‘Besides,’ the other said, gathering some idea of the depth of Francis’s feeling and misinterpreting it, ‘you love the fellow, I suppose.’
Francis paled in sudden fury.
‘Not as your filthy mind supposes!’ he cried fiercely. His white face and angry eyes were so menacing the Dane stepped back.
‘Your pardon,’ he murmured. ‘I see that Englishmen do not all wish to emulate their – great men.’
He walked away while Francis stood frozen, commanding himself as never before to subdue his temper and prevent a brawl. If the fellow had mentioned names he must have drawn upon him. But he had been prudent and taken himself off, so he might be forgiven for his lewd hint. It was only a standard army jest, after all, so why had he resented it so deeply? Because of his regard for Anne Wolmer, he decided. His pure and chivalrous love, that had no future, for she was far above him in place and fortune and as for birth, why, quite out of reach. A nobleman’s daughter could never marry a nameless youth, such as he. But there was no law that could oblige him to renounce his unspoken passion, no law to forbid him dreaming of the face and form he told himself he would never forget.
For some weeks after that, however, young Francis was too occupied with military and medical matters for any brooding upon his personal affairs. In the first place there was Will Stubble, slowly emerging from a bout of fever brought on by his injury. Though only a flesh wound it was deep, having traversed the thigh to within an inch of the skin on the far side. This had rendered its extraction easy but had meant two surface wounds and two sources of infection, two discharging points that healed slowly.
‘They would never have healed at all but for your devotion, master,’ Will said at the end of three weeks.
He was propped up now on a couch in Francis’s room at The Hague. He was weak and wasted by this long fever, particularly the injured limb where the torn muscles had knit with difficulty and showed signs of shrinking. Francis had fought this by insisting upon exercise; a painful process but effective in restoring movement.
‘Thank your surgeon more,’ Francis told him. ‘There was one said he would take the leg off to prevent the gangrene he swore would be the end of you.’
‘I have known it finish men from an accident as well as from war,’ Will answered. ‘But I thank you, sir, that you prevented the amputation, for I know it would have been the end of me, gangrene or no gangrene.’
‘I knew that when I took the risk,’ Francis told him, truthfully. ‘It seemed a fair risk.’
To keep you with me, his heart told him. But his mind disguised his heart, so he added, ‘You see you have a very selfish master, Will. I could not bear to forgo your services.’
Will laughed at that, but there were grateful tears in his eyes as Francis left the room.
Though busy in the office of nurse and surgical assistant, in a military sense Francis was totally unemployed again, for the King of Denmark had withdrawn from the war, removed his troops, disbanded the irregulars of whom Francis was one and made peace with the Emperor. Spain and Austria together were too strong, he decided. And England under the Stuarts, father and son, too unreliable. He regretted his sister’s marriage to James. At that distant time the fairly certain prospect of being Queen of England made it highly desirable. But the pair had been paupers all their lives, supplied by the cunning of Cecil until the little man died, since then incapable of more than promises, never fulfilled.
Francis was duly released from his service to Denmark and having returned to The Hague found his uncle performing his usual routine duties, living in the same house as before and equally ready to welcome his nephew back. He found the young man still very depressed by the total failure of the summer campaign.
‘Well nigh a farce!’ he exclaimed in despair.
‘I am afraid the fault lies with our masters,’ Uncle Arthur explained. ‘Denmark was promised a very definite supporting sum, but nothing was sent, nothing whatever. The English Parliament is tired of supplying great sums that simply melt away, showing no result, helping no one.’
‘It was not only the Danes that were destitute. Mansfeld’s army was penniless, too, and they were as ill-equipped at the start as the rabble I joined at Plymouth for Cadiz.’
‘The Count was always a rash commander,’ Colonel Ogilvy explained. ‘King Christian did ill to employ him, but he had little choice in the matter. Well, ’tis no use now regretting any of that sad business. If Mansfeld had not rushed into defeat at Dessau and then fled away to join Hungary, Denmark would not have attempted also to join Bethlen Gabor and precipitated his own undoing.’
‘There is a rumour the Count has given up his army to Hungary and goes into retirement.’
Colonel Ogilvy nodded.
‘He is a sick man and like to die. So end all the adherents of our unhappy Princess and her poor wronged husband.’
Francis was startled.
‘All?’
‘Prince Christian of Brunswick, that brave man and fine soldier, hath died of a fever, we hear.’
Francis was shocked. He had heard many tales of Christian’s feats of arms in the Queen of Bohemia’s cause, of how he had lost his riding hand in battle but replaced it with an iron one to control his horse. Of how he had never seen the Queen in person but only written to her long passionate letters, expressing love and devotion.
Such romantic idealised love was exactly what Francis had decided that he felt for the Lady Anne Wolmer. The Queen had accepted such from Prince Christian of Brunswick, had answered his letters, had relied upon a noble service of splendid deeds and rich comfort. And was now deprived of these as of all present hope of regaining the Palatinate, far less the kingdom of Bohemia.
So it was very much to his surprise that Francis received an invitation through his uncle to attend a visit of the exiled monarchs to the northern camp of the Prince of Orange for the purpose of hunting, a pastime to which they were both addicted and had enjoyed to the full in the first three happy years of their marriage.
Francis looked forward to meeting the Queen again, for she was unlikely to avoid the chase, in spite of this recent sorrow, being a most skilled horsewoman and a keen shot with the crossbow.
His wish was fulfilled on the very first occasion he joined the hunt. He was delighted to see that his royal mistress, who had successfully given birth to a daughter in June, was now again in the best of health and spirits, as was the Palgrave in spite of his continuing misfortune. Moreover the Queen, riding in the van, recognised Francis, whose horse, excited by the chase, tried to cross her path until controlled by the skilful efforts of its rider.
‘I think I know you, young man!’ she called out. ‘Did you not take my monkey as easily as you govern yon beast?’
Francis, scarlet in the face from effort, overwhelming pleasure at this informal address and some embarrassment at being so singled out, found he had quite lost his voice. So he bowed as far as he was able from the back of his still restive mount.
‘Attend us tomorrow!’ the Queen shouted, as she spurred her horse to gallop forward. ‘We have had news of you from Denmark himself.’
Francis bowed again and wheeled his horse aside to allow the Queen’s entourage to sweep past him. His spirit soared; his imagination carried him off to realms of fantasy where the thunder of hooves and the yelping of hounds faded into insignificance. That evening at supper with Colonel Ogilvy, he described his encounter.
‘Tomorrow?’ the colonel asked, frowning. ‘But we are bidden to the Prince’s audience tomorrow.’
‘Her Majesty said tomorrow most distinctly.’
‘I think you misheard her in the swift action of the hunt.’
‘I am sure I did not. Tomorrow, was the gracious word spoken.’
‘I think the Prince, or rather the Princess, would not understand such insistence. Besides, the Court of Orange expects to be obeyed and if you aspire to serve in the Alliance, as I feel you must –’
Seeing defiance in every line of his ne
phew’s face Colonel Ogilvy turned to guile.
‘These great ladies continue their rivalry,’ he went on, in a soothing confidential tone, as of one experienced man to another. ‘The Queen of Bohemia claims precedence over the Princess of Orange which that other will not accept.’
‘My allegiance is to the Queen,’ Francis said, but with less truculence.
‘Nevertheless we seek to preserve the support of Orange, do we not? For without it poor Frederic would be lost indeed. You were well received by the Princess and her ladies before your unhappy campaign, were you not?’
This cunning speech immediately brought before Francis’s eyes a picture of Anne Wolmer, turning away his high-minded adoration of the Queen to that other love he had begun to pursue before the call to arms put a temporary stop to it and chivalry in the guise of the dead Prince of Brunswick had confused his several aims.
So matters were arranged very skilfully to offend neither great lady. The Queen asked Francis to a private interview before her audience began, at which she showed him a letter from her uncle of Denmark, where his name appeared as one of the more promising young soldiers who had volunteered from England. He reaffirmed his enthusiastic loyalty and was rewarded with the royal hand to kiss.
Immediately afterwards Colonel Ogilvy took him to the Court of the Prince of Orange. Since the Princess’s spies had learned of his meeting with the Queen and disclosed it at once to Her Highness, Francis was ignored, but not dismissed. So he found his way most happily to the group of maids-of-honour and discovered the Lady Anne who had no scruple in renewing an acquaintance that had begun well but seemed to have been extinguished.
‘You disappeared from our midst almost as soon as you joined us,’ she said, while her companions giggled together, not quite out of hearing and eager to watch the handsome young. Scot blush and blunder as he had at that earlier date.
They were disappointed. Francis merely smiled, mentioned his duty, the army, the unsuccessful campaign.
‘You have fought?’ she said, wide-eyed, not sure if he was serious. ‘You have truly been in battle? In the King of Denmark’s defeat?’
‘You are well informed, my lady,’ Francis answered, moving away a little, so that she must either go with him or let him go from her.
She moved to his side, at which his heart began to beat faster.
‘You were not wounded?’
‘I escaped. But my man, my faithful servant, close beside me at the time, was struck in the thigh by a bullet.’
‘So you narrowly escaped?’
‘Very narrowly. But I thank God Will hath recovered.’
‘How? Tell it me.’
She was eager for exciting news, but gentle and very understanding. They walked about while Francis told her how he had met Will Stubble in Spain, who had saved his life near Cadiz. He told her more about his regard for Will than he had spoken to anyone before. And though she laughed at some of his man’s more ridiculous sayings and superstitions, she did not laugh at her companion’s dependence upon Will, nor disapprove of the relationship. Innocence, or simply a natural wholesomeness? He was ready to accept either with grateful admiration. By the time the sharp eyes of the Princess noticed the young couple’s growing absorption in one another and put a swift end to it with a few acid directions to her ladies-in-waiting, the pair were equally determined to meet again and had even spoken, though guardedly, of a coming renewal of hunting in the near future.
This occasion was the last of the season, as far as the Queen and her husband were concerned. Their visit was drawing to its close; it was time ‘Madam’, as the English as well as the natives called her behind her back, paid a visit to her recent child, whose wet-nurse needed replacing to supply the infant’s robust greed. Several of her older children were still scattered, living with relatives in distant Berlin and elsewhere. Those at Leyden had not seen her since the later months of her pregnancy. The Queen, emerging from this month of pleasure, for there had been balls and concerts, plays and ballets beside the hunting, looked forward now to her serious duties with renewed energy and all her accustomed charm of manner.
On the day of the final hunt Francis attended very soberly, riding a little behind his uncle, who was acting as escort to three English lords, newly arrived in Holland to negotiate the details of a renewed allowance from King Charles to his sister.
Francis had heard nothing of Anne since the day of the Prince of Orange’s assembly. So he was agreeably surprised when he saw her, mounted on a sober chestnut palfrey, suddenly wave her hand to him in a gesture that seemed to command him to join her. But when he was able to do this he found her engaged by a man whose battered good looks made him seem older than he really was.
‘Lieutenant Leslie,’ Lady Anne said, presenting her companion.
‘This is Captain Alan Carr, until lately of the army of Count Mansfeld.’
Captain Carr scowled, evidently annoyed to have his conversation with Lady Anne interrupted. But he managed to bow in answer to Francis’s polite salutation.
‘Sir,’ Francis said. ‘You must have seen more service than I, for I was with Denmark’s troops and we were always behind you, trying to give support and failing.’
‘I have given service these ten years,’ Captain Carr said then, with an unpleasant curl of his lip. ‘When you were fighting your first tutor, I doubt not.’
Francis glanced at Lady Anne. She had flushed at the man’s insolence, but said nothing. Francis leaned forward a little.
‘Your ladyship wished to speak to me?’ he asked.
‘Later,’ she said, coolly. ‘This gentleman brings a message from my father.’
‘I trust Lord Aldborough is well,’ Francis said to establish his acquaintance with the nobleman. ‘Later then, my lady.’
As he moved reluctantly away he heard Captain Carr say rudely, ‘The young pup flaunts his connection, does he?’
To which Lady Anne replied, ‘You insult my father’s friend, sir. Pray deliver your message.’
For a time Francis kept the pair in sight from a discreet distance but when the hunt began to move away he soon became separated from them. He decided there would be no further opportunity of speaking to Lady Anne until the present activities were over, so he turned his mind to the sport and gave himself up to an enjoyment wholly familiar and far easier than his doubting approach, delicious but fearful, towards winning the favours of his chosen love, as he now ventured privately to name her.
Again events moved to upset his plans, vague though they were. He was called by a small group of his friends to make a short cut across a spinney into open country where a likely stag had been flushed from the thicket and was in full flight before the motley collection of dogs. As the group emerged and turned to gallop forwards Francis heard a thudding of hooves and a shrill cry of terror. He turned his head to find a horse bearing down on him quite out of control with a woman on its back clinging with both hands to the saddle, the reins loose and flapping, a lost stirrup swinging into the beast’s belly, increasing its panic flight. The rider was none other than the Lady Anne Wolmer.
Francis, whose horse was already cantering easily, responded at once to his instant urging. It was a better and stronger mount than the girl’s so he managed quite soon to catch her up and drove his beast alongside the palfrey, at the same time reaching across and down to catch at the trailing reins that threatened dangerously to trip them both.
As soon as he had secured them he reined in on both horses, very gently at first, then more firmly, until he had them both cantering soberly side by side and finally halted them just short of a little brook.
This hazard had frightened him out of his wits when he saw it ahead, he explained later to his friends, laughing. He had had a wild vision of having to jump two horses out of phase with one another and one or both entangled in the reins of the runaway.
At the time, however, he had simply turned to the girl, now weeping freely, humiliated by her terror and her deplorable performance.
Francis, who had feared to have a fainting lady on his hands as well as two disturbed horses, rallied her gently.
‘Look up, my lady!’ he cried. ‘It is not you, but your mare should hang her head, as she doth, poor beast, in shame at frightening her mistress.’
‘It is not shame, but exhaustion,’ the girl said, sharply.
But she looked up none the less and seeing that Francis smiled, quite unmoved by his considerable exploit, by their mutual danger and present situation, alone in a wide field with the sounds of the hunting horn fading into the distance, she managed a watery smile in return.
Francis leaned across again to straighten the lost stirrup and restore it to her. He sorted out and adjusted the reins and gave them into her hands. But seeing she was still shocked by her recent danger and that her hands shook, he offered to use a leading rein to prevent another outbreak.
‘Oh, she’ll not start away now,’ Lady Anne said. ‘She was provoked into it.’
‘How so?’
‘Captain Carr took overlong to give me his message. I suppose it did come from my father, though that seemed very strange to me. We were late in starting to follow the hunt. He complained of it. I told him he had my leave to ride on and catch up the front riders. His horse was capable, I said, my mare was not. He made no answer but before I could prevent it he laid his switch to my poor Polly’s rump and she leaped away. I lost my reins, I lost my stirrup –’
‘Which struck her again and again and so – panic, poor beast. All set off by a ruffian grown unused to the company of gentlefolk by the long practice of soldiering.’
‘We will speak no more of Captain Carr,’ the girl said, coldly.
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