Cecilia gripped his hands so tightly it hurt and, looking deep into his eyes, whispered, ‘Dear Nicholas – believe me, my love, when I tell you that I’d a thousand times be here by your side than safe and without you.’
They clung to each other for a long moment.
Dabbing his eyes, Renzi pulled himself together. ‘I do believe we must seek shelter lower down. The cellar, perhaps.’
‘Then that’s where we must set up our home!’ Hetty said, with brittle gaiety. ‘Do go down and I’ll bring our things to you.’ She hesitated, then said in an off-handed way, ‘Dear Frue Rosen was not able to go out today, the people being all of a moil. We can do without our foodstuffs but we’re in sore want of water. The pump is at the end of the street – I’ll see if I can squeeze out a dish or so.’
‘No!’ Cecilia said in consternation. ‘They’ll see you’re English and – and hang you!’
‘There’s not so many out there and they’ll have other things to worry on. I’ll be quick, don’t bother about me.’
She shooed them down the stairs to the cellar and found a pan.
Chapter 98
Hetty cringed in fear. In the open air every explosion and rending smash was clear and immediate as though she were part of it. Fires leaped and crackled on all sides, and drifting fragments of ash came down in a constant soft rain.
The flash and detonation of an exploding shell nearby made her jump. Moments later shards of stone and iron skittered down around her while the raw stench of burning and ruination hung heavily in the air.
The pump was only a hundred yards away and seemed to have been abandoned. She hurried towards it, heart pounding. There, she was confronted with an appalling sight. A cross street led to the dignified Vor Frue Kirke and its lofty fine spire. The church that had seen the weddings of the kings of Denmark and their coronations was now ablaze, a giant torch, engulfed to the very steeple tip. Against the merciless flames the black outlines of dancing figures were trying vainly to save what they could.
Mesmerised by the awful sight, Hetty couldn’t move – and then, in a stupendous flare of heat and flame, the steeple gave way and the church collapsed, swallowing the people below in a surge of victorious conflagration.
Stricken with horror she dropped her pan and turned to flee back, whimpering, desperate to reach their sanctuary.
But at that precise instant a mortar shell detonated in a blinding flash nearby, closely followed by another further along. The blast reached her and tore at her flimsy dress, and when her sight cleared, she saw that the entire front facade of their town-house refuge was now a smoking pile of rubble along the road, the dark voids of rooms on the upper floor grotesquely exposed.
Heart in her mouth she was about to run forward when the remaining structure teetered, masonry crumbling, then fell, with a heavy and prolonged crash and swirling dust.
Where before there had been a princess’s mansion there was now only a collapsed ruin – and lying crushed and dying within were Lord Farndon and his countess.
Choking with emotion, Hetty ran towards the devastation, a vast pile of brick and shattered stone. She fell on it, tearing at the rubble with bleeding fingers, blinded by tears of frustration.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, patting, comforting. A deep male voice uttered soft words in Danish and instinctively she flung herself at him, weeping and howling. The man held her, gently saying something over and over and lifting her face to see if she understood.
But she had no idea what he was saying.
She pulled herself together and tried a weak smile.
Awkwardly, the man spoke again, then turned and left.
As he disappeared into the distance Hetty surrendered to a tidal wave of inconsolable grief.
Chapter 99
Hetty woke. In a wash of terror it all came back – but in the dull daylight the situation had changed. The leaping flames of the night had given way to a drab bleakness, a desolation of ruins and scattered debris almost unrecognisable as the street she knew. From all directions sullen columns of discoloured smoke rose over the dull red of fires still alight, and the street was full of shuffling figures, some with pathetic bundles and trailing children.
There had been light rain during the night, which had laid the dust somewhat but had left her dress wet and clinging, grimed and spattered with blood from her fingers. She shivered and pulled it tighter as reality hammered in: under this sprawling mass of rubble were the dear Lady Cecilia and her husband, Lord Farndon.
It rocked her sanity and brought on an empty, dry sobbing at her sheer helplessness in the face of what had happened so quickly. All that was mortal of the ones she cared about most was there and only she could do something about it.
She looked up at the passers-by, dully plodding on to who knew where – but they were Danish. Why should they help their enemy?
She gulped and looked about. Was there no one she could turn to?
Yes. Mr Jago was in their Amalienborg quarters. Imperturb able and impassive, he would know what to do. She had to get to him.
She and Cecilia had left for Frederiksborg Castle through the West Gate. Therefore she would walk east into the morning sun until she reached somewhere she recognised, her goal the big square of the Amalienborg complex.
‘Don’t just stand there – give me a hand!’ Jago grunted to Golding, one of the servants, as he peered out of the window. ‘That’s Miss Hetty out there.’
The door had been well barricaded with a sofa and chairs and took some time to open.
He hauled her in. ‘Miss Hetty, what’ve you been up to, walkin’ the streets like that?’
‘Oh, Mr Jago! It’s terrible, terrible.’ A wave of emotion seized her, leaving her weeping and trembling and clinging tight to him.
‘Why, here’s a to-do,’ muttered Jago, clearly embarrassed. He led her to a chair and sat her down. ‘Now you tells me all about it.’
She took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then recounted what had happened.
‘We’ve got to rescue them, Mr Jago! Get them out of there!’
‘After what you said, if ’n they’re still alive,’ he reflected darkly.
She cried in anguish. ‘Please help, I beg you. Pleeeease!’
‘There’s a war on. I don’t rightly know …’
‘But we have to do something – anything!’
‘Don’t take on so, Miss Hetty,’ he snapped. ‘He’s my master as well, an’ it doesn’t help, you pipin’ your eye like that.’ He began pacing around the room. ‘Could be there’s a way. Look, I know you’s had a time of it, but can y’ see your way clear to takin’ us to ’em?’
‘Of course!’ she replied instantly.
‘First things first. We finds a few tools to carry, then I’ve got a job for that kitchen boy as has the English.’
A furtive search around the lower floor produced only some gardening implements but Jago seemed happy with the haul.
The kitchen boy agreed to be their translator, for a ready sum.
‘Now you be on y’r best behaviour, young lad, ’cos we’s on a special mission, and if you promises not to tell a living soul, I’ll let you in on it.’
Outside it was quiet and no one seemed inclined to question a group of men, a ragged woman and a boy as they trudged along.
‘There’s no guns, Mr Jago,’ Hetty said.
‘Course not. They gets going at night.’
‘No, it’s not that – there’s not even the others.’
The irregular thumps and rumble of artillery exchanges at the ramparts had stopped completely. Not even distant bursts of musketry.
‘They’ve given in, surrendered.’
‘Never. See? All the flags are still up.’
As they reached the corner Jago bent down as if to tie a bootlace and glanced back. To his satisfaction he noted a sudden scurrying of figures diving out of sight. ‘Well, let’s be on our way.’