The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
the cobbles; I skirted the old city to come to the ducal palace, where two sleepy sentries stared open-mouthed at me through the railings.
“Oeffnen!” says I, and while one tried to present arms and dropped his musket, the other made haste to swing open the gates. I clattered through, leaving them to marvel at the sight of their new prince, whose absence must have been the talk of the duchy, arriving unkempt and unshaven at this hour of the day.
There were more guards at the door, to whom I gave sharp orders to have a strong horse saddled and ready for me within ten minutes. I issued further instructions that no one was on any account to be allowed to leave the palace, nor was anyone to be admitted without reference to me. They saluted and stamped and fell over themselves in their hurry to obey; one flung open the doors for me, and I strode masterfully into the hall—this was going to be easy, thinks I.
A sleepy major-domo or night porter came starting out of the chair where he had been dozing; he cried out at the sight of me, and would have roused the place, but I hushed him with a word.
“Send someone to the kitchen,” says I. “Get them to put together such cold foods as will go into a saddle-bag, and bring it here. Also some wine and a flask of spirits. Oh, and some money—bring a purse. Now, go.”
“Your highness is riding out again?” quavers he.
“Yes,” I snapped. “Beeilen sie sich.”
“But, highness … I have instructions … her highness the duchess must be informed.”
“The duchess? She’s here? Not at Strelhow?”
“No, indeed, sir. She returned last night, after … after you were not to be found.” His eyes were round with fright. “There has been terrible concern, highness. Orders have been issued that if word came about you, her highness was to know at once.”
I hadn’t counted on this; she ought to have been at Strelhow still, damn her. It complicated matters—or did it? I stood thinking quickly, while the major-domo hopped from one foot to the other, and made up my mind.
“Well, I’ll tell her myself,” says I. “Now, my good fellow, do exactly as I have told you—and the less said about my return the better—understand?”
I left him chattering obedience, and went up the great staircase four at a time, and strode along to the duchess’s apartments. There were the usual yellow-jacketed sentries at her door, stiffening to attention at the sight of me, and rolling their eyes in astonishment—wouldn’t have done for the 11th Hussars, I’ll tell you. I thumped on the panels, and after a moment a feminine voice called out sleepily: “Wer klopft?”
“Carl Gustaf,” says I, and to the sentries: “Let no one pass.”
There was a feminine squeaking from within, and the door opened on the pert little red-haired lady-in-waiting whom Rudi had fancied; she was staring in astonishment with one eye and rubbing the sleep out of the other—a very pretty picture of disarray, with one tit peeping out of her night-dress. It’s as well I’m leaving Strackenz, thinks I, for I wouldn’t have been a faithful husband for long.
“Where’s your mistress?” says I, and at that moment the inner door opened, and Irma appeared, a gown pulled hastily round her shoulders.
“What is it, Helga? Who was knock—”, and then at the sight of me she gave a little scream, swayed for a moment, and then flung herself forward into my arms. “Carl! Oh, Carl! Carl!”
Oh, well, I might have been faithful for a while, anyway; the feel of that warm young body against mine was like an electric shock, and it was no pretence when I hugged her to me and returned the kisses that she rained on my lips and cheeks.
“Oh, Carl!” She stared up at me, tears on her lovely face. “Oh, my dear, what has happened to your head?”
For a moment I didn’t understand; then I remembered. My fine bald poll hadn’t had the razor over it for two or three days now, and I was sporting a fine black bristle, like an old brush. Trust a woman to hit on the least important thing!
“Nothing, my dear darling,” says I, and smothered her lovingly. “All’s well, now that I have you again.”
“But what has happened? Where have you been? I was mad with anxiety—” She gave a little scream. “You are wounded! Your arm—”
“There, there, sweeting,” says I, giving her another squeeze for luck. “Set your fears at rest. It’s a scratch, nothing more.” I turned her round, murmuring endearments, and led her into her own bedchamber, away from the delighted and curious gaze of young Helga. I shut the door, and at once her questions broke out afresh. I hushed her and sat down on the edge of the bed—it would have been splendid to curl up with her, but there wasn’t time.
“There has been a rebellion—a plot, rather, against the duchy. Your throne, our lives, were threatened.” I cut short her cry of dismay. “It is all over—nearly over, at any rate. There is a little still to do, but thanks to the loyalty of certain of your subjects—our subjects—the worst is passed, and there is no more to fear.”
“But … but I don’t understand,” she began, and then that beautiful face hardened. “Who was it? Those agitators—those creatures of the gutter! I knew it!”
“Now, now,” says I soothingly, “calm yourself. It is all past; Strackenz is safe—and most of all, you are safe, my sweet.” And I wrapped her up again, most enjoyably.
She began to tremble, and then to sob. “Oh, Carl, oh, thank God! You have really come back! Oh, my dear, I have been ready to die! I thought … I thought you were …”
“Ah, well, you see, I wasn’t. There, there. Now dry your eyes, my darling, and listen.” She blinked at me, dabbing at her eyelashes—God, she was a beauty, in her flimsy night-rail—they seemed to be wearing them very low in Strackenz that winter, and I was beginning to come all over of a heat, what with her nearness and the scent of her hair, and the troubled adoration in her lovely eyes.
“It is quite crushed, this—this plot,” says I. “No, hear me out—I shall explain everything in time, but for the moment you must trust me, and do precisely as I say. It is done—finished—safe, all but for a few details, which require my attention …”
“Details? What details?”
“There’s no time now. I must be away again.” She cried out at this. “It is only for a moment, darling—a few hours, and I shall be with you, and we’ll never be parted again—never.”
She started to weep again, clinging to me, refusing to let me go, protesting that I would be going into danger, and all the rest of it. I tried to comfort her, and then the baggage opened her mouth on mine, and pushed her hand between my thighs, murmuring to me to stay.
By gum, it agitated me; I wondered if I had time? No, by God, I daren’t—I had lost precious minutes already. She was stroking away, and my head was swimming with her, but I just put lust second to common sense for once, and forced her gently away.
“You must stay here,” says I firmly. “With a strong guard on the palace and on your room itself. Oh, darling, believe me, it is vital! I would not go, but I must—and you must remember that you are a duchess, and the protector of your people—and, and all that. Now will you trust me, and believe me that I do this for the safety of Strackenz and my own darling?”
These royal wenches are made of stern stuff, of course; tell ’em it’s for their country’s sake and they become all proudly dutiful and think they’re Joan of Arc. I gave her some more patriotism mixed with loving slush, and at last she agreed to do what she was told. I swore I’d be back in an hour or two, and hinted that we would stay in bed for a week, and at this she flung herself on me again.
“Oh, my darling!” says she, wriggling against me. “How can I let you go?”
“Just for a bit,” says I. “And then—ah, but I can’t stop now.” She was getting me