The Golden Portifor - 16. Chapter 16

At midday on the Saturday before Pentecost in the year 1691 the entire household of the Sign of the Angel spilled on to the street of Engelngasse. Even Gottlieb, freshly bathed and in a reasonably decent suit, walked with the other servants behind Serge, Willi and Jan Lisku. The rear was brought up by Karl and Boromeo flanking the object of attention, a sheepish Andreas Wittig, whose baptism was to happen that day, in advance of his confirmation on Sunday. Andreas was in a fine new suit with a white silk ribbon gathering his long hair.

At the west door of the Veronkenkirche Father Waxmann was awaiting the party, a violet-coloured stole around his neck. He shook hands with the nominated godfathers, Serge and Jan, and confessed this was all a bit thrilling to him.

‘I hardly ever get to perform the full rite with a child of the age of understanding, my lord. So excuse me if I indulge myself.’

So Andreas was received at the door and himself answered the questions put to him, Karl whispering the correct Latin responses in his ear. He was signed with the cross by priest and sponsors, exorcised by priestly breath and laying on of hands and had salt put in his mouth. With his shirt removed at the font Andreas was anointed on breast and shoulders and then in a clear voice himself made the necessary promises. And at the end he was baptised as Andreas Sergius Johann Wittig, anointed once more and bundled up in a white robe, lit candle in hand, as he was carried by Serge himself to the altar from the font, where he stretched himself out as prayers were said over him.

Once all was done he was passed around for hugs and Jan took him to the offertory box to make a donation for the poor, while Karl then took him to light candles under the image of St Fenice, a voluntary act of devotion which much impressed Jan Lisku.

‘Well there, young Andreas,’ Serge declared. ‘Till now you had no birthday, but today on the second day of June at last you do. From this day we’ll reckon that you’re thirteen.’

‘Looks about right,’ Jan observed, ‘and that would make you about eight months older than Karl, which is only proper.’

‘Thank you my lord! Thank you everybody!’ Andreas called out.

‘And now the party!’ yelled Karl, a little louder than was proper in a church, but he was excited.

There was a great spread in the chamber back at home, and the whole household was crammed in to take advantage of the full board and many bottles of wine.

‘Really, Phoebus, you do spoil them,’ Willi drawled, leaning against the panelling and surveying the chattering room.

‘I hope so,’ Serge replied. ‘My grandfather taught me that there’s a difference between servants and slaves. It was the old Rothenian way for the Nachelnik ...’

‘The what?’

‘Nachelnik,’ Serge continued determinedly, ‘the lord of a village, for him to be father to his people as well as their master. The lord has obligations to his people and he can hardly expect to be served gladly if he only serves himself.’

‘Hmph. Very radical. Have you tried that one out on our beloved prince?’

‘Oddly enough, cynic, I don’t think such an idea is all that alien to our prince’s outlook on the business of governing. Very promising that a German Elphberg finally gets it after two and a half centuries in our country. The Duke of Glottenburg always takes leave of any gathering by blessing his people in their own tongue, as do many of our Nachelnijki in their halls in Glottenburg and across whole provinces of Ruritania. It’d be really something for the Rothenians in Ruritania if their king adopted the practice, even if he had to do it in German.’

‘Never heard you do it,’ Willi pointed out.

‘I’m working up to it. Just you watch.’

‘Can’t wait.’

Serge clapped his hands and raised his voice. ‘Now everybody! I want everyone to raise their glass to Andreas Sergius Johann Wittig, our friend and a brand new Christian. Now, gifts! You and Karl may be glad to know that Gottlieb has put together a bigger and wider bed frame for the pair of you, as the fit in Karl’s old one is getting tighter all the time. I bought a proper mattress and Mistress Margrit and young Cecile have made new sets of bedclothes for it. So you’ll sleep more soundly tonight before tomorrow’s big day. I’m sorry I and my lord Strelsau can’t be at the Veronkenkirche for the confirmation tomorrow, but duty calls us to the palace. Now, my brother Boromeo has a package for you Andreas, which is something I know you’ll like and he was just as keen you get it. There, you may open it.’

Andreas whooped. ‘A blue riding uniform just like Karl’s with knee boots and cocked hat! Can we take the mares out for a promenade, my lords? Please?’

***

The new Second Groom of the Bedchamber of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince was a nervous Mittenheimer boy called the Freiherr Anton von Gerlitz, who was the cousin of the Count of Neder Bosgau, one of the principal titled families of the duchy. Initially Serge thought he was simply taciturn, but he had soon come to the conclusion that the boy was so terrified of saying and doing the wrong thing that he barely dared open his mouth. Willi found him boring and the prince ignored him, but Serge was working at bringing him on, though it was hard going. Poor Anton had nothing much to offer in the way of wit or education; it was his being seventeen and a noble Mittenheimer that had earned him his place in the household.

It being the feast of Pentecost, the prince and his household mounted up in the Great Court of the Marmorpalast immediately after the lever to process to the Hofburg to join the king and queen for the high mass in the Hofkapelle. A half company of the Prinzengarde rode in front of the household that fine morning, their guidon borne by the lanky figure of Ensign the Freiherr Boromeo von Tarlenheim, now approaching his fourteenth birthday and the height of five feet nine inches. Beside the prince rode his sister Dorothea Sophia, and behind her came the mounted grooms and noble pages, amongst them Serge. Bringing up the rear of the household was another troop of the Prinzengarde and a small cavalcade of servants and palace hangers-on. The Lady Ulrica however had made it perfectly plain she would not appear at the Hofburg, where she had no standing with the royal court.

The customary artillery salute from the Citadel greeted the prince’s retinue at the Modenheim Bar, and the Burgomeister and Ratsherren of the Neustadt in their red robes and gold chains awaited the crown prince there. The Burgomeister having kissed the princely hand they too mounted up and joined the procession, which was a very brave and colourful sight as it entered the Platz to the cheers of a crowd of citizens, street boys and beggars there to appreciate it.

The Hofkapelle was packed for the high feast, and as usual Serge was transported by the standard of music. Prince Henry had told him, with some amusement, that his father was in fact closely engaged in the selection of both musicians and music in his chapel. He paid over the odds for the best performers and commissioned mass settings from Von Biber at Salzburg, whom he lived in hopes of recruiting as Kapellmeister.

Serge pondered the profile of the gloomy old king under his huge grey periwig, head down, his jowls sagging on his chest. He noticed the index finger of the old man’s right hand beating time to the Veni Sancte Spiritus, an inspired setting of the hymn by the Moravian virtuoso and composer Pavel Vejvanovsky, the soaring treble line elevated by trumpet fanfares. It was as if they were party to the homage of angels before the throne of heaven. Tears ran freely down Serge’s cheeks. In a stroke of theatre that day, the walls of the chapel were hung with red and gold, the great hangings left to slowly billow in the free air, like surrounding flames.

Being one of the high feasts of the year and one especially associated with coronations, the bishop of Luchau, the Arch-chaplain of Ruritania, presided at mass, and immediately before the consecration King Rudolf assumed his robes of state and moved to a gilded throne set before the altar. There, while solemn anthems were sung and fanfares played from the galleries of the chapel, he received from the bishop’s hands the ancient diadem of Rothenia, the Crown of Tassilo.

Serge would have been left dizzy with aesthetic sensation that day but for the rather over-large and comical dove, like a fat silver chicken, which was lowered with a rattle of chains and loud clank over the high altar during the consecration. Willi next to him snorted with suppressed amusement.

In the subsequent banquet the prince’s household was demoted far down the tables. ‘Not that we should mind, of course,’ Willi commented, ‘the grown-ups hold the high ground at the moment, but His Majesty won’t live for ever, and then the spoils are ours! What say you, gentlemen of the Backstairs?’ He raised his glass to their daytime counterparts, who were sitting opposite them.

‘My Lord von Strelsau,’ responded the Graf Emmanuel von Speyer, First Groom of the Backstairs, who stood to bow and reply for his fellows. ‘We most loyally pledge our alliance with the gentlemen of the Bedchamber in taking the richest pickings when the time comes to ransack the palaces. Long of course may it yet be for that sad necessity to come about! May the King live forever!’ He resumed his seat to applause and leaned towards Serge. ‘Phoebus, I picked up a rumour that we may be on our travels within a day or two.’

‘How’s that, Mannie?’

‘The state coaches are being prepared as we sit. It was a friend in the Marshalcy of the Hofburg who told me. It seems His Royal Highness is to celebrate his seventeenth birthday in his duchy of Mittenheim.’

‘Hear that, Willi, Anton?’ Serge asked his fellow grooms.

‘Gaah!’ Willi snarled. ‘Think of the discomfort.’

Serge laughed. ‘Note the source of Willi’s discontent. I thought you wanted to be out and about in the world. Tell us, Anton, is there any sort of palace in Mittenheim?’

Anton blushed to be noticed. ‘Well, sirs. There’s the old Schloss. It was badly knocked about in the wars. They did up some chambers for the Lord Lieutenant, but ... er ... my lord Strelsau is right to be ... nervous.’

‘You fellows,’ Willi commented to the table. ‘I know my royal cousin. This is not just about his birthday and showing himself to his adoring people. Mark my words.’

***

Notices were duly posted at the Hofburg and the Marmorpalast by the Lord Chamberlain’s office, and the Marshal of the Court efficiently organised the coming exodus, the result being that by Tuesday the Great Court of the Marmorpalast was like a carriage park, and wagons filled the approach road through the Great Park. Captain Barkozy’s half company of the Prinzengarde was detailed as escort, so there were corresponding preparations in the yard of the Sign of the Angel. He, and the rest of the convoy, were to be under the command of Serge as major of cuirassiers for the journey, much to Serge’s discomfort. But the prince told him that as the Lord High Marshal of Ruritania had been a Tarlenheim since the thirteenth century marshalling was in Serge’s blood, so he would just have to get used to the idea.

Andreas and Karl were both in their military gear to attend their respective lords and already eager to be off early on Tuesday, perched up on Jennet and Brunhild. As usual Acheron was designated as packhorse. ‘But he doesn’t mind, really,’ Karl said, ‘he just likes being out and about, and he’s a good-tempered stallion who’s a loyal subject of Queen Brunhild.’ Andreas didn’t trouble himself as to how Karl was so sure about this. Karl’s outing in Faërie seemed to have had a lasting effect on his ability to communicate not just with the mares, but the entire equine race.

Having had their final instructions and many words of caution from Jan Lisku, the two pages rode out onto Engelngasse with Acheron jogging behind, led by Andreas. Once down in the Neustadt, the party trotted up Domstrasse and to the Conduit. There they found Wilchin and a little troop of urchins about their usual business of water-carrying and street-sweeping. The gang marvelled up at the two young cavaliers in blue and silver, and were allowed to pat the horses and touch the swords slung at their saddles.

Andreas dropped a leather purse of silver pfennigs into Wilchin’s grubby hand. ‘This is from me and Karlo for the next couple of weeks. Dunno when we’ll be back. Where’re we going again, Karlo?’

‘Mittenheim. It’s over three days’ journey. Won’t be there till Friday evening, probably. My lord doesn’t know when we’re coming back either.’

Taking their leave, the two boys trotted off towards the Modenheim Bar, some of the Conduit gang dancing alongside them as far as the Salvatorskirche. They wound their way through the Park and found the picket of Captain Barkozy’s cuirassiers. Andreas dismounted and reported to Ensign Boromeo, coolly touching his crop to his hat brim, as he’d seen other riders do.

‘I have everything that you asked for packed on Acheron, my lord. Master Jan added extra linen since we don’t know when we’ll be back.’

Boromeo gave a nod and instructed Andreas to join the cuirassiers’ supply train. Karl joined it too since, as he said, his lord was in command of the whole enterprise, so he might as well stick with the Prinzengarde. Karl picketed Brunhild and the others with Captain Barkozy’s troop, and wandered along the lines saying hello to the stallions, getting to know their personalities and learning their names from their riders, who were charmed at the alert and self-possessed young page uniformed in their regimental colours, and seriously impressed at his confidence with horses and their responsiveness to him.

***

Serge found Karl in the pickets fraternising with the horses as he was making an inspection tour of his cavalcade. Serge was himself in uniform and Captain Barkozy was dutifully following him round as aide. Directing Karl to tag along, Serge checked the condition of the four carriages and the readiness of their teams. Then he consulted with the captain about the order of the train, scribbling notes as he went around.

This sort of activity was new to Serge. He checked his watch frequently. Knowing Prince Henry, he would expect the midday start to be adhered to religiously, and it was getting on now for the fifth hour of the day. The prince’s courtiers unfortunately would have their own ideas about timing, and Serge rather suspected that failure to depart on time would be blamed on him. But at least Barkozy had his troopers under discipline, and seemed also to have intimidated the waggoners into some semblance of order. Delegate. That’s the principle Serge’s grandfather always pressed he should respect when in charge of any venture. So he put it into practice. What the Baron had not mentioned was the tricky business of finding subordinates he could trust and getting others to do as he asked.

‘And how is my brother coping as a cavalry officer, captain?’ he asked as they paused in their inspection.

‘Well, sir, he is young, but boys his age do bring a naïve seriousness to their work, which of course old hands appreciate as much as take advantage of. Ensigns do not carry much authority, and giving orders in a voice that cracks halfway can humiliate. But the lord Boromeo has the advantage of his class, if I may say. He’s been bred to ride and can manage his Onyx as well as any trooper, and that gains respect; a fine stallion too, I may say, with an uncanny intelligence, as with all the horses in your stable. Sergeants and corporals are less inclined to rib a junior officer to whom they must say “sir, my lord”.

‘I would say that the boy has the makings of an effective officer, sir, and of course he can avoid some of the worst features of military life by not living in barracks. That would be my main reservation about commissioning youths his age. Some of their older colleagues find it amusing to lure boys little more than children into drink, cards and worse. But I think your good father knew what he was doing by placing him in the Prinzengarde.’

‘It was Colonel Dudley’s suggestion as far as I recall, but you reassure me, captain. And I can tell you my family much appreciates the care you devote to bringing the boy on. He was a lost cause last year. So tell me, it’s been now a good eight months since we both arrived in Strelsau with hopes, it would seem yours have been amply met.’

The captain chuckled. ‘We’ve both had dizzying military rises, for sure sir. Yours more so than mine. I pronounce myself satisfied. The heralds’ office will see me no more.’

Serge thought it was time to see if he could penetrate the man’s purposes. ‘We are to expect the famous Prince Eugene in Strelsau after the campaigning season is done. His Royal Highness is thrilled at the thought and I have to confess I too am intrigued by what I hear of the man. His military rise has certainly far outpaced mine.’

Barkozy shot him a look. ‘I think you may find him nonetheless someone with whom you have much in common.’

‘How so, captain?’ Serge sensed that a point was being made.

‘He’s a scholar, sir, much moved by music and the arts, as I observe you are, though I believe rather less interested in the study of the past. Then there’s what is commonly known about his youth at Versailles and the way he amuses himself in Venice between campaigns. Shall I say that you, he and my lord Strelsau would be much in sympathy.’

Serge mastered himself. This was the first time his sexual preference had been brought up to his face, and he caught his breath. What was more it was being brought up with a purpose. He was being told by a man he had reason to believe was a foreign agent that he and Willi’s attachment was commonly known amongst those at the court of Ruritania who made it their business to acquire information and employ it.

There was a hint of threat in Barkozy’s remark. Serge was not so naïve as to delude himself his affair with Willi wouldn’t become generally known. The prince, Dodie and Ulrica knew and made nothing of it. But it was suddenly brought home to him that if it was getting out into the wider world he must prepare himself for the eventual reality that Olmusch and Tarlenheim would know he was a sodomite. Was the captain cautioning him that he had a hold over Serge?

‘Well, sir,’ he said after a marked pause while his head settled, summoning up all the reserves of coolness he could muster. ‘That may be so. But it has made no difference to his career as soldier and courtier, and I do not think it need trouble me over much. Are you cautioning me in some way?’ He let enough aristocratic hauteur creep into his voice to remind Barkozy that they did not stand on anywhere near equal ground in their world.

Strangely, he caught approval as well as deference in the captain’s response. ‘Not at all, my lord. Your friendships are your own affair and I do not observe you have any less credit at the courts of His Majesty and His Royal Highness because of them. But sir, may I respectfully suggest that a more experienced courtier than you yet are would take measures to defend himself from the malice of those who would try to make something of them.

‘Your predecessor in your office, the unlamented Graf Aloysius, certainly made the relationship between you and my lord Strelsau an item of news he traded. It was fortunate for all concerned that he was ejected from the household. What I merely mean, my lord, is that you should find more means of intelligence around the court than you presently possess. And I suspect you worked out some time ago that intelligence is my stock in trade.’

Serge was both astonished at the brazen approach, and intrigued. What would his grandfather say? He thought he knew. The Baron Olmusch was renowned for his encyclopaedic knowledge of, and acquaintance with, the personalities of the courts of Europe, which was one reason the Duchy of Glottenburg carried more weight in the world than its size might suggest. Serge might not trust Captain Barkozy, but as long as he kept that caution in mind the man’s talents could be useful to him.

There would of course be a price, but Barkozy needed him rather more than he did Barkozy and the captain knew that well enough, so the price would not be anything he could not afford; no more perhaps than Serge’s protection and good opinion at the court of the Crown Prince. He could also not resist the thought that Barkozy had assessed him, despite his youth, as a man of affairs with whom he could deal. It was oddly flattering.

He pursed his lips and stared down at the grass. When he looked up his young face was that of a courtier. ‘You are correct, captain,’ he admitted. ‘I assumed you came to Ruritania as an agent of the Empire and all I’ve seen of you since has confirmed for me that you and Colonel Dudley are what you say. You both came here with a view to collecting information and influencing the court towards joining the Emperor’s side in his wars against both King Louis and the Grand Signior.’

The man bowed in acknowledgement. ‘If I have learned anything about statecraft from my honoured grandfather,’ Serge continued, ‘it is that policy is more important than prejudice, and I don’t hold your confession against you. If you’ve done your job properly you’ll be aware that Prince Henry is friendly enough to the Emperor, and since that’s so it is my part to serve his purposes, as his sworn man. So we are in this case on the same side and can each further the other’s aims without dishonour. So sir, I am open to any views and news you are willing to share.’

Neither man registered the way the servant boy who was trailing them around had been intent on their exchange.

***

Late in the morning of the fourth day of Prince Henry’s progress through western Ruritania and the province of Merz, the cavalcade was heading for the great bridge over the Ebrendt. Serge, as marshal, had made it is his practice to ride ahead of the column along with Willi, with Karl in attendance in case messages needed to be sent back. He reined in as the road left the trees of the Forest of Zenda behind it and paused before descending into the river valley to the bridge and the little town of Grossbrückenheim.

Serge checked his watch. ‘The Lord Lieutenant was supposed to be waiting to greet His Royal Highness as he entered his duchy at midday,’ he remarked. ‘I see no sign of him. This’ll annoy Zeus.’

‘Doubt it,’ came the reply. ‘He was in a very good mood first thing. The beds in Fürstenburg Castle were really rather comfortable and the lord count was determined to make a good impression on Henry with the standard of food and entertainment. And of course Ulrica was treated as all but Crown Princess, which put her in a good mood. Give the poor Lord Lieutenant a chance. He’s still got half an hour. You and your watch. It’s lovely up here in the trees. What’s this place called?’

‘You’re hopeless. It’s the royal forest of Zenda. It’s where one goes to hunt boar. The king has a big castle on a lake somewhere south of here. Hasn’t the court ever come here in your time?’

‘Not that I can recall.’

Serge called back. ‘Here, Karl!’

‘My lord?’ The boy urged Brunhild forward.

‘Take a ride down to the bridge. Tell the guards at the turnpike that His Royal Highness is approaching and ask if there’s a party in the town to greet the prince. Your uniform will give you credence.’

The boy cantered Brunhild easily down the slope, kicking up white dust from the high road as they went. It had been dry all week and that Friday was a fine and sunny June day.

While they awaited a reply, Serge reverted to the subject that had engaged him a lot since the conversation with Barkozy on Tuesday.

Willi sighed. ‘Phoebus, my dearest, of course people know, and it will get round, maybe eventually even to your dear parents. From what I’ve heard of your grandfather you may be sure that his sources have already acquainted him with the fact that you’ve taken up with a most unsuitable man. You made your choice, as did I, and what we do now is we live the life and take what comes.

‘But with you in high favour at court no one will dare say a word to your face, especially if the result is to end up at the point of your sword and find that Prince Henry is very happy to be your second. The point is, it won’t affect your marriage prospects and that’s all that will likely bother your dear mutta and tatta. Look at Philippe d’Orléans at his brother’s court. He’s done his duty by both his duchesses, won his brother’s battles and otherwise lives like the most dissolute of the Grands Signiors. A great man. And at least you have no desire to dress up in frocks as he does.’

‘You’re right of course, Willi. I wish I had your courage. But that man Barkozy shook me by just coming out with it like that.’

‘It sounds to me, my dear, as if you handled it with brilliance. Blustering and protesting would have exposed you as a weak poltroon. Instead, you did what I would have and simply shrugged and carried it off as a man of the world. Then you did what I wouldn’t have, and turned him into your creature.’

‘Not a very reliable one though.’

‘You don’t have to be his friend, silly. In any case he knows that his chances of advancement make it very much in his interest to be loyal to you and keep the favour of the Tarlenheim family. So frankly, my dear, I think you’re stronger as a result of that conversation than otherwise. And here comes little Karlo hurrying back.’

***

The city of Mittenheim was a mass of half-timbered houses gathered on a hill crested with its twin-towered cathedral. The castle of Mittenheim was the former ducal residence, situated in the south-east corner of the old city, and somewhat redundant as a defensive structure as the entire city had been refortified with a ring of bastions and glacis by King Rudolf I following his successful siege. The castle might once have been quite a handsome structure, with drum towers and gatehouses, but while the inner court with its hall and staterooms had been left alone the great towers had been truncated and the fine limestone walls reduced in height to support an earthen glacis, so the castle was now no more than a large and rather ugly inner blockhouse to strengthen the city lines.

Prince Henry, Colonel von Meiningen, Major General Antonovic, the garrison commander, and Serge formed a party of inspection the Saturday afternoon after their arrival, and Serge was beginning to get an inkling as to why the prince was in Mittenheim. It seemed the general at least had been apprised, for he had arrived at the castle with several rolls of parchment tucked under his arm.

He unrolled one of them on a table in the castle’s great hall, an elaborate pictorial plan of the works of the first King Rudolf around the city. ‘Now sire,’ said the general, an enthusiastic old gentleman who had made a good impression on Serge, ‘you will see here the considerable scheme that your royal grandfather conducted in the aftermath of the rebellion of ’43. Of course, at the time he had every reason to believe that the Protestant armies might again descend on the duchy, so things were done in a hurry. What was done here at the castle is one result. A botched job in my opinion.

‘But it was enough to discourage the Swedes from attempting to strike through Mittenheim to join up with Condé in Bavaria, and so Mittenheim could be fairly said to have saved the Empire in ’45, even though King Rudolf was not at the time formally aligned with the Emperor. The Treaty of Münster in ’48 has made the city free of threat for the past several decades, but sire, I believe you and His Majesty suspect that Mittenheim will soon once more have to close the door of Ruritania on its enemies?’

The prince examined the plan silently for a while before answering. ‘My dear Antonovic,’ he eventually responded. ‘Who am I to foretell the future? But you must have been observing the French advances in their campaigns in Flanders, and the inability of the emperor’s generals to do much to stop them.’

‘Yes sire, and speaking for myself I would say that sooner or later Ruritania will have little choice but to throw in with the Grand Alliance, for the logic is that King Louis will send his armies through Bavaria into Austria, and we will either have to submit or resist as the French march down the Ebrendt.’

‘My father and you are in accord, general, as indeed am I. And therefore we must look to our defences, and increase our ability to hurt such invaders very seriously. So this is today’s business. We have a year or two to make Mittenheim a fortress that even Monsieur Vauban would think twice about investing. So today we will take a walk around the city lines and look for sites for redoubts, batteries and bastions and think like generals who have been tasked by the King of France to take this city. Lead on, general. I’m counting on you to take very full notes, my dear Major von Tarlenheim.’

***

Willi was both amused and frustrated at that Saturday’s activity. He raised his glass across the table to his cousin at dinner that evening. ‘Well, Zeus, this was your father’s birthday present to you? A fortress? He knows you so well.’

Lady Ulrica tutted at Willi. ‘Henry’s had a most enjoyable day out. Was it fun, Serge?’

‘Actually it was, though my energy was not up to following His Royal Highness and the general around with quite their level of enthusiasm.’

The prince scoffed. ‘You filled your notebook though, and you were very tolerant when we got you to climb that tree with a telescope to make an aerial sketch. That must have been fun.’

‘I had to do it in my stockings. They’ll never be the same.’

‘You sound like Willi,’ the prince retorted. ‘Always complaining about his clothes and clothing allowance.’

‘What? He has an allowance? Willi! You took ten crowns off me for lace neckcloths last week, pleading poverty.’

‘I’ll pay you back ... probably. It was an emergency. I had to look my best for this tour of the provinces. You realise this is the first time I’ve been out of Strelsau in four years. It’s startling to discover how big the world is.’

‘How long do you plan on staying in Mittenheim, sire?’ Serge asked. ‘Because I got the impression during today’s circuit of the city that there’s quite some work to do here.’

‘Well, that’s to be seen,’ the prince replied. ‘But my people of Mittenheim have a right to have their prince hold court amongst them. And what better way than to commence our visitation with a banquet and fireworks display tomorrow to mark my seventeenth birthday.’

‘Fireworks?’ Willi perked up. ‘I do love fireworks. Fine. I am reconciled to this exile.’

‘Oh, and since Tuesday is your seventeenth, Willi, here’s a little gift in advance.’ The prince dropped a heavy, jingling purse on the table in front of his cousin. ‘Count it out before you go to bed. I think you may find that it totals a hundred gold ducats. And though my arithmetic is as poor as my inferior education would lead one to expect, I would imagine that just one of those coins would pay off the loan you extorted from Phoebus, with an appropriate amount of interest.’

‘Oh! Henry! That’s generous. I mean, very generous. My thanks.’

The prince smiled fondly at him. ‘Not at all dearest Willi. Use them to clothe yourself as only you can. Or buy some of those books you like to pretend you don’t read. But I fear it may be a while before you’re going to be in a place where you can enrich the printers, drapers and tailors. In answer to your earlier question, Phoebus, I rather doubt we will be returning to Strelsau much before the end of July. I am going to enjoy being Duke of Mittenheim for quite some while, and we’re expecting next week some gentlemen of Colonel Dudley’s acquaintance from Lombardy who are going to tell us how to build the very best fortress my father’s money can buy.’