by KJ Charles
The Henchmen of Zenda
KJ Charles
Published by KJC Books, 2018.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Publisher’s Note
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AUTHOR’S NOTE
About the Author
Copyright
Publisher’s Note
THE PAPERS HERE PRESENTED, which have been lodged in a bank vault for many years under the simple but unhelpful instruction, “Wait until everyone is dead,” purport to be the memoirs of Mr. Jasper Detchard and are, in the author’s words, “a response” to the account of the Ruritanian succession crisis written by Mr. Rudolf Rassendyll, and later published as The Prisoner of Zenda.
The Publisher is aware that the present history casts the gravest doubt on both the veracity of Mr. Rassendyll and the honour of the present Ruritanian royal family, and makes no assertion whatsoever as to the truth of Mr. Detchard’s tale. We present it solely as a fictional artefact, and any complaints about the contents, requests for withdrawal, or legal threats should be made directly to our solicitors.
The Royal Family
Rudolf Elphberg, Crown Prince of Ruritania
Michael Elphberg, Duke of Strelsau, half brother to Rudolf
Flavia Elphberg, Princess of the Blood, cousin to Michael and Rudolf
Team Rudolf
Colonel Sapt, a military man
Fritz von Tarlenheim, gentleman-in-waiting
Rudolf Rassendyll, a passing Englishman
Team Michael
Jasper Detchard, a henchman
Rupert von Hentzau, a cad
Bersonin, a poisoner
Lauengram, a minor noble
De Gautet, a swordsman
Krafstein, a pimp
Antoinette de Mauban, Michael’s mistress
CHAPTER ONE
When I read a story, I skip the explanations; yet the moment I begin to write one, I find that I must have an explanation.
This is Rudolf Rassendyll’s introduction to his swashbuckling tale of intrigue, love, treachery, cold-blooded murder, and hot-blooded men. His account, privately circulated, has become the accepted truth amongst the few privileged to read it. It is a story of courage in the dark, honour in the teeth of love, nobility above all. It gives us a beautiful, passionate princess, a man who renounces love and crown for the sake of a greater and purer cause, and a villain—such a villain. Rupert of Hentzau: reckless and wary, graceful and graceless, handsome, debonair, vile, and unconquered. Rupert flees the pages of Rassendyll’s story a thwarted monster, never to be seen again; Rassendyll retires from the field with honour unstained; and the true King of Ruritania reigns in Strelsau.
What a pile of shit.
My name is Jasper Detchard, and according to Rassendyll’s narrative I am dead. This should give you some idea of his accuracy, since I do not dictate these words to some cabbage-scented medium from beyond the veil. There is no doubt that I will be dead by the time anyone reads these pages—in fact, it is absolutely necessary that should be the case, as my words would earn me the inconvenience of a very long prison sentence or a very short drop, and moreover the fate of a kingdom could be swayed by my words. But I am, as I write, alive, well, and irritated. There is a long railway journey ahead of me, a glass of brandy to my hand, and a heavily and obscenely annotated copy of the Rassendyll manuscript by my side. I intend to use them all to tell the truth.
My name is Jasper Detchard. I was born to a well-off family in the outskirts of—oh dear God, must I? It is customary in these accounts to rehearse one’s family history in vast detail over three generations, but I am quite sure my reader is, if possible, even less interested in my paternal grandmother than I am. To hell with it.
My name is not Jasper Detchard. Obviously it is not. I had another name once, but I stained it at school with various crimes, culminating in a sufficiently serious indiscretion that my parents declined to give me the opportunity of being thrown out of a university too, and disposed of me via the Army and a posting to India. This suited me well, since England is too small for my fancy and too moralistic for my tastes. Unfortunately, the Army brought Englishness with it, and to cut a long and doubtless shocking story short, I was cashiered. I left the Army with numerous prizes for swordplay, a dishonourable discharge, a reputation for cheating at cards (fairly earned), another for indulgence in the fuck that dare not speak its name (ditto), and a request from my family that I no longer claim kinship with them, since they wanted none with me. I did them that service and named myself Detchard, after the first town where I sucked a man off, and Jasper, because if one’s lot in life is to be a Victorian villain, one might as well play the game properly.
So there I was, rootless, wandering, rebaptised into a new life without family or history. I worked my way back from India using my cards, wits, and blade, but did not trouble England’s shores. The Continent is a more welcoming place for my sort of people: adventurers, wanderers, gentleman thieves and gentleman thugs, ladies of the day and night, gamblers and fences and information brokers, aristocrats brought low, masquerading commoners reaching dangerously high. We of that tribe drift in and out of lives and languages and countries, a loose fraternity of rogues with a looser tangle of loyalties and rivalries, and one may see the same face over the course of years in a Berlin nightspot, a Prague palace, and a Roman gaol.
To give a single example: I was in Vienna when I first met a very pretty Frenchwoman of seventeen flaunted as mistress by a dishonest stockbroker three times her age. I next encountered her when I was hired as bravo at an extremely elegant and accommodating brothel in Dresden where she presided over the festivities. She recognised me at once—unsurprisingly, as I had killed her first protector in front of her—but she was utterly charming about the whole business, assuring me that she had found him as tiresome as the people who had hired me to do it. We worked together for a highly entertaining eighteen months, until she accepted an ambassador’s carte blanche, and I decided to sell my blade to a more generous bidder. Three years later, when I lay in a Paris gaol cell awaiting the inevitable discovery of a single, deadly proof of my guilt and the equally inevitable trip to Madame Guillotine, it was my pretty Frenchwoman to whom I wrote in desperation, and she who bailed and bribed me out, at eye-watering cost. Such is the demimonde life, where risks and passions run high, true friendships are as precious and as rare as diamonds, and morals are an inconvenience.
That is Mr. Jasper Detchard for you, take him or leave him, and that was the man sought out by Michael Elphberg that chilly autumn. Michael, Duke of Strelsau, second son to Rudolf IV of Ruritania. Michael, who would be king.
I really am going to have to do the explanations now.
Ruritania is a small kingdom nestled in the heart of Europe, to the south-east of Germany, a mountainous, forested, picturesque little place of some strategic importance thanks to its location and defensible mountainous borders. For the last two centuries it has been ruled by the Elphberg dynasty, a family noted for their blue eyes and striking dark red hair. You may wander through the picture galleries of the palace at Strelsau and see blue-eyed, red-haired Elphbergs going back to their humble beginnings as mere dukes. Red is the hue of royalty in Rur
itania: as the old saying has it, “If he’s red, he’s right!”
I invite you to consider what this means. For a family to remain red-headed and blue-eyed down two centuries, in a land not filled with redheads or aristocrats, requires either careful breeding or a failure to grasp simple principles of stock management. Given the nearby example of the Hapsburg royal family, whose twisted family tree ended in a wretched lunatic whose grandmother was also his aunt, one might think the Elphbergs would have considered their habit of cousin-marriage more carefully, but as these pages will show, you can’t tell a Ruritanian aristocrat anything.
Some thirty years before our story starts, Ruritania’s King Rudolf IV married his first cousin, who made up in red hair and blue eyes what she lacked in stamina, brains, or chin. She gave him a sickly brat of a son, also Rudolf (every second person in this damned tale is called Rudolf, for which I can only apologise), and promptly expired, her duty done. The King, evidently not racked by grief, married again with what sticklers regarded as indecent haste, this time to a woman of no significant birth from near the southern border. She had dark hair and a hell of a temper, and I expect she had a great deal to be angry about, in part because her marriage was morganatic. (That is to say, the difference in rank between husband and wife was such that any offspring would not be automatically heir to the father’s titles.) If one had to be married to an Elphberg, one really would want to get the benefits.
This would not have been a great problem if the new wife had had daughters. Fate being what it is, she produced a son, a child who inherited her looks and was just two years younger than the royal heir. The boys quickly became known as Red Rudolf and Black Michael, very much in keeping with the Brothers Grimm landscape that is Ruritania. I will tell you this: none of us there was snow white.
The boys learned to hate one another before they learned to speak. Michael was sturdy and daring and beloved by their father where Rudolf was pallid and fearful, so Rudolf hated Michael. But Rudolf was a prince where Michael was nothing, so Michael hated Rudolf, with a passion that smouldered in him the more strongly as Rudolf’s failings became more apparent. He was a puling, indulged, nasty, malicious brat, but he was the older, and the pure-blood red Elphberg, and so he would be king.
The brothers grew to manhood on no better terms. Michael had the title of Duke of Strelsau bestowed upon him at his fifteenth year—Strelsau, the capital itself. The old king could scarcely have made his preference clearer, yet Rudolf was still heir to the crown. The bad blood between the brothers did not lessen over this partiality.
They fought. They fought over servants, and allies, and women, always women. If one wanted a woman, the other must needs have her—ideally by seduction (since to steal a heart was a greater triumph than to issue a command or to take by force), but they were the prince and the duke, and Rudolf in particular could do precisely as he chose.
Except in the case of Her Royal Highness Princess Flavia, the future queen.
Flavia was cousin (of course) to the brothers, next heir of the Blood after Prince Rudolf. Her father, having somewhat more sense than the majority of his family, had scoured Europe for the best-born unrelated redhead he could discover, and produced a healthy girl of appropriate colouring and admirable vigour. She had as much beauty as a wealthy princess requires, and significantly more brain, and her destiny, never doubted, was to wed the future king, whoever he might be.
I don’t know if Red Rudolf wanted her for herself. I doubt it; I am not aware he ever saw a woman as more than a place to put his prick, or a way to confound his brother. I know that Michael wanted her hand to make himself royal, and her heart to prove that he could win something Rudolf never would. For Flavia aged eleven had come upon Rudolf aged fifteen, carefully practising his knifework on a cat that he had pinned to the ground for greater convenience, and Flavia did not wish to marry her prince at all.
Imagine Ruritania at the time of which I write. Rudolf, in his early thirties now, is dissipated, self-indulgent, drinking and wenching, with an erratic temper that even loyal courtiers struggle to laugh away as simply due to his red hair. He has spent a great deal of his last years outside the country on his father’s command, indulging his appetites and oddities where his people cannot see him, but even so his reputation is known, and the lower orders hide their daughters away when the prince rides. Michael, by contrast, rules as duke in Strelsau with care and wisdom. He has a temper, but he controls it. He no longer competes with his brother over conquests; he is punctilious in his respect to the future king; he plays the man while his brother plays the fool. The old king is sick, a slow decline that will not stop. And the whispers spread across Ruritania: Might he choose Michael? Could he debar Rudolf from the succession? Suppose he wed Michael to Flavia now? What if? Could he? Will they?
If he’s red, he’s right! insists the countryside, especially the parts where Rudolf doesn’t ride, but there is shifting and murmuring in the narrow, turbulent streets of the Old Town of Strelsau, where Michael is felt to be one of them, and the people dream of change.
That, then, is your explanation, and I could have saved a deal of words if I had written simply, Two brothers, one crown.
IT WAS A WEEK OR SO after my thirty-sixth birthday, a chilly autumn night. I was staying in the sole inn of a small and unimportant village some way south of Dresden, recovering from a trifling wound I had incurred in my rapid departure from the city (the word flight is so undignified), and I had a fire blazing, my feet up, a glass of good red wine in one hand and an unexpurgated volume of Catullus in the other. I heard noise on the old wooden stairs, but it was not of the kind to cause a watchful man alarm: neither the firm tread of police nor, worse, the surreptitious sounds of stealth. He came openly up the stairs, chatting with his companions like any guest, and I will admit I was quite startled when the door opened and a man came in.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said. “The room is reserved.”
He did not leave; rather, he shut the door behind him. I put my feet down, intending to stand in case I had to fight. He waved a hand at me to retain my seat, for all the world as though he were bidding me to spare a courtesy. “Please, don’t get up, Mr. Detchard,” he said. “Or should I address you as Mr. —?” And he used the name that I had stained and abandoned like a rag.
I started up from my chair at that. He shook his head with sublime confidence. “I have two men outside, Mr. Detchard—if you prefer that name—and no intention of doing you injury. Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Michael, Duke of Strelsau.” He smiled at whatever he saw in my face. “Do sit.”
How to describe Michael? He was thirty or so years of age with dark curly hair, not much above the medium height but well built, bearing himself with command. His dress lacked all ostentation: it was that of a gentleman who could afford plainness. He was not armed. He had no guards. He was a predator.
I think I have conveyed something of what I am. I had other men’s money in my pocket and other men’s blood on my hands; I made a living outside the law and did not let that fact disturb my sleep. I know danger as an intimate friend, and when I looked at Michael, I saw it. Not physical danger—I was the taller and stronger, and would learn that he was no more than adequate with a blade or pistol. But I am a killer by trade, and I know the look of a man who commands death—more than that, of one who enjoys doing it.
I obeyed orders, and sat. His Grace of Strelsau took a chair opposite. We regarded one another.
I have told you what I saw. What he saw . . . Well, let me once again quote Rassendyll, who speaks of the Englishman, Detchard, a narrow-faced fellow, with close-cut fair hair and a bronzed complexion. He was a finely made man, broad in the shoulder and slender in the hips. A good fighter, but a crooked customer. That is how Rassendyll saw me, and I will only say, it takes one to know one, you red-haired prick.
Michael steepled his fingers and began to speak. His subject was the Life and Works of Jasper Detchard, and he covered it in detail. One may d
o almost anything with a man by making him the centre of attention, but generally the aim is to flatter, and Michael did not flatter me. He spoke of my expulsion from Rugby, my chequered career in the Army (including certain events that would have got me worse than cashiering had they been public knowledge), and some of my more recent history, in vast and incriminating detail, even down to that unfortunate recent contretemps in Dresden. He told me in so many words that he had the knowledge to hang me, the will to use it, and the forces at his command to overpower me no matter how I might resist. Even now I can feel the smart of that one-sided conversation as he made his mastery over me humiliatingly clear.
With another man, I might have put his claims to the test: dealt with the swine and gone for the window over his body. I did not think of doing so now. I merely sat, mute and trapped, as he concluded his recital. “All told, yours has been an adventurous career.”
“And are you here to put it to an end?” I replied somewhat sullenly.
Michael smiled. “That would be a waste. You seem to me a man of firmness. You are decisive. You act. Unlawfully, criminally, even, but a man of action is better than a waverer or a wastrel. There are two things I wish to know of you, Mr. Detchard. Can you take orders? And can you give loyalty?”
“I have never tried to do either.”
“No, I don’t suppose you have.” His eyes held mine, gaze boring into me. I had no doubt he could order my death with a snap of his fingers and feel no more remorse than for swatting a fly, and something deep and dark within me responded intensely to that awareness.
“What do you want?” I asked him.
“I want your service. Your obedience without question, your loyalty without reserve, your right arm as though it were my own. You will be my man, Mr. Detchard, and as my man you will be everyone else’s master. There will be no impertinent questions from the Munich police, no spying servants to threaten you with tiresome laws. If you are the duke’s man in public, you may do as you please in private. I suspect you will find that as attractive as the salary.”
