Inferno (27 page)

The room was tidy, with an elaborate desk against the window. Four neat sets of papers were on the blotter ready for work. One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with books and against another was a languorous chaise-longue, next to it a beautifully carved mahogany side table with a foot-high marble statue of a weeping Virgin Mary.

Renzi worked fast, riffling through the paper piles. Next were the pigeon-holes at the rear – so many of them – and he had to be careful to replace everything.

Nothing.

The dispatch case? Or look for a place of concealment?

Near despair, he began feeling down the back of the desk, but it was awkward and—

‘Stand up and turn around slowly!' a voice rapped in French.

Renzi froze. The door hadn't opened and someone was in the room with him.

Carefully he rose and turned. It was Gobineau, in a dressing-gown, carrying a heavy pistol. Behind him there was a void in the bookcase where a concealed doorway had swung open.

The count's eyes widened in recognition. ‘
Mon Dieu!
Lord Farndon? And in the character of a common thief? It passes belief!'

The pistol never wavered, and Renzi knew he would not leave the legation alive.

‘Before I have you taken up, it would gratify me immensely to know what it is you seek, my lord. No – don't tell me, I rather think I know.'

He edged along to the desk, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Slowly bending, his eyes never leaving Renzi's, he reached for a lower drawer, drew it open and fumbled for a paper with a broken seal.

‘It's this, isn't it, my lord, from our illustrious emperor with instructions that quite undo your mighty fleet's plot against the nation of Denmark? A pity you will never know its genius. Do believe, it sorrows me to have—'

The door swung open. Jago entered and stopped, stunned. In the same moment the startled Gobineau wheeled around to confront him.

Renzi reacted in a fury of despair. Snatching up the statue of the Virgin, he brought it down in a brutal, skull-crushing blow.

Gobineau dropped without a sound, flopping limply, blood and brains spilling.

Jago stared in horror.

‘Shut the door – quickly!' Renzi hissed, and snatched the
paper from the corpse. Seeing Jago make for the body, he added savagely, ‘Leave him! Turn the place over, get hold of every valuable you can find and make it look good!'

He crossed to the lamp and feverishly scanned the letter.

It was a copy of one sent to Marshal Bernadotte at the head of his army on the southern border and it was from Bonaparte. Short and to the point, it turned everything on its head. If Denmark did not declare war on Great Britain, Bernadotte was to cross the border, then take the country and its fleet for France.

Renzi stood transfixed.

‘We has to go, m' lord,' Jago whispered urgently, a jangling cloth bundle in his hands.

Renzi took a last look at the letter, burning its details on his mind then returned it to the drawer. Without a word the pair slipped through the bookcase opening and down steps into a palatial bedroom. It had no occupant but reeked of perfume and, with desperate relief, Renzi saw it had an alternative access – a small door.

It led down a dank, cramped staircase and, after an interminable descent, to another door.

Renzi eased the bolt back, cracked it open, then threw it wide. Ahead an alleyway led to the busy street. Gobineau's route of secret assignation had been the means of their escape.

Safely back, and fortified with a stiff whisky, Renzi forced his mind to an icy composure.

If Bernadotte crossed to Sjælland and flooded it with troops, it would be all over in days. With the Baltic sealed against Britain, and Denmark's fleet in other hands, the worst nightmare would have come true.

There was only one course left: abandon his mission – and the Danes.

On his report, as a matter of the utmost urgency, the armada would be unleashed to secure the prime objective: the Danish fleet. Only this could save something of the situation, putting the closing of the Baltic beyond the power of Bonaparte.

How ironic. Sent on a mission of peace, his would be the word to launch the expedition against the blameless Danish.

He tossed back the last of the whisky and began cyphering.

It was done.

His presence in Denmark no longer held any value. The sooner he was away from Copenhagen the better – not only to be gone before the final act started but to escape the bleak sense of guilt that bore down on him.

There was little time left: Gambier would act the instant he received word.

Early the next day, Renzi set Jago to preparing staff and baggage for a hasty departure. Now he had only to fetch Cecilia and they would be gone from this unhappy place.

The major-domo insisted on speaking to him personally. ‘So sorry, my lord, all the carriages are not available. It is the English fleet – they are scared, my people.'

Renzi bit back a retort and, with rising anxiety, ordered Jago to find an alternative. Rumours and fright had set the population to a frenzy of aimless movement, and it wasn't until well into the morning that a run-down four-wheeler was located. There was now a pressing need to get away before the mood turned ugly. Renzi remembered how rapidly in Naples things came to a murderous crescendo when the crowd took it into their heads to go against a foreigner.

‘O
h, Nicholas! I'm so relieved to see you,' Cecilia whispered. ‘Everyone's in such a tizz at the English fleet.'

Behind her, Hetty stood mute, her hands at her mouth.

The guards were still at their posts and inside the palace there was a wary quiet.

Frue Rosen greeted Renzi with a fleeting smile but her hands worked together. ‘Sir, I know it in my bones – no good will come of this.'

‘Calm yourself, my dear. If it sets your mind at rest I do offer you a place in my party, which is soon to be quit of Copenhagen.'

‘Oh, my lord, this is generous of you but, sir, my country, my memories … are here in Denmark. I shall stay.'

‘I understand. We shall be gone directly, and do wish you—'

Outside there was the sudden clatter of horses and equipment. Hoarse, barked commands rang out and forceful voices could be heard from the hall beneath them.

‘It's the Crown Prince!' gasped Frue Rosen.

More shouts came, then an order, repeated.

She started in dismay. ‘I'm called. They've come to take His Majesty away.' Turning abruptly she hurried down the stairs.

Renzi ran after her.

The hall was full of men – courtiers, soldiers, footmen. He searched about feverishly for the Crown Prince but couldn't see him for the crowd. Was there now a final chance – if he could get to him?

He was jostled by men streaming out from the interior of the palace with chests and baggage and, through the windows, Renzi saw coaches draw up.

Cecilia caught up with him, clutching his arm at the pandemonium.

Then without warning the Crown Prince was in front of them. ‘You! My lord Farndon! Why are you here, sir?' he cried. ‘I demand to know!'

‘Your Royal Highness, I'm here to collect the countess who's been staying with—'

There was a muffled scream – a tearing, unhinged wail. The bustle and noise died away at the sight of the King of Denmark, Christian VII, being dragged out between two guards in an extremity of terror.

Frederik pushed forward and snapped at the wild-eyed monarch, gesturing angrily.

‘
Nej, nej, nej!
' gurgled the King, in his nightclothes a pitiable figure. His ashen-faced guards struggled to hold him.

The Crown Prince barked at his father mercilessly, bringing on a fresh paroxysm of weeping and shrieking.

Frue Rosen tried to interpose herself between them, shielding the King and weeping with frustration.

Everyone froze and a breathless stillness lay on the air.

Cecilia, wrung with pity, choked, ‘The poor man! The poor, poor man!'

She ran to him, knelt down and restrained a flailing arm, stroking and murmuring endearments in English, as his mother must have done. He quietened, looking up desperately from her to Frue Rosen, and Cecilia continued her soothing words until, unexpectedly, he smiled and stuttered, ‘The English! The English have come at last! I … I must prepare for them. Where shall I go?'

Between them Cecilia and Frue Rosen helped him to his feet. Grinning inanely, he allowed himself to be put aboard a coach, never taking his eyes off them. It ground away, the King leaning from a window and waving gaily, as if for all the world he was on holiday.

Crown Prince Frederik stalked over to Renzi. ‘I should thank you, my lord,' he said, breathing heavily. ‘My father is deranged as you have seen. And yet I'll have you know it was caused by you English.'

‘Sir, I'm sorry to hear it, but caused by we?'

‘You've not heard? This morning at ten your armada landed troops and guns on the soil of Denmark and even now advance on Copenhagen. For the safety of His Majesty I'm conveying him out of here.' He flushed. ‘This is an act of war, my lord. For this I should have you taken. Your mission is finished – it is over. However, for the respect I bear my uncle I grant you your liberty but I can do nothing more for you. My protection is withdrawn.'

Turning on his heel he strode to the royal coach and it sped off with a thunderous cracking of whips.

Cecilia clutched Renzi's arm, looking around fearfully at the commotion. ‘Quickly!' he said. ‘Follow me.' They ran outside to the outer quadrangle to board the old coach.

It was no longer there.

I
n his cabin Kydd reached for an apple and tried to concentrate. There'd been such excitement and anticipation when the expedition had sailed, and every day more warships and transports joined to swell their already impressive numbers. It was a far bigger concentration of naval power than he'd seen at the conquest of the Cape, Buenos Aires – even at Trafalgar.

In this great British fleet thousands of men – troops and sailors – were confined within their ships in the late summer heat. For two weeks they'd been lying to anchor here, waiting for the issue to be decided that would see them either sail away or move to another level of threat to induce the Danish to give up their fleet.

But every hour they remained idle, word could be going out that would see the Danes establish defences and bring up troops. Or, worse, call in the French to protect them.

The odd thing was that the Danes seemed completely unconcerned, as if the great force assembled was nothing to do with them.

The beef boats and water hoys put off from the harbour of Elsinore to supply the fleet without any hindrance and in return Admiral Gambier fell in with the sunrise and sunset gun fired from Kronborg Fortress as applying to his fleet as well. Officers were strolling ashore, honours scrupulously paid and returned. A picture of peacetime serenity.

Lying further inshore was the only representative of the Danish navy, the frigate and guardship
Frederiksværn
, at single anchor and silent witness to the drama.

Still no movement. There would soon be a time when—

Through the open stern windows Kydd heard animated voices above. What was going on? They stilled. A short time later there was a burst of excitement. It was too much. He reached for as much dignity as he could muster and wandered on deck.

‘All's well?' he enquired of the mate-of-the-deck, who hastily lowered his telescope.

‘Sir! We sees this Dansker packet comes out o' nowhere as if he has the hounds o' Hell after him. Heads straight for Flag and in a trice commotion breaks loose aboard. Wouldn't be surprised if—'

‘Signal, preparative, “all captains”, sir.'

Kydd gave a tight smile.

Gambier was brief and to the point. ‘I have this hour been notified that negotiations with the kingdom of Denmark in the article of a pledge of security have failed.' He waited for the murmurs to die down. ‘And, further, that unless we act with the utmost dispatch the French will be enabled to intervene. Gentlemen, it is time.'