It is 1690 and the world is at war: the Great Turkish War rumbles on and the Empire has armies in the field in Hungary and in Lombardy and along the Rhine as it fends off the power of Louis XIV. Meanwhile in unaligned Ruritania, young Sergius von Tarlenheim arrives at the royal court to take up a post in the household of the crown prince, Henry of Elphberg, a youth who rather fancies himself as a modern Alexander the Great. Soon he is caught up conflict on all sides: not just in the wars of his prince and the aspirations of the rival Rothenian power of Glottenburg, but with the ambitions of an English adventurer who knows more about the mysterious death of Serge's grandfather than he should. And unknown to him greater conflicts by far are beginning in the World Beyond fo. r an elf appears on the streets of Strelsau to seek the help of the ragged children of the Conduit.
‘Er … Sir? Master?’ The voice from behind broke in on Serge’s internal meditations. He reined in his plodding mount and looked around. For a moment he was quite taken aback by the view. Without his being aware of it the winding and ascending track had taken them high up the mountainside and quite close now to the head of the Murranberg pass, and behind them the broad valley of the Arndt spread open to view till it melted into the far, blue distance.
He caught the glitter of reflected sunlight from the great river as it wound through fields and woods. Far away to the west, on the edge of sight, was a hint of towering mountains and white peaks, the mighty Glottenburg Massif. Somewhere back in the haze was the home he had said goodbye to, four days ago now. Serge was still boy enough to feel a pang for the loss of the fond familiar and an ache in the heart for the warm home of his youth, now far back in the blue distance. He missed the château of Olmusch, set deep in its wooded valley, and even more his grandparents who had waved him goodbye at the lodge of the park. A discreet cough regained his attention.
‘Sir … the shrine?’
Serge observed the cross by the wayside and the tumbled and roofless remains of a long-abandoned hermitage being slowly swallowed by a growth of hazel, brambles and whin. ‘Yes, my dear Sancho?’
‘Please don’t call me that, young master.’
‘What would you prefer, Janeczu?’
‘Whatever you wish, sir. But I am not Spanish. We should make offerings. A prayer maybe?’
‘Offerings?’
His companion could not quite stifle a sigh as he slid from his hack and made his way over the tussocks of rough moorland grass to the standing crucifix. For the next ten minutes Serge’s domestic establishment, otherwise known as his valet, young Jan Lisku, occupied himself in the rosary, while Serge looked around with some curiosity, now he had re-engaged with the outer world. Before his servant had completed his devotions, he had unshipped his leather-bound portfolio and dismounted, making his way awkwardly in his riding boots over the tussocks to the old chapel.
He forced his way through the bushes and the empty doorway, getting a number of scratches for his trouble. There was not much to be seen inside, though the ground within the roofless walls was grass-grown and otherwise clear. Scorch marks up the wall and the remains of old fires indicated that wayfarers and shepherds occasionally took refuge here if caught on the mountain by night.
One feature at least attracted his attention. Though the chapel appeared to have been deliberately sacked rather than simply abandoned – Bohemian iconoclasts in the old days of the Hussite wars? – a stone frieze had been reset in a Gothic niche above the broken altar. Serge found a charcoal stick from his satchel and began a sketch. It was a youthful winged figure with a spear, and not so worn that he could mistake the quality of its execution. Undoubtedly a St Michael, he concluded, which in view of its mountain-top site was very appropriate to the hermitage’s location. By the time he completed his sketch Janeczu had had time to get bored outside, having run through the rosary twice before his master emerged from the ruin.
‘Better get on sir, it’ll be near dark before we get to Strelfurt even if it’s downhill after we crest the pass.’
‘Very well. By the way Sancho, what’s with the rags tied to this bush?’
The young man shot a furtive look at a nearby stand of hazel bedecked with faded ribbons and torn strips of cloth.
‘Oh sir, just something the people of the country do. You might have noticed they do the same with the undergrowth over Our Lady’s well, just outside Olmusch village. It’ll be for good fortune in a perilous place.’
Serge was amused. ‘Offerings to the spirits and demons of this wasteland?’
His companion looked uneasy and crossed himself. ‘Odd things happen in such places, sir. Doesn’t do to scoff.’
Distracted by the need to stow his sketchbook, the appearance of a line of pack mules from over the pass and the necessity of returning the affable Rothenian greetings of its drovers, Serge did not notice Jan Lisku tear a strip off a dingy kerchief and hastily tie it to the bush.
***
The Sign of the Red Lion at the bridge end of Strelfurt was the first public inn where Serge had sought lodgings on his own account. Until their third night on the road, at Hentzau, they had stayed at the houses of gentry known to his grandfather and father. The guest house of the priory had sheltered them in the town itself, in accommodations austere but at least clean. ‘No lice, sir,’ Jan had commented ‘nothing but skin on those withered old canons. And no rats. Even they’d wrinkle their little snouts at bread that dry.’
They both dithered at the inn door. ‘Er … I suppose I’d better take the mares round to the ostlers,’ Jan finally said.
‘Yes. I think that’s what you do. And I have to go in and negotiate rooms from the innkeeper … er … yes?’
‘I think so sir. Though not for me. I sleep in the stable. Keep your hand on your purse. You hear stories.’
‘You do, little Janeczu? What sort of stories?’
‘Oh you know, gamblers, highwaymen, gipsies, cheats, mountebanks, ruffians.’
Their eyes met uneasily. They were after all only country-bred children, sixteen years of age. Being out for the first time in the wide world may have been exciting, but it was a strange and possibly threatening place. Nonetheless Serge recalled what his grosstata had said about his position and responsibilities as he had taken his leave. So he squared his shoulders and pushed open the door. He was after all a gentleman of blood, a sword hanging from a baldric at his side, even if he was as yet no biderbe Mann, as they called a man of the world in the Ruritania of his days.
Evening was drawing on and the taproom was well-lit, warm and busy. Eyes turned towards the door as Serge entered, or so he imagined. He hesitated, stood and waited to be noticed, then eventually realised that just standing there was maybe not the best tactic. A tapster with a tray of mugs nearly bumped into him, gave him a sidelong look, decided that the boy might after all be quality, and excused himself. Before he could disappear Serge halted him and asked where one might find the innkeeper. The man indicated the counter with a nod.
‘Grüss Gott! And how may I help you, young sir?’ The large man in his clean apron looked down at Serge from across the counter and at first sight did not seem to Serge to be a ruffian or a mountebank. As with many sensitive and withdrawn boys, Serge banked a lot on first impressions, and the man reminded him of Jan’s uncle Waclaw, the blacksmith of Olmusch, a huge and humorous man whose forge they had haunted when small boys, fascinated by the bellows and furnace, the glowing iron, steam and sparks.
‘I would like a room for the night, master innkeeper,’ Serge replied, struggling not to let his nerves make him pompous. But his youthful voice at least spoke out clearly, and though he did not realise it there was something about Serge which his upbringing had given him. From his tone of voice he was evidently a youth of education and what the Germanic peoples of his day called Hövescheit, and from his stance he was someone who had been brought up to expect to be served by others.
So the innkeeper wiped his hands on a cloth and informed him that there were three rooms available, two however which would have to be shared, but the cockloft had a single bed. ‘It would be suitable for a gentleman such as yourself, sir, if a little more expensive. Yes? Very well. I’ll have hot water sent up. Food too? Very good.’
‘My servant is with the mares in the yard. Will he be accommodated at any extra charge?’
‘No sir, though any food he eats will need to be paid for. May I ask who it is who will be gracing the Red Lion tonight? You understand, names of quality under my roof attract other quality. In the old days, of course, I’d have had your arms painted up and nailed over the counter as a token of your patronage. My grandfather, my mother’s father – who kept this place when it was called the Vine – now he once had the old Duke Rudolf, the grandfather of our present king, under this very roof. Which is why we call the inn these days Am Rot Leuwen.’
Serge ventured a smile. ‘I’m no one of such consequence, sir. My name is Sergius Josef, the son of the Graf Ruprecht von Tarlenheim-Olmusch, one of the sons of the late Graf Oskar.’
The innkeeper gave a respectful inclination of the head. ‘You belong to a very noble house, my lord. An honour to receive you under our roof.’ He snapped his finger at his man. ‘Here! Johann! Light the noble lord to the top chamber. Hurry it up!’
As he left the taproom Serge was quite sure this time everyone was indeed looking at him.
***
The road from Strelfurt to the capital was wide and well-maintained. It was a fine September morning in the Upper Starel valley. Serge had slept well, undisturbed by the bugs he had half expected to encounter in the hired bed. The room however was clean and the linen fresh, scented with sprigs of herbs folded into the sheets. Hot water had arrived as the town bells rang the angelus, and a generous breakfast of fresh bread, eggs and ham had set him up well for the day. The price of the lodging had much lightened his purse of its silver pfennigs, but his grossmutta’s parting gift of twenty Dutch leuwendaalders and ten gold ducats, carefully stitched into his waistcoat lining, reassured him that he remained solvent for the time being. The morning air was cool and tinged with the rural scent of the manuring going on in the open fields they were ambling past. Eventually even his adolescent self-absorption registered that his companion was unusually quiet for him.
‘A fine day, Sancho. Did you sleep well?’
‘The straw was prickly,’ came the grumbling reply.
‘I hope you made a good breakfast.’
‘Didn’t feel much like it.’
‘And why is that, little Janeczu?’
‘Umm … oh … I got involved in a card game with the grooms.’
‘Ah, and Lady Fortuna did not favour you?’
‘What? Oh, no. They were playing Karnöffel, like back home, and they thought they’d gang up on me, but they weren’t as clever as they thought they were. It was the beer they were plying me with. Bad brew, muddy and brown. I feel ill. Oh, Teufel, my guts.’
Jan Lisku drew up his hack, slid off and ran for some roadside bushes. His groans quite concerned his master.
‘Better?’ he asked as his valet emerged. The boy shook his head and silently hauled himself back into the saddle; he looked a little pale. His mount swung her head to regard her rider curiously.
‘If you could have held it in any longer you might have emptied yourself the next field over, where they’re spreading their middens. I’m sure the villagers would have welcomed any assistance.’
‘Your kind concern is appreciated, master.’
‘Of course, Janeczu, it’s a bad practice. The Baron has a book all the way from England on that very subject, where the author was very urgent that use of human waste on the fields contaminates the soil with worms. Grosstata has forbidden all but animal manure and lime to be employed on the fields of the lordship of Olmusch.’
‘A very clever man your grandfather, sir. Myself I understand that the blessing of the fields by a priest at Rogationtide guarantees a fine and healthy harvest to come.’
‘No doubt. Husbandry needs all the help it can get.’ Serge had learned that scepticism unnecessarily distressed his new valet and old childhood friend, so he tended to avoid discussions on natural philosophy. He liked Jan Lisku too much to upset him, other than with the routine teasing to be expected between the spirited boys they were.
The pair plodded on south along the high road, the ridge of the Murranberg to their left as they rode. They paused only to exchange civil greetings with other travellers, or for Jan to tell his rosary at roadside crosses. In the late afternoon their road met the highway to Kesarstein and a quick look at Jan’s complexion indicated that the boy’s bowels were no longer troubling him and a meal was a possibility. Where the two high roads met a tall cross was set and a hermitage was built, situated beside a vegetable garden. Chickens clucked and pecked at the soil around the chapel door. The hermit, in a grey habit and protected from the sun by a wide straw hat, was tilling his patch as they dismounted.
‘Good day, father!’ Serge called out. ‘Might we ask for a cup of water from your spring? We can offer in return some bread and apples bought from Strelfurt this morning.’
The old man affably blessed Jan, who had gone to his knees, while Serge doffed his hat respectfully. He sat with them under a nearby oak and gave them the news of the road in answer to their worries. It seemed that there had been trouble with brigands a few years ago at the time of the Ottoman Wars, and raiders had plagued the Starel valley as far upriver as Kesarstein, where a suburb of the town had been burned.
‘But, my young fellows, the Wenzlerwald which begins at the next milepost is the king’s forest. To prey on travellers within its bounds is to insult the king’s peace. Any thief apprehended in a crime by the king’s provosts and foresters there is not merely hung, he is skinned alive first. If you look at the door of my cell, you’ll see what seems to be the rags of leather caught under the nails.
‘It is however what remains of a flayed highwayman nailed up there in the time of my predecessor, when the first Rudolf was king. One can regret the brutality of course, but it deters crime. I pray for the man’s soul daily, hoping he received from our heavenly king more tender justice than his earthly lord showed him. The foresters threw his still living but flayed and disemboweled body in among the pigs.’
Serge caught Jan’s wide eyes; the boy had gone pale again. Serge dropped a pfennig for alms in the wood-turned plate on a stool beside the door as they left, another blessing sending them on their way. They were given the names of honest foresters in the next village, who would offer them clean beds at a fair price.
‘Well Sancho, I hope you feel safer on the road now?’ Serge observed. Jan visibly shuddered in response.
***
The hermit’s name brought them friendly attention in the prosperous village, which was also the provostry of the royal forest. It had a small garrison of green-coated dragoons who were occupying the benches outside the inn when they arrived, tankards in hand and clay pipes in mouth. The spitting and oaths decided them to give the inn a miss and buy food from their hosts, a carpenter and his family.
The next morning their road began to rise out of the river valley and into the dark wooded hills of the Wenzlerwald, the great forest between Strelfurt and the capital city of Strelsau. As they were beginning to encounter the rise of the first hill the thump of hooves behind them caused the pair to pause on their way and look back.
There was a loud shout from a rider bearing down on them, ‘Hoch! Hoch!’ He was in a uniform coat of gold-laced green, his deep cuffs red and his cloak billowing out behind him in the wind of his gallop. He was holding up a satchel from which hung down a gold seal. Serge made haste to pull Jan’s mare off the roadway by the bridle for he recognised, though he had never before encountered, a king’s messenger. He remembered to sweep off his hat and bow from the saddle as the rider thundered past, for the king’s seal demanded the same deference as the king’s own person. As he recalled what was waiting for him at the end of his journey, Serge was briefly sobered.
The highway led them up and over the first ridge. The eaves of the forest were cut back some twenty yards on either side of the road, presumably so as to hinder any footpads rash enough to plot an ambush on innocent travellers. They paused at the crest of the hill. There was nothing but treetops to be seen for miles, the shadows of clouds chasing dark patches across the mottled landscape.
‘Will we be through the forest by evening, sir?’ Jan asked.
‘I think so. The road-book the Baron showed me gave a distance of sixty miles from Strelfurt bridge to the posthouse at the Altstadt north gate, and we’ve covered half that. If we push on and raise a trot down the hills we should make the city before the curfew rings. But no matter, there’ll be inns in the suburbs if sunset catches us out. Maybe you should avoid the beer though, Janeczu.’
***
As the travellers reined in their tired mounts on the last rise of the Wenzlerwald the sun was low in the west, shining on the great river Starel as it looped around the towers and spires of the city, distant but clearly etched against the pale sunset sky.
‘So that’s Strelsau, sir.’
‘It’s definitely in the right place,’ Serge chuckled.
‘Have you been there before?’
‘Only once. I was twelve and Father had me brought down from Olmusch for the funeral rites of my grandfather, Count Oskar.’
‘Ah … not the happiest of occasions then?’
‘No. The Tarlenheim palace and the Salvatorskirche were all hung inside with black cloth. The smell of bombazine will always be the smell of funerals to me. Then there was the wax effigy of the old count laid out in the state rooms dressed in his armour and robes and placed on the empty coffin, surrounded by a blaze of candles: ghastly with its staring painted eyes.’
‘Empty?’
Serge gave his valet a sideways look. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard the stories. I know you and your curiosity, Janeczu. You may have forgotten it, but you hung on my every word when I got back home. Not only that but we were inspired to perform a probably sacrilegious ceremony over the body of your mother’s cat not long after, the one the fox got at. You made a passable priest as I recall.’
Jan gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’d forgotten. I hope Our Lord has too. So … the coffin?’
Serge laughed, exasperated. ‘I don’t know the story, and I daren’t ask Father or Uncle about it, but Grosstata did tell me it was a scandal and we Tarlenheims don’t talk about it. There was something very … wrong … about his disappearance.’
‘Wrong?’
‘Grosstata used the German word unheimlich. But then the old count was mysterious and scandalous all his life.’
‘I heard he was a wizard and practised the dark arts.’
Serge looked at his valet coolly. ‘Little Janeczu, some masters believe it good for their servants to be regularly caned, especially those who get above themselves and trade in gossip.’
Jan shot him a half-scared look, for though his master was a kind friend he was also a nobleman, and such men could be unpredictable. ‘No offence, my lord.’
‘Hmm. Where we are going, my lad, you need to cultivate some tact and caution, for as that best of men Marcus Tullius Cicero of Rome has it in his work De Officiis, which I would recommend to you, we must avoid impulse and irrationality at all costs if we are truly to be men serviceable to our Prince. So if I say we Tarlenheims don’t talk about it, it means that the Freiherr Sergius Josef von Tarlenheim-Olmusch doesn’t talk about it to Jan Lisku either, much though he may love him.’
‘Understood, my lord.’
‘Now then, let’s see how far we can get before the cathedral bells ring the curfew. It’ll be an inn for us again tonight, I think.
***
Darkness fell as the pair entered the straggling suburb of the Altstadt of Strelsau, a wretched street of mud-walled cottages leading up the medieval bar of the old city’s north gate, which was firmly closed. At a loss, the pair dismounted and led their mares back down through the empty, ill-lit street. The stars in the frosty September night sky above them were as a result very bright. Several torches blazing some doors down led them to a yard, beyond which was the state posthouse.
Jan volunteered to ask at the door about accommodation. He came back shaking his head. ‘There’s no Gasthaus here, sir. The porter says it’s not a staging post, just a stable. He’ll take the horses for the night, and he says we can knock at a couple of cottage doors down the road. They’re willing to take in stranded travellers, but he said not to trust their beds. Looks like we’re in for an uncomfortable night.’
So they led the horses into the yard and Jan saw to their watering while Serge paid extra for the ostler to rub them down and see to their feeding in the morning.
‘Oh well,’ he said, once their horses were happily settled in their loose boxes. ‘Let’s try that cottage over there. At least the shutters are on straight.’
Jan agreed. His repeated knocking brought an eventual response. Serge heard a brief exchange and saw the shake of the head of the dark figure in the doorway, but at least Jan was pointed on further down the road. They walked several doors further down to a bigger house next to an arch into a yard.
‘The man said this cottager here has a barn out back he’ll let us sleep in.’
‘My turn, this time.’ There was dim candlelight inside, so the inhabitants were still up and about. Serge rapped on the door, and eventually a barefoot and grubby child opened it, staring up at him. ‘Oh … er, hello. Can I talk to your father or mother?’
The girl shook her head and ran off, but left the door open. Eventually a heavier tread brought a youth to the door, a bit too young to be the parent of the girl. He was not much older than Serge in fact and though poorly dressed seemed alert enough. Catching the glint of gold on Serge’s baldric in the light of the candle he was holding he bobbed his head. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked.
‘My servant and I have been caught out by the night. A neighbour said you might be willing to offer us shelter in your barn. Could you ask your father or mother?’’
The boy shook his head. ‘Both gone. There’s just me and my sisters. Three pfennigs the night for each of you. We have no food to spare but there’s a pump in the yard for water and washing. You’ll have to lodge with a fellow who was here before you. Maybe he’ll share his food. He’s lit a peat fire, perhaps he’ll let you share that too.’
Serge smiled and said that was satisfactory. They would be warm enough in their cloaks. He paid over the required coins and, holding the sallow youth’s eye, added several more. The boy bobbed a bow and said ‘Thank you, my lord, you’re very gracious.’
‘Don’t say it, Sancho,’ Serge commented dryly as they headed into the yard.
‘Say what, sir?’
‘That at this rate my supply won’t last and I’ll be hard put to pay your wages.’
He was answered by a chuckle. ‘There’s not the money in the world to solve all its problems. But it’s what the Baron would have done, so I say nothing. This is not Olmusch, where our Nachelnik and the Church make sure that orphans and widows are never forgotten. This is the city and it’s a cold place in more than one way.’
‘Wise old Sancho.’
An orange glow was coming through the door of the barn to which they headed across the cobbled surface of the yard, treacherous in the dark.
‘Hola!’ Serge called out as they came to the entrance. ‘Two more travellers caught out by night, seeking shelter.’
A cloaked figure arose behind the glowing brazier within. ‘Come forward,’ a voice called out in German. ‘Ah … young fellows, I see. Not very threatening. Grüss Gott! Come in and welcome, though the more welcome if you have food and drink with you.’ The stranger did not go out of his way to hide the fact that he was returning a knife to its sheath as he sat down once again.
The two boys settled opposite him, the glow lighting up their fresh and open faces, and regretfully explained that they carried no victuals. The man opposite was moustachioed, and so his age was not easy to guess, but he was maybe ten years older than Serge and Jan.
‘So you young fellows are out in the world and have escaped your parents, yes? You’d best introduce yourselves. I can assure you I will not betray your confidence if it turns out you’re runaways.’
Serge took up the burden of the conversation. ‘It will not be necessary sir. My name is Sergius von Tarlenheim of Olmusch and this is my valet, Jan Lisku. I am travelling to take up an appointment in Strelsau. I must be in the city in time to learn my duties before the feast of St Michael, and it appears I am cutting it fine.’
The man meditated on the pair opposite for a moment. ‘Hmm. A descendant of the ancient house of Ansegadis the Rothenian, companion of Duke Tassilo. I don’t have my notes but I would hazard that you, my dear Freiherr, must be the elder of the two sons of Ruprecht von Tarlenheim, who married the lady Aimée, daughter of Maximilian, lord and baron of Olmusch. Thus you are the grandson of Oskar, called by some ‘the Great’, late count of Tarlenheim who died in the year ’87, and so you are nephew of the current count, Sergius, third of that name.’
‘My godfather,’ commented Serge in surprise. ‘Sir, you seem to know my family.’
‘I have met your uncle and grandfather the counts, though I would not say we are acquainted more than professionally. In fact you and I have been in each other’s company the once.’
‘How so, sir?’
‘You wouldn’t remember me, as you were only a child at the time, but it was at your grandfather’s funeral. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lorenz Barkozy, a native of the province of Merz. Three years ago I was a pursuivant in the heralds’ office in Strelsau, and as such I was involved in the funeral arrangements. I remember you riding with your grandparents in the street procession from the Radhausplatz to the church of St Saviour. I was one of the marshals.’
Serge did dimly remember the colourful figures in their gold and red tabards carrying white staves and armorial banners walking alongside the family coaches that day. ‘So you are a specialist in the armorial science and the compilation of noble descents, sir?’
‘I was so at that time, but that same year I decided that there was more to life than dusty tomes of noble arms, certificates of nobility and the returns of provincial visitations. I entered the service of his imperial majesty and have been since then a gentleman volunteer in his forces.’
‘A soldier sir!’ Jan Lisku broke out. ‘And have you fought the Turks?’
The man inclined his head. ‘I was fortunate enough to have been at the taking of Belgrade in ’88 when the Elector Maximilian broke the walls and seized the city from the Porte.’
‘My sir,’ Jan admired, ‘then you are a modern crusader!’
The man slowly shook his head. ‘Would that the rest of Christendom shared your opinion, brave lad. That vile serpent of France stabbed the Empire in the back within the month, and my regiment has spent much of the time since campaigning along the Rhine, while the Grand Turk has rebuilt his forces. I was at Fleurus this summer when the Marshal Luxembourg defeated the Empire once again. And what do I hear but the Turks are again on the march and Belgrade is threatened once more. All that blood, my boys. Spilled in vain.’
Serge sympathised. ‘So you have resigned your commission, sir?’
‘No commission as such. For that one needs money to purchase a lieutenancy. But I was fortunate to serve in the Elector’s own regiment, the Leibgarde Trabant, where the non-commissioned officers have the privilege of wearing the sword, so many of them are gentlemen. But being a volunteer I have let my enlistment end its term and not renewed it. So I have returned home to Ruritania, though not to the heralds’ office, you may be sure. Now my boys, being a seasoned soldier, I am not without provisions. Here is some bread and cold sausage and welcome to it. You are plainly growing lads.’
He smiled as they thanked him and took the food, tackling it with undisguised appetite, and then pursued his curiosity. ‘So now then young Leibherr, perhaps you can tell me what it is brings you from the Duchy of Glottenburg to the Kingdom of Ruritania.’
Serge hastily swallowed some sausage and stifled a burp. ‘Well sir, it’s the search for opportunity also, in a way. It was His Royal Highness the Crown Prince’s sixteenth birthday at Lammastide, and his father has issued an ordinance constituting a household for the prince. My father and uncle have made interest on my behalf with His Majesty, who has acceded to his son’s request that his privy household contain youths of his own age. And so I have an appointment to the Bedchamber. Michaelmas is the prince’s first grand levée and I must be present and ready to do my part. I had rather hoped we would be within the city walls tonight, but the way through the Wenzlerwald was longer than I had calculated.’
The soldier smiled. ‘Congratulations on your appointment, sir. The city gates open at sunrise, which will give you plenty enough time to present yourself at the chamberlain’s office at the Hofburg in the Neustadt and no doubt receive instructions.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘What do you know of the Prince?’
Serge shrugged. ‘We haven’t met, of course. I was fostered to my grandfather in Olmusch when I was eight, and have spent most of my life since on his estate. But I have attended the court of Glottenburg for the past two years. My grandfather is no rural hermit. He holds the office of Chancellor and is often in the capital on public affairs. But as for the court of Ruritania, I only know what my father writes, that the Prince is a fine and vigorous young fellow and the hope of his nation.’
Sergeant Barkozy shrugged. ‘It’s the sort of thing they say. I remember him as a spotty, pale and redheaded boy squabbling with his sisters in the palace corridor and taunting them by running away with their dolls. In that respect very much an ordinary boy. But that was more than three years ago, and boys grow fast in those years. Certainly there will be expectations on him. For both literature and history tell us that the people will tire of old kings and place too much hope in young princes.’ He paused for a moment, looked thoughtful and then broke out in a language unknown to Jan Lisku. ‘A father might very well wish his prince to be “the very straightest plant, who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride”.’
Serge however frowned and answered the sergeant in the same language. ‘Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, see riot and dishonour stain the brow of my young Harry.’
Startled, the sergeant stood. He considered the youth before him and then bowed to him. ‘My dear young Freiherr, thank you for providing a lesson in how not to underestimate strangers on the road. I see your education at Olmusch was not lacking. You have read Shakespeare in the original.’
‘Indeed sir, and may I compliment you on your own reading, though maybe not the way in which you choose to employ it.’
The sergeant bowed once more and suggested it was time to stack the peats, wrap up in their cloaks and sleep.
As they settled, on a heap of old straw, Jan whispered to his master. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Our sergeant was quoting from an old English play about a king who had a feckless son who was a huge disappointment to him. And it so happens the prince was called Henry, just like our own prince.’
‘Oh! So he was saying that our Crown Prince is a bad lot, but not in so many words.’
‘Yes. And Herr Barkozy was also telling me something unintended; that he is not quite who he pretends to be.’