The Golden Portifor - 7. Chapter 7

Prince Henry decided to make an event of the removal of his court to the Marmorpalast. ‘It’s a signal,’ Willi commented. ‘A new centre of power emerges in the kingdom and the young heir is declaring that the future is his. Well, that perhaps is a bit over-dramatic, but then what do you expect from me? Y’know Phoebus, I’ve started writing my memoirs.’

‘Willi, you’re not seventeen yet.’

‘But my life is so full of tragedy, great events and spectacle, I could be up to volume three by now.’

‘Do you keep a journal, Willi? I believe that statesmen who intend to write the story of their lives all do that.’

Willi sniggered. ‘I suppose I do. As it happens, I keep it here in my cuff. It’s never too far from me. Here, take a look.’

‘Isn’t it supposed to be private to yourself?’

‘Sweet Phoebus, there can be no secrets between us.’ He handed over a thin notebook to which was attached a Nuremberg pencil.

‘What’s this? It’s in code. A list of dates and names followed by numbers and letters. I can’t read this.’

‘Oh it’s quite simple. Each number represents an intimate act done to me and the letters an act performed by me. Here look! You’re here, last Friday at Engelngasse. Weren’t you masterful. Two of Number 1, then two Letters C, and – that’s a rarity – an F. I hope you enjoyed it, I don’t do that for everyone. Oh, and don’t look at the back pages, that’s where I sketch the male attributes of those good enough to expose them to me. You’re in there, which is why you mustn’t look. But at least they’re some evidence that I have intellectual interests. It’s very scientific.’

Serge burst into laughter at the outrageous misuse of his favourite word. ‘Willi, you really are wonderful. But look at all these partners!’

‘Mostly 3s performed by the mignons de couchette here in the Hofburg, but maybe it’s time we discussed the sodomites and buggers in our happy little world here in Strelsau. For this perhaps we should go take a stroll in the Hofgarten. It’s cold out, bring your cloak. I can hide under yours and do a C on you in the yew walk.’

‘Behave, you idiot.’

They took the East Stairs down to the gardens. As they passed pages and menials, Willi identified certain of them by muttering his nicknames for them in Serge’s ear; mostly, Serge guessed, based on their attributes and practices. Several of those identified boldly met Serge’s eyes as they passed, which he assumed meant they were happy to be approached.

‘There, they look to you more than to me, even though they know I pay for the privilege. From you they’d not ask for so much as a half-pfennig. Ooh! That’s Hans, the boy who likes to be disciplined.’ A slim, blonde youth in menial livery looked shyly at them, hesitating in hopes of a summons, as it seemed. ‘So many boys, so little time,’ Willi sighed as they came out from the palace.

They sat out on a stone bench in the parterre. It was Willi’s favourite, he said, because it gave him a view of a nude statue of Laocoön wrestling with serpents, brought from Rome by King Rudolf I after his visit there to be invested solemnly with the crown of Tassilo by the pope. ‘Such a metaphor for our situation, Phoebus. Entrapped by needs and desires which could conceivably be the death of us.’

‘Which is why, dearest Willi, you ought to be far more discreet than you are.’

He patted Serge’s hand, took and squeezed it. ‘Not in my nature, golden one. I was born to outrage.’

‘And you do it so well. I admire you, Willi. I really do.’

Wilhelm squeezed his hand hard. ‘That means a lot, Serge my dear. And may I say that your arrival at the Hofburg has been one of the happier events in my chequered life to date. Thank God I got to you first, before some of the less scrupulous and more insinuating court libertines I’ve had the misfortune of being up against a wall with. You might have resisted their blandishments, but they would have tainted your experience of Strelsau. Whereas we two ...’

‘I think I understand you, Willi. We’re two boys out in the world to discover sin all for themselves, without being the victims of older men’s lusts.’

Willi pecked him on the cheek. ‘Good. You do understand. So, is your military finery ready yet? I’m quite excited to see my golden Phoebus in the guise of dark Ares.’

‘I’ve tried the gear on once, but my servants have carefully put it away and forbidden me to touch it, afraid I’ll smudge their hard work polishing up the metalwork with my greasy fingerprints. Look here, Willi. You must bear in mind that if the palace ever gets too much for you, you can come stay with me, you’ll always be welcome. Jan Lisku seems to approve of you, and I think I can ride out his suspicions of what we do when we’re together in my bedchamber.’

‘So he suspects?’

‘You’re not exactly a play actor when it comes to being around other men, then there’s the state of the bed after we use it. Janeczu is loyal and discreet. His preferences may be towards the other sex, but he won’t condemn my choices. He shared a bed with three brothers until only last year. To him, men in bed together is usual enough, and what they choose to do when in the bed is the way of the world.’

Something struck Willi. ‘You call him “Janeczu”; isn’t that the Rothenian way?’

‘You speak Rothenian, Willi?’

‘Of course not, it’s what the servants speak. But then, you were born in Husbrau and brought up in Glottenburg. I suppose it’s even spoken at the ducal court there.’

‘Yes it is, and German of course. My grandfather helped found the Rothenian Sopholingual Society. The first authorised Rothenian dictionary was published by the society three years ago and his friends are currently compiling a series of publications in Old Rothenian. Grandfather’s working to get the duke to license an official Rothenian translation of the Bible, but the bishops are blocking the work as he wants to go back to the Hebrew and Greek originals rather than simply translate the Latin of the Vulgate.’

Willi snorted. ‘I’ll bet. I imagine that idea does not go down too well in Rome. Quite the scholar your grandfather, and he seems to have made one of you too.’

‘You can’t compare us, Willi. I’m just a dilettante. He’s the wisest and greatest man I know.’

‘Regrettably, much though I love my cousin – if not perhaps as much as he loves himself – I have to confess there’s no one of that stature amongst the Elphbergs of my acquaintance. My uncle is quite the politician I suppose, but one would hardly say he was a good man.’

Serge noted the emphasis, which seemed to him to be the first allusion he had heard Willi make to the horrific fate of the father he never met, a victim of the king’s anger. Maybe from sympathy, or maybe as the beginning of something more in his feelings towards the sad, funny, outrageous and yet kindly boy he had found Wilhelm von Strelsau to be, he burst out ‘Willi! I’m going back to Husbrau over Christmas, you must come with me. It’s time you broke free of the palace. You live like a prisoner.’

Willi seemed surprised and perhaps a little pleased to be asked. He made no promises, but said he would approach the Lord Chamberlain and ask for his congé to leave the court for the Christmas season. The king would have his own ideas, of course, but the crown prince might be persuaded to intercede for his cousin.

***

The conclusion of the solemn mass on the Sunday before All Hallows was the time fixed for the departure of the prince’s court from the Hofburg to the Marmorpalast. There was a formal leave-taking between the king and queen and the prince in the antechapel and then the courts separated, the prince’s household processing down the West Stairs to a line of coaches awaiting them in the forecourt. Serge, along with the other gentlemen, grooms and noble pages of the Bedchamber, mounted and rode alongside Prince Henry’s coach as it swayed out on to the Platz, crunching and rumbling behind its six fine white geldings across the gravel of the square towards the Salvatorskirche and the wide, tree-lined street called Lindenstrasse.

Quite a crowd of citizens had gathered to cheer the prince, some clear evidence for Serge that Prince Henry had already achieved some popularity with his people, though he reflected that it would have been mainly because he was not the king, but rather represented future hope. He was not as yet known for any particular virtue other than possessing the face of a demi-god. There was a pause for the distribution of alms at the Conduit as the bells of the Salvatorskirche rang out in salute to the prince. It was a task confided to the prince’s almoner, Father Fabian Heer. He was a young and intellectual clergyman with whom Serge was becoming very friendly, naturally enough as Father Heer was a correspondent of the Jesuit scholar Van Papenbroeck in Antwerp, and deeply engaged in researching the lives of the Rothenian saints, an endeavour which fascinated Serge.

A line of royal pensioners awaited small bags of coins in a silver dish which Serge carried for Father Heer. After they had received their alms Serge had persuaded the prince to allow a further distribution of coins amongst the poor of the Conduit, and two noble pages of the Backstairs flung handfuls of silver pfennigs amongst the crowd, making sure the street children got the most benefit.

The cavalcade moved off again, the barefoot children running alongside the prince’s carriage and cheering him, and cheering all the more when he put his head outside the coach and waved his feathered hat at them. ‘Bozh fur den Cherven Elphberg!’ some of them were crying in Rothenian.

Lindenstrasse ended at the Lines, the huge network of banks, bartizans, artillery emplacements and glacis that zigzagged in a great arc around the Neustadt, protecting the city from the west and south. North of the Lindenstrasse Bar was a massive but low-lying stone fort called the Great Citadel, overlooking the Starel. It was the northern counterpart of the Arsenal which protected the southern junction of the Lines with the river. Beyond and below it to the north west was the expanse of river meadow called the Martzfeld, where military parades and salutes were held. As the prince’s cavalcade passed through the bar a salute began firing from the cannon of the Citadel.

Beyond the Lines Lindenstrasse became the Ebersfeld road, but before they reached the spires and halls of the Rudolf University, surrounded by its precinct wall in its own small suburb, the coaches turned south off the highway through lodge gates towards the Marmorpalast. The palace was set in a large royal park to the southwest of the city, entirely enclosed by miles of banks and oak fencing. Within was an attractive landscape of lawns, currently leafless shade trees and small woods and coppices. Everywhere on the open lawns herds of deer and wild cattle were grazing the wispy winter herbage and the occasional pile of straw deposited for their benefit by the king’s verderers.

‘Home again!’ Willi commented as he rode alongside Serge, and he really seemed pleased to be back. The palace itself was a low and not particularly impressive house with a central block and two wings, all built of brown brick but with distinctive quoins and dressings of fine white limestone, which gave the palace its name. It had been built by Duke Rudolf V at the end of the previous century to replace a medieval hunting lodge on the site. It may not have been so grand a residence as the great Hofburg of Strelsau, as rebuilt by Prince Henry’s father and grandfather, but the Marmorpalast had notable gardens, ornamental canals, some fine pleasances and best of all, as the prince himself had observed to Serge, it was comfortable. Being outside the city it was also regarded as healthy, which was why it housed the royal nursery where the prince’s three young sisters currently resided.

As soon as the prince had descended from his carriage to be received by the Provost of the palace Willi tugged Serge away from the rest, who were passing into the elaborately sculpted baroque state entrance, wide open for the prince, through lines of servants and musketeers of the guard. ‘This way, Phoebus. The rest of the ceremony is for the Backstairs people, we won’t be needed till bedtime. Let me show you round.’

They turned to the right and took a path across the cobbled Great Court, to reach a side door into the east wing of the palace. Within was a long gallery panelled with wainscot, its windows opening onto the court and its doors into a series of state chambers, but Willi took him through a further door and on to a wide timber staircase which led up to another long and low upper gallery, from which opened smaller bedchambers.

‘And this is mine!’ Willi announced, ‘The king’s grudging gift to me when I was ousted in the spring of ’89 from the warm and smelly bed of my dear cousin in the Nursery.’ Bowing low, with a flourish of his hat he welcomed Serge into a modest, low-ceilinged chamber with an outlook on to the formal gardens of the palace and the lawns of the park beyond. A bright fire crackled in the hearth.

‘But it’s really nice! What a fine view! Did you draw these pictures? All these books! Willi, you’ve not been telling me the whole truth about yourself. You’re not the ignorant barbarian you pretend to be.’

‘Well Phoebus, then you may call me Dolos, god of deception. But it was a necessary imposture, and so long cultivated it’s become part of me. I did it first because I was a contrary child determined to irritate our tutors, but it also served me in deflecting our prince’s antagonism to all things intellectual. He rather liked that we were allies against the dreadful Master Scalovius, our chief tormenter, and principal flogger of my spotty little buttocks. It was I of course who carried the cost of the deceit, which after all was only right and proper in the divine scheme of things. I rather think that may be the story of our future lives also. Now, we have a little time, and I always had a childhood fantasy about what may be done in this little bed, and you can make it come true.’

***

The ceremony of the coucher was different at the Marmorpalast from the outset. It took place in the Antechamber, the outermost room of the princely suite, and at its conclusion the prince met the Lady Ulrica at the door of the Presence Chamber, she smiling around at the assembled pages and grooms as she and the prince closed the doors on the household officers. Night duty was to be performed by a single noble page sleeping in the Antechamber, and two officers of the Prinzengarde to keep the door on to the West Gallery.

‘I think they have something quite perverted planned for tonight,’ Willi muttered as they straightened from their low bows.

Serge in the meantime was looking over the uniforms of the two officers of what would soon be his regiment. The cuirasses were of silvered steel, pocked, as was customary, with a proofing shot. As lieutenants, the men wore no gorget and their waist sash was of blue worsted, whereas Serge’s was of blue silk, with a gold fringe. Their buff coats were of white chamois leather and the undercoats and breeches of blue wool, the coats laced with gold.

Serge caught the eye of one of the two officers and was startled to recognise the former Sergeant Barkozy of the Elector of Bavaria’s service, but now, it seemed, commissioned into the service of the King of Ruritania.

Assuming his courtier’s smile, Serge went across the room hand outstretched. ‘I don’t know if you remember two youths caught out by night at the gates of the Altstadt last September, but we shared a stable, er ... Lieutenant Barkozy.’

The man matched him in ready affability. ‘My dear Freiherr, I could hardly forget what was – despite the circumstances – a most pleasant evening. I had hoped we’d meet again.’

‘It seems I am to congratulate you on your good fortune, Lieutenant. I’m very pleased to see you rising in the world. You were coming to Strelsau looking for opportunity and it seems it has found you.’

‘I have the Turks to thank for it, sir, much to my surprise. When King Rudolf decided to increase his military establishment after the loss of Belgrade, there was a shortage of officers with my sort of experience of training troopers, and through old friends and contacts I was able to have my name forwarded. So here I am, adjutant to Colonel Dudley, who has temporarily taken up the lieutenant-colonelcy from His Royal Highness until he is confident the Prinzengarde is a properly functioning regiment.’

Serge was even more intrigued at this confirmation of the link he had discovered between Dudley and Barkozy, and the unanswered question of how Barkozy had paid for his commission in a guard regiment, which even for a lieutenancy would be a substantial sum. It indicated that whoever his masters were they disposed of considerable resources. And it occurred to Serge that if they were bringing them to bear, the game they were playing was for high stakes.

***

The first muster of the Prinzengarde was set for the afternoon of Martinmas, a Saturday, and the new regiment’s colonel was determined it would be no ordinary event. Serge rode down from the Altstadt, for the first time publicly out and about in uniform. His boy’s heart sang as he mounted Erebus, who also seemed to be full of himself that morning, snorting steam out of nostrils in the cold air.

Gottlieb had given his all to preparing the stallion in his blue and gold horse furniture, with its double holsters for two fine Italian flintlock pistols, gifts sent by his father and uncle from Tarlenheim. Nor was Serge alone in uniform in the yard of the Sign of the Angel. Karl Wollherz had been equipped for the day as a military servant in coat and laced waistcoat in the regimental colours and would ride Brunhild behind his master. The boy’s face was very serious under his hat, a short sword, which he had been warned by Jan Lisku on no account to draw, hanging from the saddle beside his left boot. But he couldn’t stop himself bursting into a brilliant grin as he followed Serge out of the yard of the Sign of the Angel and on to Engelngasse.

The November weather was cold but clear, with the promise of snow and ice to come in the wispy high clouds feathering the blue sky. The pair trotted down to the Starel Bridge and Serge was momentarily taken aback by the city guard presenting arms to him as he passed under the Neustadt gate; he barely remembered to raise his hat in acknowledgement, as he had seen other officers do.

They overtook a train of artillery rumbling up Domstrasse towards the Marmorpalast, and marching companies of the Leibgarde coming up from the Arsenal to the beat of drum and twitter of fifes. It all but seemed the city was on a war footing, with crowds out in the Platz viewing the troop movements and coaches of the city gentry clogging the Lindenstrasse Bar, military provosts cursing at one that had broken down in the way.

‘Have you explored out this direction?’ Serge asked Karl as they got on to the Ebersfeld road.

‘No, my lord,’ he replied. ‘The beadles stop you entering the University precinct, and the king’s foresters have dogs they set on boys who trespass in the park.’ Karl’s hair had grown out and he no longer looked like a workhouse waif. He was well fed and taken care of, and his cheeks had filled. He was noticeably growing into a well-set boy, his sturdy legs able to grip the sides of Brunhild, the stirrups adjusted to a length appropriate to his stature.

‘How old are you, Karl?’

‘Eleven, my lord ... I think.’

‘You think?’

‘I believe I was born in August of the year ’79 sir, from what my mother said, but I may have misremembered, not being that good at numbers. It might have been the year ‘78.’

Serge looked back at the boy. ‘We really must find out. There will be records in Ostberg of your baptism at least. We need to check that as, if you’re indeed twelve or even eleven, you’re overdue for your confirmation. Master Jan wants you to join a catechism class. And don’t give me that look. Jan says you can write your name and are beginning to read simple texts adequately, so you won’t stand out among the other city children. There are a number of professions that require certificates of baptism and confirmation, not least the city guilds. We don’t know what the future has in store for you, Karl, but it’s as well to be ready for it.’

‘Yes, my lord, and thank you. But this morning I want to be a soldier.’

Serge looked back again and saw the boy’s cheeky street-urchin grin could still be summoned up. They chuckled together as they turned through the lodge gates, Serge acknowledging the salute of the guard.

***

Prince Henry and his nascent staff were already out in the park, the prince on a great white stallion which shone out amongst the blacks of the Prinzengarde. Serge rather admired the drama of the prince’s choice. He cantered Erebus to the stand of oak trees near where the prince’s standard had been raised, directing Karl Wollherz to join the group of servants sitting their horses at a distance.

The prince was frankly magnificent, a silvered cuirass chased with gold over his blue, gold-laced coat, a gold sash over his left shoulder and a blue silk one round his waist. The medal of the Red Rose was at his throat over a fine white lace fall. He had taken up a baton of command, sheathed in dark blue velvet and studded with gold, which Serge considered not quite appropriate to the regimental colonel the prince was supposed to be that day. But since Henry had the nominal rank of a brigadier general and he was, after all, the Crown Prince of Ruritania there was a case to argue.

Serge was acknowledged as he approached by a raising of the baton to the prince’s hat brim. ‘Now my lord, I see you properly equipped. Excellent. Take place behind me as my equerry. I’m glad someone’s taking the day’s exercise seriously.’ He jerked his head towards a figure in a scruffy leather riding jacket and a wide-brimmed straw hat nonchalantly sitting astride a demure brown mare amongst the brilliant group of officers.

‘I think he means me!’ Willi called out, to some laughter.

‘Now, fellows, Dudley tells me he’s content that the Cuirassier Prinzengarde of Mittenheim is in a good enough state to be seen out in public and not disgrace us. This is not Vienna. No one’s asking them to demonstrate advanced horsemanship.’ It was typical of the man’s ability, composure and competitiveness that he got his stallion to execute a perfect half-passage as he spoke. Subdued applause greeted the prince’s skill.

Colonel Dudley rode up at that point, drew his sword and saluted the prince. ‘Your royal highness, the parade is ready to move off and, at your order, your Prinzengarde will ride by in squadron at a walk. It will then reform in close order and pass back at a trot, the officers at the salute. After that it will draw up across the lawn, the squadrons in three ranks, and await your inspection and the presentation of the regimental guidon.’

‘Carry on, Dudley,’ the prince ordered. ‘There go your tambours, my lord Almaric. Our thanks.’

A blue-coated mounted band of trumpets and kettle drums beating a measured walk emerged on to the lawn. Behind them rode Colonel Dudley and his temporary staff, including Lieutenant Barkozy, with the four squadrons in order behind, their breastplates shining in the sunlight; 600 troopers, all riding black horses. ‘A brave sight, my lord!’ the prince remarked.

‘A brave sight indeed, sire,’ Serge answered.

The regiment passed by, the officers on the prince’s side of the files with their swords drawn at their shoulders. As they reformed at the other side of the lawn the drums fell silent, then at a shouted order resumed at a more rapid beat. The files returned at a trot, causing the ground to tremble and Erebus to snort and shift until Serge checked him.

‘Damned good!’ The prince’s eyes were shining. ‘Only a few weeks training and a damned decent show. Well done, Dudley!’

When the regiment wheeled and reformed in line facing the prince, he walked his stallion forward, accompanied by his standard bearer and Serge, taking his time to inspect the lines and commenting to each captain and lieutenant on his half-company. After a half hour he returned to the front of the parade and Colonel Dudley called forward a young ensign, younger than the prince, who rode up flanked by two cuirassiers armed with carbines.

‘If it please your royal highness, this is Freiherr Jonas von Stracenz, a noble officer of the Prinzengarde, who is to receive the guidon of your regiment.’

The prince called out his thanks to the regiment and his invitation to the officers to join him at dinner in the Great Hall of the Marmorpalast that evening. He then signalled and a cased flag was brought forward by one of his staff. He took it and handed it to the ensign. ‘Uncase!’ ordered the colonel, and at the pulling of the ribbons the guidon was unloosed.

Unexpectedly, an artillery salute then thundered across the park from batteries drawn up by the lodges and two half-companies, their mounts unused as yet to cannon fire, fell into disorder, one unfortunate trooper borne away by his uncheckable horse. Colonel Dudley swore and barked orders, reforming the line into a column of companies.

‘My apologies, sire,’ he said.

‘Ah well, we’ll hear enough of that sort of thing soon enough, I hope; they’ll get used to it,’ the prince replied affably, though Serge could recognise the irritation underlying his remark. The prince ordered his regiment forward and they formed up at the rear of a parade that would take the Prinzengarde to the Platz and a review by the king of the garrison of Strelsau.

***

Returning to the Marmorpalast after the parade, Serge could not immediately find Karl Wollherz, but servants told him that Willi von Strelsau had taken the child under his wing. He found them playing Karnöffel in Willi’s room.

‘The boy’s too damned good,’ Willi snarled. ‘I’m losing money.’

‘Oh but sir, we’re not staking money.’

‘I’m counting in my head, child. I owe you sixty silver pfennigs. This is dreadful, you’re only an infant.’

‘He may actually be as old as twelve years,’ Serge commented.

‘And that excuses it? He is the luckiest child in Strelsau, for sure.’

‘It’s getting dark outside, Karl, so you’d best make your way back home. I’m taking off my military finery and you can pack it up and take it back to Engelngasse and put it all away.’

‘You looked so brave, sir. Didn’t he, my lord Strelsau?’

Willi ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘We’re agreed there, at least,’ he said. ‘Now child, take these four pfennigs as a reward for your company this afternoon, and let me off the other fifty six, if you please.’

‘Of course, my lord. Better luck next time.’

‘You should beat the boy more regularly, Phoebus, you really should.’

After Karl had been sent on his way Willi and Serge shared their views of the afternoon’s entertainment.

‘I have to say, my cousin found his element today. What a performance! Every move, gesture and word carefully designed to promote him to his myrmidons as the new Achilles or Lionheart or whatever, which of course made the episode with the artillery salute all the more galling for him. You saw the look on his face before he got himself under control. Peeved was not in it.’

‘He certainly intends to get a grip on this business of warfare.’

‘And put it into practice as soon as he can. The man’s intoxicated with the idea of glory. And who will pay, eh?’

‘Forgive me, Willi, but you seem out of sorts.’

‘I do? Are you telling me I too can be read, Phoebus? This is quite intolerable. Are you going to this dinner of his?’

‘I can’t not. I am after all an officer in his regiment. Now what’s up, Willi.’

Willi shook his head. ‘It seems I can’t fool you. Well, here you have it,’ he said, holding up an unsealed letter. ‘The Lord Chancellor regrets but His Majesty cannot consent to my leaving the court at this time, and leave is not given to me to depart for the Christmas season. So I went to Zeus and for the first time in my life asked him a favour, that he should intercede with Old Cronos that I should be let go to Husbrau. And ... he refused! Damn the man.’

‘Oh ... Willi, I’m so sorry. It’ll be a sadder holiday for me. I wish I could cancel, but I have my own problematical relations.’

‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’ll survive, despite the boredom. And at least I’m not in the stifling Hofburg. Here I can ride the park, sketch landscapes and seduce kitchen lads: I fancy there are some new ones since I was last here. Then there’re my cousins, the female ones. Dorothea Sophia is actually worth the effort of talking to now she’s reached the grand age of fourteen. She admires my sketches – no, not including those at the back of my notebook, which I wouldn’t dream of exhibiting publicly, especially to a young lady of the blood royal. A young man is different, of course; they used to amuse her brother no end. So Dorothea and I may go riding together. As I said, there are distractions, but you’re the major one in my life at the moment and I regret our separation.

‘Anyway, damned if I’m going to attend the dinner. I’ll see you at the coucher, though that is likely to be unconscionably late tonight. My one consolation is that His Royal Highness will undoubtedly have a very big, sick headache tomorrow and the Lady Ulrica will be denied his usual energetic performance. Hah!’

‘I promise I’ll keep off the wine and you’ll get the performance she’ll be denied. Is that another consolation?’

Willi smiled, came over and kissed Serge on the lips. ‘It’ll help. When do you leave for Outer Husbrau?’

‘Not till the Second Sunday of Advent, so we have several weeks yet. But my father asks that I stay on at Tarlenheim till Septuagesima, mid February, it’s to be my quarter off duty. Promise you’ll be here when I come back and won’t have run off to be a monk, or something even more unlikely.’

***

‘And where, Sergius, is my lord of Strelsau?’ Lady Ulrica asked. They were seated together, the second and third places to the left of Prince Henry in the Great Hall that evening.

The raised eyebrow tended to indicate to Serge that she had some inkling there had been a falling out between Willi and his cousin, so he tested the ground. ‘He’s out of sorts, my lady. He had plans that haven’t worked out.’

She put her head nearer to his. ‘Ah. I think I heard something about it. Poor Willi. But you know, Henry so relies on him around the place, and he wouldn’t go against His Majesty on such a subject.’

‘My lady, I think it’s against His Majesty that there is animosity in Willi’s head. I don’t quite understand what objection there might be on his part for Willi to ride out into the provinces.’

‘To be honest, Sergius, neither do I. It seemed an inoffensive enough request to me.’ She changed the subject. ‘Let me say that you cut a fine figure today on that black stallion of yours. What say you, colonel?’ she asked, looking across the table at Colonel Dudley opposite.

The colonel was apparently in a very good mood. ‘One of the finest blacks I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a few over the past months. Where did you find him, Sergius?’

‘My man has made some connections with a dealer in Strelfurt, sir, and he took out an option on two three-year-olds before the prices began rising with the news of how the Prinzengarde was to be fitted out. You must have some grounds to be pleased with yourself, sir. To fit out such a regiment in no more than a month was no small achievement.’

The colonel took a sip from his wineglass, smiled and nodded. ‘To be honest, Sergius, it’s my main line of business these days. There was luck of course. The military establishment of Ruritania has declined over the past decade, as your good father would tell you in colourful terms. So there were a lot of young noblemen out there whose families were very pleased to bid for commissions in a new guard regiment. The funds this liberated allowed us to spend high with head-money for recruits, a pleasing proportion of them cavalrymen of some experience. I had my pick of sergeants. Would that it was as easy in the Empire.’

‘Will you be returning to Prince Eugene’s staff, sir?’

‘Not for a while. The campaign in Piedmont has run into the ground and the armies look like they’re going into winter quarters. The prince was in fact rather pleased than otherwise at my request to stay here. I have an able deputy who can see to the buying and provisioning. No – and let me be frank here – the Prince Eugene has the same concerns as His Majesty about the renewed Turkish incursions, and I suspect has been in communication with him about raising new regiments, so no difficulty was made about seconding me to Strelsau pro tempore. It helps all parties, and as you know I have a history with Ruritania which goes some way back.’

‘Yes sir, my grandfather and your father were very close friends, I understand. Odd. There must have been quite an age difference between them.’

The colonel shrugged. ‘They were both remarkable men, Sergius, and that was more important than their respective years.’

‘I found my grandfather Tarlenheim very intimidating in my brief childhood acquaintance with him. My grandfather Olmusch told me that the man had little time for anything other than his studies, and children were an unwelcome distraction to him. Perhaps that’s why he felt better disposed to older men, such as your father was.’

The colonel contemplated his wineglass. ‘Let me think. Though they had corresponded before, the two men must have first met after my father returned to the Empire in the year ’55. They had many mutual acquaintances from the count’s time at the exiled Stuart court, when he was very friendly at one point with King Charles, and unwisely lent him money. Your grandfather would have been in his mid twenties and my father well into his thirties when they met, so there was some difference of age between them, but not a full generation. I think they first met in person in Vienna in ’58. I know they were living together at Rome for a while, where your grandfather found himself in hot water with the Holy Office. They fought in the Imperial army in Hungary along with Prince Edward of the Rhine, my uncle, and rumour has it that in the year ’59 they were all together in Constantinople where the famous Mehmet the Hunter was then a boy emperor, the same whose armies later laid siege to Vienna.’

‘Constantinople!’ Lady Ulrica cried. ‘How very fascinating! What on earth did they get up to there?’

‘Nothing good, apparently,’ replied the colonel. ‘There are a number of legends about this episode in their friendship. Myself I believe my father at least was chiefly pursuing their common interest in natural philosophy, but his brother Edward was a wilder man and more Oskar’s age. The rumour has it that Oskar and Edward on one occasion made a dangerous bet with a captain in the service of the Comte de la Haie, the French ambassador at the Sublime Porte, that they would penetrate the inner courts of the Yeni Saray or chief palace, which no European ever had done, or at least none in possession of his manhood, if you follow my meaning.

‘The Saray is in a circuit of its own walls, some three miles around, on the First Hill of the city, the one called San Demetrios, which overlooks the Bosphorus strait, and it is heavily guarded by black eunuchs. It houses the Cage where the emperor’s brothers are confined and is ruled customarily by his mother, who is called the Valide. Within it is reputed to be a city in itself, with parks, mosques and baths, and of course apartments for the many hundreds of the Grand Signior’s concubines who occupy its Third and Fourth Courts. It is death to anyone who trespasses within this part of the palace.’

‘And did they, sir?’ asked a breathless Lady Ulrica.

‘So it is said, and indeed my father did not deny it when I asked. A kiosk at the time was under construction for the Valide below the palace on the water side, near a dock where fishermen customarily landed a catch for the emperor’s table. Disguised as workmen, many of whom are often Greek or Bulgar, they joined the crew and were able to exploit the confusion at the gate to the Third Court to slip within.’

‘I see a problem with this tale, sir,’ Serge said.

‘And what would that be, Sergius?’

‘How might they ever prove to the French captain that they had been where no European had been before them? Their report could have no validation.’

‘Indeed. And on their return that very objection was raised by the captain. “You would doubt the word of a Prince of the Palatinate and a Peer of Ruritania?” declared the Graf Oskar. But since the Frenchman was an arrogant drunk he would not accept it, for he had laid more money than he possessed on the wager. Oskar and he met at Pera, where your grandfather ran him through in short order. Such was the sort of man your grandfather was.’