Sir Brendan’s voice lost its upper-class drawl and went up an octave. Other courtiers, further down the corridor, looked up from their whispers, sensing something more interesting to talk about. But Sir Brendan could not control himself. ‘Your father has indulged all his daughters, treating them as scholars,’ he practically spat the word scholar at the Princess. ‘This has fed an immodest curiosity in you. I feel for that penniless Grand Duke, that young Louis – what a wife for him! If he had any understanding of your temperament . . . I doubt even he would be interested in such an advantageous marriage. I suggest you stop playing at medicine and prepare yourself for the life you were born to, as a Princess and as a woman.’
He’d had his say, with all his natural coarseness and ignorance coming to the forefront. Princess Alice turned red with embarrassment.
Katie could feel her cheeks flushing too, but with fury. ‘How dare you!’ she cried. ‘I mean Alice, who tries so hard and knows so much. How could you? You’re a terrible doctor. You’re nothing but a phoney!’
Sir Brendan really was at the end of his tether. He was more anxious and exhausted than he let on. A threat hung over him, perhaps more powerful than the Royal Family; and now this interference. He turned on Katie with double the fury.
‘And you! You are nothing but trouble, the strange friend of this unnatural Princess. Everything you touch is tainted. Your interference with my own daughter Grace has seriously damaged her matrimonial possibilities. You have encouraged in her a most unbecoming sense of independence. I do not understand why someone of your ilk would be presented at Court. I have my suspicions. Mr Lewis Tappan. The Lord Chamberlain tells me it was an introduction through M. DuQuelle, and we all know how dubious that is . . . Has anyone at court ever met Mr Lewis Tappan . . . or his daughter Katherine? As soon as the Prince is mending, and he will be mending soon, I will make my inquiries. M. DuQuelle, your position at court is in grave jeopardy.’
Katie’s anger was now tinged with alarm. Alice shook from head to toe. Only Bernardo DuQuelle remained calm. But when he spoke, it was with great force of will. ‘We have no time for your insults and abuse. The Prince must see a more qualified doctor.’
Sir Brendan’s bravery began to collapse. ‘You must not do so,’ he cried. ‘It would only distress the Queen and worry Prince Albert. I am unwilling to cause unnecessary alarm when no cause exists, by calling in a medical man that does not upon ordinary occasions attend at the Palace.’
DuQuelle examined the silver tip of his walking stick. He seemed displeased with what he saw. ‘You speak a half truth,’ he said. ‘You are unwilling – yes, you are most unwilling. You are unwilling to endanger your position at court. You are unwilling to alert the Queen to the serious nature of her husband’s illness. In short, you are unwilling to save the Prince Consort’s life. I sometimes wonder at your actions, and most particularly, at your motives. For whom do you really act, Sir Brendan? Who is your real master? You distrust me? Well, I am exceedingly suspicious of you. I suspect I shall see you leave the Court long before my own exit.’
Sir Brendan blanched. Watching him turn pale, something occurred to Katie. Sir Brendan had always appeared such a buffoon, and yet at the Christmas Ball, only a few days ago, she had seen him give way in the dance to . . . he’d definitely recognized him . . . could he be involved with—
‘Lord Belzen’.
She’d said it aloud before she could stop herself. Sir Brendan’s hands went up, over his head, as if to shield himself.
Bernardo DuQuelle smiled. It was a strange thing to do. ‘Do not worry Sir Brendan,’ DuQuelle spoke in a soothing voice, more frightening than his earlier anger. ‘The responsibility has been lifted from your bowing, scraping shoulders. Your own son, an excellent physician by the way, has contacted two of Britain’s finest medical men. James O’Reilly believes this is a germ-related illness. The Prime Minister has been informed of the true nature of the Prince’s malaise and the actions we have taken.’
Like many bullies, Sir Brendan preferred to pick on those weaker than himself. He was no match for Bernardo DuQuelle. And to lose his temper with Princess Alice had been a major mistake. But Katie . . . He turned to her, his rage reigniting. ‘I know you have something to do with this. I shall get to the bottom of who you are and what you are. You will be exposed.’
The other courtiers were edging closer now, sniffing out a good old-fashioned Court feud. Sir Brendan seemed suddenly to come to his senses. With a stiff bow, he returned to the sickroom and an ailing Prince he could not cure.
DuQuelle took each girl lightly by the arm. ‘I suggest we walk and talk,’ he said. ‘And I recommend we speak softly. The ladies-in-waiting, the Queen’s dressers, the Prince’s valets – how they would love to hear our conversation.’ Slowly they promenaded down the Grand Corridor, out of earshot.
Princess Alice was still trembling and Katie had trouble breathing. ‘I just don’t believe it,’ Katie said. ‘He couldn’t, I mean couldn’t be working for Lord Belzen.’
‘We have no absolute proof,’ DuQuelle said. ‘If guilty, it is the most serious charge.’ He looked down at Katie. ‘Though anyone can be trapped by Lord Belzen. Do you think evil is stupid? No. True evil, magnificent evil, is the cleverest of clever. Lord Belzen has ways. He twists and turns and ducks. One may be working for him and not understand. He can reach out. His call can be sweet. The victim will come to him, without even knowing.’ DuQuelle caught Katie’s eye, his own green ones growing dark, searching.
And then Katie realized, he’s trying to read my mind . . . and he can’t find what he wants; for once he doesn’t understand. ‘I am the mystery,’ Katie thought. And then she was very frightened, because her heart leapt with an ugly, strong triumph.
Chapter Twelve
Snow Hill
In Windsor Great Park the ancient oaks stretched their frosted branches skyward. To Sir Brendan O’Reilly, they looked like the giants of old, raising their arms to heaven, beseeching him to turn back. But there was no turning back. His horse continued up the Long Walk, away from the warmth of the Castle, towards Snow Hill. To his right, the sun was setting, a ball of bright red, reflected in the snow, crimson as blood. Sir Brendan shivered, and his horse skidded on the icy road.
He dismounted, to lead his horse up the hill. Ahead he could see the statue of George III, dressed as a Roman Emperor, astride his own copper horse. It was an inconvenient meeting place, cold and remote at this time of year. But for such a meeting as this, it was perfect. Sir Brendan looked back at the stand of trees and couldn’t agree with them more. Turn back.
He reached the top and tied his horse to the base of the statue. It really was a ridiculous monument, he thought. Mad old George III with bare legs and a toga. For a moment Sir Brendan fancied the statue shivered too. Then his attention turned to a figure emerging from the shadows. It was another man; another gentleman, he might even venture. Yet when Sir Brendan saw this man, his stomach turned with revulsion and dread. ‘I was afraid you might not come,’ was all Sir Brendan said.
The other man laughed slightly, wrapping himself tightly in his warm fur coat. ‘You are right to be afraid,’ he said, ‘though not of what you say, Sir Brendan.’
Sir Brendan hesitated. He almost turned back. And then the man spoke again. ‘I have upheld my side of the bargain. My bankers have put aside a large sum of money. This should clear your debts. Lord Twisted will marry your daughter, should that be your wish. You must be aware that he had other, less honourable designs on her. But the promise of a hefty dowry, from me, has transformed her into wife material. Miss Grace O’ Reilly will have one of the oldest titles in the land.’
Sir Brendan, looked worried. New lines were etched on his handsome face. The Prince’s illness and his own part to play, the problems with money, the worries about his daughter – all this had taken its toll. He was on the brink of disgrace. Yet here he was – saved from bankruptcy. And Grace O’Reilly would become Lady Twisted.
He was
on the brink of disgrace. Yet here he was, saved from bankruptcy. And Grace O’Reilly would become Lady Twisted. Lord Twisted might be corrupt and debauched, a spy and a traitor, but his title was ancient, and his bloodlines very blue. Through the lineage of her husband, Grace would be celebrated in every circle of society and Sir Brendan would rise with her. So many of his troubles were now lifted from his shoulders. He should have felt relief, but doubts continued to creep in with the chill.
Lord Twisted’s noble family might go back hundreds of years, but there was little money left behind the title. He had spent it all. Then his luck had turned. His wealth had increased considerably; where the fortune came from, society had no idea. Yet society now considered him a splendid catch for any woman . . . until one looked closely at the man himself. He was a known liar and cheat. His behaviour during the Crimean War had been scandalous. A less well-connected man would have swung for his deeds. And this new-found wealth . . . Sir Brendan could guess its source.
A copse of trees lay beyond the statue, catching the last light of the day. Sir Brendan stared into the thicket, absent mindedly. Then something caught his eye. A shadow, flitting between the bare branches, and a sound, soft and sniggering, as if he were being mocked. After a hesitation, he bowed. ‘I am grateful for your intervention,’ he said stiffly. ‘There is no way I can repay you. I must take my leave now. As you are aware, there is illness, trouble at Windsor Castle. I must attend at once, Lord Belzen.’
Lord Belzen bowed in return, that strange writhing movement he gave in pleasure or anger. ‘To be of service to you is repayment in itself,’ he replied smoothly. Again, an odd shrill yapping came from the woods below. ‘I am all sympathy, for the troubles in the Castle. Tell me, how does the Prince . . . truly . . . ?’
Sir Brendan looked closely at Lord Belzen. His pale blue eyes were almost rimless and unblinking. Sir Brendan was not a reflective man, but he had begun to wonder, and to doubt.
He had met Lord Belzen at a fete in London. The man seemed well connected, charming and obliging. And he was rich – and generous. Sir Brendan, as he borrowed more and more money, had become indiscreet. From the beginning Lord Belzen had shown great concern for him and his trials. His listened with sympathy to Sir Brendan’s complaints about DuQuelle and the upstart American girl. He asked many questions about the health of Prince Albert.
Lord Belzen was also generous with his advice. Do not alarm the Queen, he said. Ignore the Prince’s constant complaints. Treat his illness lightly. And most importantly, do not consult other physicians. The Queen must place all her trust in Sir Brendan. Great things would come of this. There was even the hint that Bernardo DuQuelle and Miss Katherine Tappan would be taken care of . . . the problem would be solved . . .
Thinking now of the ailing Prince and the conflict with DuQuelle, Sir Brendan knew he had made a poor choice in his confidante. ‘Prince Albert’s health is deteriorating,’ he said slowly. ‘There are those in the Castle who begin to question my diagnosis. I dislike yielding authority. But it is perhaps best to bring in other, more expert physicians.’ The weird yapping in the forest had grown to a howl. He wondered what kind of animal could make such a noise?
Lord Belzen writhed, this time with annoyance.
‘You must not follow your original course of action,’ he replied, his voice taking on a soft hiss. ‘You must insist that the Prince will mend. You must continue to take charge. Heed my advice. We need you there, in the Castle, at the side of the Prince.’
Sir Brendan’s doubts and fears were now tinged with anger. He could see clearly where the bargain lay. In exchange for the money and the aristocratic connections, Sir Brendan must act for Lord Belzen, be his pawn in the Castle. He might be weak and desperate, but this was a step too far. Gathering up his final shreds of conscience, he spoke to Lord Belzen. ‘Do not forget, my duty is to the Queen and to her country. I shall be unable to act as you desire.’
A spasm passed through Lord Belzen’s body. But then he regained control. ‘You will do as I ask. And I will show you why.’
The wind picked up, shaking the limbs of the bare trees. Sir Brendan could see a cluster of animals, leaping from branch to branch. They were baying, as if for blood. He ducked, as one swooped out of the thicket. And then it was in the air, followed by another. Suddenly there was a drove of them, shrieking and cackling. They moved so quickly, he could not see them clearly. In the long shadows of the end of day, he could pick out a wing here, a spike there, the face of a man and the snout of a pig. A grotesquely long limb reached out to pull his hair and tweak his nose.
Sir Brendan was paralysed with fear. It was too late to turn back. In front of him, Lord Belzen’s body began to quiver, from the ankles up through his whole frame. It was a repulsive movement.
‘We need to feed,’ Lord Belzen said, his voice thick and sibilant. ‘And we must feed on brute force. We will sup greatly from this war in America. The girl I have called from times forward, Miss Katherine Tappan . . . Miss Katie . . . call her what you like, but you are right to distrust her. She is angry and alone. She feels left behind and useless. As the seeds of duplicity grow within her, and I will enter her soul. She is already weakening Bernardo DuQuelle. The time comes and soon. She will turn against her friends in the Castle, present to them the face of a friend, but act for me. She will even turn from her Northern sympathies and fan the flames of war.’
‘But why Prince Albert?’ Sir Brendan asked through trembling lips.
Lord Belzen’s head rose up with a reptilian grace. ‘The Prince stands in our way. He will act to stop Britain, and the world, from going to war. He believes in communication, knowledge, negotiation, peace. These princely gifts, they thwart and starve us. There must be world war. To achieve this, we will remove him.’
Sir Brendan was terrified. He had feared social ruin, but he now stood at the gates of Hell. There was one last remnant of loyalty within him. ‘The Queen,’ he said. ‘You must not harm the Queen.’
Lord Belzen’s tongue flickered strangely between his lips. ‘We do not want the Queen herself,’ he whispered. ‘It is the power, the potential for chaos and brutality.’ A great cunning spread over his long face. ‘We want this power for you. The Prince will die, you know that, surely. But you must save the Queen.’ Belzen raised his arm, pointing to the statue, silhouetted black against the sky. ‘The Royal Family. So unstable. The Queen’s very grandfather, George III, was locked up, a madman, in the castle before us. It is you who must protect the Queen, shield her, hide her . . .’
‘You will be rewarded,’ Lord Belzen continued. ‘The wounded Queen, the feeble Queen. You will become her adviser, her companion, and much more than just her trusted servant. She is susceptible to love, and what more charming consort could she choose? Think of the power you will yield, the position you will take in society. I can see you always at the Queen’s side. The most handsome, powerful, wealthy man in Britain – in the world . . .’
At the best of times, Sir Brendan’s mind was not strong. The paralytic fear, the vaulting vanity, the essential weakness now took its toll. Ignoring the demons above him, he fixed his sights on the castle, and his future. He was ready to serve Lord Belzen. ‘My debts must be settled immediately,’ he said, ‘though my daughter’s marriage should wait. There is certain to be a grander match, perhaps into the Royal Family as well.’ Having settled his fate, he began to take steps, make plans. ‘The other doctors will come,’ he said. ‘There is no way to stop them. But I also feel it is too late for them to change the fate of this Prince.’
Lord Belzen bowed deep. ‘As yet, I cannot address you as “my Prince”, but I can reward you with a princely sum.’ He took a velvet pouch from inside his coat.
The sun had set; the sky had darkened. Sir Brendan pocketed his spoils, far more than thirty pieces of silver, and, mounting his horse, road back to the Castle and his destiny. Above him swirled a raucous chorus of singing and laughter. Not of angels, but of demons.
Chapter Thirtee
n
The Call of Duty
The doctors came, but to no avail. Three more days passed, and the Prince grew weaker. Sir Brendan, fortified by new ambition, put his courtier face back in place, and stayed by the Prince’s side. He avoided Princess Alice at all costs; he knew he’d overstepped the mark and must heed Belzen and be patient.
But Alice had other things on her mind. As Prince Albert’s health declined, the Queen’s hysteria rose. She was never good under pressure and this was the crisis of her life. At first the Queen tried to countermand the illness, telling the doctors, ‘the Prince is the most precious and perfect of human beings, he cannot be seriously ill’. But her commands were not enough and eventually she turned to pleading. Her high wailing voice could be heard from the Prince’s chamber: ‘You will save him, won’t you? I know you can!’ More doctors arrived, sent by the Prime Minister, by the Emperor of France and even by Florence Nightingale. The doctors consulted together, reached no agreement and shook their heads.
Katie noticed, with the smallest trace of satisfaction, that they ignored Sir Brendan and turned to James O’Reilly for advice. Though so young, almost a boy, James had a knowledge and seriousness of purpose beyond that of most grown men. She would often see the doctors leaving the sickroom, deep in conversation with him. The courtiers mobbed them, desperate for news. Indeed, the entire nation held its breath. Regular bulletins were issued in the newspapers. The media had suddenly woken up, and realized just how important Prince Albert was to Britain – and that he was in danger.
And the Prince himself? At first he did try to rally. But he was overcome by nerves. He could not rest, or even settle into bed. Throughout the dark hours he wandered from room to room, followed by his little, distressed Queen. One sad night of shivering and sleeplessness followed another. Some mornings he would rise and sit on his sofa, wrapped in his quilted dressing gown, admiring the views of the garden and the orangery. He would take some broth with bread and hold his wife’s hand. But on others he would lie still, with his eyes shut, seemingly counting the moments until it was all over.
The Chronicles of the Tempus Page 56