The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
while.
I was happy enough with this, for neither of them seemed to have any notion of who I was—or rather, who I was supposed to be—and it gave me the chance to get something under my belt. They were both a little in awe, though, at having such a fine gentleman in their humble home, and seemed too tongue-tied to say much. If the dotard hadn’t been there I dare say I could have had the buxom piece dancing the mattress quadrille within the hour, but as it was I had to confine my refreshment to the victuals and beer.
After an hour had passed, though, I began to get restless. I’d no wish to linger here, with Rudi possibly combing the Jotun Gipfel for me already, and when a second hour passed, and then a third, I became feverish. The old clod kept assuring me, in answer to my impatient demands, that Wolf or Franz or Willi would soon be along, with the horse. An excellent horse, he added. And there seemed to be nothing to do but wait, chewing my nails, while the old man sat silent, and the woman went very soft-footed about her work.
It was four hours before they came, and they didn’t have a horse. What they did have, though, was weapons. There were four of them, hefty lads in peasant clothes, but with a purposeful look about them that suggested they didn’t give all their time to ploughing. Two had muskets, another had a pistol in his belt, and the leader, who was a blond giant at least a head taller than I, had a broadsword, no less, hanging at his side. I was on my feet, quaking, at the sight of them, but the big fellow held up a hand and made me a jerky bow.
“Highness,” says he, and the others bobbed their heads behind him. My bald head was evidently better known than I’d realised. Uneasily, I tried to put on a bold front.
“Well, my lads,” says I cheerfully, “have you a horse for me?”
“No highness,” says the big one. “But if you will please to come with us, my master will attend to all your needs.”
I didn’t like the sound of this, somehow.
“Who is your master, then?”
“If you please, highness, I am to ask you only to come with us. Please, highness.”
He was civil enough, but I didn’t like it.
“I want a horse, my good fellow, not to see your master. You know who I am, it seems. Well, bring me a horse directly.”
“Please, highness,” he repeated stolidly. “You will come with us. My master commands.”
At this I became very princely and peremptory, but it didn’t do a straw’s worth of good. He just stood there insisting, and my bowels went more chilly every moment. I hectored and stormed and threatened, but in the end there was nothing for it. I went with them, leaving the farm couple round-eyed behind us.
To my consternation they led me straight back towards the Jotun Gipfel, but although I protested they held their course, the big fellow turning every now and then to mutter apologies, while his pals kept their muskets handy and their eyes carefully on me. I was beside myself with fright and anger; who the devil were they, I demanded, and where was I being taken? But not a word of sense was to be had from them, and the only consolation I could take was a vague feeling that whoever they were, they weren’t Rudi’s creatures, and didn’t seem to mean me any harm—as yet.
How far we tramped I don’t know, but it must have taken fully two hours. I wouldn’t have believed the Jotun Gipfel was so extensive, or so dense, but we seemed to be moving into deeper forest all the time, along the foot of the crags. The sun was westering, so far as I could judge, when I saw people ahead, and then we were in a little clearing with perhaps a dozen fellows waiting for us; stalwart peasants like my four guards, and all of them armed.
There was a little cabin half-hidden among the bushes at the foot of a small cliff that ran up into the overhanging forest, and before the cabin stood two men. One was a tall, slender, serious-looking chap dressed like a quality lawyer, and grotesquely out of place here; the other was burly and short, in a corduroy suit and leggings, the picture of a country squire or retired military man. He had grizzled, close-cropped hair, a bulldog face, and a black patch over one eye. He was smoking a pipe.
They stood staring at me, and then the tall one turned and said urgently to his companion: “He is wrong. I am sure he is wrong.”
The other knocked out his pipe on his hand. “Perhaps,” says he. “Perhaps not.” He took a step towards me. “May I ask you, sir, what is your name?”
There was only one answer to that. I took a deep breath, looked down my nose, and said:
“I think you know it very well. I am Prince Carl Gustaf. And I think I may be entitled to ask, gentlemen, who you may be, and what is the explanation of this outrage?”
For a man with his heart in his mouth, I think I played it well. At any rate, the tall one said excitedly:
“You see! It could not be otherwise. Highness, may I …”
“Save your apologies, doctor,” says the short one. “They may be in order, or they may not.” To me he went on: “Sir, we find ourselves in a quandary. I hear you say who you are; well, my name is Sapten, and this is Dr Per Grundvig, of Strackenz. Now, may I ask what brings you to Jotun Gipfel, with your coat muddied and your breeches torn?”
“You ask a good deal, sir!” says I hotly. “Must I remind you who I am, and that your questions are an impertinence? I shall …”
“Aye, it sounds like the real thing,” says Sapten, smiling a grim little smile. “Well, we’ll see.” He turned his head. “Hansen! Step this way, if you please!”
And out of the hut, before my horrified gaze, stepped the young man who had greeted me at the wedding reception—Erik Hansen, Carl Gustaf’s boyhood friend. I felt my senses start to swim with sick terror; he had sensed something wrong then—he couldn’t fail to unmask me now. I watched him through a haze as he walked steadily up to me and gazed intently at my face.
“Prince Carl?” he said at last. “Carl? Is it you? Is it really you?”
I forced myself to try to smile. “Erik!” God, what a croak it was. “Why, Erik, what brings you here?”
He stepped back, his face white, his hands trembling. He looked from Sapten to the doctor, shaking his head. “Gentlemen, I don’t know … it’s he … and yet … I don’t know …”
“Try him in Danish,” says Sapten, his single grey eye fixed on me.
I knew then I was done for. Bersonin’s efforts had been insufficient to give me more than the crudest grasp of one of the hardest tongues in Europe. It must have shown in my face as Erik turned back to me, for the damned old villain Sapten added:
“Ask him something difficult.”
Erik thought a moment, and then, with an almost pleading look in his eyes, spoke in the soft, slipshod mutter that had baffled my ear at Schönhausen. I caught the words “Hvor boede” and hardly anything else. Christ, he wanted to know where somebody lived, God knows who. Desperately I said:
“Jeg forstar ikke” to show that I didn’t understand, and it sounded so hellish flat I could have burst into tears. Slowly an ugly look came over his fair young face.
“Ny,” he said slowly. “De forstar my ikke.” He turned to them, and said in a voice that shook: “He may be the devil himself. It is the Prince’s face and body. But it is not Carl Gustaf—my life on it!”
There wasn’t a sound in the clearing, except for my own croaking breaths. Then Sapten put his pipe in his pocket.
“So,” says he. “Right, my lad, into that hut with you, and if you make a wrong move, you’re with your Maker. Jacob,” he shouted. “Sling a noose over the branch yonder.”
Cowards, as Shakespeare has wisely observed, die many