surreptitiously. Those in the woods were protected by the same simple fact that defended us from them: any advance one
way or the other across the broad open space between the road and the forest would be seen at once. I had no doubt that our followers would have melted away long before Musk and his putative killing party could reach them, and in any case, attempting such an action was also certain to be noticed even by the lumpen Captain Larssen, and then stymied in favour of his own preferred course.

That night we found shelter in a village near the shores of Lake Vanern, a mighty body of water which also lapped the walls of De La Gardie’s castle of Lacko, still some twenty-five English miles distant by Larssen’s
estimation
. The Swedish captain had initially proposed pressing on through part of the night in order to reach Lidkoping, which he claimed to be a
respectable
city some ten miles nearer our destination, albeit on a more easterly road. The counsel held some appeal, for it would bring us to Lacko more quickly and thus enable me to return to Gothenburg the sooner; but I had to weigh that against the advantage that night would give our
followers
and any reinforcements that they might have lurking among the Swedish wilds. As it was, I set my own guard for the night, two men at a time beginning with MacFerran and Britten, the duty watch to be relieved every two hours. If Larssen thought this strange, or an indication of lack of trust in him and his men, he said nothing to the effect.

The inn was better than any we had yet encountered, providing a good repast of well-cooked venison; this was the High Chancellor’s land, we were told, and he did not tolerate hovels or poor hospitality. I even had a chamber to myself, albeit a small one, but sleep proved elusive. To my concerns about being followed or about what might be transpiring in Gothenburg during my absence were added troubling thoughts of Cornelia. My wife never coped well with my absence, and although this voyage was as a row upon the Thames compared with my previous expedition to Africa, I knew she would be finding it difficult: especially in winter, when London and the court had fewer diversions to offer. Now, it shames me to say that I even felt pangs of suspicion and jealousy. Cornelia was as loyal to me as I had always been to her, that
I did not doubt. Yet somehow I could still envision her in the arms of some plausible courtier or young blade –

I shuffled beneath my bedding of animal furs, unable to get
comfortable
or to dismiss the thoughts that crowded in upon me. It was in that moment that I heard the shouts outside the inn: the shouts of angry men and women, many evidently running through the village. I drew my sword and went down, through the main body of the inn, and out into the rough space outside that passed for a main street. Shouting men bearing burning torches aloft marched hither and thither; they seemed to bear sufficient weaponry for a regiment.

‘Who forms the duty watch, Mister Lanherne?’ I demanded.

‘Stacey and Ali Reis, Sir Matthew,’ said Lanherne, nodding toward the two men who were evidently checking the side of the inn. ‘The Moor believes the Swedes are crying up an attack by wolves. Larssen and his men have gone to assist them.’

I relaxed my grip upon my sword. Wolves might be a threat to the village, but they were no direct threat to myself or my party. I had feared some attempt by our mysterious followers before we reached Lacko; if such was to take place, it had to be tonight.

The rest of our English company emerged into the cold air. Musk shivered, looked around contemptuously, and blew onto his hands.
Lydford
North at once sought my report, and on being told the cause of the alarum, he merely turned upon his heel and returned to the warmth of the inn. But MacFerran furrowed his brow and appeared troubled. I asked him the cause.

‘Rare for wolves to attack a village at all, Sir Matthew. Very rare, unless your Swedish wolf is from a different mould to his Scots cousin.’

Shots rang out, accompanied by further great shouts and men and boys running about.

‘Pity the wolf who attacks this village,’ I said. ‘It resembles a garrison.’

Which, of course, was precisely what it was: Sweden’s mighty army was drawn directly from its peasantry, who remained ready for the call
to arms when they returned to the land. Most of the older men of the village would have fought half way across Europe, against some of the most formidable armies of the age. A mere wolf or two would be child’s play to them, and useful practice against the day when the Lion of Midnight would take up arms again and drive all before it –

‘
Down
, Sir Matthew!’ cried MacFerran.

The young Scot threw himself at me, knocking me off balance. In the same moment I heard the familiar crack of a musket firing. The ball struck a timber strut of the hut directly behind me. If I had remained standing where I was, it would surely have lodged in my chest.

Carvell and Britten ran in the direction whence the shot must have come, but it was very dark and they did not know the land.

‘Perhaps an attempt to shoot a wolf,’ said Musk, albeit without much conviction.

I got to my feet. ‘MacFerran?’

The young Scot shook his head. ‘Saw the glow of match, Sir
Matthew
. Know the sight well enough from night stalking. Thanks unto God that flintlocks have not yet reached these parts.’

‘An attempt upon my life, then?’

‘It was a deliberate aim, from a man standing stock still. Not the action of a man pursuing a wolf and loosing off a shot upon the run.’

‘And you did not see his face?’

‘I am sorry I did not, Sir Matthew.’

‘Merciful Heaven, MacFerran, you have nothing to be sorry for! You have performed prodigies upon this journey, and you have just saved my life! The first vacant petty officers’ post on the
Cressy
is yours, and a guinea from my own purse.’

The young Scot’s eyes widened. ‘Thank ye, Sir Matthew!’

But MacFerran’s pride and delight could not conceal the
uncomfortable
truth. If he was right, and I had no cause to doubt him, then someone wished me dead. They had failed, but nothing was more
certain
than that they would make the attempt again. I was a marked man.

We pressed on early the next morning. Once again, I told Larssen
nothing
of the previous night’s events. As we rode north-east, glimpsing the frozen lake Vanern from time to time through the trees to our left, I
reassured
myself that if any of England’s enemies had somehow got wind of my new status and the true purpose of my visit to the High Chancellor of Sweden, then any attempt upon me would have to be made before I reached Lacko. Within De La Gardie’s own palace, guarded by some of Sweden’s best troops, I would surely be invulnerable; and once the negotiations began, then whatever their outcome, my mission would be accomplished. Our mysterious followers (who had now disappeared, MacFerran said) had surely bungled their best chance of preventing King Charles’s confidential ambassador to King Karl from mooting an alliance between England and Sweden.

Towards evening the track emerged at last from the forest, and there, quite suddenly, was the castle of Lacko. I have seen Stirling and I have seen Hohensalzburg; I know Windsor well, the grandest fortalice that England can offer. But I have never forgotten my first sight of Lacko. The great white walls and towers seemed to rise from the very midst of the vast lake of Vanern: it was only as we came nearer that I perceived the spit of land upon which the castle stood. Surrounded by the
snow-crusted
ice of the frozen lake and the snow-topped trees that enclosed
the lake on all sides, the white palace was an astounding sight, a veritable fortress of winter. High towers with the lantern-like domes favoured by the northern races stood at each corner of a great, square, red-roofed palace. An incomplete palace, at that: scaffolding stretched along parts of the south and east walls. The light was fading as we rode across the spit and through the low outer court toward the gatehouse. Blazing torches and braziers were already lit both on the wayside and atop the castle walls. Bright candelight shone forth from many of the windows; the High Chancellor clearly was not a man to stint on heat or light, nor, indeed, on anything that might serve the interests of aggrandising his property.

Guards came to attention as we passed through the gate into the heart of the castle, but otherwise there was no pomp to mark our entrance. A formal, public embassy would have entailed a vast procession, pomp, and a lengthy ceremony of welcome, the whole dictated by a rigid series of protocols that were clearly set down and meticulously observed by all nations. Thankfully, a secret embassy entailed none of those trials, but certain formalities had to be kept up: the court of the High
Chancellor
of Sweden was like that of any other great minister or monarch in Europe, a seething cauldron of faction overrun with the spies of every other great minister and monarch. It would be impossible to keep secret the fact that Sir Matthew Quinton, a captain in the King of England’s navy royal, was visiting the most noble Count de la Gardie, and thus due honour had to be paid on both sides. As for the cause of Sir Matthew’s presence in the palace of Lacko: why, surely that could be nothing more than a formal protest at the attack upon the mast-fleet and against the Landtshere of Gothenburg for his harbouring of the regicide Bale and his dilatoriness in the pursuit of the murderers of Lord Conisbrough? North was confident that the Dutch, French and Danish spies within the palace, for some of each kind there were bound to be, would come to that entirely reasonable conclusion.

Thus after we dismounted in the courtyard of Lacko we were led up
into a square, warm chamber distinguished by the fine Mechelen
tapestries
upon the walls. Here we were given time to warm ourselves before the fire, to eat braised beef and drink Rostock beer and Rhenish wine, while de la Gardie’s steward, a pernickety and ancient creature with
atrocious
French, informed us of the great honour that the High Chancellor bestowed upon us by entertaining us at all, let alone immediately, of the many pressures upon his time, etcetera, etcetera. At last, he showed us through into the first of a series of reception rooms, each filled with gaggles of men and women who fell silent as we passed, whispering in Swedish as soon as we were past them. Some were evidently displeased that their own suits to the High Chancellor were being delayed by the unwelcome importuning of mere
engelsmän
, a word I heard muttered disapprovingly several times during our transit. Then there were the
others
, those who stood alone at the sides of rooms in corners, silent and appraising. No doubt the spies of our enemies could be counted among their number.

At last we came to a set of high lacquered doors, guarded by two pikemen. The doors opened at our approach, and we were admitted into the great room that lay beyond. The principal feature of the hall was above, forcing one to look up: thirteen huge painted angels adorned the roof, quite outdoing the splendid battle paintings and allegorical scenes that covered the walls. The hall was lit by candles set high up on the walls, their flickering light illuminating the vast space but dimly. The great room contained two men, and two alone, both upon the dais at the far end: no courtiers, no attendants, no guards. The emptiness was unsettling. The shoes of both North and I clacked loudly upon the lacquered floor as we strode toward the dais, the sound echoing through the vast hall.

I have approached many royal thrones during my inordinately long life, but few were as grand as that upon which sat a mere commoner, albeit one who bore the office of High Chancellor of the Kingdom of the Swedes, Goths and Wends. Count Magnus De La Gardie’s chair was
elevated upon a grand dais with purple trappings decorated with what had to be his armorial bearings, an extravagant concoction of
quarterings
with crossed cannon in the outermost cantons, spears, helmets and sword-bearing rampant lions galore. The far more ancient arms of Quinton of Ravensden seemed positively modest in comparison.

The High Chancellor was a tall, square-faced man of middle age and considerable girth, although one could guess that in his youth he had been fastidiously elegant: he wore his hair, which was still largely golden although now streaked with white, down over his shoulders as the Cavalier blades of our civil wars had once done, and his moustachio was neatly trimmed. He wore a tunic and breeches of black trimmed with cloth-of-gold as well as a sash of blue-and-yellow similar to, but far broader and richer than, that worn by Landtshere Ter Horst. Lydford North had never met the High Chancellor, but Lord Conisbrough had, many times, and during the journey North duly relayed to me his late master’s full description of the noble Count. His appearance held no surprises. But what was surprising was that he was not alone upon the dais. At De La Gardie’s side, and slightly behind him, stood a
clean-shaven
fellow of forty years or so, short and slight but starting to run to fat. Pale and long-faced, with high eyebrows and heavy eyelids framing large, penetrating blue eyes, his expression was haughty and disdainful. One shoulder was evidently higher than the other, and conjured up in my mind a disconcerting memory: a visit to the theatre with my brother a few months earlier for a performance of
The Tragedy of King Richard the Third,
with Betterton’s posture as the murderous tyrant being not dissimilar to that of the man who stood before me now, studying me intently. He was plainly garbed in comparison with the opulent High Chancellor, wearing but an unadorned velvet tunic, although curiously, he wore white gloves. The room was warm, so I concluded that this choice of garment could have one of only two causes: simple affectation, or else the concealment of scars too terrible to expose. The man was either a fop or a warrior.

North and I approached the dais and genuflected but once: not as frequent nor as deep as the
congée
we would have offered a crowned head, nor as elaborate as that which a publicly accredited ambassador would have made, but a telling and honourable show of respect
nonetheless
.

‘Sir Matthew Quinton, Mister North,’ said the High Chancellor. His French was flawless, as befitted a man whose grandfather was of the Languedoc. ‘We bid you welcome in the name of His Majesty Karl the Eleventh, by the Grace of God King of the Swedes, Goths and Wends. May I present the Count Dohna,’ said De La Gardie, gesturing toward the man at his side. The Count bowed his head only slightly. ‘The noble count is a most valued advisor of mine, particularly in matters of
diplomacy
. He will remain in attendance during our discussions.’

I glanced sideways towards North, but his normally imperturbable expression was strangely altered. He was quizzical, even perplexed. It came to me then that he, this youngster who prided himself upon his omniscience – in emulation of his master Arlington – had never before heard of this Count Dohna. This should have been no surprise: at every court, new favourites rose and fell in the blink of the eye. But if the High Chancellor had a new advisor, the careful calculations that must have underpinned the planning for Conisbrough’s embassy were
suddenly
overset. Was this Dohna for France, for England, or for a strict neutrality? North evidently did not know. I did not know. The game was altered.

But protocol still had to be observed. ‘My Lord Dohna,’ I said,
bowing
deeply.

‘We wish to express our most profound regret upon the unfortunate death of the most noble Lord Conisbrough,’ said De La Gardie. ‘I have ensured that Their Majesties the King and the Queen Regent have
written
to King Charles to express their condolences.’

‘My Lord Conisbrough was a good friend to Sweden,’ said Dohna, speaking for the first time. ‘I knew him well, and mourn his loss.’ The
count’s French was immaculate, his words spoken in a deep yet
somewhat
curious voice; Dohna had a slight but unplaceable accent that had not been present among the other Swedes of my acquaintance, such as Ter Horst and De La Gardie.

I sensed the discomfort of Lydford North, alongside me, and could easily surmise his thoughts.
If Dohna knew Conisbrough well, why did his late lordship not name him to me?

It was time for His Britannic Majesty’s confidential ambassador to assert himself. ‘That being so, Excellencies,’ I said boldly, ‘on behalf of Charles, by the Grace of God King of England, Scotland, Ireland and France, I demand the arrest and extradition of the traitor John Bale, called Lord Bale, on suspicion of the murder of the said Lord
Conisbrough
, and for the undoubted fact of the murder of his late Majesty of blessed memory, King Charles the First.’

This was not the speech that North and I had agreed during our discussions on the journey: I was to present my sovereign lord’s
compliments
upon the prodigious learning of the young King Karl (despite the fact the child was universally renowned to be a dolt), upon the
manifest
wisdom of his mother the Queen Regent (despite the fact she was universally acknowledged to be a monstrous shrew, as Erik Glete had confirmed), and upon the enlightened policies of the High Chancellor (despite the fact he was universally reviled for avarice and inconstancy). Yet surely a diplomatist, like a sea-captain awaiting a favourable wind, seized his opportunity when it presented itself?

I saw Lydford North cast me a sideways glance of approval that seemed to say,
perhaps Matthew Quinton will make an ambassador after all.

Dohna leaned forward and whispered something in the ear of De La Gardie, who seemed momentarily flustered by my presumption and forthrightness. The High Chancellor listened, shook his head, then spoke in measured tones. ‘We understand your position, Sir Matthew, but I pray you, also understand ours. Lord Bale has a certain… following, let
us say, in Gothenburg, and that city itself is markedly fractious, as you have observed. For us to comply with your request would risk public disorder, if not worse.’

‘Less than ten years ago, Gothenburg was our only window on the west,’ said Dohna. ‘The Danes held all the land on either side of it. The late King Karl conquered those lands, but many in them still hanker after Danish rule, and the Danish crown itself seeks the reversal of the humiliation it suffered. If Gothenburg, the key to the whole coast, was suddenly to descend into chaos, do you think King Frederik would
hesitate
to exploit our weakness?’

Dohna spoke impressively, with a quiet, incisive command. But I saw an opportunity in his words. ‘That being so, excellencies,’ I said, ‘should Sweden not embrace wholeheartedly an alliance with the enemy of King Frederik?’

Dohna and De La Gardie glanced at each other. The High
Chancellor
waved his hand airily. ‘Sweden has been engaged in wars for most of the last sixty years, Sir Matthew. I know this personally, for my father, the High Constable and Field Marshal of this realm, fought in most of them. It is true that we have been fortunate in these wars. God has bestowed his grace upon Sweden, granting us victories and conquests beyond the imagining of our forefathers. But –’

‘But war is expensive, Sir Matthew,’ said Dohna. I was bemused; any man who dared interrupt the effective ruler of a kingdom was either markedly impudent or markedly powerful. ‘Our armies and navies, our fortresses and colonies, place a vast burden upon Sweden, which is not a wealthy land.’

De La Gardie was clearly not irritated by Dohna’s intervention; far from it. He inclined his head amicably toward his advisor. ‘As the noble Lord Dohna says. We have had peace now for five years, Sir Matthew. Far too short a period to mend the finances of the kingdom, but a veritable eternity of tranquillity for those of us who were born in the midst of war. So you see, for Sweden to abandon such a felicitous condition would
require either a profound threat to this kingdom’s safety, or else the existence of certain inducements, if one might call them that, offered by those who would have us draw our sword from the scabbard once again.’

So we had quickly arrived at the crux of it. And in that instant, a profound revelation came to me. At bottom, that which great men call ‘diplomacy’ is nothing more than an elevated version of what the rude multitude do every week upon market day: that is, the naming of prices, the consequent haggling, and the offer of money by the one side to the other.