The toll proceedings was a convenient time for masters in the Baltic trade to meet in the old Skibsklarerergarden while awaiting assessment, there to exchange gossip of commercial possibilities. With an obliging ship’s chandler acting as clearing agent, and an opportunity to store local fresh produce and water piped down from the lake, it was a congenial waypoint.
The town of Elsinore – or was it to be Helsingor? – was no sleepy medieval relic but a working town, devoted to the servicing of the endless stream of shipping in transit of the Sound. Busy shipbuilding and repair slips lay about the small harbour, and the many chandlers and shipping offices lined neat streets.
And overtopping all – Kronborg.
They took a shay and, at the towering gate, found that it was by no means unknown for English visitors to come to gaze upon Hamlet’s castle. An English-speaking guide could be had for a small sum, and a delighted Mr and Mrs Laughton were greeted at the Dark Gate Ravelin entrance through the towering Crownwork ramparts, and led into Kronborg.
The louring towers and casemates, frowning apartments and lofty trumpeter’s spire had an air that was at once menacing and deeply mysterious. It was pointed out that Hamlet’s battlements were part of the original Castle Krogen belonging to Eric of Pomerania, now dwarfed and built over as Kronborg at the very time Shakespeare was penning his masterpiece.
Banqueting halls with fading tapestries, rooms of ancient armour and regalia all added to the atmosphere. Renzi and Cecilia admired a brooding statue of the legendary Holger Danske, lost to the mists of history but sleeping in the bowels of Kronborg, ready in time of peril to rise up to save Denmark from her evil assailants.
That brought Renzi up short, a reminder of why he was there, and cut through the warm cocoon of his romantic tryst with Cecilia.
Damn it all! There had to be a resolution to the insanity before the gathering storm broke over this calm and ordered land. He’d do all that was possible to spare its inhabitants.
Chapter 43
Copenhagen, Sj?lland, Denmark
When they arrived in Copenhagen it was grey and raining softly, increasing Renzi’s mood of melancholy. They rounded to and, after exchanging hails with a harbour craft, passed by the low-bastioned ramparts of a vast citadel into the heart of the city.
Waiting for the English noble and envoy on the quay was a small party of well-dressed officials, who stood patiently in the wet until their barque had been warped alongside and the brow put in place. One detached from the group and boarded, throwing back the hood of his cloak in a spray of droplets. He had pale, sensitive features and a natural dignity but shrewd eyes.
The man swept down in a courtly bow. ‘My lord, I extend welcome from His Majesty the King of Denmark to you, emissary of His Britannic Majesty. I am Count Joachim Bernstorff, minister in foreign affairs, and I have been instructed to render such services as shall be convenient to you.’
‘Your welcome is most appreciated, sir, coming as it does on this day of inclement weather. May I present the Countess of Farndon, who has expressed to me an earnest desire to know more of your ancient kingdom?’
They descended to the stone landing and were introduced to lesser dignitaries, then conveyed to a state carriage, the accoutrements and footmen almost quaint, of another age.
Bernstorff climbed in with them, explaining that, as honoured visitors to his king, they would be his guests at the palace.
The carriage clattered on to a broad plaza, with an imposing equestrian statue gleaming in the rain. Across its corners stood four stately buildings. An honour guard waited stolidly in the drizzle, and as they descended from the coach, a small military band broke into a thin tune that Renzi did not recognise. Bernstorff ushered them up the stairs to a waiting official.
‘The residence of His Majesty, King Christian the Seventh. This is the Lord High Chamberlain Herre Moller, who will conduct you to your apartments. My lord, I will bid you farewell and will see you at the reception tonight.’
The palace was sumptuous and stately, and Cecilia took Renzi’s arm as they mounted the steps to the upper floors to enter their regal suite. A haughty lady-in-waiting at the head of a troupe of footmen and maids greeted them and, in passable English, explained that she would ensure smooth household functioning as Lord Farndon’s entourage settled in. The reception would be at seven and court dress would be expected but if the countess wished to refresh herself after her journey …
Renzi occupied himself in a book-lined state-room. He took down a volume and blew the dust from it, a venerable work in German on architectural terms. The one next to it was another dealing in great detail with the origins of a minor noble house of sixty years before. He smiled wryly. Libraries in palaces were always the same, an earnest collection of works presented over the centuries and never once put in order for a scholar’s perusal.
The doors squeaked open and he turned about.
‘Lord Farndon?’
‘It is.’
‘My lord, Benjamin Garlike, head of His Britannic Majesty’s mission in Copenhagen.’
They exchanged polite bows but Renzi was instantly on the alert. ‘So good of you to call, Mr Garlike.’
He recalled Congalton’s warning – that it was crucial to keep the secret of the dispatch of a British fleet from hostile ears, for fear that the French would see it in their best interest to intervene immediately and head it off. It was probable therefore that Garlike had not yet been informed of the move.
‘Sir, I was made aware of your intended visit only in these last two days, leaving small time to prepare, I fear.’ There was a peevish undercurrent.
‘You’ve been told the purpose of my visit, sir?’
‘Only that an audience is sought. That is not so readily attained, my lord.’
‘Then for your ears only, I will divulge the true object of my being here, the better to acquaint you of its importance.’ He allowed a note of pomposity to take hold. ‘His Majesty is sore exercised by the parlous state of relations between Dane and Englishman and notes the singular lack of success of politics to effect a reconciliation.’
‘My lord, for some time we’ve been endeavouring to no purpose to extract a pledge of security, which-’
‘He believes that a crisis is fast approaching that must be met by every effort to conciliate. My presence here is by his express desire to convey to the King of the Danes both his distress at the situation and to offer such understandings and advice that only one sovereign privately upon another might achieve.’
‘Do pardon the direct speaking, my lord, but this is hardly work for those not perfectly versant in the diplomatic arts.’
‘His Majesty wishes it, and it is therefore not to be questioned, Mr Garlike. I shall require audience and that, I believe, is within your competence to arrange, sir.’
‘Very well, my lord. You should be aware that King Christian is taken by a malady of the reason and, while audience may well be secured, all executive powers are held by the Crown Prince.’
‘So I understand. Nevertheless, the King specifically charges me with the expression of his fraternal regard and that I shall right willingly do.’
‘Then I honour you for it, my lord. Shall you also be seeking a meeting with Crown Prince Frederik at all?’
‘At Kiel? Yes, I think it were proper in me to do so.’
Chapter 44
The evening’s reception was glittering and noble. With the Lord Farndon in splendid attire of silk breeches under a strikingly cut black velvet dress coat with gold buttons and his countess in dove-grey satin lavishly embellished with seed pearls and a long train, they caught every eye.
Renzi had no qualms about the display – it was expected and, born to it, he found no difficulty in sustaining the figure. He was immensely proud to see Cecilia as serene in the person of Lady Farndon as though she, too, had been raised in the peerage. Shrugging off his gloom and sense of foreboding, he progressed through the crowd.