Okay, here goes: The “Winter Queen” is Elizabeth of Bohemia, but these titles can really throw one off. She’s not Central European. She’s the daughter of James the IV of Scotland who became James the First of England after Elizabeth the First died childless, replacing the Tudors with the Stuarts on the English throne.
So she’s Scottish, and Dutch (on her mother’s side), but really more English than Scottish or Dutch given her upbringing: she was six years old when her father became King of England, and she grew up at the English court.
At the age of 16, she was married off to one of the German Protestant princes, Frederick V, Elector of the Palatinate, who later was offered the crown of Bohemia. He became King and Elizabeth became Queen of Bohemia, but their claim to that throne was contested by then-Holy Roman Emperor, Ferdinand II, who defeated them at the Battle of White Mountain, touching off the Thirty Years War. Forced into exile (and dubbed the Winter King and Queen because their short-lived reign spanned only the winter of 1619-20), they went to live in The Hague.
None of this is clearly laid out in the book. That’s not a criticism of the book, which is not meant to be a history lesson after all. When the story opens, Elizabeth is a widow, still ensconced in The Hague, the head of her household, attended by pages, a few ladies-in-waiting, a personal secretary, and a chaplain, all living in reduced though comparatively comfortable circumstances. But although the book’s title suggests that Elizabeth is its focus, its central character is someone else altogether, a creation of the author’s imagination.
His name is Pelagius. He is an African prince sold into slavery, later freed by his Dutch master, who establishes himself as a scholar and nascent preacher turned oracle. He is consulted by the local women, then by the queen in exile.
One of the most beautiful and haunting scenes is when Pelagius and Elizabeth first meet, when she asks him “to see” for her (she is concerned about her sons, one of whom is being held hostage) and he takes her and several of her gentlewomen out onto the ice in the twilight. He clears the ice of the snow to show the hard, glassy darkness of the ice with its sinews of currents and the little bubbles and fragments of frozen weed which were held in it. As Elizabeth looks down, she saw the black fall of her dress and the sables in which she was huddled, she felt the hard grip of the ice clutching through the soles of her shoes. Before her stretched an inky pool of clear ice. She was worried about Charles Louis, wherever he might be, struggling to raise support among the deadly indifference of Europe’s kings, and about her poor Rupert, prisoner in Linz: she tried to concentrate her mind. Charles Louis, Rupert. My darling boys.
But it’s someone else she sees.
There was something under the ice. In the complete darkness of the water a glimmer of light. Not a glimmer, a something. Pale, oval. Heedless of her dress, her stiff knees, Elizabeth slid down, as it became clearer and clearer to her. Under the ice, under armoured glassy inches, he came up: Fredrik Hendrik, her first born, her beloved, his skin leaden and pinched with the cold, hair waving like black weed, his lovely grey eyes filled with innocent astonishment. Help me, mother. Mother, why am I dead? Later we learn that he drowned when he was 18 when the ship he was traveling in went down in a storm, his body later found in the frigid seas, his cheek frozen to a piece of the ship’s mast.
The book is about the relationship between Pelagius and Elizabeth, but it is just as much an evocation of the Dutch landscape, which always seems to be lit with a kind of moody half-light, a beautiful watery twilight, the colors of the sky merging with colors of the surrounding sea; sky, sea, ice, the cold. The interiors, where the interplay of light and dark continues, are as finely wrought. The book has an academic, learned feel to it, but it is rewarding, and the ending is beautiful and poignant.