In Which Dragons Are Not Confined to Statues
The coach rumbled over the bridge, and Wilhelmina received her first good look at the Emperor’s Palace. A massive, looming presence-more bunker than castle-it put her in mind of the stolid, grey eminence of Buckingham Palace back home in London. Uniformly lacking in charm and elegance, Emperor Rudolf ’s palace was a colossal stone crate devoid of towers, keeps, battlements, or outward decoration of any kind, presenting a brooding blank aspect to the world.
Directly across from the palace, setting it in sharp relief, soared the serried spires of the cathedral dedicated to Saint Vitus. Glowing ruddy gold in the early morning light, the great church appeared an almost magical construction in comparison with its hulking neighbour. Clinging to the highest point in the city-for all its chapels, steeples, and the colossal copper-domed bell tower-the heroic structure seemed poised to take flight into the heavens.
Once across the bridge, the palace was momentarily hidden from view even as their carriage climbed steeply towards its destination. Mina turned to her companion. “You’re smiling, Etzel,” she observed. “What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking that, whatever happens, today I will stand before the emperor and give him some of my baking.” His smile grew into a wide and easy grin. “That is something even my brother and father cannot take from me.”
In the time they had worked together, Wilhelmina had formed a picture of Englebert’s life before she met him. “It was hard for you-living under the thumb of your father and brother.”
He gave a little shrug. “I suppose it was hard for them, too, maybe.”
“Well, I wish they were here to see you. Wouldn’t that be something?”
He laughed. “Their eyes would fall from their heads to see their Englebert serving pastry to the emperor.”
She glanced at the box of equipment and supplies on the floor of the coach next to her-she would not allow it to be placed on the baggage carrier, out of her sight-and wondered if she had remembered everything. Was anything missing?
Etzel followed her gaze. “It is all there, Schnuckel,” he said. “We made a list, and we put everything in the chest. We have forgotten nothing.”
They had checked and double-checked the items that went into the box-everything they would need to make coffee for the emperor and a few select members of his court. “Today,” she said, gazing back at Etzel, “is one of the most important days of my life. I just want to do well. Our future depends on it.”
“No,” replied the gentle man, “our future is in God’s hands. Nothing can change that. So, let us just enjoy today and be happy.”
“I am happy, Etzel,” she said, reaching across the space between their seats to squeeze his hand. “I want you to know that. I am very happy to be here with you today. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
He made as if to speak, but could not find the words, so instead raked his hand through his blond hair and nodded his round head in agreement.
The royal coach crossed another bridge-this one separating the upper town from the lower-and continued up increasingly precarious streets on its climb to the palace precinct. Eventually the carriage approached the palace walls and the grand gatehouse guarding the entrance. The gate was open, and guards waved the vehicle through. Mina felt the butterflies in her stomach lift off as the horses clattered into the yard and came to a stop. Soldiers with long pikes and crested silver helmets and breastplates stood either side of the red lacquered doors between stout pillars that supported a pediment with a statue of Saint George, who, with a hideous and extremely realistic dragon curled about his feet, stood with one foot on the angry beast’s neck, his gallant sword upraised to deliver the killing stroke. The dragon-all teeth and scales and slashing claws-writhed in its dying rage, while the sainted George gazed down with implacable sternness of purpose.
The statue, poised as it was directly over the palace entrance, made Mina shiver as a pang of foreboding shot through her. She looked away. The feeling passed in an instant as footmen sprang to attend them, opened the carriage compartment, and placed steps beneath the door so that the occupants could climb down easily. Meanwhile, from out of the palace emerged a man in gleaming royal livery, his plump, red-stockinged legs bearing him forward with all speed.
“Welcome, subjects,” he intoned in a perfunctory voice. “The emperor bids his honoured guests to attend him. He awaits you in the Grand Ludovic Hall.” He made the briefest gesture of a bow. “I am to lead you to him. If you will follow me?”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started back to the palace.
“Sir! We have baggage to carry,” Englebert called after him.
Without pausing, the official tossed a command to the footmen. Englebert indicated the box in the coach, and the first lackey took it up; the other footman reached for the smaller box in Englebert’s hands, but the big man shook his head. “This one, I carry myself.”
The party processed through the door and into a spacious vestibule painted red and white and filled with marble busts of illustrious men, most of them royal and all of them dead. Two more soldiers stood guard either side of the door, and the royal usher-for such he was-whisked them through and into the main hall: a gargantuan room with vaulted ceilings from which hung no fewer than eight four-tiered chandeliers. Enormous glass windows pierced the walls on either hand, allowing a tide of sunlight to wash through the room; from them the entire city of Prague spread out below, the rooftops of the houses making a chequered patchwork in various shades of red, green, and brown. Here they were met by another official: the master of audiences, a dour and imposing man in a long robe of deep green velvet. Without a word, he marched them through the hall, heels clicking on the polished inlaid floor; a few clumps of people stood huddled around the large gilt doors at the far end of the room awaiting their turn to be called. Englebert and Wilhelmina were led directly to the golden doors, past the envious stares of the loiterers, and into a seemingly endless corridor lined with mirrors. Tiny oval windows allowed light to spill along the length of the passageway, and they passed door after door until arriving at one that was larger than the others and whose frame was carved with laurel leaves and ivy. Here the master of audiences paused, and taking a short knob-topped rod from a hidden holder at his side, he gave three short, sharp raps, then opened the door.
They heard a muffled voice from inside, and then the senior court official summoned them through and into the presence of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf, sitting in a grand throne of ebony lined with red satin, his chin in his hand, shoulders hunched, looking bored. A man in a long blue robe with an odd conical hat stood nearby with a roll of parchment in his hands. A few paces to one side stood a large easel and canvas, behind which an artist darted a glance before disappearing behind his work.
At the appearance of the two coffeehouse proprietors, the emperor smiled, straightened, and clapped his hands. “Splendid!” he said, then waved the other man aside. “Come! Come! We are delighted to meet you at last.”
“My lord and king,” intoned the master of audiences, “I present to you Englebert of Bavaria, and Wilhelmina of England.”
This last caused the man in the blue robe to turn and stare at the young woman who was just then making a low and elaborate curtsy to the emperor. He pulled on his grey beard and watched her with interest.
Rudolf extended his hand to his subjects, allowing them to kiss the imperial ring, and said, “We do hope you have brought this liquor with you, this Kaffee. We are eager to taste it.”
Englebert glanced at the master of audiences, who whispered, “You may address him when spoken to.”
The big baker swallowed and cleared his throat. “Indeed, Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, somewhat shakily. “We have brought everything we need to make it for you especially.”
“To make it?” wondered the emperor.
“Yes, Majesty. We will make it for you.”
Wilhelmina saw the misunderstanding and offered, “It is a hot drink, Your Majesty. It must be prepared freshly and drunk from special cups while it is still warm.”
“Mind your place!” the audience master hissed. “You will speak only when spoken to!”
“We permit it,” sighed Rudolf, forgiving the breach in protocol. “You may go, Ruprecht.” He waved the courtier away. The man in the blue robe and curious hat started backing away too. “No-stay, Bazalgette, stay. We will all partake of this beverage together.”
