eighteen, should have been the last man to dismiss the possibility that Lydford North had started young, and experienced much. ‘No, it was always intended that the real business would be transacted with the true power in Sweden – the High Chancellor, De La Gardie. He favours the French, but not blindly so – he is amenable to argument, and even more so to money. It happens that the High Chancellor has an estate barely a hundred miles from here, where he is building a quite remarkably grandiose palace,’ said North easily. ‘It is no inconvenience to His Excellency, and naturally arouses no suspicion, for him to be resident there. He has business in these parts – or so he has told the Queen Regent. Thus even now, with the land frozen, you can be there and back in days. Two or three formal but secret audiences, Sir Matthew. That is all that will be required.’
I felt my heart’s beat. North was so plausible, and yet this was truly
terra incognita
for Matthew Quinton. The oath I had sworn meant I could consult no-one; none at all, apart from this strange creature, at once impossibly young and impossibly old, that stood before me. ‘If we encounter unforeseen delays – if, then, the masts fail to reach England,’ I said tentatively, ‘the navy could not fight one battle –’
‘Sir Matthew,’ said Lydford North sharply, ‘if we do not have the Swedish alliance, there may be no England to fight for.’
For the only time that I could recall, I wished with all my heart that my brother was in my place. Charles Quinton, Earl of Ravensden – a man of undoubted rank, a man who had negotiated with kings, cardinals and criminals alike, a man used to acting the part that was required of him. Dear God, Charles would have known how to answer this upstart North. Charles would have known how to disport himself in secret negotiations with the ruler of another land, especially since he was already familiar with the land. Charles would not have dreaded –
did not dread
– the prospect of failure, and with it the possible wrath of Arlington and King Charles the Second. But my brother was not in that low, dark room at that moment. In his place was young Matt, acting the part of Sir Matthew Quinton, whoever he might be.
And yet…
Yes, and yet. True, I had a responsibility to the mast-fleet that lay icebound within the road of Gothenburg, but perhaps I had also been given a God-given opportunity to ensure that it would not be the last such fleet to reach England in the present war. If the High Chancellor had ordered the embargo on new supplies, was it not at least possible that he could be persuaded to reverse that policy by the envoy of His Britannic Majesty?
There was another vista before me, too. Landtshere Ter Horst had refused to sanction the deportation to England of the vile regicide Bale. Might not the intercession of King Charles’s ambassador with King Karl’s High Chancellor ensure that the wretch finally came to the righteous and divinely ordained sentence of hanging, disembowelment, the burning of entrails, castration and quartering?
At the very least, that would make my mother happy: especially if she was able to watch.
‘Very well, Mister North,’ I heard myself say, ‘you have your ambassador .’
Chapter Six
We buried Peregrine, Lord Conisbrough, after the English fashion, that is, by torchlight in the evening, the service being held within the great German church upon the broad canal that bisected the town. The Swedes found this perplexing, as it is their custom to leave their dead unburied for months, if not years, until the ground unfreezes sufficiently to dig graves and they have saved enough lucre to be able to afford a grand interment for the deceased. It was with only some difficulty that we had persuaded the pastor of the German church, a sullen Brandenburger, to permit a Baron of England the honour of a grave beneath the floor of his south aisle.
Thomas Eade, the chaplain of
I felt my heart’s beat. North was so plausible, and yet this was truly
terra incognita
for Matthew Quinton. The oath I had sworn meant I could consult no-one; none at all, apart from this strange creature, at once impossibly young and impossibly old, that stood before me. ‘If we encounter unforeseen delays – if, then, the masts fail to reach England,’ I said tentatively, ‘the navy could not fight one battle –’
‘Sir Matthew,’ said Lydford North sharply, ‘if we do not have the Swedish alliance, there may be no England to fight for.’
For the only time that I could recall, I wished with all my heart that my brother was in my place. Charles Quinton, Earl of Ravensden – a man of undoubted rank, a man who had negotiated with kings, cardinals and criminals alike, a man used to acting the part that was required of him. Dear God, Charles would have known how to answer this upstart North. Charles would have known how to disport himself in secret negotiations with the ruler of another land, especially since he was already familiar with the land. Charles would not have dreaded –
did not dread
– the prospect of failure, and with it the possible wrath of Arlington and King Charles the Second. But my brother was not in that low, dark room at that moment. In his place was young Matt, acting the part of Sir Matthew Quinton, whoever he might be.
And yet…
Yes, and yet. True, I had a responsibility to the mast-fleet that lay icebound within the road of Gothenburg, but perhaps I had also been given a God-given opportunity to ensure that it would not be the last such fleet to reach England in the present war. If the High Chancellor had ordered the embargo on new supplies, was it not at least possible that he could be persuaded to reverse that policy by the envoy of His Britannic Majesty?
There was another vista before me, too. Landtshere Ter Horst had refused to sanction the deportation to England of the vile regicide Bale. Might not the intercession of King Charles’s ambassador with King Karl’s High Chancellor ensure that the wretch finally came to the righteous and divinely ordained sentence of hanging, disembowelment, the burning of entrails, castration and quartering?
At the very least, that would make my mother happy: especially if she was able to watch.
‘Very well, Mister North,’ I heard myself say, ‘you have your ambassador .’
Chapter Six
We buried Peregrine, Lord Conisbrough, after the English fashion, that is, by torchlight in the evening, the service being held within the great German church upon the broad canal that bisected the town. The Swedes found this perplexing, as it is their custom to leave their dead unburied for months, if not years, until the ground unfreezes sufficiently to dig graves and they have saved enough lucre to be able to afford a grand interment for the deceased. It was with only some difficulty that we had persuaded the pastor of the German church, a sullen Brandenburger, to permit a Baron of England the honour of a grave beneath the floor of his south aisle.
Thomas Eade, the chaplain of
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