‘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.