‘I can’t quite see,’ DuQuelle confessed, looking at Katie. ‘There’s something out of kilter. I still can’t understand. Katie, is there something you are choosing not to share? All I can do is return to the question: how did you arrive . . . and why?’
Alice began to protest, but DuQuelle raised his hand. ‘I am not saying it is necessarily wilful on Katie’s part. I am saying, though, that it is suspicious. I need to keep an eye on her. And she mustn’t get too close to the Prince.’
Katie felt that strange dark surge of resentment. Why was she always kept on the outside, forever the stranger?
DuQuelle, so preoccupied with the crisis at hand, didn’t seem to notice her anger. ‘James, on the other hand, must stay as close as possible,’ he continued. ‘His medical knowledge is the finest available in the Castle. I say this with regret, but it is true. Do not leave the Prince’s side for a moment. Catch the Queen’s ear. Your father is out of his depth, contradict him if you must.’
‘And what of me?’ Alice asked.
DuQuelle looked at Princess Alice, his sculpted face softening at the sight. She was the closest to a human connection he could make. ‘You are the most important of all,’ he said. ‘your very goodness will perhaps counterbalance the evil of Lord Belzen. I am more certain with every moment that the Prince does not suffer from a cold, or influenza, or even a gastric fever. This is the battle of good against evil. And you, Princess, are the best weapon we have to offer.’
Silently they returned to the study. Katie sullenly remained outside. After their sobering consultation with DuQuelle, the Queen’s optimism grated. ‘Prince Albert is a little rheumatic,’ she was saying to Sir Brendan. ‘It is very difficult not to have something or other of this kind in this season. And I must admit,’ she whispered in a conspiratorial tone, ‘his inability to fight such aches and pains does plague me at times.’
Sir Brendan would usually have been thrilled to share the Queen’s confidence, but today he looked anxious. This did not stop him agreeing. ‘But of course ma’am,’ he replied nervously. ‘A chill. You have it in one. Your comprehension is amazing. There is no reason to be alarmed. A short feverish indisposition, that is all.’
The Queen beamed and even ventured a little joke. ‘Perhaps if I were not Queen, I would be appointed as the Royal Physician?’ Her courtiers laughed appreciatively, Sir Brendan O’Reilly the loudest of all, with a top note of hysteria. James winced, witnessing his father’s follies. Meanwhile Prince Albert groaned softly from the sofa.
Princess Alice had heard enough. She was really quite steely under her tranquil demeanour. ‘Even a chill needs great care,’ she intervened. ‘No one could be more devoted to my father than my mother, so she will know that quiet and rest is the best of cures.’ The Queen looked rather put out, but Alice turned to her diplomatically. ‘You have had a restless night as well, Mama,’ she added. ‘The governing of the country never stops; the country cannot afford to have you ill as well.’
This placated the Queen to a good extent, and Alice pressed home her advantage. ‘A brisk sleigh ride is what you need. Fresh air always does you good.’ The Queen was fanatical about the healthful benefits of fresh air. There was nothing she liked better than the icy wind against her cheeks. ‘Do not worry,’ Alice said in more soothing tones. ‘I will sit with Papa, and perhaps read to him. We had just started Silas Marner. It is of such interest.’
The Queen was convinced. And after many directives to Alice on the care of her dear husband, and many touching goodbyes to the wretched man, she left. Where the Queen went, the courtiers followed. Soon the room was almost empty. Only Alice’s friends remained. She turned to Bernardo DuQuelle and James O’Reilly. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and nodded their dismissal. There was a hint of humor in DuQuelle’s eyes. He might have superior knowledge, but she was of royal blood. As a courtier he was there to serve, and to obey. He took the protesting James by the arm and ushered him out. Only Katie, forgotten by her friends, remained in the hallway. The door to Prince Albert’s study was slightly ajar. Intently, she watched a tableau of daughterly devotion and fatherly love.
Prince Albert lay with his eyes shut tight; he’d been trying to block out the noise and confusion around him – so irritating to an invalid. Gradually he realized the room was silent. Perhaps he was alone? Tentatively, he opened his eyes. ‘They’ve gone now, Father,’ Alice said. ‘I have remained behind. We shall do as you please. I can read to you, or play the piano softly in the next room.’
The Prince reached up a languid hand and stroked his daughter’s cheek. ‘Let us sit quietly then. I am happy here, in your company. My gentle Alice, you always understand so well. Your mother, your dear mother . . .’ he trailed off, sighing, not wishing to be disloyal.
‘It is Mama’s great love for you,’ Alice said, ‘and her tempestuous nature; she worries so. If anything should happen to you . . .’ Like her father, Alice couldn’t quite finish the sentence. The Prince sighed again, watching Alice tidy the room and close the curtains. She understood. ‘Tell me,’ she said gently, returning to his side. ‘You can tell me what you cannot tell Mama. I will be strong.’
The Prince studied his daughter. His sharp agile mind was still intact. She was so young, just a slender sapling of a girl. Could her narrow shoulders really carry such a burden? He thought of the rest of his family: his passionate Queen was so easily derailed by pressure, his eldest son amiable but lacking in intellect, his beloved older daughter far away in Prussia with her husband and children. And the others were still so young. There was only Alice.
It had been dawning on him for several years; he had undervalued Alice. She wasn’t brilliant, like her older sister. She wouldn’t inherit the throne, like her older brother. Yet she had a steady will and growing ability. She had not been a promising child, rather dull and mouse-like. When had the change begun? He cast his mind back through time. Was it the Crimea? Yes, the Crimean War. Alice had been separated from the family. He nodded to himself. That’s right, the Queen had been with child, and they thought Alice might have the measles. She’d been sent to Buckingham Palace while the Royal Family had gone on to Balmoral. But she hadn’t stayed put. There’d been some strange goings on where they couldn’t locate her.
He rubbed his head; it all seemed so long ago. They’d found her . . . was it in the Alps? Baroness Lehzen had been involved. Prince Albert smiled despite his pain and weariness. Meddling, sour Baroness Lehzen: she’d been such a problem. The Queen’s childhood governess had disliked Victoria’s husband. But after ‘losing’ her charge, Princess Alice, he’d finally been able to remove Lehzen from the Court. She’d been pensioned off and now lived in Hanover, surrounded by paintings, photographs, miniatures and memories of her beloved Queen Victoria.
The Prince shook his head, irritated with himself. He must not let his mind wander. What had happened then? Ah yes, Princess Alice had returned to Balmoral, but insisted that she wanted to nurse. Not simply caring for family members, but outside the home, at the small hospital near Deeside that Lord Aberdeen had set up. She’d worked among the poor and been trained by professional doctors. That was it. Prince Albert pinpointed it in his mind. It must have been the nursing. Alice was still quiet and seemed gentle; but there was a determination about her. A force.
Princess Alice checked the medicines laid out near her father. She knelt down and, taking his wrist, tested his pulse against her little pocket watch. Yes, she was an excellent nurse, and she was ambitious to use this knowledge. Prince Albert sighed, again. It would be of no use to his daughter. Her ability might even harm her prospects. Alice was not destined for a career, but for life as a wife in some minor royal court; raising her own brood of children to marry yet more obscure royals. Even her progressive father would not consider an alternative. For the moment, however, Prince Albert was extremely grateful for this grave, studious child. Alice was the only one who could possibly understand what was going on.
Pain shot through Prince Albert’s
back and legs. A spasm clutched his bowels. ‘Ah, my daughter,’ he groaned, ‘Bin so sehr elend. I am so very wretched!’
Alice placed a firm pillow behind his back. ‘It is partly in your mind,’ she said, massaging his legs vigorously. ‘You are so distressed. You must rest. We will do everything we can to make you comfortable and well. And the nation! The nation cannot survive a day without your counsel. Do you not see how precious you are to us all?’
The Prince gazed at his daughter fondly, yet the sadness in his eyes made Alice grow cold. ‘My daughter,’ he whispered, ‘oh my daughter. I love my family and I have given everything to this nation, this Britain. But you must know the truth.’
Alice continued to rub her father’s legs, refusing to meet his glance. For that one moment, her love of her father turned her to a coward. She was afraid of what she would hear.
The Prince became quieter, the pain for the moment, gone. ‘Why is it that I do not cling to life?’ he whispered to his child. ‘I have no tenacity for it.’
Princess Alice sat back, kneeling beside her father on the floor. She took his hand and said softly, ‘The doctors are saying it is just a chill.’ She didn’t believe this for a moment, and Prince Albert snorted slightly.
‘This is no snuffling cold. I am chilled, to the heart. There is something else I fear . . .’
The truth was coming, she must be brave. Alice moved even closer and laid her head upon her father’s chest. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I know something of what you fear, and I will understand.’
The Prince lay quietly, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘You will think the fever has affected my mind, that I am insane . . .’ He paused, considering, and then sat up, resolved to speak. ‘For some time, I have felt that there is a world other than ours. And not the world of our precious Lord; something strange and alien to us. A world of a good, so bright it hurts, and an evil, so dark . . . so dark . . .’ He began to shiver and Alice moved to bring him a blanket, but he wound his arms around her, holding her as tight as he could.
‘Such strange things are happening,’ said Prince Albert. ‘Incidents beyond our powers. It is war.’
‘War in America?’ Alice asked.
He was silent, gathering together his fantastical thoughts. ‘Yes and no,’ he replied slowly. ‘It is part of this war in America; almost as if they are using the American war for their own purposes.
Alice lifted her head to look at her father. ‘Can you tell me about these people? Who are they?’ She dreaded the answer.
Prince Albert stared into space. ‘I cannot tell you much, but I feel a great deal. Sometimes I catch a glimpse, from the corner of my eye, and then I hear the sounds so very softly. As if I am on the other side of a wall, unable to reach them . . . And then that man, last night, the most tangible evidence. He looked into my eyes. I felt as if he were draining my soul. He has left a terrible cold behind. A helplessness. A hopelessness. With that one glance, he has wounded me deeply.’
It was worse than Alice had suspected. Yet she still hoped to cure him. ‘Dear father, you must put aside these morbid thoughts. You must rest,’ she pleaded.
Prince Albert stroked her soft brown hair. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I will never rest again. The time has come. The battles are merging. The violence of the Americas feeds a much greater battle. It is no longer of another world, but of ours. It is not by accident that I fear what I fear, or I see what I see. These strange creatures and half-seen fancies; it is me they want. I have suspected for some time and now I know. Death entered Windsor Castle last night. He came, dressed for a ball – and danced with me!’
Chapter Eleven
The Real Sir Brendan
The days stretched out and Windsor Castle closed in upon itself. In the Grand Corridor the courtiers conversed in low worried tones. The Queen continued to deny that her beloved husband was seriously ill. ‘It has only been a week,’ she insisted. Even the finest doctors in the land would not contradict the Queen, and Sir Brendan O’Reilly was not among the finest. He agreed with her, giving her false hope. At worst, he said, ‘The Prince would be in bed for quite some time. He might still be convalescing at Christmas . . . a pity . . .’
Princess Alice carried the burden of knowledge. During their long night together, when Prince Albert told her what he feared she had tried to reassure her father, but she knew he spoke the truth. Quickly she sought out James O’Reilly and, ignoring DuQuelle’s suspicions, Katie too. DuQuelle, of course, was vital. He was their only guide to this other world which they must battle.
With its courtyards and crenellated walks, it was easy to find privacy at Windsor Castle. The four made their way to the lower ward, and met in the Dean’s Cloister, away from the curious eyes of the Castle inmates and visitors.
Katie was shocked to see the change a week could make. Alice, always slender, was now stick-thin. Her large grey eyes were ringed with circles. James’s hair stood on end and in his absent-mindedness he hadn’t even put on a coat to ward off the cold. Only DuQuelle maintained a sense of normalcy. He was dressed, as usual, with great care – in a natty fur-lined overcoat with a deep cape.
Together they paced under the arches of the old cloister, their tapping feet echoing on the cold stone.
‘Could we not have met in the Castle?’ DuQuelle asked. ‘Preferably near one of those roaring beach fires?’ He had a particular dislike of the cold, but was this really the time for flippancy? Katie looked at him closely. If any man that white could grow even paler – that man was Bernardo DuQuelle. Could he possibly be as worried as the rest of them?
‘I feel so helpless,’ Alice said. ‘If it were simply a fever, even an ailment as serious as typhoid – my father is still young, he lives a healthy life, he could fight and win and live! But Lord Belzen is involved. I do not know how we can fight the Malum.’
They all looked to Bernardo DuQuelle. His face gave away nothing. He offered no hope. Katie couldn’t bear it. Seeing Alice like this helped her push away the dark bitterness that kept trying to take hold.
‘We have to fight what we can,’ Katie said, ‘and that’s his physical illness. If only Sir Brendan would admit that the Prince is truly ill. I mean, the Queen believes every word he says, thinks he’s a great doctor, but . . .’ She trailed off. It was always hard to discuss Sir Brendan O’Reilly, with his feeble abilities and his lax morals, in front of his talented, upright son.
James flushed red, but was firm in his reply. ‘You are right, Katie, this cannot go on. The optimistic attitude of my father is killing the Prince. We must bring in a better doctor and we have to act now. Bernardo DuQuelle needs to speak to my father – and Princess Alice must convince the Queen. I suggest we cable Sir Henry Holland. He’s of a finer cut than most society doctors and the Queen approves of him. I will also telegraph to Dr Thomas Watson. He’s a sound physician who is grounded in the treatment of fever. And the Prime Minister must be informed. We need backing at the highest level.’
Not for the first time, Katie looked at James with admiration. He had the makings of a true doctor and put knowledge and ability before everything else. She expected great things of him. Princess Alice squeezed his hand in sympathy. ‘I’m certain that is the best path,’ she said. ‘This does not, though, address the bigger problem. My father says it is a battle, a battle beyond our abilities.’ Again they looked to DuQuelle and again he was silent.
Finally he spoke. ‘To fight on two fronts is always a mistake, but we have no choice. Let us deal first with the here and now. James, cable the doctors and tell them they must come at once. When they reach the Castle, make certain they speak with you first – yours is certain to be the best diagnosis of the case. Princess Alice, Katie, follow me. I will have that much-needed discussion with Sir Brendan O’Reilly.’
They found Sir Brendan in the Grand Corridor, pacing outside the Blue Room. ‘Ah, DuQuelle,’ he said. ‘Just the man I need.’ But his eyes said otherwise. DuQuelle, who knew so much and understood all, was rarely the man a courtier
wanted to see, and with him were Princess Alice and that gawky American friend of hers – even worse. A most unwelcome trio.
‘How does the Prince?’ DuQuelle asked, knowing full well the answer.
Sir Brendan tried to smile, but it was a weak attempt. ‘He has had a poor night, I am afraid of his own making. The Prince would not settle, but moved from room to room, sitting up and lying down. He is finally resting in the Blue Room. At my urging, he has taken some orange jelly and a little raspberry vinegar in seltzer water. I assure you, he’ll sleep now and begin to mend.’
Katie looked at Sir Brendan in amazement. How could he continue this policy of cheery optimism?
Meanwhile Princess Alice had some questions. ‘I’ve discussed the case with James,’ she began, ‘and to us it seems a much more serious illness, bearing the characteristics of a gastric fever. Don’t you fear…?’
Sir Brendan frowned. At heart, he had always disliked Princess Alice. Despite her gentle voice and large grey eyes, she was pushy, something he hated in a girl. And worse, she was determined to study medicine. It was all so unwomanly. Then there were her relations with his son, James – in his opinion the least promising of the O’Reilly children – who would never adapt to court life. The last thing Sir Brendan wanted was the opinion of Princess Alice. He still wished to play the courtier, but his patience was running thin.
‘You talk of fear, Princess?’ said Sir Brendan. ‘Oh yes, I have a single, looming fear. I fear that every year for the next thirty years, I will be tending Prince Albert for these same symptoms. The Prince, as always, is over-sensitive about illness. He makes a great mountain of a trifling winter cold.’
Alice looked grave. ‘I would hardly call this the time to jest,’ she reproved Sir Brendan. ‘You misdiagnose this illness. In my opinion . . .’
There it was again. The opinion of a girl. He knew he was in too deep, in ways they couldn’t imagine. Something in Sir Brendan snapped and his usual charm, saved for the Royal Family, collapsed. ‘Your opinion? I have warned the Queen, again and again, that nursing – semi-professional nursing – outside the home sphere, would be the ruin of you. And look what it was done. This attempt to interfere, to impose your own half-baked theories, to overrule the Queen’s physician!’
The Chronicles of the Tempus Page 55