by John Buchan
It was easy enough for Bill to slip off in the afternoon to a corner of the park and to transport himself to Gracia. He asked to be taken to the Crown Prince’s apartments in the royal Palace and found himself in a magnificence of which he had never dreamed — resembling, he thought, a wonderful restaurant in London where he had once had a meal. By a lucky chance Anatole was there, and the boys curled up on a great sofa and had an hour of excited talk.
Prince Zosimo was too busy, it appeared, to ask questions about the English stranger, and now he, Anatole, was Crown Prince of Gracia and responsible to no one. Things were moving miraculously. The Kuno faction had melted like snow in thaw, and the true desires of the Grach nation were now apparent. Such loyal jubilations Grachovo had never witnessed, and the country was, if possible, more enthusiastic than the capital. A telegram had come from Kuno from Scotland. “I live. I return.” But people had only laughed, for there were no Kunoites left except a few hidden in holes and corners.
And then he expounded what would happen on St. Lampadas’ Day. The King, his grandfather, now better in health, would drive in the royal coach to the Cathedral, Anatole by his side, and there would replenish with oil the sacred lamp which never went out, and offer gifts on the altar. Then he would return in state to the Palace, where, in the great Hall of Audience he would receive the leaders of the nation and speak through them to all Gracia.
The Prince almost danced with excitement.
“At every step I will be by his side. He will present me to the nobles and they will swear fealty with uplifted swords. I shall wear the ancient dress of Gracia, which is worn only on high occasions of state, and likewise the collar of St. Lampadas. Six of the greatest nobles will attend me, but you, Beel, will be by my right hand, as my principal equerry, and you shall wear on your breast the Gold Star of St. Lampadas, which is given only to those of the highest rank, or to those who have done some great service to Gracia.”
“I haven’t much in the way of kit,” said Bill. He reflected that his best suit would look rather shabby amid such magnificence.
The Prince seized his hand. “Have no fear. You are of my size, and fitting clothes have been ordered for you. They will be of white satin, with a mantle of purple velvet and a belt of mountain turquoises, for that is the historic garb of the Crown Prince’s suite on gala days. You shall wear, too; the curved sword of a Gracian noble.”
Then he gave Bill explicit instructions. He was to be in his suite in the Palace at eleven o’clock, since at noon the procession started for the Cathedral. Orders would be issued with respect to him, and he would be gazetted to the Prince’s staff. Thereafter — Anatole expanded in happy dreams — his dearest friend and deliverer must not leave him. Between them, with the help of the magic staff, they would make Gracia the most prosperous and the most peaceful and the happiest of lands.
He leaped up and kissed him, and somehow this time Bill did not feel ashamed.
That night at dinner his father talked of Bill’s future. In these hard times everyone must earn his living, and various careers were passed in review — the Army, the Colonial service, Uncle Bob’s family business. Bill listened with apparent attention, but his mind was far away.
He was long in getting to sleep. His father had talked about professions, and had said that you must begin humbly and work your way up. But if he wanted he could be a prince of Gracia, the chief friend of the heir to the throne, and in a year or two, perhaps, the chief friend of the King. The day after to-morrow he would be wearing wonderful clothes and moving among exultant crowds, while soldiers saluted and bands played and cannons boomed. Bill saw the prospect as a mixture of all the high occasions he had ever witnessed — the King’s opening of Parliament, the scene at Lords after an unexpected school victory, service in the College Chapel, Speech Day, the Scots Guards pipers, the changing of the guard at St. James’s.... He hugged himself in his excitement and finally fell asleep with the magic staff firmly clutched in his hand.
CHAPTER XX. THE CROWNING ADVENTURE — I.
NEXT morning before going to London Bill looked at the newspapers. He had not done this before, for he had forgotten that what so enthralled him might also interest the world. The papers were full of the doings in Grachovo. There were two or three columns on the foreign page of The Times, and The Daily Mail had many photographs, including one of Prince Anatole, and a caricature of Kuno.
He could find no word of Kuno’s doings. The man was apparently too proud to reveal himself to the police of a foreign country, though he had telegraphed to Grachovo. By this time he must know that his immediate game was up, but he was not the kind of man to despair. He would return to Gracia, and Bill and Anatole and Prince Zosimo would have to keep a sharp eye on his future doings.
On the way to London, as the car passed through the little towns, he saw on all the newspaper placards: “Scenes in Grachovo”—”Restoration of the Crown Prince”—”Defeat of Republican Plot.” What would the papers say about the ceremony of to-morrow? Bill hugged his staff and had a sudden delicious sense of secret power.
During the journey he was in a happy dream. At luncheon he woke up and was so urbane that Aunt Alice seemed prepared to revise her views about the public school system. Peter babbled happily about his camera and his doings in town. Barbara was not present at the meal, for she was lunching with a friend.
In the afternoon Bill went off by himself, for he had much to do. He wanted to make Anatole a present, for to-morrow’s occasion demanded a gift, and he had decided what it should be. His father possessed a sporting rifle, a.320 which had long seemed to Bill a most desirable possession. If he could provide Anatole with such a weapon his happiness would be complete.
The trouble was that he only possessed in cash £3 10s., and he knew that a rifle cost far more than that. Casting about for ways and means, he remembered the five gold coins he had found in the Ivory Valley. They must be valuable, and by their sale he might amass the necessary sum.
So he made for Pratt’s in Piccadilly, into whose medal-filled windows he had often stared. He had heard his father say that Pratt’s were good people to deal with.
The assistant was courteous and friendly. He looked at the coins, and then summoned a colleague, and the two proceeded to rub and clean them, and to peer at them through magnifying glasses. He asked Bill where he got them, and was told truthfully that they had been found in Africa.
“You have permission to sell them?” he enquired.
Bill replied with conviction that they were his very own.
They were a long while considering them. They asked for time to consult certain experts, and proposed that Bill should return two days hence.
“But I want to sell them now,” said Bill. “You see, I want to give a birthday present to a great friend, and he ought to have it to-morrow.”
His eagerness was so great and his candour so engaging that a very serious-looking old gentleman in spectacles, who had been brought into the conclave, was impresssed.
“We could make you a price now,” he said. “But I ought to warn you that it may not be a fair price. When we have satisfied ourselves on certain points we might be able to offer considerably more. What do you say to that?”
“I want to sell them now,” said Bill. “How much can you give me?”
“I’m afraid we can’t go beyond twenty-five pounds.”
“All right! I will take that.” The sum seemed to Bill an incredible fortune.
He had to give his name and address and sign a receipt, the terms of which were carefully explained to him. Then with a wad of notes in his pocket he sought a famous gunshop in Bond Street. He had once been there with his father and considered it the most delectable place in the world.
The price of the rifle proved to be thirty guineas, just a little beyond his means. Bill was in such despair that the manager was moved. He asked him his name and recognised him as the son of an old customer.
“I’ll tell you what we can do,” he said. “I
have a rifle here which has been returned because the gentleman died suddenly. It is quite new and has never been used, I believe, but you may say it ranks as second-hand. I can let you have it for twenty-five pounds.”
So Bill became the possessor of the.320, and had still a little money left. He arranged that he would call for it next morning at ten.
Bill was restless all evening, and went early to bed, for his mother and Barbara were dining out. He lay awake for a long time, dreaming of the events of the morrow and thinking a good deal about the rifle. Anatole would love it. Anatole was doing a lot for him, but then he had done a lot for Anatole. There were moments when he felt so proud that he could scarcely lie in bed.
The result was that he was late for breakfast, and had to dress in a great hurry. Usually he hated wearing his best clothes, which he was compelled to do in London. But now he only wished that they were better. Never mind! In an hour or two they would be exchanged for silks and satins.
He had already got his mother’s permission to go out for the day, permission the more readily given since Peter was to spend the morning with the dentist. Bill had always had the habit of “prowls” — a family word — and Aunt Alice had supported him in his plea. “Don’t coddle children,” she had said. “The sooner they learn to stand on their own feet the better.”
So, with many instructions from his mother to eat a digestible luncheon and to be careful in crossing the streets, Bill set out from Portland Place clutching his stick.
He took a bus to Bond Street and collected the rifle. Then he indulged in a taxi as far as the Marble Arch. He proposed to find a quiet place in Hyde Park from which to make his departure.
It was a clear frosty morning, and the park was very empty. Bill found a spot where nobody was in sight except two small girls and a dog. When they had disappeared round the corner of a copse, he twirled the staff and wished himself in the Crown Prince’s apartments in the Palace of Grachovo.
Anatole was not there, as he had promised. There was no one in the room, and it looked curiously untidy, as if the furniture had been violently moved about. Bill was considering his next step when someone entered, and he saw that it was the young footman who was Anatole’s valet.
At the sight of Bill the man cried out something and turned and fled.
Bill heard excited voices outside in the corridor. Then the door was flung open and Prince Zosimo entered at a run. He was a very dishevelled Zosimo. His short grey hair had not been brushed, and he had certainly not shaved. He was dressed in deep black, but his clothes were wrinkled as if he had slept in them. He came down on Bill like a whirlwind.
“Where have you been?” he cried, and his English was so disordered that Bill could scarcely follow him. “Where have you come from? Where is the King?”
“The King?” Bill stammered.
“The King! Anatole is now king. His grandfather died yesterday evening. Where is the King of Gracia?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you must know,” Zosimo almost screamed. “When did you see him last?”
“The day before yesterday,” said Bill, trying to collect his wits. “What has happened? Oh, tell me!”
“Happened! He is lost. He has disappeared in the night. The Palace guard was relaxed owing to his late Majesty’s death. His bedroom was all in confusion. There had been a struggle. There is treason abroad. He has been carried off by the enemy.”
“Kuno!” Bill cried.
“Kuno, doubtless. He must have returned, and he must have had his agents inside the Palace. The police are even now investigating. But he! But the King! At noon he should proceed to the Cathedral and thereafter receive his nobles in the Hall of Audience. The sacred lamp must be replenished, and if it fails our cause is undone. And you! You! What about you? You must explain yourself, child, for you are a mystery.”
All Bill’s happy forecasts were shattered. He felt himself destined now to something very different from the glittering pageant he had dreamed of. But it was anxiety for Anatole that consumed him.
“Please don’t ask about me. I’ve no time to tell you. Anatole knows everything. We must find him.”
“Find him! With all Gracia to search! He may have been taken across the border. The Cathedral ceremony has been postponed until three o’clock, but it must be held this day, and if the King is not found by three o’clock the monarchy falls.” Zosimo’s excitement had the effect of calming Bill. “He will be found,” he said.
“Do you know where he is hidden?” he was asked furiously.
“I can find him,” said Bill quietly. “Please listen to me, Prince Zosimo, and do not ask questions now.”
Bill consulted his shabby watch. “It’s a quarter to eleven. If you will give me until midday I promise to have Anatole back in this room. But you must leave me alone, please. You must lock the door and give me the key.”
“You are mad,” Zosimo cried.
“Perhaps I am. But I brought Anatole from Mamizan to you, and I got Kuno out of the country. If you trust me I will get the King back and shift Kuno where he won’t bother you. If I don’t, you can hang me or shoot me.”
Zosimo did his best to tear his hair.
“I am plagued with demented children,” he moaned. “But I will give you till noon.”
He rushed to the door and flung the key at Bill. “There, lock yourself in. Till twelve I go to direct the police search, for all Grachovo is being combed, but at twelve I return, and then you must satisfy me or suffer.”
“All right,” said Bill. “Good luck to you.” He locked the door and laid the key on a table. He realised that he was in for a much graver adventure than any he had hitherto met, but to his surprise he did not feel nervous. He was too miserable about Anatole and too angry with Kuno. He bitterly regretted that he had been so merciful, and had not left the latter on St. Kilda.
He ordered the staff to carry him to Anatole’s side — ordered it with a sick heart, for he feared that he might find Anatole dead.
CHAPTER XXI. THE CROWNING ADVENTURE — II.
AT first Bill thought that his worst fears were justified. He found himself in a big, dim place, evidently just under the eaves of some building. There was a low dormer window on his left hand with every pane broken, and outside he saw the sun shining on the tides of a river. Within the air was thick with dust and smelt of stale straw and grain. It must be the upper floor of some waterside mill.
On a heap of straw lay a small figure swathed like a mummy. The body was trussed up in sacking, and there was a bandage over the eyes and what looked like a gag in the mouth. The figure was very still, and Bill in terror laid his ear against its breast. Thank God, it still breathed.
Never had Bill used his stalking knife — a gift last birthday from his father — to more purpose. He slit the sacking and cut the cords, after first removing the gag and the face bandage. Anatole was revealed clad in pale-blue silk pyjamas. His eyes were open and staring, and at first there was no recognition in them. But he was alive.
Then a sound fell upon Bill’s ear, the sound of heavy snoring. There was someone else in the room, someone sleeping in the straw only a few yards away.
He saw that Anatole had now recognised him and was making feeble signs. The signs were for caution and silence. Bill put his head to the boy’s lips and heard him murmur “Kuno.”
Very slowly Anatole began to move. His limbs were cramped, and his face was twisted with pain as he moved them, but he made no sound. Gently he raised himself until he sat up, and then he clutched Bill’s arm, and there was terror in his eyes.
“Oh, Beel,” he whispered, “take me away. They are going to murder me....”
“Not they,” said Bill. “Hold my arm, Anatole. I can shift you out of here any moment. But we must think. We need not be at the Palace for an hour. Tell me, what happened? Yes, hold me as tight as you can. You are quite safe. Now very slowly — I am listening. That hog over there won’t wake.”
The boy had now mastered
himself, but he still shivered like a frightened colt.
“Kuno,” he whispered. “Yesterday he came back. By air, it must have been.... My grandfather died suddenly before dinner. That you have heard. There was confusion in the Palace, for the discipline had become weak — and there was treachery which, please God, I will yet discover and punish.... I went to bed and slept sound, for I was very weary. The next I knew was that I was in the hands of rough men — mountain men, I think. I fought, but I was easily overcome, and I could not cry out, for my head was muffled. Then I think I fainted, for I remember nothing until I came to my senses in this place. I saw Kuno — and others. I heard them talk, for they did not fear me any more, and spoke openly of their plans.”
“Where are we now?” Bill asked.
