‘We’re sorry our great-niece has so little time,’ said the Duchess as the sound of violins, followed by Hungarian expletives, floated towards them.

‘We would have liked her to show you everything, but she is so occupied with her work,’ said the Margravine who was carrying the pug, informally wrapped for daytime in a quatrocento dressing-gown.

Nerine, who was delighted that the princess intended to spend her days out of sight grubbing about in a dirty theatre, replied suitably and they entered the gallery.

Row upon row of Pfaffensteins confronted them. Men in every possible uniform stretching back through time: men in the sombre black of the House of Spain with their lace ruffs and intricate daggers, men in the service of the Austrian court sporting their medals and sashes… There were Pfaffensteins astride rearing horses, Pfaffensteins with their wives or more often, with their dogs… Pfaffensteins in the scarlet of cardinals, in armour, in opera cloaks, in tails…

A supercilious lot of devils, thought Guy, noting again and again among the men in slashed hose and doublet, the women in hooped skirts or riding habits, the fawn, almost amber hair of Witzler’s under wardrobe mistress, her auburn eyes.

Nerine, never bored when there were clothes to be studied, was walking gravely along the rows. There were one or two useful ideas here. That muslin cape over the brocaded sleeve was very effective: gossamer lightness against the firmness. She liked the way that chain of gold beads was looped over the low bodice… and that coif-like head-dress — if she had that copied and sewn with sequins for evening it would suggest a very special sort of innocence. And at every third or fourth picture she paused, carefully studying her own reflection in the glass. Yes, she had been right to wear only a cool, white blouse open at the throat, a simple navy pleated skirt, so that the eye sated by the splendour of the pictures would return to her own fresh simplicity.

‘We could never get her to sit still,’ said the Duchess to David Tremayne, who had paused at a simple pencil sketch of a child with tumbled hair. Her voice, as always when she spoke of her great-niece, had softened and grown warm. ‘But there’s a painting of her by Scharnach in my bedroom if you’d care to see it.’

‘In her confirmation dress,’ put in the Margravine.

Guy, who had passed the drawing of the young princess with studied indifference, was examining something which interested him more than the actual portraits. The same motif in many of the carved and gilded picture frames, on the shields and flags held aloft by the sitters, and again worked into the mosaic of the gallery’s lovely birchwood and maple floor: a lily, stylized and graceful, a surprisingly peaceful emblem for these warlike princes.

‘I was wondering about this flower,’ he said, tracing the pattern on the floor with the tip of his shoe. ‘It seems to turn up everywhere. Even on the battlements of the Old Fort over the drawbridge.’

The aunts exchanged glances.

‘There is a legend…’ began the Margravine, and looked at her august sister-in-law for permission to continue. ‘From the time of the Third Crusade. Count Johannes was ruler here then and he had a wife, the Lady Isabella, who was very, very beautiful. He loved her very much and she loved him. They loved each other greatly.’ She looked a little anxiously at her audience, wondering if she had gone too far, for they were English and known to be cold.

‘Then in the year 1311 the call came from the true Church to go on a crusade against the Infidel,’ said the Margravine, ‘and Count Johannes rode away to war.’

‘The Lady Isabella was quite distraught, but he promised to return and bring her all the spoils of battle. “It is in your name that I go to recapture Jerusalem,” he said to her.’ The Margravine had unwrapped the pug and lowered him to the ground in order to do justice, with fervent gestures, to the story.

‘He fought very bravely,’ the Margravine continued. ‘Heroically. But at the Siege of Acre he was hit by an arrow and mortally wounded.’

‘And as he lay there with the blood draining from his body he saw, growing quite close to him, a single flower. A lily. The Lily of Paradise.’

‘Lilium auriculum,’ put in the Duchess, always happy when returning to fact. ‘White, very fragrant, on a leafless stem.’

‘Count Johannes managed to drag himself towards it and pick it, then he turned to his squire and said, “Take this flower to my lady and tell her that I died with her name on my lips.” The Margravine paused, quite overcome with the drama of it all. ‘So the squire took the flower and spurred his horse and galloped to Smyrna. For days and days he rode in the hot sun but the flower didn’t droop or wither. Not at all. And in Smyrna he took a galley to Venice and the journey lasted for weeks and all the time — all that long time — the lily stayed as fresh as when it had been picked.’

‘That is the legend,’ put in the Duchess.

The Margravine’s soft blue eyes rested reproachfully on her sister-in-law. ‘Even when he took horse from Venice to Vienna,’ she continued, ‘even then the flower stayed fresh and fragrant. And then at last he reached the castle. He expected a welcome and food and warmth but the castle was silent and shrouded. Everyone inside it was grieving. The Lady Isabella had fallen ill, you see — gravely ill — on exactly the same day as her husband was wounded, though she knew nothing about it, of course.’

‘They were sternengeschwister, you see,’ explained the Duchess.

The ladies’ German had been getting too rapid for David and Nerine.

‘Star siblings?’ David translated, puzzled.

The Duchess nodded. ‘Don’t you have that in English? People who are born under the same sign. He was her Star Brother, she was his Star Sister. They were heavenly twins. Gemini. Even in England you must have that?’

‘Yes,’ said David as Guy turned away, frowning, ‘we do.’

‘Anyway, the squire ran to the Lady Isabella’s bedchamber where she was lying, just holding on to life. Waiting… waiting… for what she did not know. And he knelt down and handed her the flower and said, “Your husband sends you this and asked me to tell you that he died speaking your name.” And she took it and smiled because she understood what she had been waiting for, and then she died.’

‘And it was only then—’

‘Only after she died—’

‘That the lily wilted.’

They waited for the effect of the story, nodding in a satisfied way at each other, and were rewarded by smiles from David and Nerine.

‘Since then the husband and wife at Pfaffenstein have often been astrological twins. The first Prince, who married a cousin of Louis the Fourteenth and was faithful to her for fifty years, and the fifth Prince who—’

‘No, Tilda, that’s rubbish. Tessa is a Gemini and Maxi is a Pisces and they are excellently suited in every way.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I didn’t mean—’

‘Goodness, how romantic!’ The story had appealed greatly to Nerine. ‘I’m an Aquarian. What about you, Guy?’ She looked at him, smiling, a delicious dimple in her cheek.

But Guy had turned away. ‘Why ask me?’ he said gruffly. ‘You know I don’t know when I was born. Or where.’

‘Well, but roughly.’

Nerine, please don’t bother me with that kind of rubbish. If there’s one thing I hold in utter contempt, it’s astrology.’

She drew in her breath. Guy had never spoken to her like that, never! ‘Well, really,’ she began.

But the pug had begun to bark and wag his tail and Guy, who happened to be looking at David, saw the young man’s face light up in a way which gave him considerable disquiet.

‘Putzerl!’ The Margravine’s face was illumined. ‘We were just telling Herr Farne and Frau Hurlingham the story of the Pfaffenstein Lily.’

Tessa, still in her working smock, had taken a short cut to the kitchens and was carrying a pile of velvet cloaks for steaming. How can she go round looking like that, thought Nerine. How can she?

‘Yes, it’s a nice story,’ said Tessa. ‘They’re both in the crypt of the church here in effigy. Very formal, you know, and kneeling in prayer, but so close their noses are practically touching. Although…’

Her voice died away.

‘Although?’ prompted David.

Tessa shrugged. ‘It’s just that he rode away, you know, with her favour on his saddle and her name on his lips. “In your name I will conquer Jerusalem,” he said. But did he ask her if she wanted Jerusalem, or the heads of the infidels or the spoils of war? I imagine her always leaning out of the window with her long plaits hanging against the stone and wanting none of the things he was getting for her. Fame, glory, the jewels of Saladin. Wanting only that he should stay and be with her. How could she want anything but that?’

‘But surely men have always got things for women. I mean, it’s chivalry, isn’t it?’ said Nerine.

‘Yes.’ Tessa shook herself free of her thoughts. ‘It’s chivalry, certainly.’ She smiled at Nerine over her pile of velvets. ‘I will see that you have it. That you get it on your wedding day.’

‘Have what?’

‘The Lily. The Lily of Pfaffenstein.’ She appealed to the aunts. ‘Didn’t you tell her?’

‘We were just going to. You see, after the Lady Isabella died they made a copy of the Lily of Paradise in silver. And the tradition is that it is handed to every bride who comes to Pfaffenstein on the morning of her wedding.’

‘Oh!’ Nerine’s eyes widened with pleasure. ‘Where is it, then?’

‘It’s in the bank in Vienna,’ said Tessa. ‘I took it when I left. It’s the only thing I took from Pfaffenstein.’