The Golden Portifor - 4. Chapter 4

The boy, Karl Wollherz, bit his lip and looked up to the ceiling as if he were a schoolchild who had been asked to give a recitation. Then he began. ‘Wilhelm von Strelsau. Well my lord, he has other names. He’s spoken of as Black Wilhelm or the Bastard of Strelsau, and many do speak of him, not so much perhaps for his doings as because of the manner of his birth.’

‘Go on, Karl. Anything you can tell us will be of value.’

‘His mother, sir, was the daughter of the old king, the first royal Rudolf, and sister of our present king. I do not know her name sir, but I do know that she was in an unhappy and childless marriage with a lord of Ruritania, I believe he was the count of Fürstenberg, and she fled her home to take refuge with her brother. The Church granted her an annulment at the king’s request, but before that was announced she had fallen into a passionate affair with a young officer of the King’s Guard, a particular friend of the king himself it is said, and conceived his child.

‘It was soon discovered and her angry brother had her confined to apartments in the Marmorpalast. Her lover, the captain, the king’s friend, was arrested. The story is that he was tried that same day by the Council, found guilty of treason and executed by … I don’t know what it’s called, but he was whipped naked from the Raathaus to the Platz, his balls were cut off by a common butcher and thrown to the dogs in the crowd, then he was stretched beneath a lead sheet and crushed slowly to death by weights placed upon it.’

‘La mort peine et dure,’ commented Serge grimly. ‘Go on, lad.’

‘They point out black stains on the Platz to this day where they say he was tortured, and I myself have heard screams echoing strangely in the empty Platz late of a summer night when I lay awake taking shelter in a doorway; screams as if from far away, but blood-curdling still. Other street boys say the same. They say it’s fearful bad luck to hear them. The butcher that neutered the captain still plies his trade in the Altmarkt. One of his shop boys told me that the man applied handfuls of handkerchiefs to the wound in the poor man’s groin in pretence of staunching the flow of blood, and made a lot of money selling them to interested ladies later.’

Serge was a little amused to see how intensely interested his valet had become in the boy’s macabre tale. ‘Go on, child. What of the princess his mother?’ Jan urged.

‘Well sir, she gave birth to a boy, that is the Black Bastard of Strelsau, within a week of the birth of our Crown Prince. Then she was placed in a closed carriage and taken away and has never been seen since. She only ever saw her son the once, and then he was taken from her to be wet-nursed by the same lady who was feeding the Crown Prince.’

‘Anything else?’ Serge queried.

‘Not much my lord. It is said that the Lord King later regretted his fatal anger at his former friend; that dangerous Elphberg temper, sir. And for his sake and the sake of his remorse has been good to the bastard boy his nephew, and it is expected he will one day make him a Graf or a Freiherr should he prove worthy. But he was not given the name Elphberg, of course.’

‘Well told, Karl. I’m much obliged to you,’ Serge announced, and his new servant grinned happily under his praise. ‘So that’s answered one question, and we may well have others soon. In the meantime, sort out with Master Jan here your duties for the day, and after lunch we’ll all go strolling about the city, for we have to find ourselves more permanent lodgings and your local knowledge is going to be invaluable, I’m pretty sure.’

***

Karl contemplated his master’s unsheathed rapier with wide eyes and an open mouth. ‘Now boy,’ said Jan Lisku, ‘one of your duties is to keep the blade polished like the mirror it presently is. In due course, when you’re older and I know you can be trusted, I’ll show you how it is to be sharpened. The blue tinge to the steel is because it is one of the finest products of the Turin workshops. Turin’s in the north-west of Italy, Karl, in the Duchy of Savoy.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And since we are talking about polishing, I have a pair of rather muddy shoes here which must be shining and immaculate before my lord returns to the Hofburg. He has only the one pair suitable and he could do with more.’

‘Oh sir, then you must go to Schustergasse. It’s at the south end of Gildenfarbsweg. That’s where the cordwainers are found, in shops around their Krispinhalle.’

Jan nodded. ‘Good lad. That’ll be tomorrow’s job, I think. It can’t wait longer. But shoes for the court are not cheap I fear, and we have no choice but to shell out this month so as to keep our lord presentable. I hope we’ll have enough left over to pay you.’

The boy shot him an earnest look. ‘Oh sir, I’ll work for just my food. Never fear.’

Jan Lisku contemplated the child. ‘How did you end up on the streets, young Karl?’

The boy’s head fell. Eventually he replied. ‘It was the plague last year, sir. It was bad in the Sudmesten. My father and mother … and the baby. It was so quick. And the cottage was locked up from the outside because of the plague within. I couldn’t stay with their … anyway, I broke a hole through the tiles and climbed out and down the side. The provosts caught me and I was marched to the Lazarette. Then when the physicians agreed I wasn’t afflicted, they couldn’t send me on to the orphanages, since the plague was in them. We only came from Ostberg when I was eight, sir, and I have no relations I know of. So I was sent to the Reformatory run by the Grey Friars to be kept with abandoned boys from the streets. The brothers were not kind to us, they didn’t feed us much and they beat us a lot.

‘So, after the worst of winter was done and the plague passed, me and an older boy broke out, and since then … well sir, the Platz and the back streets are easier places to make a living than some: begging, odd jobs, sweeping and scavenging. Us kids help each other too. No need for thieving, whatever you may think. But the older boys say that winter’s the time to fear, when the snow fills the streets and there’s little food and no shelter. That’s when things get hard and desperate.’

Jan nodded. He was well aware that the city was a harsh place for the poor and those without family and protectors. ‘A question for you, Karl. Do you have your letters?’

The boy shook his head. ‘I went to a penny school for a year in Ostberg, but didn’t learn much for the pennies my parents scraped together.’

‘Well, that’ll have to be seen to. Our master needs servants who can at least read. So when he’s doing his duty in the Hofburg, you and I will be getting to grips with the alphabet and the nature of pens and paper. Is that understood?’

The boy looked up, smiled and nodded vigorously.

‘And another thing,’ Jan added, with a compassionate look at his new pupil, ‘after our first lesson we’ll take a walk into the priory next door and see one of the Fathers. Your mother and father and the baby need to have a mass said for their souls. And one of my crowns will serve for that. Then in the south aisle there’s a fine statue of Saint Fenice, the protector of children, and you can light some tapers in front of it to remind her of the little one you lost, but who she’ll hug for you.’

***

‘Willi?’

‘Yes, Phoebus?’ The pair were once again together on their own in the Watching Chamber as the First Groom was still in disfavour. It was Thursday and next morning would be the prince’s first grande levée for the nobility of his duchy of Mittenheim.

They were sitting together naked on the carpet, their backs against a banquette after another education for Serge in how to prepare himself for sleep. Serge felt relaxed and confident enough to ask the pale boy next to him some personal questions. ‘So, Willi, tell me about what it was like, growing up in royal palaces.’

Willi shrugged. ‘I’ve really got nothing to compare it with, as palaces are all I’ve ever known. Great for games of hide-and-seek when my cousin and foster-brother was in the mood. He had a tendency to cheat, however, as servants dared not refuse him when he asked where I’d hidden myself.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Oh, he rationalised it even when he was nine years old. The only books he could be brought to read willingly were the Gallic Wars and the Deeds of Alexander the Great, from which he concluded that great generals don’t win by doing what the rules say they should, as he himself told me. We were on more equal territory with chess, but by God is he a bad loser. Try to avoid playing him, or at least throw the game. He’ll sulk at you for days if you inadvisedly win.’

‘He’s asked me to join him in his fencing lessons on Saturday morning. How is he with the sword.’

‘Formidable. He fights as if every bout is to the death. He ran one of his masters-at-arms through last year and watched with interest as the poor fellow expired at his feet.’

‘What!’

Willi rolled his eyes. ‘Phoebus, you’re hopeless. Of course he didn’t. But he is very skilled. He fights like one of Pindar’s automata. Utterly fearless and quite unmoved by anything other than the task at hand. It’s both wonderful and terrifying. You’ll not have a chance against him. He can disarm me in three passes. He’s only trying you out, and when he finds you’re as ordinary as everyone else, he’ll not ask you again. He does love a challenge does my cousin. So long as he wins in the end, of course.’

‘I may be better than ordinary,’ Serge asserted.

Willi grinned and kissed him. ‘So, Phoebus, there is some vanity in you after all. Thank God. I worried you might be perfect, and that would never do.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because, you beautiful god of a boy, I might have to fall in love with you, and that would not be good for either of us. Now pull on your drawers and let’s sleep. Come onto my palliasse. I’d like to hold you as we drop off. You smell so nice. It’s the scent of virtue, so very rare in the Hofburg.’

***

Friday morning was different. The prince rose with the sun, as he always did, but there was to be no petit lever.

‘Christ!’ Willi swore in Serge’s ear. ‘He’s up. We’ve overslept. Quick. Breeches and shirts.’

Serge rolled back on to his own palliasse and quickly resumed his breeches. He was sitting up and fumbling for the laces of his shirt as the door to the bedchamber opened.

‘Morning, fellows!’ hailed Prince Henry, who wandered in swathed in his oriental robe. He left the door open and Serge saw within another figure in a white shift moving around. It seemed the prince also had not been alone in his bed the previous night. The sleep Serge had experienced in Willi’s arms had been too profound to be troubled by any animalistic noises from their neighbours. The Prince passed on into the closet and relieved himself without the assistance of Serge that morning.

By now, Willi was dressed and he went to the door and gave his customary tap. In came this time only two older noble pages, one bearing a basin of hot water and towel, and the other a silver tray on which was china and a coffee jug.

A page handed the prince a cup as he returned. ‘You know, Willi,’ he pronounced, ‘I miss the Marmorpalast. Time to suggest to His Majesty that the prince’s household can move of its own volition.’

‘Yes, sire. Let me guess. You’re already bored rigid with the Hofburg.’

‘True, dear cousin. I can appeal to my father’s own example. He used to like spending his mornings in the Park. Frankly, the idea of a morning’s hunt would be glorious. It’s not as if I was suggesting Zenda. If he wants me at the Council I’m just a short ride away.’

It occurred to Serge that the Prince had other reasons to move his court. He could associate even more openly with the Lady Ulrica in the suburban palace.

The Prince made himself comfortable in an armchair, and sipped his coffee. The pages served Willi and Serge at the Prince’s nod. They stayed standing however. ‘So Phoebus. Some news for you. I believe your good father is to arrive in the court in a day or two. No doubt he’ll be checking up on you, if my experience with fathers is any guide.’

‘Oh, sire, I had no idea.’

‘Probably because his letters are still chasing you around Ruritania. I expect your letters to him are still on the road too. Our Post Office could do with some reform, in my opinion. Anyway, the Lord Chamberlain posted a new list of suitors to be housed within the court, and your father’s name is on it. You should make a practice of checking it. You can learn a lot. In fact you should have done, as my loyal subjects of Mittenheim will be swarming round the Hofburg till Monday and you must know them. And that’s a thought. Willi dear, do I have a residence in Mittenheim?’

‘No idea, sire. If so, no one has lived in it since your great-grandmother’s day. His Majesty your grandfather certainly couldn’t abide the place, after the Calvinist insurrection on his succession.’

‘Now there was a man. He had all the fill of war that a fellow could desire. He should have been grateful to those Mittenheimers, since they earned him his crown.’

Serge’s historical curiosity was aroused. He knew that the duchy of Mittenheim was a much-contested German principality between Ruritania and Bavaria, which was or had been part of the Holy Roman Empire, at least theoretically. It had come to the Elphbergs through a marriage between Duke Rudolf V and the heir, the Duchess Sophia. On her death in 1642 their son Rudolf VI of Ruritania had succeeded, but not without trouble.

‘Excuse me, Royal Highness,’ Serge intervened, ‘how did Mittenheim help your grandfather?’

Prince Henry crossed his legs and settled in his chair. He clearly liked any question involving war and statecraft. ‘Take a seat Phoebus, and you too Willi. It was like this. My grandfather had a high old time in the Wars of Religion. He allied with the Emperor of course. It occasionally cost him, as he was at the débâcle at Breitenfeld in ’42 and the Swedes devastated Merz and Ober Husbrau as a result. And that very month the old duchess died and the Protestant nobility of Mittenheim rebelled, offering the duchy to Field Marshal Torstensson, thinking dear grandfather had shot his bolt.

‘However, at that perilous point grandfather was in Vienna and the rather desperate Emperor promised him that if he could retrieve the situation, Mittenheim would be his as a fief of Ruritania and not to be held of the Empire. “Ah!” says old Rudolf, “Your Imperial Majesty is kind, and I’d be so glad to help and all, but how can Mittenheim be held by an overlord who’s a mere duke like me?” “Good point, my dear Rudolf,” says Emperor Ferdinand, “How about if I got the old pope to make you a king?” “You’re on then,” says grandfather. And off he went.

‘He did a canny thing, he went to Glottenburg and struck a deal with whichever Willem Stanislas was ruling there at the time, all good Rothenian Catholics together. The allied forces swept into Mittenheim, and grandfather saw off a Swedish force that attempted to intervene. So Mittenheim was sacked, several of its lords hung by the neck by silk ropes till dead, and a bull issued in 1644 erecting Ruritania into a kingdom with Mittenheim as its province.’

Serge knew some of this, but there was one point he hadn’t picked up. ‘So what was the deal with Glottenburg, sire?’

‘Your own grandfather could tell you if you pushed him to it. There was a codicil to the pact Rudolf VI signed with his opposite number at Orbeck in 1643, by which we Elphbergs resigned in perpetuity any claim to sovereignty over Glottenburg and supported its claim to the status of a Grand Duchy, which latter condition unfortunately the Emperor and Pope resisted, but no Elphberg can now make any claim on the duchy. It was sworn on the Black Virgin, and we all know what happens to those who renege on deals struck in her presence.’

The prince held out his cup for a refill. ‘Now fellows, I think I’m ready for some breakfast. Willi, I can’t wait till after Mass, go have it laid out in the Presence Chamber. You two fellows will join me, and perhaps someone can see if the Lady Ulrica is available. She must be up by now.’ He looked directly and coolly into the eyes of his grooms, as if defying them to show any intelligence that he and the lady in question had been in the same bed only half an hour before.

***

‘Now you fellows, roll back those doors,’ commanded Prince Henry. The musketeers who obeyed his command had now adopted their state tabards, embroidered with the royal arms, and were armed with gilded halberds tasselled with crimson. The prince emerged from his bedchamber surrounded by all the gentlemen, grooms and pages of his household. He was awaited in the Watching Chamber by a small phalanx of the nobility and gentry of his duchy of Mittenheim, headed by the bishop of the diocese in purple and marshalled by four heralds at arms.

The herald whose tabard bore the arms of Mittenheim called out ‘Hoch, Hoch! Der Herzog!’ and rapped his metal-shod white staff on the parquet floor, at which all the petitioners sank to their knees. The prince was part-dressed as he stood at the threshold of his bedchamber, and extended his arms as his gentlemen efficiently fitted him into his waistcoat, coat, red-heeled shoes and baldric. The chain of the order of the Red Rose was draped over his shoulders and tied with white silk ribbons. A wide-brimmed hat liberally adorned with ostrich feathers was placed on his head and a gold-chased staff put in his left hand. He was, for all his youth, a very imposing figure.

‘Our good people of Mittenheim, excellencies and lordships,’ declared the prince, ‘it gives us great pleasure to meet you on this the feast of the Holy Archangel Michael, patron of our duchy of Mittenheim. Be assured of our warm regard and hearty friendship. As a token of our favour we will this morning, after the mass in honour of the commander of the hosts of Heaven, be disposed to hear petitions from any present.’

‘Lang lebe der Herzog!’ called out the herald, and there was a satisfyingly loud response from the assembled dependants.

The Leibgarde formed up and between two ranks of them the prince, preceded by two vice-chamberlains, led his household along the East Gallery, lined with pages. The members of the levée followed after. At the door of the Hofkapelle he paused and handed his hat to Willi, then made his way bare-headed to a chair of state facing the high altar, while his court took their places behind him. Serge put himself next to Willi.

The mass was as sumptuous as the Hofkapelle could provide, and as ever, the music was overwhelming to Serge. It seemed that Willi was equally engrossed, tapping his finger on the brim of the prince’s hat to the beat the Kapellmeister was regulating.

At the long litany of the saints the subdeacon began by asking for the intercession of all the biblical angels, one by one. ‘He missed one out,’ murmured Willi in Serge’s ear.

‘What d’you mean?’ he whispered back

‘Sancte Satanas ora pro nobis. Not fair don’t you think?’

‘For God’s sake, Willi, think where you are!’ Serge hissed, shocked, for all his religious scepticism.

He looked around cautiously to see who might have heard the exchange. A group of younger pages were on the other side of Willi, amongst whom Serge recognised Paulus. It was the page standing next to Paulus who caught his attention. About the age of eleven, the boy was astonishingly handsome: raven hair, clear brown skin and piercing eyes of a striking dark blue. He had turned as if he had heard Willi’s blasphemy, with a raised eyebrow and a very strange smile on his wide lips. Serge had to wrench his eyes away from the child, such was his magnetic beauty. At the Credo he looked again, but the boy had gone.

***

Prince Henry held his fencing exercises in his Presence Chamber, though he complained that the light was bad.

‘Oh sire, is this you preparing the ground for excuses as to why the Freiherr von Tarlenheim worsted you?’ Willi drawled.

‘Shut up, Willi. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.’

Willi’s smile broadened. ‘What would that be, your royal highness?’

‘Helping Sergius by getting me distracted and annoyed at you.’

‘As if I could, sire. Your resolution and concentration are legendary.’

‘There, you’re doing it again. Shut up or I’ll send you out. Now, Monsieur l’Abbé, on your guard.’

Serge dropped his sword. ‘Is this you doing to me what Willi just did to you, sire?’

The prince growled. ‘You two are impossible, and far too alike for your own good.’

‘I only ask, sire. I am not in fact in orders.’

‘Gah! You act as though you are. I definitely saw you with a book in your hand this morning.’

‘I confess my guilt. I was reading up on the history of your principality of Mittenheim: the Chronica ducatus Mediodomitensis of Dom Gregorius Valens, published in Prague in ’72. There’s a copy in His Majesty’s library. Very informative. You should ...’

‘Don’t you dare say it. I swore solemnly at the age of fifteen, despite seeing the latest set of stripes on Willi’s backside, that I would never associate with the printed word ever again.’

‘... other of course than orders of battle and military regulations,’ Willi contributed.

‘That’s it! I swear that this fight with Phoebus here will be to the death, and then I’ll come for you Willi.’

‘En garde, sire,’ Serge grinned. He survived under the prince’s onslaught for all of ninety seconds, his rapier rattling across the floor as the prince made it leap from his hand.

‘That’s an improvement, Phoebus,’ applauded Willi as he returned his watch to his pocket. ‘But as for you, sire ...’

‘It was the light ...’ The three youths looked at each other, and erupted with laughter. The prince recovered himself. ‘Now, Phoebus, I believe the Graf Ruprecht, your honoured father, is in the Hofburg somewhere. I suggest you go find him and pay your respects. Willi, you may tell the master-at-arms I’m ready for him, and thank you dear Phoebus for warming me up.’

Both boys bowed low and departed. ‘Dear Phoebus?’ Willi said in the gallery outside. ‘My dear, I think we may conclude that His Royal Highness regards you as a friend, not just a groom. Congratulations. Were I a cynic, which of course I am, I would say your future is made. I hear that Aloysius’s days as First Groom are likely numbered. The Lady Ulrica has taken against him, and that will be fatal. You, she likes. Me too, which is far less accountable. So the position of First Groom may be between us. I shall start spreading vicious rumours about you this very afternoon.’

‘Bye, Willi. See you at the coucher.’

Serge made his way to the grand West Stairs of the Hofburg, guessing that his father would be found in the apartments set aside for the Lord High Marshal, an office of state hereditary in the Tarlenheim family and presently occupied by Serge’s uncle and godfather, the present count, though the office was currently exercised by a delegate, who had paid handsomely for the privilege. As Serge meditatively climbed the staircase to the dormer floor he almost collided with a passing page.

‘Oh, sorry Paulus. How’re you?’

The boy smiled. ‘No problem, sir. And I’m very well, I’m to be promoted to the Privy Chamber!’

Though Serge didn’t quite get the distinction or where the advancement lay, he heartily congratulated the boy. ‘By the way, do you remember the mass yesterday? You were standing quite close to me, and there was a very unusual boy next to you, I was wondering who he was.’

‘Sir?’

‘He was dark of hair, same height as you, with strangely piercing blue eyes. Extraordinarily handsome too.’

Paulus frowned. ‘There’s Wolfram who has that colouring, but no one would ever call him striking, let alone handsome. Sorry sir, I don’t know anyone amongst the King’s pages who fits that description.’

‘Oh ... then he must have been from among the Mittenheimers.’ Serge shrugged and carried on up the stairs.

The door of the Marshal’s chambers was locked and there was no reply to his tap, so he wandered back up the gallery to find it more or less blocked by the Lord Chamberlain on his way to his office. Serge bowed and was favoured with a smile. ‘My dear Tarlenheim. How’re you? I hear very good things about you from His Excellency, the Groom of the Body, and I have made sure they’re conveyed to your father, with whom I was just talking.’

‘Thank you, sir. Did you say you’d seen my father? I was looking for him.’

‘Then you may yet find him in the King’s Guard Chamber, where he was going to seek out Colonel Deploige, the Constable of the Hofburg.’

Serge thanked the man and headed back downstairs, making his way through a crowd of suitors in the West Gallery to the Guard Chamber. A sentry admitted him and within he found a party of three gentlemen at the tall windows with their outlook over the Kitchen Court. His father was in earnest conversation with the colonel, whom he recognised from his uniform, but not the other man.

The Graf Ruprecht turned, raised an eyebrow and gave his son a smile, indicating that he should approach.

‘My dear Deploige,’ he said. ‘D’you know my elder boy here?’

‘We’ve not been introduced formally, Ruprecht, but he’s becoming well known around the Hofburg. My respects young man.’

Serge bowed. ‘Sorry to interrupt, father. But His Royal Highness said you were here and I thought I should come straight away. I can wait outside till your business is done.’

‘No need, my boy. Since you’re here I’d like to introduce someone you should meet. This is Mr Dudley Bard of England, otherwise known as Colonel Robert Dudley of His Imperial Majesty’s service, on the staff of Prince Eugene of Savoy. He’s something of a family connection of ours, and we travelled down from Tarlenheim together, where he’s been a guest of your uncle.’

Serge exchanged bows with the tall, dark young man, whom he estimated must be in his mid-twenties. There was certainly a military air about him, and from his greeting he seemed to speak German like a native, despite being English-born.

‘Excuse me sir,’ asked Serge, for his curiosity was piqued. ‘But I had no idea I had English relatives.’

The man laughed pleasantly. ‘Your honoured father is too kind. The fact is we share a name and a godfather, that’s all.’

Serge was even more puzzled. ‘Ah sir. My father has the name of the Prince of the Rheinpfalz, his godfather. Oh ... I see, the English Robert is the same as the German Ruprecht, is that not so? Then you too were a godson of Prince Ruprecht?’

The colonel stifled a laugh. ‘More than that, lad. Mr Bard here is ... well ...’

‘I am in fact the son of the late Rupert of the Rhine, sir,’ the Englishman said, ‘though not through any lawful liaison, obviously.’

Serge felt called upon to deliver a lower bow on hearing this, for the man may have been a bastard but he was of royal blood for all that. He was through his father both a great-grandson of King James of England and Scotland and a grandson of the Winter King of Bohemia.

Serge’s father clapped him on the shoulder as he rose. ‘There sir, I told you the boy has some judgement; older than his years. Well now Sergius, we have a little more business to discuss with the good colonel and then we will be seeking lunch. We have no dining privileges at the Hofburg, but Dudley here is at the Red Lion and we will meet you there at one hour after midday.’

***

Serge made his way down to the Red Rose and found his small domestic staff were out and about in the city buying necessities. He changed out of his court clothing into plainer gear, for knowing his father’s ways lunch would be followed by a considerable intake of alcohol, and that would be it for the afternoon. He left a note for Jan Lisku telling his valet of his luncheon engagement and to send a suitable change of clothing by young Karl Wollherz to the Red Lion if he had not returned to his lodgings before five.

The inn was on the Platz in the shadow of the Salvatorskirche. He removed his hat and entered squinting around. He found his father and Colonel Dudley already at table and took a serving of the pie they were working through.

‘How is my brother Boromeo, sir? It’s been a while since I saw him. He must be growing tall by now.’

His father shrugged. ‘He’s what ... twelve?’

‘Just turned thirteen, sir.’

‘Damn me, but time passes. Your mother sent him to board with the Jesuits at Modenheim, though he’s no scholar, I hear. Moons around when he’s home. An annoying restless boy, I seem to be always tripping over him. I’d have been happy if your grandfather would have taken him too, but his future isn’t in Glottenburg, while yours will be.

‘Now sir,’ he turned to Colonel Dudley. ‘You have news of the Turks.’

The colonel sucked at his clay pipe. ‘None good, I fear. Nisch has fallen and Belgrade is besieged according to the latest despatches. The Grand Vizier Mustafa is a man of account and has rebuilt a formidable army. It annoys me beyond measure. I was a captain of Prince Eugene’s cuirassiers in the Elector Max’s army when we took the city, and have a bullet hole in my left arm to remind me of it. We could have marched on to Athens and Constantinople that year of ’88 and no one to stop us. It was a knife in the back by the French that did that.’

‘And where is the Prince Eugene these days?’ Graf Ruprecht asked.

‘Assisting his cousin, the Duke of Savoy, in fending off the damnable Bourbons, and none too happy I hear.’

‘But you are of his staff, sir?’ Serge asked. ‘Are you intending to join him?’

The colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘In due course, but not all soldierly duties involve combat, young fellow. Quite as important to the army are those who recruit and train drafts of reinforcements for the regiments in the field. The Prince is in desperate need of horses and cavalrymen, and my task is to buy up mounts and persuade young fellows to ride them into glory, which may all too often be death by dysentery in a ditch in Piedmont. Armies, young sir, lose far more to the flux than to the enemy’s bullets.’

‘Hah!’ interjected Graf Ruprecht. ‘That, and the pox. Let me tell you of my experiences as a captain in the Dragoons of Ober Husbrau when we rode to the relief of Vienna.’

Serge had heard his father’s war stories before, ever since he was a small child indeed. But he didn’t mind, because his father told them well and, with the colonel present and contributing his own observations and questions, it turned into quite an informative afternoon, with no contribution expected on his part. He avoided the circulating bottles adroitly and was not much intoxicated by the time the fifth hour rang out from the neighbouring church, and he saw the red coat of his page hovering in the doorway.’

He rose. ‘Sir, with your leave,’ he said to his father. ‘Duty calls me to the Hofburg. Your good health, gentlemen.’

His father nodded. ‘Good to see you, Sergius. You’re doing well here and I am pleased. I look forward to your appearance at Tarlenheim in due course. Your uncle is asking when he’ll see you.’

‘At His Royal Highness’s pleasure, father. My salutes to my dear mother. Colonel, your servant, sir.’ He bowed and withdrew.

Karl awaited him patiently with a bag of clothing, his baldric and sword slung over the boy’s shoulder. ‘You can change in the back parlour, my lord. The landlord said it’ll be fine. I’ll guard the door.’

Serge affectionately rubbed the warm stubble of Karl’s shorn hair as he took the boy’s burdens. He looked out the back windows on to the stable yard as he was changing. A familiar-looking soldier was leaning against a pillar, smoking a pipe. It was none other than Sergeant Barkozy, who seemed very much at his ease, and indeed appeared to be waiting for something or someone, judging by the way his eyes were moving to the inn’s yard door. Serge was pondering whether to go and say hello to the man on his way back to the palace when the sergeant straightened. He put his hand to his hat and raised it to Colonel Dudley as he came out into the yard; not in politeness, but as men who had business together. The two had a short conversation and a packet was pushed into the sergeant’s hand, then he bowed to the colonel’s back as the man returned to the inn and Serge’s father.