Nicola Cornick - House Of Shadows

‘And wished you present, madam, to add beauty to the proceedings,’ Craven said.

Elizabeth laughed. ‘Frederick’s words, I’ll wager, not yours, Lord Craven. You are not known for your courtly address.’

‘As to that, madam,’ Craven said, ‘I can vouch that there are no beauties in Bavaria other than the scenery.’

They were still laughing when the first of the hunting party broke through the trees into the dappled clearing. Elizabeth felt a wilful urge to wheel her horse around and dig her heels into its flanks, leaving them standing. Then she saw Charles Louis, his expression hovering on the edge of mutiny at the prospect of his mother outrunning him again, so instead she reined back and allowed them to surround her, chattering, and rode forwards decorously out of the shadows and onto the open hill.

From here there was a beautiful view of the little town of Rhenen, clinging to the hillside, and the curl of the river to the east. The sunlight twinkled on the gables of the hunting lodge Frederick had built, finished only the previous year. They’d had so little time to enjoy this place together before war had come again. Elizabeth felt a chill premonition that they never would.

The servants were spreading out a meal on a plateau in the shade of the trees. They scurried around unpacking boxes, setting rugs and cushions. There was glazed ham and pastries, roasted meats and red wine. Craven had gone to fetch a glass for her. She was about to dismount – Billingsley, her Master of the Horse, had come forwards to help her.

‘Why such a long face?’ she asked him, knowing full well it was because she had chosen to ride ahead with Craven leaving him to watch over the princes.

Billingsley flushed. He did not have Craven’s easy way of responding to her comments, whether they were teasing or serious. He was too stiff and formal, conscious of his status and of hers too. She supposed William Craven ought to show a similar deference but he never did and she had given up expecting it of him. Besides, something about Craven’s uncomplicated approach was refreshing. He told her the truth as he saw it. He could be blunt, but he was never disrespectful.

There was a sudden crashing sound of a branch falling and shouts from across the clearing where the Princes were playing hide and seek, climbing trees, their irrepressible high spirits toppling over into dangerous risk-taking. Elizabeth spun around in the saddle.

‘Don’t let them—’ she said to Billingsley, but it was too late, one of the trees was rotten. The falling branch had been a precursor and now the whole trunk shook and with a roaring sound like the tide rushing in it fell, the branches clashing together. Some fool screamed. Elizabeth’s horse took fright, rearing and taking her by surprise. She lost the reins and made a grab for the mane as the horse bolted, plunging back into the trees the way they had come.

Elizabeth saw a jumbled vision of images flash past: Craven, running for his horse, Billingsley, his mouth hanging open in shock, the servants frozen to the spot, the boys pausing in their shrieks of excitement to stare after her in horror. Then all hell broke loose behind her with screams and shouts, but all she could do was cling on for dear life, crouched low as the trees whipped overhead and the horse ran and ran, propelled onwards by its own panic until at last it slowed and then stopped.

She slid down to the ground and sat for a moment half-lying, half-tumbled whilst she caught her breath. Her first sensation was relief and her second, following swiftly, was anger. She was the best female equestrian at court, one of the best riders there was. Yes, the horse was skittish and high-spirited – even now she was shying at her own shadow, ears flat as she blew out her breath in great heaving pants – but Elizabeth had prided herself on the fact that she was one of the few who could ride her. Her pride had been richly served now.

There was no sound, no one calling for her, no noise of men or carts, nothing but the wind in the trees and the chirps of the birds, so loud they seemed to fill her ears. She reached for the reins and started to stroke the horse’s nose, speaking softly to her, calming her until she too felt calmer. Soon she would be able to remount and try to follow her tracks back to the edge of the wood. It could not be difficult. She would find her way back to Rhenen. Besides, had she not always said she wanted to be alone? Now, unexpectedly, she had as much solitude as she could deal with.

The bushes rustled on her right, but it was only a bird foraging in the undergrowth. She got to her feet stiffly and, leading the horse, started to walk in what she hoped was the right direction. There was little sunlight through the thick canopy and the branches sprouted low, tangling with the thick and thorny bushes. Within a few minutes Elizabeth was hot and scratched and dirty, hungry too, and resenting the picnic left so far behind. Being alone was not as enjoyable as she had thought it would be. There was something unfriendly about the wood, its darkness and silence. It felt as though someone was watching her.

The horse picked up on her nervousness, flicking her ears, whisking her tail. When a noisy bird crashed through the leaves above and flew off with a startled alarm call Elizabeth thought she would bolt again and gripped the reins more tightly, but the horse was too tired. They both were.

The bird had been warning of an approach. Elizabeth could hear footsteps and turned sharply just as a man stepped onto the path in front of her. The sun was behind him and for a moment she could not see his face, then she realised it was William Craven.

‘Craven!’ she said. Her voice wobbled, betraying her. She wondered if he was going to berate her for poor horsemanship or make light of her headlong flight, but he did neither. His face was white and he looked afraid. He dropped to one knee and took her hand, kissing it.

‘Madam! You are safe?’

‘As you see,’ Elizabeth said. She felt shock and something more intimate that shocked her all the more. She resisted the urge to touch his bent head.

‘Thank God.’ His voice had strengthened. He scrambled to his feet. ‘I was afraid for you.’ He corrected himself. ‘We were all afraid, for she set off at such a mad gallop with you. Everyone has been searching the forest.’

‘Then you had better lead me back to them,’ Elizabeth said. She looked about her. ‘I have no notion where we are. It was lucky you found me.’

‘You are almost at the edge of the trees.’ Craven had taken the horse’s bridle, leading her between the trees, at the same time holding back the brambles and briars that snatched at Elizabeth’s skirt. ‘You would doubtless have found your way back safely before too long.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Elizabeth said, ‘it was you who found me. I owe you a debt of gratitude, Lord Craven. Another one. As does my husband.’

‘Your husband?’ Craven paused. They were on the edge of the wood. ‘Yes, of course.’ His voice changed. ‘His Majesty would be distraught to know of your accident.’

‘There is no harm done,’ Elizabeth said. She looked closely at his face as she stepped past him, out into the sunshine and light and fresh air. ‘You, though,’ she said, noting the lines etched deep on his face, ‘you look as though you need a physician. I had forgotten you were wounded lately. Are you in pain?

A smile lightened his expression, lifting the lines of anxiety from about his eyes. ‘I am quite well, thank you, madam.’ He came up to her and set his hands on her waist to lift her up into the saddle. They were very close together. Elizabeth looked up into his face, the strong line of his jaw, the cleft in his chin, the light in his hazel eyes. Something shifted inside her and warmed and she caught her breath on a wave of longing.