Royal Flash fp-2 Read online

  Before starting out, I burned the incriminating papers they had sewn in my tunic. Then I took to the woods at right angles from the path we had been following, scrambling down over mossy rocks and through thick brushwood; it wasn't easy going, but I was too busy with my thoughts to notice much. One point stuck clear in my mind, and it was the advice given by the late lamented Sergeant Hudson when he and I were on the run from the Afridis on the Jallalabad road: "When the bastards are after you, go in the direction where they'll never think o' looking for you—even it it's right back in their faces."

  Well, I wasn't going to Strelhow, that was flat. But if I was Bismarck or Rudi, where would I expect Flashy to run? North, for certain, towards the coast, less than a hundred miles away. So that was out of court. Of the other directions, which was the least likely for a fugitive? All were hazardous, since they would take me long journeys through Germany, but south seemed the most dangerous of all. By God, the last place they would expect me to make for was Munich, at the far end of the country, where all the bother had begun.

  My legs trembled at the thought, but the more I considered it the better it seemed. They'd never believe I'd risk it, so they wouldn't look thereaway. It was horribly chancy, but I was certain that if Hudson had been with me that was the way he'd have pointed. Let me get a horse—no matter how—and I could be over the Strackenz border by nightfall and galloping south. I'd have to beg, hire, borrow, or steal, changes on the way—well, it wouldn't be the first time. I might even use the railway, if it seemed safe to do so. At any rate I was free, for the moment, and if they could catch old Flashy with the wind up him—well, they were smarter fellows than I thought they were.

  I hurried on down the hillside, and found myself after half an hour or so on more level land, where the trees thinned out. There was a wisp of smoke coming from behind a copse, and I stole forward cautiously to have a look-see. There was a little farm-building with great trees behind it, but no one about except a few cows in the field to one side and an old dog drowsing in the yard. It didn't look like the kind of place where the new ducal consort of Strackenz would be known, which suited me-the fewer folk who got a glimpse of me, the less chance Bismarck's bullies had of getting on my track.

  I was wondering whether to go forward boldly, or scout round for a horse to pinch, when the farm door opened and an old man in gaiters and a sugar-loaf hat came out. He was a peasant, with a face like a walnut, and when he saw me he brought up short and stood glowering at me, the way country folk do at everyone who hasn't got dung on his boots. I gave him a civil good day, and told him my horse had thrown me while I was riding in the Jotun Gipfel; could he oblige me with a remount, for which I would pay generously? And I showed him a handful of crowns.

  He mumbled a bit, watching me with the wary, hostile eyes of the old, and then said that his daughter was in the house. She turned out to be a big, strapping creature, plain enough in the face, but just about my weight, so I gave her my best bow and repeated my request with a charming smile. The long and short of it was that they sat me down in the kitchen with some excellent beer and bread and cheese while the old man went off round the house, and presently came back to say that Franz had gone to find Willi, who would be able to borrow Wolf's horse, no doubt, and if the gentleman would be pleased to rest and eat, it would be along in a little 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 Ruth'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."

  8

  Cowards, as Shakespeare has wisely observed, die many times before their deaths, but not many of them can have expired in spirit more often than I. And I've seldom had better reason than when Sapten threw that order to his followers; there was an air of grim purpose about the man that told you he would do exactly what he promised, and that offhand instruction was more terrible than any mere threat could have been. I stumbled into the hut and collapsed on a bench, and the three followed me and closed the door.

  "Now," says Sapten, folding his arms, "who are you?"

  There was no question of brazening it out, any more than there was hope of making a run for it. My only chance lay in talking my way out of the noose-not that the three grim faces offered any encouragement. But anyway, here goes, thought I, reminding myself that there's no lie ever invented that's as convincing as half-truth.

  "Gentlemen," I began, "believe me, I can explain this whole fearful business. You're quite right; I am not Prince Carl Gustaf. But I most solemnly assure you that these past few days I have had no choice but to pretend that I was that man. No choice—and I believe when you have heard me out you will agree that the true victim of this abominable hoax is my unhappy self."

  "Like enough," says Sapten, "since you'll certainly hang for it."

  "No, no!" I protested. "You must hear me out. I can prove what I say. I was forced to it—dreadfully forced, but you must believe me innocent."

  "Where is the Prince?" burst out Hansen. "Tell us that, you liar!"

  I ignored this, for a good reason. "My name is Arnold—Captain Thomas Arnold. I'm a British Army officer"—and my idiot tongue nearly added "of no fixed abode "—"and I have been kidnapped and tricked into this by enemies of Strackenz."

  That threw them into a talking; both Grundvig and Hansen started volleying questions at me, but Sapten cut them off.

  "British Army, eh?" says he. "How many regiments of foot guards have you ?—quick, now."

  "Why, three."

  "Humph," says he. "Go on."

  "Well," says I. "It's an incredible tale … you won't believe it… ."

  "Probably not," says Sapten, whom I was liking less and less. "Get to the point."

  So I told it them, from the beginning, sticking as close as I could to the truth. My brain was working desperately as I talked, for the tale wouldn't do entirely as it stood. I left Lola Montez out of it, and invented a wife and child for myself who had accompanied me to Germany—I was going to need them. I described my abduction in Munich, without reference to Baroness Pechman, and related the Schönhausen episode exactly as it had happened.

  "Otto Bismarck, eh?" says Sapten. "I've heard of him. And young Starnberg—aye, we know of that one."

  "This is unbelievable," exclaims Grundvig. "The man is plainly lying in everything he says. Why, who could… ."

  "Easy, doctor," says Sapten. "Unbelievable—yes." He pointed at me. "He's unbelievable, too—but he's sitting here in front of us." He nodded to me. "Continue."

  Thank God there was at least one cool head among them. I went on, relating how I came to Strackenz, how I had gone through the farce in the Cathedral, how de Gautet had tried to murder me, and how I had killed him in fair fight at the top of the Jotun Gipfel that morning. Sapten's icy eye never left my face, but Grundvig kept giving exclamations of incredulity and horror, and finally Hansen could contain himself no longer.

  "Why did you do it? My God, you villain, why? Have you no shame, no honour? How could you live, and commit such a monstrous crime?"

  I looked him full in the face, like a man struggling with tremendous emotion. (I was, and it was funk, but I tried to look as though I was bursting with wrought-up indignation and distress.)

  "Why, sir?" says I. "You ask 'why'. Do you suppose I would have consented to this infamy—have played this awful masquerade—unless they had compelled me with a weapon that no man, however honourable, could resist?" I gave a mighty gulp. "They held my wife and child, sir. Do you realise what that means?" I shouted the question at him, and decided that this was the time to break down. "My God, my God!" I exclaimed. "My precious jewels! My little golden-headed Amelia! Shall I ever see thee again?"

  It would have had them thumping on the seat-backs in any theatre in London, I'll swear, but when I raised my head from my hands there was no sign of frantic applause from this audience. Hansen looked bewildered and Grundvig's long face was working with rage; Sapten was filling his pipe.

  "And Prince Carl Gustaf—where's he?" he asked.

  I had thought, at the beginning, that eventually I might bargain with them—my life for the information—but now instinct told me that it wouldn't answer. Sapten would have hanged me on the spot, I'm sure—anyway, it wouldn't have suited the character I was trying desperately to establish. In that, I saw, lay my only hope—to make them believe that I had been a helpless victim of a dastardly plot. And God help me, wasn't it true?

  So I told them about Jotunberg, and the plans for disposing of Carl Gustaf. Grundvig clasped his temples, Hansen exclaimed in horror, Sapten lit his pipe and puffed in silence.

  "Aye," says he, "and then what? This fellow tried to murder you—you killed him, you say. What did you propose to do next?"

  "Why—why—I hardly knew. I was distraught—my wife and child—the fate of the prince—I was half-mad with anxiety."


  "To be sure," says he, and puffed some more. "And this was all played out, you tell us, so that this Otto Bismarck could start to build a German Empire? Well, well."

  "You've heard what I've told you, sir," says I. "I warned you it was incredible, but it's true—every word of it."

  Grundvig, who had been pacing up and down, spun on his heel.

  "I for one cannot believe it! It is impossible! Major, Erik! Would anyone but a madman credit such a story? It is not to be imagined!" He glared at me. "This man—this scoundrel—can you believe anyone as infamous as he has confessed himself to be?"

  "Not I, for one," says Hansen.

  Sapten scratched his grizzled head. "Just so," says he, and my heart sank. "But I suggest, doctor, and you too, Erik, that there's a question to be asked. Can either of you—" and his bright eye went from one to the other—" looking at this fellow here, a man who we know has successfully imposed himself for two weeks on a whole nation—can either of you, in the face of the fact, suggest a better story than he's told us?"

  They stared at him. He nodded at me.

  "There he is. Account for him." He knocked out his pipe. "If he has lied—then what's the true explanation?"

  They babbled a good deal at this, but of course there was no answering him. My story was enough to defy imagination, Sapten agreed—but any alternative must be equally incredible.

  "If we can accept that a doppelganger of the Prince's can take his place for two weeks—and we know that has happened—then I for one can accept anything," says he.

  "You mean you believe him?" cries Grundvig.

  "For want of evidence to disprove his story—yes." My heart fluttered up like a maiden's prayer, "You see," says Sapten grimly, "it fits. Haven't we been starting at every German shadow this twenty years back? You know that, Grundvig. Isn't fear for the security of our duchy the reason we're here? What are we Sons of the Volsungs for?" He shook his head. "Show me a hole in this fellow's tale, for I can't see one."