I knew I was crimson with the shock, and one knee was trembling violently, but I forced myself to smile steadily as the guest before me bobbed in a deep curtsey, and her escort swept me a bow. I saw the concern in their faces—when I turn red I’m a daunting sight—so I forced a laugh.
“Forgive me,” I told them. “I’m out of breath with saying ‘thank you’ to several hundred people.” They were delighted at being so familiarly addressed by royalty, and then the crisis was past and I had time to steady myself.
But it had been a horrible moment, and I must have gone through the rest of that reception like a man in a dream, for I can remember nothing more until I was back in my own room, alone with Detchard, Rudi and de Gautet, drinking brandy from a glass that rattled against my teeth.
“It was a bad moment,” was Rudi’s verdict. “For a second I thought we were gone. I had him covered from my pocket, and I swear if he had taken an instant longer to smile I’d have shot him down and claimed he was preparing to assassinate you. And God knows what might have come of that. Phew!”
“But he saw I wasn’t the Prince!” I beat on the arm of my chair. “He saw through me! Didn’t he? You saw him, de Gautet—didn’t he?”
“I doubt it,” says he. “For a moment he thought there was something strange about you—and then he told himself it was his own imagination. You saw him shake his head—he had tried to puzzle it out, but couldn’t—and now he no more doubts you than he doubts himself.”
“By God, I hope so.” I attacked the brandy again. “Suppose he thinks better of it, though—becomes suspicious?”
“He’s being watched every moment he is in Strackenz,” says Rudi. “We have other reasons for keeping a sharp eye on Master Hansen.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, his journey here wasn’t only to dance at your wedding. We know that for months now he and other members of the Danish government have been in correspondence with the more militant Danish faction in Strackenz—people like the Eider Danes35 over the border, only rather more dangerous. They watch everything German like hawks, hold secret meetings, that sort of thing. There’s talk of a clandestine organisation, the ‘Sons of the Volsungs’, dedicated to fly to arms in the event of any threat from Berlin to Strackenzian independence.” Rudi grinned pleasantly. “We’ll settle with those gentlemen when the time comes. For the present, neither they nor friend Hansen need trouble you. The game’s all but won, my boy”—and he slapped me on the shoulder. “With the wedding behind us there’s nothing to do but sit out the weeks until Otto gives the word that our good Carl Gustaf is ready to resume the rôle in which you are proving such a distinguished understudy. Then back to merry England for you—and let’s hope the delectable Irma isn’t too disappointed in the change, shall we?”
This was all very well, but I was by no means sure that the worst was past. I’d had some nasty turns in my brief life as Prince Carl Gustaf, and it seemed odds on there being a few more before they’d sweated the clap out of him and he could succeed me on the consort’s throne. And even then, would Bismarck keep faith? I didn’t want to think about that just yet, but it was always at the back of my mind. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, but you have to watch your step at night, too.
I was still shaking with the Hansen business, and for that matter I was probably suffering from the strain of two days’ imposture—at any rate, I punished a half bottle of brandy there and then without noticeable effect, which is always a sign that the funks have got me good and proper. Rudi, although he watched me closely, whistling through his teeth, didn’t say me nay; there was no further official business that day, only the drive to the hunting lodge at Strelhow, ten miles from the city, and I didn’t have to be stone-cold sober for that.
We were to set out in mid-afternoon, and presently Josef and various minions were admitted to begin my preparations for the road. There was a great bustle as trunks and boxes were taken below stairs, and I was divested of my ceremonial uniform and kitted out in cutaway and topper, as befitted a gentleman bent on his honeymoon. I was sufficiently recovered from my nervous condition—or else the booze was beginning to work—to be able to discuss with Rudi the merits of checked or striped trousers, which had been the great debate among the London nobs that year.36 I was a check-er myself, having the height and leg for it, but Rudi thought they looked bumpkinish, which only shows what damned queer taste they had in Austria in those days. Of course, if you’ll put up with Metternich you’ll put up with anything.
While we were talking, an officer of the palace guard put in an appearance, with an escort carrying drawn sabres, to collect the crown jewellery which Josef had removed with my uniform. They had taken my coronet and State sword on our return from the cathedral, but my chain and rings remained, and these were now carefully stowed in velvet-lined cases and given to the guard to carry away.
“Pretty things,” says Rudi, cocking his cheroot thoughtfully between his teeth. “Where are you taking them, Fahnrich?”
“To the clock-room, herr baron,” says the young officer, clicking his heels.
“Aye, that’s a strange place, surely. Wouldn’t a dungeon be safer?”
“If you please, herr baron, the clock-room is in the top of the main tower of the palace. The tower has one stair, which is under constant guard.” The youth hesitated. “I believe they are kept there because in the old Duke’s time it was his grace’s delight to visit the clock-room every day and examine the state treasure.”
I was taking this in, for what it was worth, and noting that Rudi von Starnberg was showing an uncommon interest in it, too. Dishonest young pup; I knew what he was thinking.
We left the palace on the stroke of three, to be cheered out of town by the loyal Strackenzians, who had been making the most of the free buffets and unlimited wine being dispensed in all the public buildings. The whole population seemed to be half-shot, and the applause as we drove through the streets was abandoned and hilarious. I sat with the Duchess in an open landau, accompanied by Rudi and a strikingly pretty red-haired lady-in-waiting whose foot he kept stroking with his boot during the journey. Otherwise he was on his best behaviour, which meant that his conduct stopped just short of open insolence.
However, Irma was in no frame of mind to notice; she was in something of a pet, chiefly, I gathered, because Schwerin had not been able to report the apprehension of the agitator who had been abusing us on our drive from the cathedral. And there had been difficulties with her trousseau, the people who were waving us goodbye were over-familiar in their expressions, the open carriage was not suitable for such a cold day—and so on, every damned thing seemed to be wrong, for no obvious reason. To me it seemed that, whatever the rest of her trousseau was like, her blue travelling gown and fur hat, à la hussar, became her admirably. I said so, and she condescended to acknowledge the compliment, but very formally. We were still as distant as dowagers in church, and it struck me again that for all her prim composure, she was probably quaking underneath. I found this gratifying, and resolved to let her stew in it for a while; I wasn’t over-solicitous, and for most of the journey we rode in silence.
It was a sunny afternoon, and warm in spite of Irma’s complaint. The road from Strackenz runs through some splendid forest country, which encloses an unusual feature for that part of the world in a short range of little crags and cliffs called the Jotun Gipfel. They are very pretty, very wild, as our late Queen would say, and rather like the English lake hills in miniature. Apart from a few shepherds’ huts they are fairly empty, most of the inhabitants of Strackenz province living down in the flat lands near the city, but they contain one or two beautiful mountain tarns, in one of which stands the old castle of Jotunberg, which was the stronghold of the Dukes of Strackenz in the bad old days. It was kept now by the Bülow family, a Strackenzian branch of the great German house of that name.
The hunting lodge of Strelhow stands some miles from the Jotun Gipfel, tucked away in the woods a little distance off t
he main road. It has been the country seat of the ruling house for generations, and is an excellent little box, all rough timber and fur rugs, with fine open fires, leaded windows, comfortable appointments, and plenty of room—altogether a bang-up place. We were travelling fairly informally; there were two Strackenzian aides for me, apart from de Gautet and Rudi, and the Duchess had three ladies and about five maids—God knows why she needed all those. Detchard had come, too, but elected to stay in the village, and of course I had Josef with me. There were other servants, and various grooms and attendants, and it looked like being quite a lively country party. And it was—lively and deathly.
We arrived at the lodge just before dusk. My bride was nervous and irritable, and had the servants who came out to greet us scurrying in all directions. There was a meal prepared in the panelled dining-room, with a cheery blaze in the grate, and all looking mighty snug and inviting, but she excused herself and went off above-stairs with her lady-in-waiting and a cloud of lackeys hovering in her wake. However, we men-folk were sharp-set and fell on supper with a will, and after that the port and brandy, and before long we were making a good roaring evening of it. What with sensing that her haughty highness was out of sorts, and the food and wine, I was in excellent trim, and although de Gautet was his usual saturnine self—I was growing to loathe that sleek, silent smile—Rudi and the two Strackenzians took their cue from me and caroused like cricketers.
For all their other faults, I must own that Germans are excellent fellows at a gorging-and-drinking party. Rudi was in fine fettle, with his tunic undone and his curly hair a-tumble, leading the singing in a capital baritone (but his eyes were still bright and clear; I doubt if he was ever the worse for drink in his life, that one). I was ladling the liquor down at a fair rate, and had just reached that state where I begin to search for mischief, when a footman brought down word that her grace the duchess was about to retire, and requested that the disturbance of the evening should cease.
At this the others fell silent. Rudi sat back in his chair and smiled into his glass; the Strackenzians glanced uneasily at each other. I got to my feet, staggering a little and upsetting my chair, and said that if her grace was retiring, so was I. I bade them goodnight, and walked—rather unsteadily, I imagine—to the door.
One of the Strackenzian aides jumps up, and asked, could he help my highness?
“No, thank’ee, my son,” says I. “I’m of age, you know.”
At which he fell back, blushing, and as I strode out I heard Rudi laughing and calling out:
“Gentlemen, a toast! The Prince Carl Gustaf, coupled, if you follow me, with her grace the Duchess of Strackenz.”
I blundered upstairs, shed my clothes in my dressing-room, thrust Josef out, threw on a gown, and strode through into the bedroom. I was full of booze and lewdness, and the sight of Irma, caught unawares, standing there in a white nightgown, did nothing to sober me. Her cold, proud beauty brought out the worst in me, I threw off the gown, and she shrieked and covered her eyes.
“Cheer up, little wife,” says I, “there won’t be any more singing downstairs,” and I stooped and whipped the nightdress clean off, over her head. She gave a little cry, and since I maintain that the best way to deal with nervous females is to treat ’em hearty, I lifted her up bodily, popped her on, and stumped round the room singing:
“This is the way the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot, trit-trot.”
As near as I can remember I sang it in English, but I doubt if she noticed. At all events I know we finished the business on the bed, with me laughing weakly and babbling about “hobble-dee, hobble-dee, and down in a ditch” and assuring her that she was a damned fine duchess and a credit to her country.37
I suppose I dozed off, but I woke up and had at her again, and being slightly more sober by this time I was aware that she lay as still as a corpse, and didn’t enter into the fun of the thing at all. If it had been any other woman I’d have smartened her up with a few cuts across the rump, but with a duchess one ought to practise patience, I felt.
And I was right, you see, because after that I went to sleep, leaving her lying there, with her eyes closed, like a beautiful ghost in the candlelight, and what should awaken me—I don’t know how many hours later—but a tiny hand creeping across my thigh, and long hair snuggling up to my face, and I thought, well, damme, royal or not, they’re all alike under the skin. I was beat, I can tell you, but one must act like a gentleman, so I went to work again, and this time she clung like a leech. Just like Elspeth, I remember thinking—all chaste purity to look at, maidenly beauty personified, and randy as a monkey.
I’ve known too many women, far too many, to claim to understand ’em. Their minds work in ways too mysterious for me to fathom; anyway, my studies have generally been confined to their bodies, which perhaps accounts for it. But I know that Duchess Irma of Strackenz was a different woman after that night—to me, at any rate. She had been a proud, autocratic, thoroughly spoiled little brat the day before; nervous as a mouse and as cold as a whale’s backside. And I’d not have been surprised if after the way I’d handled her, she’d been put off men for good. But next morning she was positively meek, in a thoughtful but apparently contented way, and very attentive to me; she seemed to be in a state of wonder, almost, and yet she was ready to talk to me, and what was even more remarkable, listen to me, too—not that I’m a great hand at conversation in the mornings.
I don’t mention this in a boastful way, or to suggest that with a chap like me it’s just a matter of catch ’em young, treat ’em rough, roger ’em hard, and they eat out of my hand. Far from it; I’ve used women that way, and had them try to repay me with cold steel, or run a mile next time I looked at them. But with Irma, for some reason, it had quite the opposite effect; I can say that from that night on, as long as I knew her, she treated me with something near to worship. Which shows you how stupid a love-struck young woman can be.
All this, of course, made for a most happy sojourn at Strelhow. There was plenty to do during the day, what with picnic parties—for although some snow still lay, it was pleasantly warm for the season—and shooting in the woods, and riding (on horses) in the afternoon, and in the evening we had musical entertainment from the ladies, or played billiards, and the food and drink were of the best. I began to feel like royalty again, with people waiting on me hand and foot, and jumping to my slightest wish, and it is mighty pleasant to have a beautiful young duchess hanging on your arm, adoring you, even if she does keep you from getting much sleep at nights. It was the life, all right—lazing, feasting, shooting, tickling the pills in the billiard room and sweating it out in bed with Irma—all the trivial amusements that are simply nuts to chaps like me.
Rudi and de Gautet were the only flies in the ointment, for their very presence was a constant jog to my memory of the business in hand. But strangely enough, I became a little closer to de Gautet, for I discovered that he shared one of my chief interests, which is horseflesh. He was an authority, of the true kind who never pretends more than he knows, and in the saddle he was nearly as good as I was myself, which is to say he would have been top-notch among any horsemen in the world—even the Cheyennes of the American plains, who are the best I know. We rode together a good deal, but I made sure we always had one of the Strackenzians or a couple of grooms along—I’m nervous about going into the woods alone with fellows whom I’ve cut open with a schlager, and who I’m pretty sure haven’t forgotten it.
De Gautet, at any rate, was a silent, unassertive fellow, which was more than could be said of the bold Rudi. Now that he was confident I could play my role in perfect safety, he was treating me exactly as he would have used the real Prince Carl, which is to say with his customary impertinence. Of course, he cared for no one, and even let his bright eye play over Irma, while he would address her with that half-mocking deference which he seemed to reserve for his social superiors. She was woman enough to be taken by his good looks and easy charm, but she sensed, I think, that here was
a real wrong ’un, and confessed to me on one occasion that she was sure he was not a gentleman. I promised to replace him with a new aide when we returned to the city—and took some malicious pleasure in telling him about it later, so that he should realise that one woman, at least, had read him correctly. But he was only amused.
“I knew the chit had no taste,” says he. “Why, she’s taken to you. But don’t imagine you can get rid of me so easily, your highness—I’m your loyal, obedient, and ever-present servant until the time comes to end our little comedy.” He blew a smoke-ring and eyed me, tongue in check. “I think you’ll be sorry when it’s over, won’t you? Princely life suits you, or I’m mistaken.”
In fact, he was mistaken. Oh, it was very idyllic there in Strelhow, and I was idler than even royalty usually are, but already I had a notion that the future that faced Carl Gustaf wasn’t going to be all roses and wine. It may seem rare to be a crowned head, and no doubt if you’re an absolute monarch with unlimited power, it’s right enough—but a prince consort, which is more or less what I was, isn’t quite the same thing. He can’t trim the heads off those he don’t like, or order up any good-looking skirt who takes his fancy. He’s always one step behind his adoring spouse, and even if she dotes on him—and who knows how long that will last?—he still has to get his own way, if he wants it, through her good leave. Even in those blissful early days with Irma, I could see how it would be, and I didn’t much like it. God knows how our late lamented Albert stuck it out, poor devil. If I’d been him, six months would have seen me on the boat back to Saxe-Coburg or wherever it was. But perhaps he didn’t mind playing second fiddle—he wasn’t English.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 47
