The Princess of Celle

The Brothers

IN THE COLD dawn Ernest Augustus tried to stop the impatient pawing of his horse on the inn cobbles. He looked up at the window above and called: ‘Make haste, brother. The dawn is here.’

When George William appeared at the window, Ernest Augustus shook with laughter. His brother half naked, hair tousled, was still the handsomest man in Celle even after a night of debauchery.

‘Was your friend so disappointing then?’ asked George William.

‘Oh come, brother, you know we should be back at the castle before daylight.’

A woman appeared behind him. She was young and comely. Trust George William to select the best. Ernest Augustus had become accustomed to taking what was left – one of the penalties of being a younger brother. But he bore no resentment, he would always rather be with George William than anyone else.

‘I’ll join you soon. Be patient a little longer, brother.’

His head disappeared. There were exclamations and giggles from the open window. This was a little dangerous, thought Ernest Augustus. It was all very well to go whoring outside their own home, but they should be more careful in Celle. If Christian Lewis should hear of their adventures … Not that he did not know that such adventures were indulged in; that was not the point. Christian Lewis himself was no monk – although life in the castle went on in the old monastic way under him as it had under their father. Yet one did not philander in Celle. That was the difference.

A movement from above and George William was at the window again. He appeared to somersault; there he was one moment, deftly gripping the sill with both hands, and the next on the ground.

‘Well done, brother,’ said Ernest Augustus. ‘I never saw a man leap from a lady’s bedroom as skilfully as you.’

‘An art acquired through long practice. You will come to it in time. My horse.’

Ernest Augustus, who was holding it, nodded his head and George William leaped into the saddle.

The castle was stirring when they rode into the courtyard. The grooms tried to hide their smiles. They knew where the young men had been. There was, after all, nothing unusual in these nocturnal adventures. This was just another of them.

Since the death of Duke George, Christian Lewis had become the head of the household. The brothers were good friends; they were all lusty, but all in agreement that nothing must stand in the way of their house’s continued prosperity. One of them would marry and produce the heir to the entire estate; it was the accepted plan.

On the day following their night adventure Christian Lewis sent for his two brothers and told them he wanted to talk to them seriously.

‘You were a little noisy at the inn this morning,’ he announced. ‘You were seen leaving. I have already heard of it … from the town. A certain man and his wife, rising early to go to church, saw you leave and heard your ribald comments on the night’s adventures.’

George William grimaced and looked at Ernest Augustus, who burst out laughing.

‘It is no laughing matter when the townsfolk disapprove,’ Christian Lewis reminded them. ‘Why don’t you two each find yourselves a good mistress and settle down.’

‘We have one taste in common,’ replied George William. ‘It is a love of variety.’

Christian Lewis sighed. ‘That’s understandable. But a good mistress here would displease no one and then you should go abroad for your variety.’

‘Abroad,’ echoed George William. ‘I confess the prospect pleases me. Abroad … where the women are supremely elegant. French ladies! Italian ladies! They are more elegant than our Germans. Yes, I should be very pleased to find a friend or two among them.’

‘I am going to marry,’ Christian Lewis told them. ‘They’re forcing me to it. It is time we produced the heir, they say. That leaves you two free. I envy you.’

‘Dear brother, it is noble of you to take on the burden,’ said George William.

‘I am the eldest. It is my duty,’ answered Christian Lewis mournfully.

‘I hope, brother,’ put in Ernest Augustus, ‘that you will have a comely bride.’

‘A woman of virtue and good background. Worthy to enter our family. We are deciding on Dorothea of Holstein-Glücksburg.’

‘Good fortune, brother! May you beget many sons and a few daughters.’

‘Thank you. I shall do my duty.’

‘We shall pray for you,’ said George William.

‘And,’ went on Christian Lewis, ‘since I shall marry and you cannot live, it seems, without a variety of adventures, perhaps you should seek them outside our territory. You and your brother should do a little travelling.’

‘An excellent plan. Why should we not travel together?’

‘That’s what I would wish. Make your plans. Have your adventures – wild as you like – provided that in your own land you conduct yourself with decorum.’

Ernest Augustus’s eyes were shining with anticipation. There was little that could appeal to him more than a trip abroad in the company of his handsome and versatile brother.

After the wedding of Christian Lewis the two brothers set out on their travels journeying south into Italy until they came to Venice, and so enchanted were they with this beautiful city that they decided to rest there for a while.

They took a house on the Grand Canal and were welcomed into Venetian society: two young German Princes whose manners were, at the beginning, a little uncouth, but this gradually changed after contact with what the Venetians called the civilized world. The beauty of the city – particularly by night – enchanted the two men; Venice was at that time at the height of its glory – one of the gayest cities in Europe; rich, elegant, artistic, civilized. The young Germans had always loved music and this interest they were able to indulge to the full.

‘Who would live in Celle,’ demanded George William, ‘when he could live in Venice?’

And as usual Ernest Augustus agreed with him.

After a series of love affairs George William entered into a more permanent arrangement with a young Venetian, Signora Buccolini – a woman of beauty and a nature sensuous enough to match his own. They set up an establishment together and Ernest Augustus – always accommodating – moved from his brother’s house and set up a household of his own. But while George William lived with one mistress, Ernest Augustus failed to find one who could satisfy him completely, so he had many.

It was a pleasant existence and the brothers asked for nothing better. They revelled in their good fortune in being born younger sons while they spared time from pleasure now and then to pity poor Christian Lewis, who as the eldest, had to bear the burden of the estates.

Sometimes they would talk of Celle and laugh – the laughter of complacency – recalling the monastic nature of life in the castle and poor Christian Lewis sitting at the head table in the hall at precisely nine in the morning and four in the afternoon. They had heard that he was drinking heavily – it was his one vice, it was said. So presumably he did not waste much time outside the marriage bed. Poor Christian Lewis! What a sad duty to be forced to produce the heir!

‘Soon,’ said George William, ‘we should be having news of the birth of our nephew.’

But there was no news; and it was not easy to go on remembering dull Celle in glittering Venice.

Signora Buccolini became pregnant and that was a matter of great interest; particularly when in due course a son was born. He was a charming child with his mother’s beauty, and it was amusing to be a father.

As soon as his mistress was recovered George William gave a ball to celebrate the occasion – a masked ball with gaiety and frivolity, and the canals were brilliant with beflowered and beribboned gondolas of the guests; and the culmination was the unmasking at midnight in St. Mark’s Square.

It was a dazzling ball – but one of many in that gay city and the brothers were settling down to consider Venice their home. They were beginning to speak the language well, to act and think like Venetians. It was true that Signora Buccolini was becoming a little too possessive. She seemed to believe that having borne little Lucas she should demand absolute fidelity, and it was scarcely in George William’s nature to grant that. There were passionate quarrels and even more passionate reconciliations, and so the days passed.

But this pleasant way of life could not be expected to go on for ever. Although the brothers appeared to forget this, they belonged to Brunswick-Lüneberg, and it was from these far-off estates that the money came which enabled them to enjoy this sybarite existence; and one day when George William sat on the terrace of his palazzo one of his servants came out to tell him that a messenger had arrived with a letter for him.

George William stared at the houses opposite; he was aware of the blue sky, of the handsome woman waving a hand to him as she passed in her gondola; and an icy shiver touched him, for he knew before he asked whence the messenger came.

‘My lord will see him?’ asked his servant.

‘In a while,’ he said. ‘Give him refreshment first.’ What he asked for was a few more moments to enjoy this sunshine, this gay, enchanting scene, just a moment when he could delude himself into believing that the messenger did not come from Celle and the letter he brought was not from his brother and did not demand his instant return. Instead he had come to announce the birth of a son to Christian Lewis and to bring an assurance that George William could live for ever in this paradise.

It was hopeless, of course. What good did postponement ever bring? What was the use of gazing across the broad water, along to the Rialto. He had to leave it some time, he knew.

The messenger was standing before him.

‘You come from Celle?’ asked George William unnecessarily.

‘From His Highness Duke Christian Lewis. And it is his express wish that I put this letter into no other hands but yours, my lord.’

There was no escape. George William sighed and took the letter.

It was even worse than he had feared.

What was he doing in Venice? Did he not realize that he had his duties at home? The people were growing restive. The council were sending him an ultimatum. Either he returned home without delay or his allowance would be stopped. There was even graver news. Dorothea was proving to be barren, George William was the second in age, and it was his duty not only to return without delay, but to consider marriage, for the heir had to be produced somehow and since Christian Lewis and Dorothea could not, it must be George William and his bride.

‘Marriage!’ groaned George William. ‘Who would have thought that such an evil fate would ever overtake me?’

He sat for a long time, the letter held listlessly in his hand while he stared across the canal, but this time he did not see the beauties of the city he loved; he saw the castle of Celle. Sermons and prayers regularly each day; he heard the trumpet sounding from the tower. ‘Come to the table and eat! Stay away and starve!’ What an uncivilized way to live.

He read the letter. Was there no way out? He could see none.

He walked down to the canal and signed to his boatman. He must go to Ernest Augustus and tell him that the days of pleasures were at an end. They must both prepare to leave without delay for Germany.

There was trouble with La Buccolini.

‘And shall I be left with the child to bring up? And how shall he live in accordance with his rank?’

He could pacify her with gifts and promises, but she was loath to let him go.

How should she know that he would keep his promises?

He swore that he would; he had kept from her the fact that he was returning home to marry; but he promised himself and Ernest Augustus that he would come back to Venice.

It was two sad young men who journeyed northward.

‘You grieve only for the loss of sun and gaiety,’ mourned George William. ‘Not only shall I lose them, too, but I have to put my head into the noose as well. Marriage! Oh, brother, to think that I should ever be called on to accept such a fate.’

‘I shall be with you,’ answered Ernest Augustus. ‘Have we not always been together? And if I settle with a mistress, I shall be expected to live with her and to be to some extent faithful, which will be almost as bad as marriage.’

‘Nothing,’ retorted George William firmly, ‘could be as bad as marriage.’

The old castle rising before them, the sun touching its yellow walls, looked like a prison to George William. The people he had seen on the road looked stern and dour – quite different from the Venetians. The girls at the inns where they had rested had been amusing for a time, but how different from the passionate Buccolini.

He gazed at the drawbridge and portcullis, the moat filled with the waters of the Aller, the strip of grass between it and the tall grim walls. A prison indeed!

In the courtyard he looked at the sundial at which, in the days of his childhood, he had told the time of day; the pigeons fluttered up in a cloud of white and purple from their lofts; listlessly he was aware of their cooing call.

Nothing had changed. He felt it would go on in the same manner, day after dreary day.

The grooms were rushing to his service, genuinely glad to see him back. He was the best-loved of all the brothers because he had a natural charm which the others lacked. He was less stolid, taller, more slender than his brothers, possessed of a natural grace; the others were heavy on their feet; he could dance well; he could play the guitar; he was good-natured and easy-going. He was elegantly dressed in a manner strange to them; the cloth of his coat was finer than that which they were accustomed to see; he wore rings on his fingers and a jewelled chain about his neck; and in his train he brought foreign servants. The days must necessarily be enlivened by the return of Duke George William.

He went into the castle, Ernest Augustus beside him – straight to the apartments of Christian Lewis and Dorothea.

The brothers embraced and after the exchange of a welcome Dorothea left them and they were joined by John Frederick, the third brother who was a year younger than George William and four years older than Ernest Augustus.

John Frederick’s welcome was cool. He considered his brother George William lazy and lacking in a sense of duty; as for Ernest Augustus he was just a dupe who had no will of his own.

A precarious state of affairs for the House of Brunswick-Lüneberg, thought John Frederick, when the eldest had married a barren wife and the second son had no desire but to live abroad and squander his patrimony. Passionately John Frederick wished that he had been born the eldest.

‘Ah,’ said George William, ‘a family conference.’

Christian Lewis replied that it seemed wise for them to talk over their affairs together before they listened to what the council had to advise.

‘Advise?’ asked George William. ‘Or insist on?’

‘There would be no need to insist, I am certain,’ answered placid Christian Lewis, ‘for once our duty is made clear to us it will be the ardent wish of us all to perform it.’

‘I understood,’ replied George William ironically, ‘that I am to be the one to perform the duty.’

John Frederick said quickly: ‘If you did not, there would be others to step into your place.’

George William turned to smile lazily at his fiery brother. Not you, my brother, he thought. But he bowed his head graciously and turned to Christian Lewis.

‘It is becoming increasing clear that Dorothea cannot have a child,’ said Christian Lewis. ‘All this time and she remains sterile. The doctors tell me that it is unlikely she will ever conceive. Time doesn’t stand still, my brothers. You are thirty-three, George William. It is time you finished roaming and giving sons to Venetian women. You must marry without delay.’

George William lowered his eyes. He was aware of John Frederick’s smoulderingly ambitious gaze and remembered the story they had heard from their father of how when his father lay dying he and his brothers had drawn lots as to who should provide the heir. The story had fascinated them all. Sometimes they would go to the very chamber in which Duke William the Pious had died and play the scene … treating it as a game. There had only been four of them to draw lots; but they had insisted that their sisters play the unimportant rôles – Sophia Amelia the old man in the bed and little Anne Eleanor – long since dead, for she had died before her sixth birthday – must be the steward who held the pieces of wood for them to draw. The excitement of that game had been that they had never known who would draw the shortest stick and he who did was allowed to be the lord of them all for the rest of the day.

George William could have sworn that John Frederick was thinking of that game now – wishing they could draw lots and make it a reality. Christian Lewis was occupied with the idea of passing on his duties, and Ernest Augustus – it was certain that his thoughts were where his heart was – in Venice.

‘You have decided,’ said George William grimly; ‘and I’ll warrant there is something else you have determined on too. The name of this unfortunate woman.’

Christian Lewis smiled. ‘I am sure she will reckon herself the reverse, brother, when she sees you. I have heard it said that women favour you – and what I have seen gives me no reason to doubt it.’

‘Well,’ demanded George William, still conscious of the resentful glances of John Frederick, ‘who is she?’

‘It has been suggested that Princess Sophia, daughter of the late King Frederick of Bohemia and Elector of Palatine, would be a good choice.’

‘Sophia …’ murmured George William. ‘I have heard she is proud. Would she take me?’

‘When a woman reaches the age of twenty-eight and is unmarried, she is not difficult to please.’

‘Then,’ replied George William, ‘it seems possible that she would take me.’

‘My dear brother, we have made certain that if you travelled to Heidelberg to woo her, your journey would not be in vain.’

‘Then,’ answered George William, ‘it seems there is no help for it. To Heidelberg I must go. Will you be my companion, brother?’

He had turned to Ernest Augustus as he spoke. The younger man smiled. Of course he would accompany his brother. It would be one last carouse before George William accepted his responsibilities.

‘You should make your preparations without much delay,’ Christian Lewis warned them. ‘The council is impatient … so are the people. They want to see the heir.’

George William shrugged his shoulders. He was resigned. He thought of his father who had drawn the shortest stick with a reluctance which now matched his own. Perhaps it would be possible to follow his example, for he had not been completely confined to Celle even after his marriage. Yet he had been a good Duke, combining pleasure and duty. And he had given his people what they asked – four sons.

Perhaps it was not so depressing as he had once thought; and he was certain that if John Frederick took his place, he would very quickly find some opportunity to denude his brothers of their estates and fortunes. There was a look of ambition in the eyes of John Frederick which George William did not like.

Very well, he was the second son; he would do his duty.

‘Well, brother,’ he said to Ernest Augustus. ‘There is no help for it and no reason for delay. Let our good people see that they can rely on us.’

Within a short time of their return from Venice the two brothers were preparing to leave for Heidelberg.

The Princess Sophia was elated at the prospect of receiving her suitor. She remembered him well for she had seen him years ago when he had first come to Heidelberg with his young brother – an exceedingly handsome boy, with the manners of a courtier; he had danced with her and she had flirted with both boys. She suspected that this was an occupation in which they indulged as naturally as breathing. George William had played the guitar to her which he did most charmingly; and while he was in her company had made her believe that he enjoyed it more than that of any other person.

But she was too shrewd nowadays to believe that – although at the time she had been willing enough to delude herself. Well, now she was to marry him – and it was time too that they both married. She was not displeased with her prospective bridegroom – although being an extremely ambitious woman she had had hopes of a more advantageous marriage.

What joy, though, to escape from Heidelberg! It was not very pleasant being tolerated at her brother’s court as the poor sister who was not particularly well endowed with personal attractions, and every year taking a few steps farther away from marriageability.

In her youth she had been tolerably handsome; but this had been completely overshadowed by the beauty of her mother. Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia – until her husband Frederick had been deprived of his throne – had become known as the Queen of Hearts, so charming was she, and compared with such a mother the mildly handsome looks of her daughter Sophia had been insignificant. Moreover, she had been poor from birth, for the family’s fortunes had been already in decline when she arrived in the world. Therefore with little to recommend her but her birth she became excessively proud of that.

Although she did not see her mother frequently – Sophia declared that Queen Elizabeth preferred her dogs and monkeys to her children – it was she who dominated the household. Her personality was such that she must attract and, however resentful Sophia felt, she must admire. It had not been much fun, moving about Europe enjoying hospitality wherever it was possible to beg it, yet Queen Elizabeth did so with grace and great charm; she even gave banquets – although this always meant the sacrifice of some precious jewels; the courtiers about them were mostly rats and mice, Sophia had grimly commented, to which of course could be added the creditors. And through her troubles Elizabeth moved, serene, admired, adored – the Queen of Hearts.

She never forgot that she was an English Princess. Although, Sophia pointed out – and had her ears boxed for her impertinence – her mother was the Danish Princess Anne and her father, King James I of England and VI of Scotland, more Scots than English.

But England was the country enshrined in her mother’s heart. In England she had been an honoured princess; in Bohemia she had been Queen of a Kingdom which quickly rejected her husband and made an exile of her. Sophia had been brought up with a great admiration for England and to hope that she might go there – as a Queen.

It had not seemed an impossible dream. It was true that her uncle, Charles I, had been in conflict with his Parliament and as a result had lost his head, that Oliver Cromwell had set up a Commonwealth and that the son of Charles I, Prince Charles, was wandering from court to court on the Continent now, waiting and hoping for a chance to regain his kingdom. If ever he did, a bride would be very carefully chosen for him, but, while he was a wandering prince, he was not such a good proposition. That had seemed to be Sophia’s chance.

He was a charming young man, this cousin of hers – witty, amusing, goodhearted, selfish perhaps – but what Prince was not? – gay and very licentious. She dreamed of him; so did her mother.

‘One of my dearest wishes, Sophia,’ her mother had said to her, ‘is to see you Queen of England.’

‘But there is no Queen of England,’ Sophia had replied, to which her mother had shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

‘Of course there will be a Queen of England. Charles will go back. Make no mistake about that. I believe the people would have him now – they are heartily sick of the Puritans already.’

So the Queen had had her daughter brought up to speak English fluently; and she learned more about England than any other country; and although she had never seen it, her mother talked of it so intimately when they were together that Sophia saw it … saw Windsor Castle with its ancient walls, and the palace of St. James’s and Whitehall where her uncle Charles the Martyr had been cruelly murdered by Cromwell’s orders.

Sophia had believed that England was important to her, but Cousin Charles made no effort to court her. One heard constant stories of his amatory exploits, but there was no marriage. He was waiting, said the Queen, until his throne was restored to him; and then what chance would his poor cousin Sophia have to marry him and become the Queen of England?

So the years passed – and while Charles waited for his throne Sophia waited for a husband. There was the attack of smallpox from which she recovered, but it had left its mark on her, and her beauty was not improved.

She was beginning to despair of ever marrying, which would mean living at the court of her brother the Elector Palatine where she was not wanted, listening and often forced to take part in the squabbles between him and his wife, the poor relation, the woman whose ambitions had gone sour, who had no fortune – nothing but her pride in her birth and a love for a far-off country which she had never seen and which was becoming a fetish with her.

Thus Sophia – twenty-eight and desperate – prepared to offer a warm welcome to Duke George William when he came to Heidelberg to propose marriage to her.

Her maid dressed her for the meeting. It was not a new gown; there was no money for new gowns. Her mother, wandering in exile through Europe, continually suffering poverty, short of money, could not help; nor was her brother the Elector inclined to. She had her home at his court; she must be content with that. ‘Oh, rescue me soon, George William!’ murmured Sophia. And her eyes brightened at the prospect.

While her maid was dressing her hair she studied her reflection. Her hair was rather pretty, falling in light brown natural curls about her shoulders; when she smiled she was not without charm despite the damage done to her skin by the accursed pox. It was a pity she were not a little taller, but she made up for that by carrying herself well and haughtily – as became a princess with English blood in her veins.

She hoped George William would be pleased with her. Not that it should make any difference if he were not. This marriage had been arranged and he would have no more choice than she would. She hoped he had not changed. He had been such a charming boy – as her cousin Charles undoubtedly was; and George William, she believed, although he had had countless mistresses, was not quite so profligate as Charles. His mistresses would not be important though, as long as he spent enough time in her bed to enable her to provide the necessary heirs – and, of course, accorded to her the dignity of her rank.

A servant came to tell her that her brother the Elector commanded that she join him in his apartments. She knew this meant she was to be presented to her future husband.

One last look at her reflection. If I were not pitted with the pox, she thought, I should be tolerably handsome.

She was announced, and as she came into the apartment saw her brother with George William. George William was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.

As he bowed to her, she lifted her eyes to him, and felt an excitement creeping over her. This was indeed the next best thing to marriage into England.

George William took her hand.

‘I find it impossible to convey my pleasure in this meeting.’

He was suave, elegant, gallant.

His brother, standing a few paces behind him, was quite a pleasant young man but eclipsed by the other’s superior attractions.

George William gave no sign of the deep depression which he was experiencing.

He had decided in that moment that marriage was even more repugnant than he had imagined – and he certainly did not want Princess Sophia for his bride.

There was little finesse about the Elector. He knew why the brothers were in Heidelberg and so did everyone else, so why make any pretence about it? The house of Brunswick-Lüneberg wanted a wife for its Duke, and there was no doubt that he wanted a husband for Sophia. He was tired of keeping his sister; her tongue was a little too sharp for his liking, he resented her cost to his household: and he would rejoice to see her the concern of someone else.

So he arranged that the young people should have a private interview on the very day of the arrival of the Duke and his brother.

Duke William, accepting the unpleasant duty before him, plunged in without any preamble, seating himself beside Sophia and taking her hand. His voice was cool as he said: ‘You know for what purpose I am here?’

There was nothing of the coquette about Sophia.

‘I have been told,’ she replied.

‘Then I trust you are not displeased by the arrangements which our families have made for us. I do assure you that if this matter is distasteful to you …’

‘It is not distasteful to me,’ she answered sharply.

He was surprised, and she turned to him laughing. ‘I am not going to play the part of coy maiden. Have no fear of that. I am nearing thirty. Time is running out. If I am going to give my husband heirs I should delay no longer.’

‘I had thought …’

‘That I was in my teens? Now come, my lord Duke, you thought nothing of the sort. You knew my age as well as I knew yours. Why, as soon as a match was mooted between us, I’ll warrant you discovered all it was advisable for you to know about me … as I did about you.’

He laughed. She had a ready tongue.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is little for me to say but: Will you marry me?’

‘And nothing for me to answer but: I will.’

‘So the matter is settled then?’

‘To your satisfaction, I hope.’

‘It is the successful conclusion to my mission. I had not thought to complete it so soon.’

‘Then, my lord Duke, have you nothing more to say to me?’

He took her hand and kissed it. His kiss was cold; and remembering all the stories she had heard of him she knew how different it might have been.

He was telling her that it was a marriage of convenience and she would not be expected to ask for more. This was surely not the way he behaved with his Venetian mistress.

And why? Because he felt no passion for pock-pitted Sophia, because he was proposing marriage only because his family insisted that he should?

Sophia was greatly attracted by him. She was longing for marriage, to be the mother of children, to attain the rank and dignity which was denied her in her brother’s court. If her bridegroom were not pleased with her, she was with him.

The marriage contract had been signed. There was one condition. George William had explained to the Elector Palatine that he could not consider marrying immediately because he had affairs to settle, so he wished that his betrothal to Sophia should not be made public just at this time.

The Elector, afraid that any disagreement might mean he had his sister back on his hands, was amenable, and George William took his leave of his bride-to-be and with Ernest Augustus left Heidelberg.

Ernest Augustus did not like to see his brother so downcast.

‘Oh come, brother,’ he said, ‘it’s not so bad. You’ll soon get her with child and when she has produced your son, you and I will go off on a little jaunt together.’

‘I have no great fancy for her,’ admitted George William.

‘Well, ‘twill not be necessary to. Cheer up. You must be in good spirits in Venice.’

‘Venice!’ cried George William.

‘The soon-to-be-married man should have his final bachelor carousal.’

George William turned to Ernest Augustus and they began to laugh.

‘Come on! To Venice then!’ cried George William.

‘There to forget the future while we revel in the present.’

‘Yes, we’ll revel, for I have a notion, brother, that if I am married to that woman nothing will ever be the same again.’

It was not even the same in Venice.

Signora Buccolini surveyed him with suspicion, as he did her. He believed she had been taking lovers during his absence.

He was changed, she told him. He was remote. His thoughts were elsewhere.

‘You are in love with someone,’ she accused him.

‘No,’ he cried. ‘I’m not. I wish to God I were.’

Such a cryptic remark did not ease matters; there was an attempt to recapture the old passion, but it would not come, and the bedchamber of the beautiful Signora seemed to be haunted by the Princess Sophia.

He could not stop thinking of her. She came between him and his passion. How could I ever make love to her? he asked himself. Other princes did in such marriages. But he was different. He was at heart a romantic; he was a man of taste and elegance.

Oh, God, he thought, I could never make love to that woman!

Marriage! The thought of it haunted him.

‘I would do anything … anything,’ he told Ernest Augustus, ‘to escape it.’

Little Lucas, his son, was his only consolation during those days. The boy was growing up – proud and handsome; he asked questions about his father’s – country. George William guessed that his mother had been talking to him too freely – perhaps putting the questions into the child’s mouth.

All the magic had gone from Venice. The flower-decked gondolas seemed tawdry, and the canals smelt unpleasantly. Even the women had lost their mystery; they were very little different from the German women. And he suspected his mistress was unfaithful to him.

In any case he was no longer in love with her. He had returned hoping to start again where he had left off. It was a mistake.

He awoke one early morning to find his mistress missing; he was waiting for her when she crept in before daybreak.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what I suspected is true.’

‘And why should you think I should remain faithful to you? Have you been faithful to me?’

He said: ‘I did not ask for fidelity while I was away. But now I am here you prefer another man.’

‘Oh, you and your fine stories of your rank and greatness in Germany! Germany! What of Germany? And where is the money you promised me for your son?’

‘Our son will be cared for, never fear.’

‘So far he has had to rely on his mother rather than his father … albeit she is a woman of no standing and he is a Prince. Who is going to keep him when you go back to your Germany? Tell me that. Oh, I’ve heard rumours. There’s going to be a marriage. I know. And then we shall not see our precious Duke again in Venice. He will be living cosily with his lawful wife in his German castle and I shall be forgotten, and Lucas with me.’

‘It is true that I have to go back home, but I’ll leave a settlement for you.’

‘And the boy?’

‘I’ll take him back with me.’

He had spoken without thought. How could he take the boy back to his new wife and say: ‘This is my son!’ He was becoming impetuous. He spoke without thought. This was what came of being forced into marriage.

‘Go as soon as you like,’ she snapped. ‘Or as soon as you’ve made your settlement. And take the boy with you. You owe it to him.’

He was astonished. He had expected a passionate quarrel and the even more passionate reconciliation; but there was no doubt of it: she had her new lover and she wanted to be rid of the child. It was a sign that their relationship was at an end.

I am betrothed to a woman who does not attract me, thought George William, and I must go back to Celle with my little Venetian bastard.

Rarely had he felt so depressed.

He returned to bed and lay thinking. There was a way out of his predicament.

When he rose from his bed that morning he knew himself for a desperate man, and he was going to take desperate action.

He dressed carefully, and went out into the sunshine. He stepped across the terrace and down to the water’s edge, signing to his boatman.

Along the odorous waters of the canal, through the disenchanted city to the establishment of his brother, Ernest Augustus.

Sleepily satisfied. Ernest Augustus lay in the sun on the terrace of his palazzo but he started up when he saw his brother, realizing from his expression the seriousness of his mood.

‘Where can I talk to you in private?’ demanded George William.

‘Here. Why, brother, what has happened?’

‘We might be disturbed here. We might be overheard. This is of the utmost secrecy.’

Ernest Augustus led the way into a room; after locking the door, he drew the blinds, shutting out the bright sunlight.

‘I cannot go on with the marriage,’ declared George William.

Ernest Augustus shook his head sadly.

‘I know you think you have heard this before. But you have not. I have made up my mind. I will not marry Sophia. In fact I won’t marry at all.’

‘You must. There’s no way out of it.’

‘There is. That’s what I want to talk to you about. You shall marry Sophia in my place.’

‘I!’

‘Pray don’t stand there looking stupid. I said you shall marry her – if you will. And why should you not? As long as one of us marries, as long as one of us produces the heir … what does it matter?’

‘But you are betrothed to Sophia.’

‘I think I must have had this in mind even then, because I insisted the betrothal should not be made public knowledge just yet. Listen to me, brother. You shall take my place at the wedding.’

‘I could not afford to marry.’

‘You could if I made over certain estates and money to you.’

‘And you would do this?’

‘Ernest Augustus, if you would but take this woman off my hands I will do much for you. Brother, for my sake … do this.’

Ernest Augustus was thoughtful. Take his brother’s place. Step up from the youngest brother to the head of his house – for that was what he would be if he produced the son who would inherit the family estates. Christian Lewis had a sterile wife; George William would not marry; John Frederick would not be allowed to, either … and he, Ernest Augustus would have the honour of fathering the heir of Brunswick-Lüneberg.

But suppose at some time George William did marry?

He shook his head, but George William had seized him and was shaking him gently to and fro.

‘You must save me from this woman.’

‘There are too many complications.’

‘Nonsense! What complications?’

‘I’m the youngest.’

‘Our father was the sixth of seven sons and yet he became head of our house.’

‘That was agreed on by all his brothers when they drew lots.’

‘It shall be agreed on between us all … in just the same way.’

‘Would you swear never to marry?’

‘I would swear it.’

‘John Frederick would have to swear the same.’

‘He shall swear it.’

‘And Christian Lewis would have to agree.’

‘My dear brother, have no fear. This shall be done in such a way as shall give you no qualms … no fears of the future. Marry this woman and you shall have the means to settle yourself and start a family. You shall be the head of our house, I promise you.’

‘In that case,’ said Ernest Augustus, ‘it will be necessary for us to return to Celle without delay. There we will draw up the documents, for much as I trust you, brother, this is a matter which must be signed and sealed, and our brothers must be present at the signing-sealing ceremony.’

George William clapped his brother on the back. ‘You are become a man of affairs already.’ Then he embraced him. ‘How can I thank you! It is as though a great burden has fallen from my shoulders.’

In a few days’ time the brothers left Venice and travelled northwards, little Lucas Buccolini going with them. George William was planning to put him with foster parents; his education and future would be well looked after; his name would be changed – perhaps to Buccow – because it would be a handicap to the boy to go through life with an Italian name. He should have a place in his household, but that was for later. At the moment George William must give his mind to settling this little matter; and once Ernest Augustus was married, he, George William, would go off on his travels again. It would be different though. He would miss Ernest Augustus; and he would not want to return to Venice. Yes, everything would be a little different, for Ernest Augustus had already changed. He carried his head a little higher; he gave orders to his servants in a more peremptory manner; he had acquired a new dignity even before he took on his bride and his new estates.

Christian Lewis was thoughtful.

‘I see no harm in it,’ he said. ‘Ernest Augustus is willing to take over your responsibilities and if you will agree to his terms then, for the love of our house, let us get the terms settled without delay. We are no longer children and this marriage should take place as soon as it can be arranged.’

‘I will prepare my statement at once,’ said George William.

‘There is one point that you have not considered,’ added Christian Lewis. ‘What of the lady? How will she take the change?’

George William agreed this was a matter which would need delicate handling. ‘A pity,’ he said, ‘that we did not come to this arrangement before I made the proposal. Never mind. It’s not a man she wants but marriage. You must admit that our young brother is a fine figure of a man.’

‘Let us hope that she thinks so,’ added Christian Lewis with a smile.

‘We will get the matter settled; then she shall be informed and Ernest Augustus can go to his nuptials.’

‘You understand all you are giving up?’

‘I understand absolutely.’

‘You may regret.’

‘I shall always remember that the price I paid for freedom was worth it.’

In his study George William was writing his renunciation of marriage.

‘Having perceived the necessity of taking into consideration how our House of this line may best be provided with heirs and be perpetuated in the future; yet having been and remaining up to the present date both unable and unwilling in my person to engage in any marriage contract, I have rather induced my brother, Ernest Augustus, to declare that, on condition of receiving from me a renunciation of marriage for myself, written and signed with my own hand, in favour of himself and his heirs male, he is prepared forthwith and without delay to enter into holy matrimony, and, as may be hoped, soon to bestow the blessing of heirs on people and country, as had been agreed and settled between him and myself; and whereas my brother, Ernest Augustus, for reasons before mentioned has entered into a marriage contract with Her Highness Princess Sophia, which contract he purposes shortly to fulfil so I, on my side, not only on account of my word given to and pledged, but also of my own free will and consent, desire to ratify and confirm the aforesaid conditions to my aforementioned brother and promise, so long as the said Princess and my brother continue in life and in the bonds of matrimony, or after their decease leave heirs male, that I neither will nor shall on any account enter into, much less carry out, any marriage contract with any person, and with nothing else than to spend what remains to me of life entirely

in caelibatu,

to the extent that the heirs male of the aforementioned Princess and my brother in whose favour this renunciation is made, may attain and succeed to the sovereignty over one or both of these our principalities. For the same and truer assurance of all which conditions I have, with my own hand, written and signed this renunciation and sealed it with my seal, and thereafter handed it over with all due care to my brother’s own charge and keeping.’

George William read through what he had written. It appeared to embrace every point. Now he must sign it and seal it in the presence of his brothers; and then the matter would be settled, apart from informing the Princess Sophia of the change.

The three brothers were waiting in the apartment of Christian Lewis for the arrival of the fourth. John Frederick had no notion as to why he was being summoned, but as George William had said, it was of no great concern of his for as the third brother he had nothing to lose by the transaction.

‘At last!’ cried George William as John Frederick entered. ‘Welcome, brother. An important ceremony is about to take place.’

‘It is evidently a pleasant one,’ replied John Frederick, ‘judging by the look of you and Ernest Augustus.’

George William glanced at his youngest brother. Good God, he thought, he is ambitious. He wants to produce the heir to the house. He wants to marry Sophia.

And he had been imagining this was a sacrifice his brother had been making for his sake!

So Ernest Augustus was ambitious! Well, George William was a generous man and it always pleased him better to give than to take. He was pleased therefore that Ernest Augustus was more than reconciled – gratified and delighted.

‘I am all eagerness to hear,’ pointed out John Frederick.

Christian Lewis nodded to George William. ‘Explain to him,’ he said.

‘Well, brother, it is like this. I was betrothed to the Princess Sophia.’

‘You mean you are no longer betrothed?’

‘No longer so. I have decided to abdicate in favour of a brother.’

Eagerness shot up in John Frederick’s eyes.

‘You understand,’ went on George William, ‘that I have no wish for marriage.’

‘I have always known that – and therefore it is right that you should pass on the opportunity to a brother.’

‘Then we are all in agreement.’

‘Of course it would be necessary for you to pass on not only the bride but certain monies.’

‘That has all been thought of. The bridegroom will have nothing of which to complain. I have drawn up the necessary documents and we shall sign them immediately.’

‘And the Princess has been acquainted with the change?’

‘Not yet. We thought it necessary to have the agreements signed and sealed before acquainting her.’

‘I will ride to Heidelberg tomorrow.’

‘You, John Frederick?’

‘As the future bridegroom …’

‘It is Ernest Augustus who has agreed to take over the marriage.’

‘Ernest Augustus! But he’s the youngest!’

‘I have made the arrangement with him and he has given me his promise.’

‘But I am the next in seniority. I should be the one.’

Ernest Augustus took a few paces towards his brother and said: ‘It’s too late, John Frederick. Everything is settled now. I am going to marry Sophia.’

‘I’ll not agree.’

‘You will have to. The three of us agree and you would be one against the rest.’

‘I agree to changing the bridegrooms, but I consider that my place in the family entitles me to be the marrying one.’

‘Too late, too late,’ said George William. ‘I have come to an agreement with Ernest Augustus.’

John Frederick seized his young brother’s arm. ‘You will stand aside for me.’

George William took John Frederick by the shoulder and wrenching him away from his brother threw him across the room.

‘Enough of this nonsense,’ he said. ‘I have the document here and I shall sign – and that is the end of the matter.’

John Frederick glowered; Ernest Augustus held his breath; he could scarcely wait for the signature to be put to the paper. Those few strokes of the pen would make him in a sense the head of the house. For the first time in his life he despised his handsome, amusing elder brother. George William was a fool. He was throwing away his birthright for a mess of potage. Pray God he did not realize this until his name was at the foot of that important paper.

George William laid the paper on a table and took up his pen.

‘George William,’ he wrote, ‘Duke of Brunswick and Lüneberg, April 11th, 1658.’

He stood up. ‘There!’ he cried. ‘The deed is done. Here, brother, is your assurance.’

As Ernest Augustus took the paper, John Frederick tried to snatch it from him. The paper fluttered to the floor to be picked up by George William while the two younger brothers, caught in an angry embrace, rolled on the floor.

George William stood laughing at them for a few seconds. Then he cried: ‘I’ll not have this solemn occasion changed into a brawl.’

He put the paper on the table and went to the aid of Ernest Augustus, and together they succeeded in thrusting John Frederick from the room.

George William locked the door and stood leaning against it.

‘Well, brother,’ he said, ‘there’s your security. Now go to.’

Christian Lewis looked grave.

‘Come, cheer up,’ admonished George William. ‘This is for me a gay occasion. I want to celebrate my freedom.’

‘I like it not,’ murmured Christian Lewis, ‘when brothers quarrel.’

The Elector Palatine sent for his sister.

‘I have news for you,’ he said. ‘News from Celle.’

Sophia sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, but her heart beat uncomfortably. Was he going to attempt to wriggle out of his agreement? He had been lukewarm. She had recognized that. This couldn’t be yet another disappointment. How could she endure to go on living, single, at her brother’s court with no hope of ever improving her position!

‘Duke George William has decided that he is not fitted for matrimony.’

Thank God she had always been able to cloak her feelings! So he found her repulsive. He had taken a look at her, had reluctantly agreed to marry her, and then gone away – presumably to one of his mistresses – and changed his mind, and so determinedly that he had had the effrontery to jilt her. It was unforgivable.

Still she sat calmly, hands in her lap.

‘But,’ went on her brother, perhaps enjoying keeping her in suspense, ‘they have a bridegroom for you.’

She lifted her head sharply then and said in a cold voice: ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘Duke George William declines to marry you, oh, not you personally. It has nothing to do with that. It is marriage itself to which he objects. Ernest Augustus, however, has no such objections.’

‘He has no such prospects either.’

‘That is not so. George William resigns more than you to him, sister. He has given him a promise not to marry, to pass over certain estates to his brother and the heirs of your body shall become the heirs to the entire estate.’

‘So then, nothing is changed but the man.’

The Elector laughed. ‘You’re a cool one,’ he said.

‘Tell me, brother, is it not the Brunswick-Lüneberg estates I am marrying? Should you give your consent to my marrying one of your subjects?’

‘Assuredly not.’

‘Well then, I shall have all that was promised me – the only difference is that they will be handed me by a younger brother. A good establishment is all I care about and if it can be secured through the younger brother, I am indifferent to the change of man.’

‘You’re a wise woman, Sophia, and I’m glad. You can’t afford to be aught else at your age. Mind you, I think you’ll get on better with the younger brother.’

‘And why so?’

‘He seemed to me more amenable. You’ll make him dance to your tune, Sophia. I doubt whether you would have been able to have done the same with the other.’

‘Then there is nothing in the way of going ahead with the marriage?’

‘Nothing at all. I will write this day to Ernest Augustus and tell him that you will be delighted to take him to be your husband. I see no reason for delay, sister. You can begin making your preparations at once.’

He looked after his sister as she left the room.

Cold, he thought. Ambitious. But she would make a good wife for this Ernest Augustus. She was reasonable too, which saved a great deal of trouble.

Sophia dismissed her servants and sat down by her mirror studying her reflection.

So I do not attract him! she thought. He took a look at me, weakly agreed to have me, and then went away and changed his mind.

Good God! How repulsive he must find me since he is ready to throw away a large portion of his estates and his chances of ever having legitimate children – all to be rid of me.

She was not as cold as they believed her to be but as romantic as any young woman might expect to be. Before the smallpox she had not been uncomely – perhaps if he had seen her then …

But he had, when they were children, and he had danced with her and played the guitar to her and she had, in the manner of the very young, conceived a romantic fancy for him. When she had heard she was to marry him, she had been exultant; she had changed, become more feminine, dreamed of the future. And when she had seen him, although he had been cool to her and made no pretence that he was in love with her, she had continued to dream.

But he would not have her. Moreover, he was ready to pay a great price to discard her.

Very few women could have been so insulted. She should be grateful that the engagement had not been made public – but it would be known, of course, throughout all the German principalities and throughout Europe. Cousin Charles would hear … in Breda or wherever he was … roaming about the Continent, waiting for a chance to get his kingdom back. And he would commiserate with George William; he would say: ‘I understand the fellow’s reluctance. She was offered to me, you know.’

She would never forget how George William had insulted her.

But by good fortune there was Ernest Augustus and as nothing helpful could come of brooding on her disappointment, she must take what she could get.

Ernest Augustus! He had come to Heidelberg with his brother when they were boys. He was not unpleasant; he had some charm; it was merely that George William eclipsed him. Ernest Augustus had been interested in her, at that time; he would have willingly been very friendly indeed. But she had looked on him as a younger brother with few prospects and had no intention of allowing her name to be coupled with his, a matter which might work to her detriment if other suitors were being considered.

That was when she was young, of course, before her complexion had been spoilt, when her mother still hoped that she would capture the Prince of Wales.

And now he was to be her husband. He was not unlike his brother. When one did not see them together, he would appear very like him. In any case she had to make the best of him. She could endure no more delay. She wanted marriage quickly and children to make her position sure.

She must insist on her brother’s making absolutely certain that the documents were in order; and then she must receive her bridegroom as though she was just as happy to have him as his brother.

She would do it, she had no fear.

It was only in the solitude of her own bedchamber that she allowed herself to give way to thoughts of bitterness and disappointment.

Ernest Augustus came with all speed to Heidelberg and before there could be any more delays the Elector arranged that the marriage should take place.

There were balls and banquets to celebrate the event – which the Elector informed his sister in private, he could ill afford.

‘At least,’ she retorted, ‘you will be rid of me now. So this is the last expense you will have to bear for me.’

The Elector did not answer, but in his heart he knew she was right.

So the wedding took place and Sophia was not entirely displeased with her bridegroom. They were the same age; and Ernest Augustus seemed to have grown both mentally and physically since he took over his brother’s commitments. He was shrewd and ambitious; and that was what Sophia would expect her husband to be.

He assured her that he considered his brother’s defection as the greatest luck to himself. He proved to be a passionate lover and Sophia, being an ambitious woman, reciprocated, being pleased that the foundations of her life were now settled. It was not what she would have wished; she still thought a great deal about England – but of course that country was closed to her ambitions now. She had a princely husband, who was young and lusty; and she believed that when she had her children – sons to start with, to make sure of the succession – she would be a contented woman.

They left Heidelberg – first for Hanover and then settled at Osnabrück; and it was here that Sophia was able to give her husband the joyful news that she was pregnant.

Sophia lay on her bed, and those who served her believed that she would never leave it. She had calmly awaited this event all through the difficult months of pregnancy; and now she was battling not only to give birth but for her own life.

As she lay between spasms of agony she thought of the past, of her hopes, of her dread that she would never marry and make a destiny for herself and her children. It could not end like this.

‘I’ll not allow it,’ she told herself as she lost consciousness.

She heard the cry of a child and joy enveloped her, taking away her pain, leaving her limp and exhausted but triumphant.

‘The child?’ her lips moved, but no sound came.

And then – infinite joy – someone spoke. ‘A boy … a healthy boy.’

She lay lightly dreaming; then she was was aware of someone at her bedside. It was Ernest Augustus.

‘Sophia,’ he said, and his voice seemed far off. ‘We have him. We have our son.’

‘So!’ she whispered. ‘Then you are well content?’

‘You must lie quiet. It has been a trying time.’

‘But he is well … he is strong …’

‘Listen. He has a good pair of lungs, they tell me. He’s trying to tell you now.’

‘Show me,’ she whispered.

And he was brought to her and put into her arms.

The pain had been worthwhile, she thought. Gloriously worthwhile. This was the meaning of life. She would scheme for this child, plan for him; her first born.

They called him George Lewis.