The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
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 great 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