She sighed. Unfortunately, she had never made it that far. She hadn’t had the time, she thought between the window and the cold fireplace as she watched the flakes falling. The one winter had not been enough. To build a court theater took years. Still, their coronation had been as sublime as she had imagined, and afterward her portrait had been painted by the best artists of Bohemia, Moravia, and England, and she had eaten from golden plates and led parades through the city, and boys dressed as cherubim had carried her train.
Meanwhile Friedrich had sent letters to Papa: the Kaiser will come, dear Father, he will come without doubt, we need protection.
Papa had written back and wished them strength and fortitude, he had summoned God’s blessing down upon them, he had given them advice on health, on the decoration of the throne room, and on reigning wisely, he had assured them of his eternal love, he had promised always to stand by them.
But he had not sent any soldiers.
And when Friedrich had finally written him beseechingly that he needed help for God’s and Christ’s sake, Papa had replied that never would even a second go by in which his dearest children were not the content of all his hope and trepidation.
But because he hadn’t sent any soldiers, the Protestant Union hadn’t sent any either, and thus all that remained to them was the Bohemian army, which had gathered outside the city in splendor and steel.
From the castle she saw them marching, and with cold horror it became clear to her that those flashing lances, those swords and halberds were not simply any mere shiny things but blades. They were knives, sharpened for the sole purpose of cutting human flesh, penetrating human skin, and shattering human bones. The people marching in step down there so beautifully would thrust these long knives into others’ faces, and they themselves would have knives thrust into their bellies and necks, and quite a few of them would be struck by lumps of cast iron flying fast enough to tear off heads, crush limbs, smash through bellies. And hundreds of buckets of blood that was still flowing in these men would soon no longer be in them, it would spray, spill, finally seep away. What did the earth actually do with all that blood, did the rain leach it out, or was it a fertilizer that made special plants grow? A doctor had told her that the last sperm of the dying begat little mandrake men, root creatures trembling with life, which screamed like infants when you pulled them out of the ground.
And all at once she knew that this army would lose. She knew it with an assurance that made her dizzy. Never before had she seen into the future, nor did she manage to do so ever again, but at that moment it was not a presentiment but the clearest certainty: these men would die, almost all of them, except for those who would be crippled and those who would simply run away, and then Friedrich and she and the children would flee westward, and a life in exile would lie ahead of them, for they wouldn’t be able to return to Heidelberg either, the Kaiser would not allow it.
And that was exactly what had happened.
They moved from one Protestant court to the next, with a dwindling retinue and dwindling money, under the shadow of the imperial ban and the revoked electoral dignity, for Friedrich’s Catholic cousin in Bavaria was according to the Kaiser’s will now Elector instead of Friedrich. Under the Golden Bull the Kaiser did not even have the authority to make such a decree, but who was supposed to prevent him? The Kaiser’s commanders won every battle. Papa could probably have helped, and indeed he wrote full of goodwill and concern, regularly and in the finest style. But he didn’t send soldiers. He also advised them not to come to England. Due to the negotiations with Spain the situation was not favorable at the moment. After all, Spanish troops were now stationed in the Palatinate to continue the war against Holland from there—keep waiting patiently, my children, God is with the righteous and fortune with the decent, don’t lose heart, not a day goes by when your father James is not praying for you.
And still the Kaiser won battle after battle. He defeated the Union, he defeated the King of Denmark, and for the first time it seemed possible that Protestantism would vanish again from God’s world.
But then the Swede Gustav Adolf, who had not wanted to marry Liz, landed and won. He won every battle, and now he was in winter quarters outside Mainz, and after long hesitation Friedrich had written to him, in a sweeping hand and with a royal seal, and only two months later a letter with an equally large seal had arrived at The Hague: We are pleased to know that you are well and hope that you will visit.
It was not the best moment. Friedrich had a cold, his back ached. But there was only one person who could get them back to the Palatinate and perhaps even back to Prague, and when he summoned you, you had to go.
“Do I really have to?”
“Yes, Fritz.”
“But he cannot give me orders.”
“Of course not.”
“I am a king as he is.”
“Of course, Fritz.”
“But do I have to go?”
“Yes, Fritz.”
And so he had set off, with the fool, the cook, and Hudenitz. It was about time too that things changed; the day before yesterday there had been groats for lunch and bread for dinner and yesterday bread for lunch and nothing for dinner. The Dutch States General were so weary of them that they hardly gave them enough money to survive anymore.
She squinted into the snowstorm. It had grown cold. Here I sit, she thought, Queen of Bohemia, Electress of the Palatinate, daughter of the King of England, niece of the King of Denmark, grandniece of the Virgin Queen Elizabeth, granddaughter of Mary, Queen of Scots, and can’t afford firewood.
She noticed that Nele was standing next to her. For a moment this surprised her. Why hadn’t she gone with her husband, if indeed that’s what he was?
Nele curtsied, placed one foot pointed in front of the other, spread her arms, and splayed her fingers.
“There won’t be dancing today,” said Liz. “Today we will talk.”
Nele nodded submissively.
“We’ll tell each other things. I’ll tell you, you’ll tell me. What do you want to know?”
“Madame?”
She was somewhat unkempt, and she had the coarse build and the crude face of her lowly station, but she was actually pretty: clear, dark eyes, silky hair, curved hips. Only, her chin was too broad, and her lips a bit too thick.
“What do you want to know?” Liz repeated. She felt a pang in her chest, half fear, half excitement. “Ask whatever you want.”
“It’s not my place, madame.”
“If I say so, it’s your place.”
“It doesn’t bother me that people laugh at me and Tyll. For that’s our job.”
“That’s not a question.”
“The question is, does it hurt Your Majesty?”
Liz was silent.
“That everyone is laughing, madame, does that hurt?”
“I don’t understand.”
Nele smiled.
“You have decided to ask me something that I don’t understand. As you wish. I have given you an answer. Now it’s my turn. Is the fool your husband?”
“No, madame.”
“Why not?”
“Does there need to be a reason?”
“There does need to be one, yes.”
“We ran away together. His father was condemned for witchcraft, and I didn’t want to stay, I didn’t want to marry a Steger—that’s why I went away with him.”
“Why didn’t you want to marry?”
“Always filth, madame, and in the evening no light. Candles are too expensive. You sit in the dark and eat groats. Always groats. And I didn’t like the Steger son either.”
“But Tyll?”
“I’m telling you, he isn’t my husband.”
“Now it’s your turn again to ask a question,” said Liz.
“Is it bad to have nothing?”