The Princess of Celle

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IN THE BED the old man lay dying, staring before him with his poor, sightless eyes, murmuring incoherently as his thin yellow fingers plucked at the bedclothes. The physicians were huddled together in the ante-room pretending to confer as to what treatment they should offer; but they knew that there was nothing they could do. His hour had come, and William, Duke of Lüneberg, would not last the night.

His eight daughters were close to his bed, some kneeling, all weeping; but his seven sons were together in a corner of the death chamber, preparing to draw lots.

The macabre scene was lighted only by the guttering candles, and all were thinking – not of the dying Duke – but of the seven brothers.

In the little houses of the town of Celle, the inhabitants waited for news; some had hurried to the church to pray. It was to this church – built of brick in contrast to the wooden houses – that Duke William himself had gone regularly, for he had been a deeply religious man who had earned the name of The Pious.

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