The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
name was.”
“Hansen? Erik Hansen?” The prince’s hand shook. “What have you done to him, you devil?”
“He went swimming at the wrong time of year,” says Rudi cheerily. “So rash—but there. Young blood. Now, your highness, with your gracious permission, we’ll withdraw.” He made a mocking bow, and waved me ahead of him towards the grille.
As we reached it, Carl Gustaf suddenly shouted:
“You—you with my face! Haven’t you a tongue in your head? Why don’t you speak, damn you?”
I blundered out; that hellish place was too much for me; I could imagine all too clearly slithering down into that shaft—ugh! And these murdering monsters would do it to me as soon as to him, if it suited them.
Young Rudi’s laughter rang after me as I stumbled through the vault; he strode up beside me, clapping his hand round my shoulders and asking eagerly what I had thought of meeting my double face to face—had it made me wonder who I was? Had I noticed the amazement of Carl Gustaf, and what did I suppose he was making of it all?
“I’ll swear I hadn’t realised how alike you were till I saw you together,” says he, as we reached his room again. “It’s supernatural. Do you know … it makes me wonder if Otto Bismarck didn’t miss the true possibility of his scheme. By God!” he stopped dead, rubbing his chin. Then:
“You remember a few moments ago I spoke of a plan that you and I might try together? I’ll be frank; it occurred to me the moment I saw you swimming in the lake, and realised that I had both the court cards in my hand, with no one but the worthy Kraftstein to interfere—and he doesn’t count. The two court cards,” he repeated, grinning, “and one of them a knave. Have a drink, play-actor. And listen.”
You’ll have noticed that since my arrival in Jotunberg I had said very little—and, of course, the situation was really beyond comment. Events in the past forty-eight hours had brought me to the point where intelligent thought, let alone speech, was well-nigh impossible. The only conscious desire I felt was to get out of this nightmare as fast as possible, by any means. And yet, the hectoring way in which this cocksure young upstart shoved me into a chair and commanded me to listen, stirred a resentment beneath my miserable fear. I was heartily sick of having people tell me to listen, and ordering me about, and manipulating me like a damned puppet. Much good it had done me to take it all meekly—it had been one horror after another, and only by the luck of the devil was I still in one piece. And here, unless I mistook the look in Starnberg’s eye, was going to be another brilliant proposal to put me through the mill. Open defiance wasn’t to be thought of, naturally, but in that moment I felt that if I did manage to muster my craven spirits to do something on my own behalf, it probably couldn’t be any worse than whatever he had in mind for me.
“Look here,” says he, “how many of these damned Danes know that you are really an impostor?”
I could think of Grundvig and Sapten for certain; their peasant followers I wasn’t sure of, but Rudi brushed them aside as unimportant.
“Two who matter,” says he. “And on my side—Bismarck, Bersonin and Kraftstein—we can forget Detchard and that squirt of a doctor. Now—suppose our captive Prince goes down that excellent pipe tonight, and we let down the bridge to encourage your friends to attack? It would be possible to arrange a warm reception for them—warm enough to ensure that Grundvig and Sapten never got off that causeway alive, anyhow. Kraftstein could easily meet with a fatal accident during the fight—somehow I’m sure he would—and by the time the Sons of the Volsungs had fought their way in and cut up the survivors, you and I could be on our way to the shore, by boat. Then, back to Strackenz and the acclaim of everyone who has been wondering where their beloved prince has been. Oh, we could invent some tale—and who would there be to give you away? Detchard and the doctor daren’t. Your Danish friends couldn’t, being dead. And by this time Bismarck and Bersonin are far too busy, I’ll be bound, to worry about Strackenz.”
Seeing my bewildered look, he explained.
“You haven’t heard the news, of course. Berlin is alive with alarms, it seems. The revolution’s coming, my boy; the student rabble and the rest will have the King of Prussia off his throne in a week or two. So dear Otto has other fish to fry for the moment. Oh, it’s not only in Germany, either; I hear that France is up in arms, and Louis-Phillipe’s deposed, they say. It’s spreading like wildfire.”39 He laughed joyously. “Don’t you see, man? It’s a heaven-sent chance. We could count on weeks—nay, months—before anyone gave a thought to this cosy little duchy—or to the identity of the duchess’s consort.”
“And what use would that be to us?”
“God, you’re brainless! To hold the reins of power—real power—in a European state, even a little one like Strackenz? If we couldn’t squeeze some profit out of that—enough to set us up for life—before we took leave of ’em, then we aren’t the men I think we are. D’you know what the revenues of a duchy amount to?”
“You’re mad,” I said. “Raving mad. D’you think I’d put my neck into that again?”
“Why not? Who’s to stop you?”
“We wouldn’t last a week—why, half the bloody peasants in Strackenz probably know that there are two Carl Gustafs loose about the place! They’ll talk, won’t they?”
“Bah, where’s your spirit, play-actor?” he jeered. “Who would listen to them? And it’s only for a few weeks—you’ve done it once already, man! And think of the fun it would be!”
They are rare, but they do exist, and you can only call them adventurers. Rudi was one; it was the excitement, the mischief, that he lived for, more than the reward; the game, not the prize. Mad as hatters, mark you, and dangerous as sharks—they are not to be judged by the standards of yellow-bellies like me. Flashy don’t want anything to do with ’em, but he knows how their minds work. Because of this, I was wondering furiously how to deal with him.
“You can go back to your pretty duchess, too,” says he.
“Don’t want her,” says I. “I’ve had her, anyway.”
“But there’s a fortune in it, man!”
“I’d rather be alive and poor, thank’ee.”
He stood considering. “You don’t trust me, is that it?”
“Well,” says I, “now that you mention it …”
“But that’s the point!” He clapped his hands. “We are the ideal partners—neither of us trusts the other an inch, but we need each other. It’s the only guarantee in any business. You’re as big a rascal as I am; we would sell each other tomorrow, but there isn’t the need.”
Our financiers know all this, of course, but I’ve often thought that our diplomatists and politicians could have gone to school to Professor Starnberg. I can see him still, arms akimbo, flashing eyes, curly head, brilliant smile, and ready to set fire to an orphan asylum to light his cheroot. I’m a dirty scoundrel, but it has come to me naturally; Rudi made a profession out of it.
“Come on, man, what d’you say?”
I caught the note of impatience in his voice; careful, now, I thought, or he’ll turn vicious. His scheme was unthinkable, but I daren’t tell him so. What was the way out, then? I must pretend to go along with him for the moment; would a chance of escape offer? It was growing on me that the only safe way out—or the least risky—was to find some way of doing what Sapten had wanted. How could I get the drawbridge down; would I survive the assault that would follow? Aye, but for the moment, pretend.
“Could we make certain of Sapten and Grundvig?” I asked doubtfully.
“Be sure of that,” says he. “There are two little cannon below stairs—ornamental things, but they’ll work. Load ’em with chain, and we’ll sweep that causeway from end to end when the rescuers come