Inferno (22 page)

Gobineau bowed and backed away with a faint smile.

‘T
he minister Count Bernstorff,' intoned the newly arrived Jago next morning after breakfast. Renzi's retinue had followed on behind.

‘Ah. I will see him in the withdrawing room.'

Cecilia gave an enquiring look, but Renzi shook his head. ‘We'll see what he wants first, my love.'

She knew his mission, for he'd given the matter much thought on the passage to Denmark and had come to the conclusion that it was more risky to have her in ignorance of his objectives and an unwitting hindrance than to break secrecy and divulge his goals.

His predecessor, Lord Stanhope, had rarely travelled on his own missions without his wife. Without a doubt they must have come to a similar conclusion, but the good lady had never once given indication that she was privy to deadly secrets. Cecilia would be following in the same tradition.

Bernstorff rose and bowed. ‘Lord Farndon, I'm here to inform you that an audience with the King has been arranged for four this afternoon. Would that be convenient?'

‘Perfectly,' Renzi said, relieved. The sooner the preliminaries were out of the way the quicker he could get to the real work.

‘Then it would give me great pleasure, my lord, to show you and the countess something of Copenhagen. As you may see, the weather is looking more kindly on us this day.'

‘That is most generous in you, sir,' Renzi answered politely. There had to be something behind it, a busy minister taking the time to conduct a tour with an idle aristocrat.

‘Then might we say carriages at ten?'

Copenhagen gave an impression of both hardihood and calm: neat and clean, frowning Lutheran churches, and houses in bright Scandinavian colours, charming shop-lined canals and imposing public squares.

Their first stop was at the Dyrehavsbakken park to enjoy its deer and amusements. With Cecilia and Hetty exclaiming happily ahead, and two attendants behind, the men fell into step beside one another.

‘A very proud and ancient country,' Bernstorff offered. ‘Gorm the Old dated from before your own Alfred, which renders Denmark yet more venerable than England, I believe. And with Harald Bluetooth, Sweyn Forkbeard and, of course, the peerless Cnut, we have modest claim to a history much entangled with yours, sir.'

‘Vikings descending on the northern monasteries have been mentioned in some accounts,' Renzi agreed.

‘We are a small, hardy race and have found ourselves so many times caught between the fires of nations far larger than ours.'

Renzi murmured in sympathy.

‘Yet we have found a sturdy refuge in neutrality that has served us well. Do you blame us for this, my lord?'

‘Sir, I am not a political and cannot possibly speak to that.'

At coffee in the medieval Nørregade, which Bernstorff introduced as the Latin Quarter, Renzi was startled to hear conversations that sounded different from the jagged sibilances of Danish. ‘Latin! The students practising?'

‘Just so. Lord Farndon, do forgive my raising the subject but it is imperative, I know. My position at court demands it.' He leaned forward intently. ‘Tell me, are you here in contemplation of opening negotiations towards the marriage of Princess Caroline to the—'

‘Minister Bernstorff, I can solemnly declare to you that our sovereign king has no intentions whatsoever in this regard.'

‘Oh. I had it on good authority, you'll understand.'

‘I see.'

‘Well, if Lady Farndon feels she is able to bear it, we shall go to a most colourful and curious part of Old Copenhagen.'

It turned out to be Nyhavn, the busy waterfront facing the Sound. Dark, smoky taverns with enticing signs of mermaids or crude model ships lined the place where the canals of Copenhagen met the sea. Tall warehouses, in dashes of colour that would never be seen at Wapping, stood along cobbled lanes, some with ornate escutcheons of merchant houses on their elaborate doors, others with votive statues high on their walls. Everywhere there was bustle and noise, with carts and stevedores.

‘My lord, this is what I brought you here to see,' Bernstoff said, escorting Renzi to the end of the wharf. ‘Be so good as to look to seaward.'

On the left the channel led to the open sea and, in the distance, a long island with a peculiar rectangular appearance,
while immediately ahead was what could only be the entrance to the harbour proper.

‘You are privileged, Lord Farndon. This is a sight denied to your fleet under Nelson when they came to teach us a lesson in 1801. That island is the Trekroner Fortress, which you are seeing, from the inside. The naval dockyard and base is to your right. It was a hard fight, in truth.'

Out there, not so very long before, the British fleet had been locked in mortal conflict with the Danes, a battle dearly won in which Admiral Nelson had famously made play with his telescope and blind eye.

‘And so unnecessary,' Renzi murmured.

‘It was,' Bernstorff said shortly, ‘even as we were in a League of Armed Neutrality with the Russians at the time, which was a foolish action for both trade and honour.'

‘And news of its dissolution and Tsar Paul's assassination came only days later?'

‘Yes. Well, if you come again you will find we have not been idle – over there is Prøvesten, an artificial island whose entire nature is to make unwelcome visitors rue their arrival. With our gun-rafts and dozens of ships-of-the-line I rather fancy it will be a different tale told the next time.'

‘Sir. You have been an attentive and considerate host and I would not have you misled. I will speak frankly. My presence here has only one meaning. It is to obey my king's wish that your court understands his distress at the deplorable state of our nations' relations and earnestly to seek a way through, sovereign to sovereign, before it is too late. No more, sir, no less.'

He knew the man was reaching out, hoping for something, anything, in Renzi's gift that could show a path clear of the gathering storm. And he had denied that hope. At any point
the armada would reach Denmark and then this honourable man would be placed in an intolerable situation.

Count Bernstorff looked away for a space, then spoke softly: ‘Then I grieve for us both, for we Danes are in hostage to Bonaparte's legions on our borders and that is an unanswerable menace. God have mercy on us all.'

K
ing Christian VII was not at the Amalienborg Palace. It seemed he was confined to the Frederiksborg Castle, several miles beyond the city walls, and it was there that the personal emissary of King George was taken with all due ceremony. It was a broad country residence set in acres of parkland, on one side a Chinese summerhouse, on another a Greco-Egyptian temple and, tucked away beyond, a Swiss cottage, all in immaculate order.

They were met on the forecourt by a modest honour guard and a major-domo who conducted them to a small but exquisitely furnished reception room.

A petite, kindly-faced woman was waiting and advanced with a shy curtsy. ‘The Hofdame Rosen, my lord,' she said. ‘As is the chief nurse to His Majesty.'

‘Thank you. Your command of English does you credit, madam.'

The softly lined face creased with pleasure. ‘I was born in England, my lord, and am widow to a Dane.'

‘Then we are doubly welcomed.' It earned another curtsy.

‘Frue Rosen, how does His Majesty?' Cecilia asked politely.

‘My lady, this is what we need to talk about before your audience.'

The guidance was practical and to the point. The King was much cast down by his affliction but if the day was kind could be lucid and charming. Nevertheless, it were better the audience was short and serene. She herself would be in attendance and, trusted through long service to the Crown, would intervene if she thought it necessary. The noble lord should understand that anything declared or granted by King Christian in the audience would be subject to the approbation of the Crown Prince acting as regent.

They were conducted through fine state-rooms to the audience chamber.

His grand court robes heavy and stifling, Renzi stood at one end of the polished marble floor, two thrones on a raised dais at the other. The rich gold canopy and hangings, ancestral portraits and extravagantly carved furniture were of a piece with England's royalty, but with an almost defiant Scandinavian cast.

A pair of halberdiers marched out and took position each side of the dais while members of the household and functionaries waited with Lord Farndon and his lady.

Nearly fifteen minutes later a high, querulous voice could be heard echoing in a passage and a little later a stooped, robed figure emerged through the tall doors, looking about suspiciously.

All went to their knees.

There was shuffling, muttering in an undertone, then silence.

A peremptory order was given in Danish.

‘All rise,' whispered Frue Rosen.

More harsh Danish rang out.

‘Announces your presence and style.'

And then: ‘Do approach now, my lord.'

Renzi gathered his robes and made stately progress down the length of the chamber to stop before the King. As he had done for King George not so very long before, he knelt elegantly and lowered his head, anticipating the order to rise.

There was a small pause, then movement and a rustling – and suddenly he became aware that the King was beside him, cupping his chin and peering into his face. ‘You're English, Lord. I like the English. Don't be afraid!'

King Christian VII would have been barely sixty but it was an old man's features that looked back into his, with fair hair, now white, and faded blue eyes, whose sockets sagged pitifully. Renzi tried not to notice the dressing-gown peeping from under the robes of state, but took it that he should stand.

‘Come, sit with us,' the King commanded, pulling him towards the two thrones.

Hastily courtiers brought up a chair and Renzi sat awkwardly in it, the King swivelling in his throne to face him. ‘We never see the English these days,' he mourned. ‘Those rogues in the Council always have something to say against them.'