The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  That cheered them up no end, and presently the reception began to draw to a close, and the noble guests imperceptibly melted away; Schwerin beamed paternally on the Duchess and myself, and hinted that as the next day was going to be an exhausting one, we should take all the rest we could beforehand. It was still only early afternoon, but I was dog-tired with the novelty and excitement of the morning, and so we said our formal goodbyes to each other. I made mine as pleasant as I could, and the Duchess Irma received it with an inclination of her head and gave me her hand to kiss. It was like talking to a walking statue.

  Then Detchard, who had been hovering off my port quarter for several hours, closed in and with attendant flunkies escorted me to the suite reserved for me in the west wing of the palace. They would have made a great fuss of me, but he shooed them away, and what I thought rather odd, he also dismissed Josef, who was waiting to unbutton me and remove my boots. However, I realised he wished us to be private, and when we passed through into my main salon I understood why, for Rudi Starnberg and de Gautet were waiting for us.

  The sight of them damped my spirits; it was a reminder of what I was here for, with my custodians dogging me all the time. From being the prince I was become play-actor Flashy again.

  Rudi sauntered across and without so much as by-your-leave took hold of my wrist and felt my pulse.

  “You’re a cool hand,” says he. “I watched you down below, and on my oath, you looked a most condescending tyrant. How does it feel to play the prince?”

  I hadn’t been used to this kind of talk in the past few hours, and found myself resenting it. I damned his impudence and asked where the blazes he had been all day—for he and de Gautet had been supposed to meet me with the others at the frontier.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Regal airs, eh? Well, highness, we’ve been busy about affairs of state if you please. Your affairs, your state. You might show a little appreciation to your loyal servants.” He grinned insolently. “But of course, the gratitude of princes is proverbial.”

  “Then don’t presume on it—even with temporary royalty,” I growled. “You can both go to the devil. I want to rest.”

  De Gautet considered me. “A little drunk perhaps?”

  “Damn you, get out!”

  “I do believe the infection has really taken,” chuckled Rudi. “He’ll be calling the guard in a moment. Now, seriously, friend Flashman”—and here he tapped me on the chest—“you can put away your ill-temper, for it won’t answer. It ain’t our fault if the Duchess hasn’t languished at you. No, you needn’t damn my eyes, but listen. Certain things have happened which may—I say may only—affect our plans.”

  My stomach seemed to turn to ice. “What d’ye mean?”

  “By ill chance, one of the Danish Embassy at Berlin—a fellow Hansen, a senior official—arrived today in Strackenz. He was on his way home, and broke his journey here to attend the wedding. There was no convenient way to get rid of him, so he will be there tomorrow.”

  “Well, what about it?” says I. “There will be plenty of Danes in the Cathedral, won’t there? What’s one more or less?”

  Detchard spoke from behind me. “Hansen has been a friend of Carl Gustaf’s from childhood. Indeed, the most intimate of all his companions.”

  “Your resemblance to Carl Gustaf is uncanny,” put in de Gautet. “But will it deceive his oldest playmate?”

  “Jesus!” I sat stricken. “No, no, by God, it won’t! It can’t! He’ll know me!” I jumped up. “I knew it! I knew it! We’re done for! He’ll denounce me! You … you bloody idiots, see what you’ve done, with your lunatic schemes! We’re dead men, and …”

  “Lower your voice,” says Rudi, “and take a grip on your nerves.” He pushed me firmly back into my chair. “Your mind’s disordered—which is not surprising. Bersonin warned us that even a strong man may show signs of hysteria in the kind of position you’re in …

  “He’s no fool, that one, is he?” cried I. “What the hell can I do? He’ll give me away, this Hansen, and …”

  “He will not,” says Rudi firmly. “Take my word for it. I can see this thing clearly, which you can’t, being the principal actor, and I tell you there is not the slightest risk—provided you keep your head. He’ll meet you for a moment at the reception after the wedding, shake your hand, wish you well, and whist!—that is all. He’s not looking for an impostor, remember. Why should he?”

  “We would not have told you,” said Detchard, “if it could have been avoided. But if we had not you might unwittingly have made some fatal blunder.”

  “That’s it exactly,” says Rudi. “You had to be ready for him. Now, we have decided what you shall say when he approaches you in the reception line. Detchard here will be at your elbow, and will whisper ‘Hansen’ when he reaches you. At the sight of him you’ll start, look as delighted as you know how, seize his right hand in both of yours, shake it hard, and exclaim: ‘Erik, old friend, where did you spring from?’ Then, whatever he says in reply, you’ll give your merriest laugh and say: ‘This is the happiest surprise of this happy day. God bless you for coming to wish me joy.’ And that will be all. I’ll see to it that he doesn’t get near you before you leave for the lodge at Strelhow, where your honeymoon is being spent.”

  “And suppose he sees through me, what then?” This news had left me sick with fright. “Suppose he isn’t to be put off with this nonsense about happy surprises, and I have to talk to him longer?” I had a dreadful vision. “Suppose he shouts, ‘That’s not the prince?’ What’ll you do then?”

  “I’ll have done it long before he shouts anything,” says Rudi quietly. “You may rely on that.”

  I wasn’t so easily reassured. My cowardly instincts were in full cry, and it took all Rudi’s and Detchard’s arts of persuasion to convince me that the risk wasn’t so terrible—indeed, that if I played my part properly, it was barely a risk at all.

  “Conduct yourself as you were doing an hour ago,” says Rudi, “and the thing’s as safe as sleep. Courage, man. The worst’s past. You’ve pulled the wool over all the eyes in Strackenz this day, and right royally, too.” I thought there was even a hint of envy in his voice. “All that’s to do now is stand up in church with the delightful Duchess, say your vows, and then off for a blissful idyll in your forest love-nest. Aye, let your mind run on the pleasures of putting that dainty little pullet to bed.” He nudged me and winked lewdly. “I’ll wager the next Duke of Strackenz has fine curly whiskers, for all that his father won’t have a hair on his face to bless himself with.”

  Of course, as so often turns out, there wasn’t time to be frightened. Ostred gave me a sleeping draught that night, and in the morning it was all mad bustle and hurry, with never fewer than a dozen folk round me from the moment I rose, dressing me, pushing me, instructing me, reminding me—I felt like a prize beast in the ring as I was conducted down the great marble staircase to the waiting coach that was to carry me to the Cathedral. As we paused on the steps, the sound thundered up from the waiting thousands beyond the palace railings, the cannon boomed in the park, and a great cheer rolled across the steep roofs of Strackenz City.

  “God save Prince Carl!”

  “Wherever he may be,” muttered Rudi. “Forward, your highness!”

  It should have been a day to remember, I suppose, but how much of detail does one recall of one’s own wedding?—and it was my second, as you know. It seems now like a strange dream, driving through the packed streets in the sunshine, with the roar of the people buffeting my ears, the blare of the trumpets, the clatter of hooves, and the coloured bunting fluttering bravely in the morning breeze—but what sticks in my mind is the red birthmark on the back of the coachman’s head, which under his hat was as bald as my own.

  And then there was the sudden dimness and hush of the great Cathedral, the pungent smell of the church, the soaring stained glass and the carpeted stone flags underfoot. There was the rustle as hundreds of people rose to their feet, the solemn booming of a gr
eat organ, and the hollow thud of my own footsteps on the stones. And there was the shrill sweetness of the choristers, and people softly moving to and fro about me, and the splendid figure of the Bishop of Strackenz, bearded to the eyes, and for all the world like Willie Grace, the great cricket champion nowadays.

  I remember standing very lonely and afraid, wondering if perhaps there was such a place as Hell after all—a question which had occupied me a good deal as a small boy, especially when Arnold had been terrifying us with sermons about Kibroth-Hattaavah,33 where I gathered all kinds of fornication and fun took place. Well, what I was doing in that Cathedral would have ensured me a single ticket to damnation, no doubt of that, but I consoled myself with the thought that the hereafter was the last thing to worry about just then.

  And I remember, too, the Duchess suddenly at my side, pale and wondrously lovely in her white gown, with her golden hair crowned with a fillet of brilliant stones. And her tiny hand slipping into mine, her clear voice answering the Bishop, and then my own, husky and nervous. They pressed a ring into my hand, and I fumbled it on to her tiny finger, my palms sweating, and kissed her on the cheek when the old Bishop gave the word. She stood like a wax dummy, and I thought, poor old Carl Gustaf, having to live with this cold fish all his life, and the choir let go a great blast of sound as they placed the ducal coronets on our heads, and the Duchess took the gold staff of her sovereignty and the Sword of State was buckled round my waist.

  Then the whole congregation rose and sang a hymn of rejoicing, and various minor clergy decked us out in the remaining Crown Jewels. I must say that for a small state Strackenz was remarkably well off in this respect; apart from the coronets and staff, there were rings for my fingers and a magnificent solid gold chain set with emeralds which they hung round my unworthy neck; it had a star of diamonds pendent from it that must have weighed half a pound.

  The Duchess did rather better, she being the reigning prince while poor old Flash was just her consort. (It struck me then, and it strikes me now, that the Salic Law was a damned sound idea.) She had a collar of solid gems, and her rings would have knocked mine all to pieces. Soldierly instinct dies hard, and as the hymn drew to a close I was mentally computing the worth of all this jewelled splendour, and how it could best be stowed: emerald chain in one side pocket, collar in t’other, rings and similar trifles in the fobs—the coronets would be bulky, but they could probably be bent flat for convenience. And the staff was slender enough to stick down your boot.

  Of course, I’d probably never have the chance to lay my itchy fingers on this magnificent collection of loot again, but it does no harm to take stock in advance: you never know what opportunities may arise. The Crown Jewels of the Duchy of Strackenz would have kept me and a dozen like me in tremendous style for life, and they looked eminently portable. I decided to keep them in mind.

  There was a final hallelujah and amen, and then we were out in the sunlight again with the crowd deafening us and the great bells of the Cathedral pealing overhead. There was an open State coach in which we rode side by side, with the Duchess’s bridesmaids facing us, and I played up to the mob and waved and beamed, while my bride stirred a languid hand in their direction. She did manage a smile or two, though, and even condescended to exchange a few civilities with me, which was a great advance. Never mind, thinks I, it’ll soon be ho for the hunting lodge and beddy-byes, and then we’ll bring the roses back to those pearly cheeks.

  We drove slowly, so that the populace could get a good look at us, and their enthusiasm was so tremendous that the infantry lining the road had to link arms to hold them back. There were children waving flags and screaming, girls fluttering their handkerchiefs, fellows throwing their hats in the air, and old women sobbing and mopping at themselves. At one point the troops gave way, and the crowd clamoured right up to the coach, stretching over to touch us as though we were holy relics: if only they’d known they’d have scampered off far enough in case they caught Flashy’s Evil. The Duchess wasn’t too pleased at being adored so closely, and looked ahead pretty stiff, but I shook hands like a good ’un and they cheered me hoarse.

  At this point there was an odd incident. Above the cheering I was aware of a voice shouting from the back of the crowd—no, not shouting, but declaiming. It was a strong, harsh trumpet of a voice, although its words were lost in the tumult, and its owner was a most odd-looking fellow who had scrambled up onto some kind of hand-cart and was haranguing the mob full blast. There were soldiers struggling through the press to get at him, and a knot of sturdy, sober-looking chaps round the cart as though to shield the orator, so I gathered he must be denouncing us, or threatening a breach of the peace.

  He wasn’t a big chap, in height, but he was built like a bull across the shoulders, with a huge, shaggy head and a beard like a sweep’s broom. Even at that distance I could see the flashing eyes as he thundered out his message, thumping the air with his fist and laying it off like a Mississippi camp-meeting preacher full of virtue and forty-rod whisky. The people nearest him and his group were shouting threats at him, but he kept bawling away, and it looked to me as though an excellent brawl was in prospect; unfortunately, just as the soldiers reached him and were trying to haul him down, the coach moved out of vision, so I didn’t see how it came out.34

  The Duchess had seen it, too, and we were no sooner at the palace than she summoned Schwerin to the ante-room where we were resting and pitched straight into him.

  “Who was that agitator? How dared he raise his voice against me, and whose neglect allowed it to happen?” Her voice was perfectly level, but she was obviously in a furious bait, and the old minister fairly cowered before the slip of a girl. “Have he and his rabble been arrested?”

  Schwerin wrung his hands. “Highness, that this should have happened! It is deplorable. I do not know who the man was, but I will ascertain. I believe he was one of the socialist orators—”

  “Orator?” says the Duchess, in a tone that would have frozen brandy. “Revolutionary upstart! And on my wedding day!” She turned to me. “It is my shame, and my country’s, that this affront should have taken place in your highness’s presence, on this sacred occasion.”

  Well, I didn’t mind. I was more interested in her cold rage at what she conceived an affront to her noble dignity; she had a fine, spoiled conceit of herself to be sure. I suggested that the man was probably drunk, and that he had done no harm anyway.

  “Denmark must be fortunate in its security against such dangerous criminals,” says she. “In Strackenz we find it prudent to take sterner measures against these … these orators! Schwerin, I hold you responsible; let me hear presently that they have been arrested and punished.”

  It would have sounded pompous from a bench of bishops; from a nineteen-year-old girl it was ridiculous, but I kept a straight face. I was learning fast about my little Irma; an imperious young piece. I found myself hoping that she would be thwarted of her vengeance on my big-headed revolutionary; whoever he was, he had looked the kind of likely lad who would sooner spar with the peelers than eat his dinner, and keep things lively all round.

  When she had sent Schwerin packing, and her ladies had adjusted invisible flaws in her appearance, we proceeded with tremendous ceremony to the great ballroom, where the brilliant throng had already assembled for the reception. This is a bigger “do” than old Morrison gave for Elspeth and me in Paisley, thinks I, but I’ll wager they can’t drink more than those Scotch rascals did. The place was a blaze of splendid uniforms and gowns; orders, medals, and jewellery twinkled everywhere; aristocratic backs bent and a hundred skirts rustled in curtsies as we took our place on the dais for the guests to file by with their respectful congratulations. You never saw such a pack of noble toadies in your life, smirking their way past. They all fawned over the Duchess, of course, the square-heads clicking their heels and bowing stiffly, the dagoes bending double—for we had a fine selection from half the countries in Europe. After all, Duchess Irma was the cousin of our own Br
itannic Majesty—which made me a sort-of-cousin-in-law to her and Albert, I suppose—and everyone wanted to have a grovel to us. I was delighted to see, though, that the British Ambassador confined himself to a jerky little bow and a “Felicitations, ma’am, and much happiness to both your highnesses.” That’s the style, thinks I; good old England and damn all foreigners.

  I just stood there, nodding my head up and down until my neck creaked, smiling and murmuring my thanks to each passing face—fat, thin, sweating, straining, smiling, adoring, they came in all sizes and expressions. And then Detchard’s voice behind me whispered “Hansen,” and I glanced sharply to see a fair-haired, long-jawed young fellow just straightening up from his bow to the Duchess. He turned to me, smiling expectantly, and in my sudden nervousness I took a step forward, grinning like a death’s head, I shouldn’t wonder, grabbed him by the hand, and cried:

  “Erik, old friend, this is the most springing surprise of my happy day!” or something equally garbled; I know that I bungled the words hopelessly, but he just laughed and pumped my hand.

  “Dear Carl—highness—I had to come to wish you joy.” He had that manly, sentimental look, misty-eyed yet smiling, which I personally can only manage in drink. “God bless you both!”

  “God bless you, too, old friend,” says I, wringing hard at him, and then his smile faded, a puzzled look came into his eyes, and he stepped back.

  God knows I’ve had my bad moments, but seldom such a qualm of sickening dread as I experienced then. I kept my aching grin, because I was so paralysed with panic that I couldn’t move a muscle, waiting for the denunciation which I was certain was on his lips.

  For a second he stared, and then he made a sudden, nervous gesture of apology and smiled again.

  “Pardon,” he said. “Your pardon, highness … Carl.” He moved quickly aside to let in the next guest, bowed again, and then moved off towards the buffets, where the other guests were assembling. There I saw him turn, staring back at me, and presently he rubbed his brow with his fingers, gave his head a quick shake as a man will who is putting some trifle out of his mind, and gave his attention to a waiter who was proffering champagne.