by Andre Norton
Michael Karl stepped into the corridor. There was a glittering company of dress uniforms which swayed like a giant garden of flowers at his coming and then he was going down the grand staircase.
The inner courtyard was choked with state carriages and mounted troopers, but at his arrival some small space was cleared about a great black horse with the broad back and heavy heels of the medieval war horse. It paced solemnly back and forth, the silver cloth of its caparisons fluttering in the breeze, quite dwarfing the soldier who led it.
Michael Karl mounted awkwardly with the assistance of Urich and another officer he had never seen before. Evidently his mounting was the signal for departure, as the muddle in the courtyard straightened itself out and part of it disappeared through the outer gate.
Far below, Michael Karl could hear the silvery call of a bugle. The march had begun. He wondered just where Urlich Karl was, and then he remembered that the King was to follow later.
The cavalry troop moved off followed by several carriages and then Urich, also mounted, spurred up to his side.
“—Next”—was all Michael Karl could hear. He nodded and shook his reins. The horse understood and at a dignified pace followed the last carriage.
They passed between the saluting sentries of the inner and outer gates and found themselves at the top of the long Avenue. The street was packed except for a lane of half its width which the police had difficulty in keeping open. The population of Rein seemed to have trebled overnight.
The war horse arched his neck and trotted sideways. He at least was enjoying himself. Michael Karl stared straight ahead at the powdered footmen on the coach before him. He just didn’t dare look at the crowd.
They were shouting now: “The Prince! Michael Karl! Long live the Prince!”
A yellow rose fell, its thorns caught on the silver saddle cloth so that the blossom bobbed along at his knee. He reached down and retrieved it. A yellow rose, the crest of the heir to the throne. It might be an omen. He tucked it in the buckle of his sword belt.
The ride was a short one. Already the troop of cavalry had taken its place in the Cathedral Square. Michael Karl stared at the steps. He half imagined he could see the blood-stained barricade and the dreadful litter on the steps beyond.
Dismounting stiffly while Urich held his stirrup he turned to the crimson carpet which wound its fat length up the steps. Now that he was closer there were still grim traces of the battle to be seen. The saints around the carven doorway were chipped and battered. Saint Michael, whose niche had so well protected him in the fight, had lost a toe and half of his stone sword was missing.
Inside the Cathedral the roof arched high above his head, dim and cool. There was a murmur like the distant sound of the sea and thousands of candles gave light to a burnished tapestry of bright uniforms and court dresses.
To the right of the High Altar stood a vacant throne newly erected where the King would take his seat after his coronation. Michael Karl bent knee before the altar and then took his place to the right of the throne on the second step of the dais.
Somewhere a chant had begun, and at last the newly appointed Archbishop arrived. Michael Karl discovered that he could lean upon his sword. He hoped that Urlich Karl wouldn’t keep them waiting long. A rising roar from the Square interrupted the priests at the altar. Michael Karl straightened.
Down the center aisle, their somber green and their wolfskin cloaks a contrast to the uniforms around them, came a detachment of the Wolf Guard. A party of high officers followed them. Michael Karl caught a glimpse of the scarred face of Colonel Grimvich.
And then—alone—came the King.
Michael Karl leaned forward. His cousin’s face was white. There was a grim line about his jaw, but he came confidently, almost triumphantly. He had won.
There was silence in the Cathedral now. The faint clink of Michael Karl’s mail as he moved in- voluntarily seemed like the clank of a great chain.
The archbishop moved forward.
“Who cometh to the High Altar of the Cathedral of Rein?” he asked and his words echoed down the aisle.
“He who is to be crowned,” answered Urlich Karl. He still stood alone, the center of attention for all that throng.
An officer stepped from the crowd. Michael Karl recognized the Duke beneath the gold lace and crimson.
“He who is to be crowned must be the rightful heir. Who speaks for you?”
“I answer!” cried the Duke.
“Is this the rightful heir to the throne, who will hold it as the kings have held it for half a thousand years?”
“He is and thus will he hold it. By the honor of my line do I swear my words to be true.”
“What is thy name, my son?” The Archbishop turned to Urlich Karl and the Duke stepped back.
“Urlich Karl.”
“Urlich Karl, do you now swear that you shall govern this land with the best that is in you, that you will serve it while life is in you, that all that is yours will also belong to it, and that you will never forsake it while you live?”
There was a moment of silence and then Urlich Karl’s voice rang out with a clearness that thrilled.
“I do so swear. I belong to Morvania!”
“Then, Urlich Karl, advance to the altar and receive, as a symbol of thy pledge, the Crown of the Kings.” From the center of the High Altar the Archbishop lifted something that blazed with a glorious light and color of its own and, as Urlich Karl knelt on the cushion before him, he stooped and placed it on the King’s dark head. Urlich Karl arose and turned to face his people.
In an instant every one’s sword was out and as it clashed with his neighbor’s the shout arose:
“Long live the King!”
When the cheering died down, the Duke Johann advanced, a ponderous sword lying across his arm, the great Sword of State of which he was hereditary bearer. Behind him came another lord with the Scepter and a third with the Mantle.
Urlich Karl accepted them after they were blessed by the Archbishop and then he ascended the throne. Michael Karl glanced at his face as he passed. It was a stiff white mask. Urlich Karl, his friend and companion, was gone, the man on the throne was Urlich Karl the King. Again the cheering burst forth.
Michael Karl wet his dry lips nervously. The time for his part in the proceedings was at hand. He clutched tightly the gauntlet of mail Urich had thrust in his belt and stepped down into the center aisle with Urich at his heels. Somewhere a bugle sounded once.
“His Highness, the Prince of Rein and the Champion of the King.” Michael Karl thought that he recognized the droning voice for that of the Chamberlain. He ran his tongue over his dry lips once more, took a firm grip on the gauntlet and then:
“Whosoever declareth that Urlich Karl sitteth wrongfully upon the throne of the Karloffs, him do I declare a liar and do challenge to prove his false and traitorous words upon this, my body. I stand ready!”
Upon the bare stones he tossed the gauntlet. It fell with a crash.
“The Champion stands ready,” droned the voice three times. Then there was silence and a page ran to pick up the gauntlet and return it to Michael Karl. He stepped back to his old place.
And then for the first time since he was crowned, the King spoke.
“Let our Lords and Princes do homage for their lands.”
“Michael Karl Johann Stefan Rene Eric Marie, Prince and Lord of Rein, First Lord of the Kingdom, approach the throne and do homage for thy lands of Casnov, Urnt, Kelive, Klan, Mal, Snadro, Kor, and Amal,” read the voice.
Michael Karl mounted the two steps of the dais and knelt before the King. Into his cousin’s cold outstretched hand he put both his own hot ones.
“My Lord and Master, thus do I humbly seek thy favor for my lands”—for a moment he was afraid he had forgotten their names—”of Casnov, Urnt, Kelive, Klan, Mal, Snadro, Kor, and Amal. I do swear to hold them for the Crown against all comers, to support thy person in war and peace, to be loyal to the throne and the heirs of thy body, to pay t
he duties of a vassal to his Lord. This do I swear upon the honor of my house.”
The King touched him lightly on the shoulder with the Sword of State.
“My Lord, your lands are yours by our favor. Go in peace.”
Michael Karl backed down. Already the voice was droning out Johann’s lands and titles and he was going up to do homage for them. And so it went on. Lord after Lord came and went. Michael Karl was hot and cramped. He had just begun to wonder if he could go on standing much longer when Urich touched him on the elbow.
“Almost over now, Your Highness,” he whispered. “You don’t have to ride back if you don’t wish to, there’s a nearer way.”
“Lead me to it,” Michael Karl hissed back. “I’m all in.” He managed to straighten as the King arose and stepped down. He would have to ride back in the state carriage. Obeying Urich’s motion Michael Karl stepped to the back of the throne and followed his aide-de-camp through a side door.
“I wouldn’t have suggested this,” explained Urich as he beckoned up a Rolls Royce which was standing in the deserted side street “but you look awfully tired, and nobody will notice Your Highness’s absence if the King is there.”
Michael Karl climbed into the car and sank on the cushions with a sigh of relief. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.” Urich pushed up his medieval sleeve to consult a very modern wrist watch. “Your Highness will have two hours of rest and time for something to eat before the first audience this evening. To-morrow there is the state banquet given by the Mayor of Rein and the state ball in the evening.”
Michael Karl leaned back wearily and closed his eyes. “Who, in his right mind, would ever want to be a Prince?” he asked.
The car stopped and he crawled out. Cheering from below marked the passing of the King. With Urich’s help he dodged through a small private doorway and reached his own apartments. His valet was waiting and in no time he was free of the mail.
“There is luncheon on the table, Your Highness,” murmured the man respectfully as he bowed himself out.
“Thank goodness. Another half hour and I’d have passed out of sheer starvation. Where are you going, Urich?” he demanded as his aide-decamp edged towards the door. “You are going to forget etiquette for once and sit down and eat with me. Oh, yes you are! Come on.”
So with Urich on the other side of the table he sat down to enjoy the luncheon.
“They did us proud,” he said with some satisfaction after surveying the table. “If to-night is anything like this morning I’m going to need this.”
His wing of the palace seemed very quiet. Even the city below had quieted down. To-morrow night it would be all over, even the shouting. Urlich Karl would be King and would be off for the Summer Palace in the Mountains. And he—well, perhaps he would be on his way to America. His bargain in the house on the Pala Horn had been for the duration only and—the war was over.
Yes, by to-morrow night he might be free. He smiled a bit wryly. Freedom didn’t seem so alluring but he supposed that that was reaction. After all, a fellow couldn’t go through a ceremony like that of to-day and not have some of his ideas changed. Morvania might smack of Graustark, but there was something behind it all that was real and worth holding on to.
“I guess,” he said tossing his napkin aside, “I’ll take your advice about the nap, Urich. Call me when it is time to dress.”
The lounge felt very comfortble. He curled up drowsily. Some one shook him violently. It was Urich, his mail tunic exchanged for the glory of a full dress one of the Prince’s Own.
“Your Highness must get up at once. We are late. Your Highness’s bath is waiting.”
The sun had gone, and there was a distinct chill in the air from the open window. Michael Karl made a hurried toilet and held his breath while the valet and Urich fastened his tight dress tunic. His dress saber was belted on, and Urich handed him his gloves and helmet. Urich kept frowning at his watch, reminding Michael Karl of nothing so much as the White Rabbit on his way to the Duchess’s tea party.
He was hustled out into the hall, down the staircase and through bowing lines of courtiers to take his place in the throne room on the lower steps of the throne. A moment later the King was announced.
Again he entered alone. Michael Karl remembered what his cousin had once told him, that a throne was a lonely place. All at once he pitied the King. That young man in his silver and white uniform, taking his place on the throne, was only a few years older than he, Michael Karl, but he would never have a real friend nor perhaps a real pleasure. He would always have to be careful of his words, his actions, of whom he surrounded himself with. He was a prisoner of state.
Urich plucked his sleeve in some excitement. “The English Representative Extraordinary and the American Minister have arrived and are waiting to be presented. Our cause is safe.”
The Grand Chamberlain appeared like a jack-in-the-box in the doorway.
“His Excellency, the Representative of His Majesty of Great Britain, His Excellency, the American Minister to Morvania!”
A lane appeared as if by magic down the room, and the two quiet men made their way to the steps of the throne where they handed their credentials to Duke Johann in order that he might present them to His Majesty.
Two men, one in evening dress, the other in full court costume, standing there—it marked the end and the success of the Royalist’s whole mad adventure. The monarchy of Morvania was firmly established and Michael Karl’s job was done.
Michael Karl stirred and looked up at the King’s calm face. When would he get his dismissal, he wondered. Meanwhile he listened to the welcoming speech of the King of Morvania.
Chapter XVII
Michael Karl Destroys A Certain Paper–
Michael Karl, Prince of Rein and a host of other useless things, had run away. A sub-lieutenant of the Red Hussars was covering the top of one of the tables on the sidewalk before the Sign of the Rose with the crumbs of his breakfast roll but sub-lieutenants have very little in common with princes.
It had been so ridiculously easy. Jan had been persuaded to produce the uniform which he had been told was to be the base for a very neat joke on His Majesty. Urich had been yawning so widely when, at dawn, the hall was over that it had been easy to persuade him that his master was sleepy too. Then into the uniform and out of the water gate.
He wasn’t running away for good, but he did want some time to think things over. The lack of privacy in the Castle had irked him as it never had before. He crumpled his napkin and tossed two of the slightly oval coins, which he had stuffed into his pocket, onto the table. Hoping that was enough (he had no way of knowing the proper price of breakfasts in Rein) he arose and sauntered off.
Here and there a bit of frayed scarlet or yellow cloth still fluttered from a lamp post, but for the most part Rein had returned to its workaday dress and lost its decorations. The coronation with its attendant ceremonies was over. Rein was ruled again by a Karloff as it had been for the last five hundred years. Adventure was done with.
Michael Karl wandered on. For all his weeks of residence in Rein he had never really explored the city. To-day he came out on a crowded square with surprise. Sleek horses and some who were not so sleek stood in rows like army picket lines while now and then some one of their number would be led out and shown off before a little group of loud voiced men. Apart from the horses stood the cattle, the oxen. All manner of fowl squawked and crowed from their stacked cages by the center fountain. The shrill yapping of dogs called attention to them, fastened in packs, quarreling, fighting, snapping at each other and at passers-by.
“Why, Lad!” a familiar voice attracted Michael Karl’s attention.
Franz Ultmann was soothing a nervous mare and smiling at Michael Karl over her back.
“Herr Ultmann!”
“Faith, Lad, I’m that glad to see ye. Marthe would have it that ye’d come to all manner o’ grief, but we hoped for the best. So ye got through, that was good. And
I’ll be a-thinkin’ that ye had more then a taste of the fightin’, now didn’t ye, Lad?”
Michael Karl laughed and touched his one scar lightly. “It left its mark. What are you doing here, Herr Ultmann?”
“ ’Tis the Spring Fair, Lad. I had orders to sell what I thought best, so I brought the roan mare and two three-year-olds. His Grace will make a pretty penny. See them officers?” He pointed to three men coming down the horse lines. Michael Karl recognized the green coat of a wolfman, the black of his own regiment, and the gray of the Foreign Legion.
“They be a-buyin’ for the army, and I’m a-goin’ to sell them. Ye’re not a-leavin’ now, Lad?” For Michael Karl, fearing a meeting with some one who might recognize him, was edging away.
“Well, if ye must be a-goin’, Lad, and have the time would ye stop in at the Sign of the Plowman and see Marthe? She worried that bad about ye, Lad.”
“Why, of course, and I’ll be back here later, Herr Ultmann.”
The officers were very close now, and Michael Karl had just time enough to step before the next line of horses. The meeting with Franz Ultmann had cheered him immensely, and he did want to see Marthe.
To reach the opposite side of the square he had to pass the dog market, and he did it slowly. Michael Karl had all his life wanted a dog, something warm and friendly to follow him around and snuggle up of nights. The stiff-legged puppies dancing up and down, barking their challenge to the world, charmed him completely.
“The Dominde wishes a dog? I have some very fine ones,” a merchant in a coat of a mountaineer edged forward. Michael Karl shook his head wistfully.
“I guess not.”
“Let the Dominde look. Perhaps he will find one to his taste,” urged the man. Michael Karl refused again but still he lingered. Almost at the end of the line, lying alone in weary dignity, was the most beautiful dog Michael Karl had ever seen, a great snowwhite, Russian wolfhound, its slender nose buried between its dainty paws.
The dog seemed to take no interest in its surroundings but lay still, not even watching the people who passed. The merchant hastened up.
