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