“If Your Majesty would permit me to inquire,” said Salvius. “So that I may understand. You have come here to demand something that we would never have pursued on our own. And your threat is: if we don’t do what you want, then you will retract your demand? What is one to call such a maneuver?”
Liz smiled her most mysterious smile. Now she really was sorry that she wasn’t standing at the edge of a stage, facing the semidarkness of an auditorium, where the audience listened spellbound. She cleared her throat, and even though she already knew her reply, for the sake of a stronger effect on the spectators who weren’t there, she pretended she had to think.
“I suggest,” she finally said, “you call it politics.”
III
The next day, the last of her stay in Osnabrück, Liz left her room at the inn early in the afternoon to make her way to the bishop’s reception. No one had invited her, but she had heard that everyone who mattered would be there. Tomorrow at this time she would already be on the way back, through ravaged landscapes, to her small house at The Hague.
She could not prolong her stay. She had to depart, not merely due to the lack of money, but also because she knew the rules of a good drama: a deposed queen who suddenly appeared and then disappeared—something like that made an impression. But a deposed queen who appeared and then stayed until people got used to her and began to make jokes about her—that would not do. She had learned this in Holland, where she and Friedrich had once been so kindly welcomed and where in the meantime the members of the States General were always otherwise engaged just when she asked for a meeting.
This reception would be her last appearance. She had made her proposals, had said what she had to say. There was nothing more she could do for her son.
Unfortunately, he came after her brother and was a real lout. Both of them resembled Papa, but they had nothing of his sly intelligence. They were space-filling, self-important men with deep voices and broad shoulders and sweeping movements, who were mad about hunting. Over in her native land her brother would probably lose his war against the parliament, and her son, should he actually become elector, would hardly go down in history as a great ruler. He was already thirty years old, thus no longer young, and currently he was roaming around somewhere in England, probably hunting, while she was negotiating for him in Westphalia. His rare letters to her were brief, with a coolness that was not far from hostility.
And as always when she thought of him, the image of the other one took shape in her: her beautiful son, her clever and radiant firstborn, who had had his father’s kind soul and her intellect—her pride, her joy and hope. When his image arose in her, it bore various faces, all at the same time: she saw him as he had been at three months old, at twelve years old, at fourteen. And then she felt that other image looming up, which every thought of him brought with it and because of which she strove to think of him as little as possible: the capsizing boat, the black maw of the river. She knew how it felt to swallow water by mistake when swimming, but drowning? She couldn’t imagine it.
Osnabrück was tiny, and she could have walked from the inn. Yet the streets were dirty even by German standards, and besides, how would it have looked?
So she had herself lifted into the coach again, leaned back, and watched the narrow gabled houses jerking past. Her lady’s maid sat silently beside her. She was used to being ignored by Liz and never spoke to her unless spoken to. To act like a piece of furniture was the only thing a lady’s maid really had to be able to do. It was cold, and a fine drizzle fell. Nonetheless the sun could be made out as a pale spot behind the clouds. The rain cleared the air of the smell of the streets. Children ran by. She saw a group of city soldiers on horses, then a donkey cart with sacks of flour. Now they were turning toward the main square. Over there was the residence of the imperial ambassador where she had been the day before. In the middle of the square was a block the height of a man with holes for head and arms. Just last month, the innkeeper had told her, a witch had stood here. The judge had been lenient: she was granted her life and after ten days in the pillory driven from the city.
The cathedral was bulky and German, a disastrous monstrosity, one tower thicker than the other. Attached to its side was an oblong house with massive cornices and a pointed roof. Several coaches were blocking the square, so that Liz could not drive up. Her coachman had to stop at some distance and carry her to the entrance portal. He smelled bad, and the rain wet her fur coat, but at least he didn’t drop her.
Somewhat ungently he put her down. She leaned on her cane so that she wouldn’t lose her balance. At moments like this she felt her age. She threw back her fur hood and thought: my last appearance. A tingling excitement filled her, as it hadn’t in years. The coachman went back to get her lady’s maid, but Liz didn’t wait, instead entering alone.
Even in the entrance hall she could hear music. She stopped and listened.
“His Imperial Majesty has sent us the best string players of the court.”
Lamberg was wearing a cloak of dark purple. Around his neck he had the necklace of the Order of the Golden Fleece. Beside him stood Wolkenstein. The two of them took off their hats and bowed. Liz nodded to Wolkenstein. He smiled at her.
“Your Highness is departing tomorrow,” said Lamberg.
It irritated her that it didn’t sound like a question but like an order.
“As always, the count is well informed.”
“Never as well as I would like to be. But I promise Your Highness that you will not easily hear music like this elsewhere. Vienna would like to show the congress its favor.”
“Because Vienna is losing on the battlefield?”
He acted as if he hadn’t heard the question. “And so the court has sent its best musici and eminent actors and its best entertainer. Your Highness paid the Swedes a visit?”
“The count really knows everything.”
“And now Your Highness also knows that the Swedes are at odds with each other.”
Outside, trombones were played. Lackeys flung open the doors. A man flashing with jewels came in, a woman with a long train and a diadem on his arm. As he passed, the man cast Lamberg a not unfriendly glance. Lamberg inclined his head so slightly that it was not quite a nod.
“France?” asked Liz.
Lamberg nodded.
“Has the count sent our proposal to Vienna?” she asked.
Lamberg did not answer. She couldn’t tell whether he had heard her question.
“Or is that not necessary? Does the count have the authority to decide on his own?”
“A decision of the Kaiser is always a decision of the Kaiser and no one else. And now I must take my leave of Your Highness. Even under the protection of a false name it is not proper for your faithful servant to continue to converse with Your Highness.”
“Because we are under the imperial ban, or because your wife will be jealous?”
Lamberg chuckled. “With Your Highness’s permission, Count Wolkenstein will escort you into the hall.”
Wolkenstein bent his arm, Liz laid her hand on the back of his hand, and they went in with measured steps.
“Are they all ambassadors here?” she asked.
“All of them. Only not everyone is permitted to greet everyone, let alone talk to everyone. Everything is strictly regulated.”
“Is Count Wolkenstein permitted to talk to me?”
“Absolutely not. But I am permitted to walk with you. And I will tell my grandchildren about it. And I will write about it. The Queen of Bohemia, I will write, the legendary Elizabeth, the…”
“Winter Queen?”
“Fair phoenix bride, I was about to say.”
“The count can speak English?”
“A little.”
“And has read John Donne?”