Inferno (23 page)

‘Sire, I bring greetings from your brother sovereign, His Britannic Majesty King George of Great Britain. He bids me to say—'

‘My mother was English. Did you know? That's why I can understand you, Lord, um, Thingummy. And so also the mother of my child who … who …'

His face crumpled and, catching the nurse's horrified look, Renzi hastened to continue: ‘Who brings a gift from his heart for the love he bears you, sire.' He beckoned Cecilia forward.
Gracefully she sank to her knees holding a small japanned black case.

‘A gift? For me? So kind! So kind!' He stood, transformed, and hurried with childish glee to Cecilia who proffered it.

He opened it.

Inside there was a miniature sword, perfect in every detail, the hilt of gold encrusted with jewels and with a tiny tasselled knot.

‘Wonderful!' he breathed, holding it reverently.

Then, cackling, he set off in a pitiable shuffle about the room in mock swordplay, his maniacal barks falling into the heavy silence of the assembled court.

‘You were so good to the poor man,' Frue Rosen said, her eyes brimming. ‘So many come to sneer and be cruel. I've seen him as a young man … when … when …'

Cecilia held her hand, murmuring soothing words.

‘It's just that … the English are not so liked here now, the demands they make and the dreadful time when Nelson came. I do so yearn to hear an English voice, and when I learned you were coming I … I …'

‘We'll stay a little longer before we go, won't we, Nicholas?'

Later, Lord and Lady Farndon retired to their gilded four-poster bed in the Amalienborg.

Renzi lay staring up at the ceiling.

Cecilia stroked his hair. ‘It's your burden, isn't it, Nicholas? I do feel for you, my love – to sway those stiff-necked Danish with so little to offer.' She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Never forget, you're giving it of your best, and if you cannot persuade them, it's never your fault.'

Renzi stirred and said quietly, ‘The fleet will arrive directly.
Then it will be doubly difficult. My dearest, time is pressing me mortally.'

He rolled over and faced her. ‘Bernstorff's sympathetic but his hands are tied, as are those of others fearful of the French. If I can think of no course to mollify London I rather fear the consequences will be dire.'

Cecilia sighed. ‘At times, Nicholas, I think this is all something of a forlorn hope, born of the King's desiring, of course … but who's to say? You may be meant to fail, leaving the field to the warriors.'

R
enzi made his goodbyes the next morning. He had been firm with Cecilia. It was not necessary for her to accompany him on an uncomfortable journey to Kiel to meet the Crown Prince in what would amount to little more than an army encampment. Why not extend her friendship with Frue Rosen?

This was not all from concern for her: he needed time to think.

The conceit of his visit as a personal gesture from King George had opened every door – but he had first to engage with the real wielders of power in the little kingdom, then cultivate a relationship of disinterested trust. But whatever he said would have no weight, no binding significance that could be translated into a formal agreement, let alone a treaty.

He'd already settled on the approach: in his character of royal concern for Denmark he would feel it appropriate to be ready with well-meant advice, placing alternatives before them in a way that could never be contemplated by a diplomat.
If, miraculously, he could bring about a change of heart he could leave Garlike to conclude the formalities.

But, damn it, what unanswerable arguments could he use to bring about this miracle?

Cecilia's words came back to haunt him. Could it be that he was intended to fail, that the government and military wanted a tangible victory and a vanquished foe to dictate terms to rather than tamely accept a diplomatic solution?

Either way, time was running out.

Bleary-eyed he joined the other passengers on deck for the last mile to Kiel docks, no nearer to a way through to allow the Danes an honourable settlement.

There was no ceremonial guard of welcome, so near to the buffer territory facing Bernadotte's army. Instead, a small carriage and four hussars waited impatiently.

A serious-looking individual stood apart, grave and upright. ‘Count Christian Bernstorff, my lord. You are expected.'

There was no conversation from the unsmiling figure as they clopped along the avenues to a point opposite the docks where a frowning Germanic red-stone château dominated. Once inside Bernstorff lost no time in taking Renzi to a mock-medieval hall, hung with faded tapestries and suits of armour. ‘My lord, I've a communication from my brother concerning your visit. And it disturbs me, sir.'

‘Why so, Count Bernstorff?'

‘You cannot be unaware of the delicate – no, acute plight we find ourselves in. If all the skills of diplomacy cannot attain a measure of agreement, how can you think to?'

‘My sovereign desires I should spare nothing to bring about a reconciliation.'

‘There are some who would say that the British government is using your mission as an unfair tactic to gain
ascendancy over the Crown Prince to sway his decisions in their favour.' He paused. ‘I am not one of them, my lord.'

‘Thank you,' Renzi said drily.

‘I believe you to be sincere in your intentions, and those of your king. You will have your audience, but be assured, should you press His Royal Highness in matters outside your competence I shall have no other alternative than to intervene.'

‘Sir, I understand your position.'

‘Then I will allow that you are arrived and do seek an early meeting.'

R
enzi gave an elegant and flowing bow before Crown Prince Regent Frederik, seeing before him one of quite another spirit to his father. Not yet in his forties, with fair hair, startling blue eyes and pointed chin, his sharp face was uncompromising in its determination.

He wore a military red coat with blue facings, the heavy epaulettes grey and silver. No court shoes, simply plain hessian boots over white pantaloons. A heavy sabre in its scabbard leaned against the desk.

‘Your Royal Highness is most kind to see me at such notice.'

‘I cannot refuse to entertain my uncle's emissary, my lord.' The tone was wary, the English accented.

‘Sire, His Britannic Majesty desires me most earnestly to discover common ground that will allow us to proceed to an understanding.'

The reply was cautious but encouraging. Renzi, however, sensed tension, defensiveness. He felt some sympathy for the man: he had all power as an autocrat, but his decisions
would commit his country to war or peace, survival or ruin, with none to share his burden.

By degrees the guarded conversation became less stilted, passing over subjects of family, cultural differences, the attractions of Copenhagen. A tray of glasses was brought and toasts were offered in a fine German Rheingau for health and prosperity to the Houses of Hanover and Oldenburg. But underlying all, an indefinable barrier, a line of reserve, could not be crossed.

After more than an hour of pleasantries and elliptical inferences, Renzi had the feeling he was achieving a rapport that could well lead to more substantial discussions at another audience. Tense and weary, he conceded the day and, pleading fatigue from his journey, retired to his guest suite.

It was frustrating in the extreme: he had the ear of the one individual who could stop the cataclysm with a word – if only he could conceive of a face-saving means to proffer.

After more hopeless casting about he surrendered to sleep with the resolve to go on the offensive, along the lines of offering firm advice.

In the morning he was encouraged when Frederik came down to breakfast and sat next to him, enquiring after his night's sleep. This could only be that, after mature consideration, he felt it of value to pursue the discussion.

Once again in his state-room, Frederik mused archly, ‘It would intrigue me to know what Uncle George would do in my place – just out of interest, you understand.'

It was what Renzi wanted.

The careful phrasing was for the benefit of Bernstorff, who sat at a desk on the pretence of preparing the day's papers.

Renzi warmly sympathised on the dilemma the Crown of Denmark faced. He then lightly touched on the courses open, delicately pitching the consequences as they would be perceived by the King of England.

He gave a casual glance in Bernstorff's direction: the foreign minister was sitting stock still, his pen motionless in his hand.

Was it working? With an increasing tide of despair, Renzi had to accept that he did not have a magic formula to cut through the impasse. Worse, he had a premonition that both were waiting, hoping he had, and within the hour they would know he hadn't – and it would all be over.

‘Therefore, Highness, this question of a binding covenant of security—'

There was murmuring at Bernstorff's desk: a functionary had arrived and was whispering urgently to him.

Bernstorff stood up. ‘Sire, if you'll excuse me …'

He left, and Renzi cudgelled his mind for something to take advantage of his absence, but Frederik was obviously distracted.

It wasn't long before Bernstorff returned and, with a glance at Renzi, told the Crown Prince something in a low voice that made him shoot to his feet and apparently demand details. It was all in Danish and their frequent looks in his direction made him tense with foreboding.

Frederik broke off and glared at Renzi. ‘My lord, a powerful British fleet has been sighted approaching the Sound. What do you know of this?'

He froze. It had happened, and at the worst possible moment. He was in an impossible situation. If he denied all knowledge of it he would be marginalised and his ‘advice' would fail. If he admitted it, his mission would be seen as
a smoke-screen to delay things until the assault fleet was in position.

‘Sir, I would have an answer! This is a great fleet. It must have a purpose.'

He gulped – but then was saved.

Speaking in English for Renzi's sake, Bernstorff said evenly, ‘Sire, I hardly think the noble lord can be expected to answer that. Yet an explanation does suggest itself. I've reliable knowledge that, since the Treaty of Tilsit, the British Admiralty has intended to establish in the Baltic a fleet of force with which to balance a hostile Russian presence. Surely this is its nature.'

‘It has transports – military, troops, guns. What of them?'

‘It seems to me undoubtedly for the reinforcement of the Swedes on the north Baltic seaboard, they having lately been cast out of Stralsund and the whole south shore.'

Frederik snorted. ‘Then you'd say they will pass, there is no intimidation implied?'

‘I can hardly think that it is intended to assault without warning a guiltless neutral, sire. The British would never do it. My explanation is much the more likely one, I believe.'