Читать книгу The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 43

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

“Now,” says Sapten, folding his arms, “who are you?”

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

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

“Like enough,” says Sapten, “since you’ll certainly hang for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, three.”

“Humph,” says he. “Go on.”

“Well,” says I. “It’s an incredible tale … you won’t believe it …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Prince Carl Gustaf—where’s he?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not I, for one,” says Hansen.

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

They stared at him. He nodded at me.

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

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

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

“You mean you believe him?” cries Grundvig.

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

At this they went into a frantic discussion, which of course got them nowhere. Baffled, they turned back on me.

“What are we to do with him?” says Grundvig.

“Hang him,” snaps Hansen. “The swine deserves it.”

“For the crime he has committed against our duchess,” says Grundvig, glowering at me, “he deserves no less.”

They were all looking like Scotch elders in a brothel, but I saw that here was my cue again. I looked bewildered, and then let outraged indignation take its place.

“What do you mean by that?” I cried.

“You were married to her for more than a week,” says Sapten significantly.

I made hoarse noises of fury. “You infamous old man!” I shouted. “D’you dare to suggest? … My God, sir, have you forgotten that I am a British officer? Have you the effrontery to imply that I would …”

I choked as with great rage, but I doubt if Sapten was much impressed. The other two looked doubtful, though.

“I am not so dead to honour,” says I, trying to look noble and angry together, “that I would stoop to carry my imposture as far as that. There are some things that no gentleman …” And I broke off as though it was too much for me.

“It must have been thought strange,” mutters Grundvig. Palpitating, I maintained a stiff silence.

They were quiet for a moment, contemplating their duchess’s virginity, I suppose. Then Grundvig said:

“Do you swear … that … that …”

“My word of honour,” says I, “as a British officer.”

“Oh, well, that settles it,” says Sapten, and I’ll swear his mouth twitched under his moustache. “And at the risk of seeming disloyal, gentlemen, I’d suggest that the fate of Prince Carl Gustaf is perhaps as important as what may or mayn’t have happened to … well, let it be.” He swung round on me. “You’ll stay here. If you move outside this hut you’re a dead man—which you may be, anyway, before we’re done. I suggest we continue our deliberations elsewhere, doctor. If what we have learned today is true, we haven’t much time to prevent our duchess becoming a widow before she’s been a bride. To say nothing of saving her duchy for her. Come.”

The door slammed behind them, and I was left alone with my thoughts. Not pleasant ones, but they could have been worse. They seemed to have accepted my story, and I was pretty sure that the fictitious parts of it would defy their efforts to pick holes—they weren’t important lies, anyway, but merely colour to enhance my character of innocent-in-the-grip-of-cruel-fate. Best of all, I was reasonably sure they weren’t going to hang me. Sapten was the strong mind among them, and while I read him as one who wouldn’t think twice about taking human life if he had to, there didn’t seem any good reason why they should do away with me. He was a realist, and not swayed by emotion like Grundvig and Hansen. But Grundvig, too, I believed would stop short of murder—he seemed a decent, sensitive sort of fool. Hansen was the one I offended most, probably because he was the Prince’s close friend. He would have slaughtered me for old time’s sake, so to speak, but I fancied he would be out-voted.

So there I was, with nothing to do but wait and think. At least I was safe from Bismarck’s bravos, which was something. If these were the Sons of the Volsungs—the clandestine Danish sympathisers whom Rudi had spoken of with contempt—I couldn’t be in better hands, from that point of view. Rudi, it seemed to me, had under-estimated them; I had no idea what they could do about rescuing their precious prince from Jotunberg, and didn’t care either, but they looked a lively and workmanlike lot. It was pleasant to think that they might put a spoke in bloody Otto’s little wheel, after all—Sapten was just the man for that, if I knew anything. He was steady, and saw quickly to the heart of things, and seemed to be full of all the best virtues, like resolution and courage and what-not, without being over-hampered by scruple. Given him on the retreat from Kabul our army would have got home safe enough, and probably brought all the loot of the Bala Hissar into the bargain.

Anyway, I wasn’t too displeased with my own situation, and passed the time wondering when they would let me go. God knows why I was so optimistic—reaction, possibly, after having escaped unpleasant death twice in one day—but I ought to have known better. If I had been thinking clearly I’d have realised that from their point of view, the safest place for me was six feet under, where I couldn’t cause any scandal. As it was, what they got me into was very nearly as bad, and caused me to die several more of Shakespeare’s deaths.

I was left alone for several hours, during which time the only soul I saw was the big peasant, who brought me some food and beer (still addressing me as “highness”, but in a rather puzzled way). It was night before my three inquisitors returned, and I noticed that both Sapten and Hansen were splashed with mud about the legs, as though they’d ridden hard. Sapten set down a lamp on the table, threw aside his cloak, and eyed me grimly.

“Captain Arnold,” says he, “if that is your name, you puzzle me. I don’t like being puzzled. As these gentlemen here have pointed out, no sane man would believe your story for a moment. Well, maybe I’m not sane, but I’ve decided to believe it—most of it anyway. I don’t know whether you’re the biggest knave or the unluckiest wretch who ever drew breath—I incline to the first view, personally, having a nice nose for knavery—no, don’t bother to protest, we’ve heard all that. But I can’t be sure, you see, and it suits me to assume that you’re honest—up to a point. So there.”

I kept quiet, fearful and hopeful together. He produced his pipe and began to rub tobacco.

“Fortunately, we can test you and serve our own ends at the same time,” he went on. “Now then,”—he fixed me with that cold eye—“here’s the point. Victim or scoundrel, whichever you may be, you’ve committed a monstrous wrong. Are you prepared to help to set it right?”

With those three grim faces on me in the lamplight, I was in no doubt about the right answer here—no doubt at all.

“Gentlemen,” says I, “God bless you. Whatever I can do”—and I couldn’t think, thank God, that there was much—“that I shall do, with all the power at my command. I have been thinking, as I sat here, of the terrible—”

“Aye, we know,” Sapten cut in. “You needn’t tell us.” He lit his pipe, pup-pup-pup, and blew smoke. “All we want is yes or no, and I take it the answer’s yes.”

“With all my heart,” I cried earnestly.

“I doubt it,” says Sapten, “but never mind. You’re a soldier, you say. Tell me—have you seen much service?”

Well, I could answer truthfully to that—I had seen plenty, and I didn’t see any need to tell him that I’d been sweating with panic all through it. Like a fool, I implied that I’d been in some pretty sharp stuff, and come out with (in all manly modesty) some distinction. The words were out before I realised that I might be talking myself into more trouble.

“So,” says he, “well enough—you’ve the look of a man of your hands. We may have cause to be glad of that. Now then, here’s the position. You tell us that Prince Carl Gustaf is in Jotunberg under guard of Bismarck’s men, and that they can do away with him—and leave no evidence—at the first sign of alarm. They’ll weight his body, shove it down this hell-hole of theirs—and good-bye.” I noticed Grundvig shudder. “So if we were to storm the place—and it wouldn’t be easy—all that we would find would be a party of gentlemen who no doubt would have an innocent tale of being the guests of Adolf Bülow, the owner—he’s tactfully out of the country, by the way. And we’d have lost Prince Carl. The Jotunsee is deep, and we’d never even find his body.”

Hansen gave a little gasp, and I saw there were absolute tears on his cheek.

“So that won’t do,” says Sapten, puffing away. “Now—suppose we leave Jotunberg alone. Suppose we return you to Strelhow, and wait and see what our German friends in the castle do then. It would gain us time.”

By God, I didn’t like this. De Gautet might have failed with me, but some one else would surely succeed—the last place I wanted to be was anywhere on public view in Strackenz.

“They would hardly murder the prince,” says Grundvig, “while you were on the consort’s throne. At least, they have not done it yet.”

“It offers us time,” repeated Sapten slowly, “but what could we do with it, eh?”

I tried to think of something—anything.

“Perhaps if I were to abdicate,” I suggested hurriedly. “I mean … if it would help …”

“Waiting increases the risks, though,” went on Sapten, as though I hadn’t spoken. “Of your discovery; of the Prince’s murder.”

“We cannot leave him there, with those villains!” burst out Hansen.

“No, so we’ve rejected that,” says Sapten. “And we come back to the only course—a desperate and dangerous one, for it may cost his life in the end. But nothing else remains.”

He paused, and I felt my spine dissolve. Oh, Jesus, here it was again—whenever I hear the words “desperate and dangerous” I know that I’m for it. I could only wait to hear the worst.

“To storm Jotunberg is impossible,” says Sapten. “It stands in the lake of the Jotunsee, and only at one point is it accessible from the shore, where a causeway runs out towards it. There were two guards on the causeway tonight, at the outer end, where the gap between causeway and castle is spanned by a drawbridge. That bridge is raised, which is a sign that those within know that their plans have gone astray. Doubtless when the man you killed this morning failed to return to his friends, they took alarm. Two of them, at any rate, rode into the castle tonight—Hansen and I saw them; a youngster, a gay spark, for all he looked little more than a boy, and a big ruffian along with him—”

“Starnberg and Kraftstein,” says I. “Major Sapten, they are a devilish pair—they’ll stop at nothing!”

“Well, how many more were already in the castle, we don’t know. Probably no more than a handful. But we could never hope to surprise them. So we must find another way, and quickly.” He sat back. “Erik, it is your scheme. Let him hear it.”

One look at Hansen’s face—his eyes were glittering like a fanatic’s—prepared me for the worst.

“Where a storming party must fail, we may prevail by stealth. Two brave men could cross the Jotunsee at night from the opposite bank, by boat as close as they dared, and then by swimming. Part of the fortress is in ruin; they could land in the darkness, enter the castle silently, and discover where the prince is hidden. Then, while one guarded him, the other would hasten to the drawbridge and lower it so that our people, hidden on the shore, could storm across the causeway. They could easily overpower its garrison—but somehow the prince’s life would have to be preserved while the fighting lasted. Whether this could be done—” he shrugged. “At least the two who had entered first could die trying.”

And the very fact that they were telling me this informed me who one of those two was going to be. Of all the lunatic, no-hope schemes I ever heard, this seemed to be the primest yet. If they thought they were going to get me swimming into that place in the dark, with the likes of Rudi and Kraftstein waiting for me, they didn’t know their man. The mere thought was enough to set my guts rumbling with fright. I’d see them damned first. I’d sooner be—swinging at the end of Sapten’s rope? That was what would happen, of course, if I refused.

While I was gulping down these happy thoughts, Grundvig—whom I’d known from the first was a clever chap—sensibly suggested that where two men could swim, so could a dozen, but Hansen shook his fat head with determination.

“No. Two may pass unobserved, but not more. It is out of the question.” He turned to look at me, his face set, his eyes expressionless. “I shall be one of the two—Carl Gustaf is my friend, and if he is to die I shall count myself happy to die with him. You do not know him—yet without you, he would not be where he is. Of all people, you at least owe him a life. Will you come with me?”

Whatever I may be, I’m not slow-witted. If ever there was a situation made for frantic pleading in the name of common sense, I was in it now—I could have suggested that they try to bargain with Rudi, or send a messenger to Bismarck (wherever he was) and tell him that they were on to his games; I could have gone into a faint, or told them that I couldn’t swim, or that I got hay fever if I went out after dark—I could simply have roared for mercy. But I knew it wouldn’t do; they were deadly serious, frightened men—frightened for that Danish idiot, instead of for themselves, as any sane man would have been—and if I hesitated, or argued, or did anything but accept at once they would rule me out immediately for a coward and a hypocrite and a backslider. And then it would be the Newgate hornpipe for Flashy, with the whole damned crew of Sons of the Volsungs hauling on the rope. I knew all this in the few seconds that I sat there with my bowels melting, and I heard a voice say in a deadly croak:

“Yes, I’ll come.”

Hansen nodded slowly. “I do not pretend that I take you from choice; I would sooner take the meanest peasant in our band. But you are a soldier, you are skilled in arms and in this kind of work.” (Dear lad, I thought, how little you know.) “You are a man of resource, or you could never have done the infamous thing that has brought you here. Perhaps there is a queer fate at work in that. At all events, you are the man for this.”

I could have discussed that with some eloquence, but I knew better. I said nothing, and Hansen said: “It will be for tomorrow night, then,” and he and Grundvig got up and went without another word.

Sapten lingered, putting on his cloak, watching me. At last he spoke.

“It is one of the lessons a man learns as he grows old,” says he, “to put away desires and emotions—aye, and even honour—and to do what must be done with the tools to hand, whatever they may be. So I let you go with Hansen tomorrow. Succeed in what is to do, for as God’s my witness, if you don’t I’ll kill you without pity.” He turned to the door. “Perhaps I misjudge you; I don’t know. In case I am guilty of that, I promise that whatever befalls, I shall not rest until I have ensured the safety of that wife and daughter who so concerned you earlier today, but whom you seem to have forgotten tonight. Take comfort from the knowledge that little golden-haired Amelia is in my thoughts.” He opened the door. “Goodnight, Englishman.”

And he went out, no doubt very pleased with himself.

I spent the next hour frantically trying to dig under the wall of the cabin with my bare hands, but it was no go. The earth was too hard, and full of roots and stones; I made a pitifully small scrape, and then hurriedly filled it in again and stamped it down in case they saw what I’d been up to. Anyway, even if I had succeeded in breaking out, they’d have run me to earth in the forest; they were trained woodsmen and I’d no idea where I was.

Once my initial panic had passed, I could only sit in miserable contemplation. There was a slim chance that before tomorrow evening something might happen to change Hansen’s lunatic plan—or I might receive a heaven-sent opportunity to escape, although I doubted that. Failing these things, I should certainly be launched—literally, too—into the most dangerous adventure of my life, and with precious little prospect of coming through it. So I would end here, in a god-forsaken miserable German ruin, trying to rescue a man I’d never met—I, who wouldn’t stir a finger to rescue my own grandmother. It was all too much, and I had a good self-pitying blubber to myself, and then I cursed and prayed a bit, invoking the God in whom I believe only in moments of real despair to intervene on my behalf.

I tried to console myself that I’d come out of desperate straits before—aye, but wasn’t my luck about due to run out, then? No, no, Jesus would see the repentant sinner right, and I would never swear or fornicate or steal or lie again—I strove to remember the seven deadly sins, to make sure I missed none of them, and then cudgelled my brains for the Ten Commandments, so that I could promise never to break them again—although, mind you, I’d never set up a graven image in my life.

I should have felt purified and at peace after all this, but I found I was just as terrified as ever, so I ended by damning the whole system. I knew it would make no difference, anyway.

That next day was interminable; my heart was in my mouth every time footsteps approached the cabin door, and it was almost a relief when Sapten and his two companions came for me in the evening. They brought a good deal of gear with them, explaining that we should make all our preparations here before setting out, and just the activity of getting ready took my mind momentarily off the horrors ahead.

First Hansen and I stripped right down, so that we could be rubbed all over with grease as a protection against the cold when we took to the water. Sapten whistled softly when he saw my scars—the place where a pistol ball had burrowed from my side towards my spine, the whip-marks left by the swine Gul Shah, and the white weal on my thigh where my leg was broken at Piper’s Fort. It was an impressive collection—and even if most of them were in the rear, they weren’t the kind of decorations you normally see on a coward.

“You’ve been lucky,” says he. “So far.”

When we had been thoroughly greased, we put on rough woollen underclothes—a most disgusting process—and then heavy woollen shirts and smocks, tucked into our breeches. We wore stockings and light shoes, and Sapten bound bandages round our wrists and ankles to keep our clothing gathered in place.

“Now, then,” says he, “to arms,” and produced a couple of heavy broadswords and an assortment of hunting knives. “If you want fire-arms you’ll have to persuade our friends in Jotunberg to give you some,” he added. “Useless to try to take them with you.”

Hansen took a sword and a long dagger, but I shook my head.

“Haven’t you a sabre?”

Sapten looked doubtful, but a search among his band of brigands outside produced the required article—it was old but a good piece of steel, and I shuddered inwardly at the sight of it. But I took it—if I have to fight, God forbid, I’ll do it with a weapon I understand, and if I was no Angelo³⁸ with a sabre, at least I’d been trained in its use. For the rest, they gave me back my seaman’s knife, and each of us was provided with a flask of spirits.

We carried the swords on our backs, looped securely at shoulder and waist, and Hansen bound a length of cord round his middle. There was some debate as to whether we should take flint and steel, but there seemed no point to it. Finally, we each had an oilskin packet containing some meat and bread and cheese, in case, as Sapten cheerfully remarked, we had time to stop for a snack.

“You may feel the need of something when you get out of the water,” he added. “Eat and drink if chance serves. Now, then, Mr Thomas Arnold, attend to me. From here we ride to the Jotunsee, which will take us the best part of three hours. There the boat is waiting, with two stout men at the oars; they will take you as close to the castle as seems advisable—there is a moon, but we can’t help that. The clouds are thick, so you should get close in unobserved. Then you swim for it—and remember, they will be watching and listening in yonder.”

He let me digest this, his head cocked and his hands thrust deep in his pockets—strange how these pictures stay with one—and then went on:

“Once inside the castle, Hansen is in command, you understand? He will decide how to proceed—who is to guard the prince, who to lower the bridge. So far as we know, it is wound up and down by a windlass. Knock out the pin and the bridge will fall. That will be our signal to storm the causeway—fifty men, led by myself and Grundvig here.” He paused, pulling out his pouch. “It is not our intention to leave any survivors of the garrison.”

“They must all die,” says Grundvig solemnly.

“To the last man,” says Hansen.

It seemed to call for something from me, so I said: “Hear, hear.”

“Serve us well in this,” added Sapten, “and the past will be forgotten. Try to play us false—” He left it unspoken. “Now, is all clear?”

It was clear, right enough, all too clear; I did my best not to think of it. I didn’t want to know any more dreadful details—indeed, the only question in my mind was a completely unimportant one, and had nothing to do with what lay ahead. But I was curious, so I asked it.

“Tell me,” I said to Hansen. “Back in Strackenz City—what made you think I wasn’t Carl Gustaf?”

He stared at me in surprise. “You ask now? Very well—I was not sure. The likeness is amazing, and yet … there was something wrong. Then I knew, in an instant, what it was. Your scars are in the wrong places—the left one is too low. But there was more than that, too. I don’t know—you just were not Carl Gustaf.”

“Thank’ee,” says I. Poor old Bismarck—wrong again.

“How did you come by these scars?” asked Sapten.

“They cut them in my head with a schlager,” says I, offhand, and Grundvig drew in his breath. “Oh, yes,” I added to Hansen, “this is no kindergarten you are venturing into, my lad. These are very practical men, as you may discover.” I was eager to take some of the bounce out of him.

“That’ll do,” growls Sapten. “All ready, then? Lassen sie uns gehen.”

There were horses outside, and men moving about us in the gloom; we rode in silent cavalcade through the woods, along a path that wound upwards into the Jotun Gipfel, and then down through dense thickets of bush and bracken. There was no chance of escape, even if I had dared; two men rode at my stirrups all the way. We halted frequently—while scouts went ahead, I suppose—and I took the opportunity to sample the contents of my flask. It held brandy, about half a pint, and it was empty by the time the journey was half done. Not that it made much odds, except to warm me; I could have drunk a gallon without showing it just then.

At last we halted and dismounted; shadowy hands took my bridle, and I was pushed forward through the bushes until I found myself on the banks of a tiny creek, with water lapping at my feet. Hansen was beside me, and there was much whispering in the dark; I could see the vague outline of a boat and its rowers, and then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and through the tangled branches at the creek’s mouth I saw the choppy grey water of the lake, and rising out of it, not three furlongs off, the stark outline of Jotunberg.

It was a sight to freeze your blood and make you think of monsters and vampires and bats squeaking in gloomy vaults—a gothic horror of dark battlements and towers with cloud-wrack behind it, silent and menacing in the moonlight. My imagination peopled it with phantom shapes waiting at its windows—and they wouldn’t have been any worse than Rudi and Kraftstein. Given another moment I believe I would have sunk down helpless on the shore, but before I knew it I was in the boat, with Hansen beside me.

“Wait for the moon to die.” Sapten’s hoarse whisper came out of the dark behind, and presently the light was blotted out, and Jotunberg was only a more solid shadow in the dark. But it was still there, and all the more horrid in my mind’s eye. I had to grip my chin to stop my teeth chattering.

Sapten muttered again in the gloom, the boat stirred as the dim forms of the rowers moved, and we were sliding out of the creek onto the face of the Jotunsee. The breeze nipped as we broke cover, and then the bank had vanished behind us.

It was as black as the earl of hell’s weskit, and deadly silent except for the chuckle of water under our bow and the soft rustle as the oarsmen heaved. The boat rocked gently, but we were moving quite quickly, with the dim shape of the castle growing bigger and uglier every moment. It seemed to me that we were rowing dangerously close to it; I could see the faint glare of a light at one of the lower windows, and then Hansen softly said “Halt”, and the oarsmen stopped rowing.

Hansen touched my shoulder. “Ready?” I was trying to suppress the bile of panic that was welling up into my throat, so I didn’t answer. “Folgen sie mir ganz nahe,” says he, and then he had slipped over the side like an otter, with hardly a sound.

For the life of me I couldn’t bring myself to follow; my limbs were like jelly; I couldn’t move. But petrified though I was, I knew I daren’t stay either; let me refuse now, and Sapten would make cold meat of me very shortly afterwards. I leaned over the side of the boat, clumsily trying to copy Hansen, and then I had overbalanced, and with an awful, ponderous roll I came off the gunwale and plunged into the Jotunsee.

The cold was hideous, cutting into my body like a knife, and I came up spluttering with the sheer pain of it. As I gasped for breath Hansen’s face came out of the darkness, hissing at me to be quiet, his hand searching for me underwater.

“Geben sie acht, idiot! Stop splashing!”

“This is bloody madness!” I croaked at him. “Christ, it’s mid-winter, man! We’ll freeze to death!”

He grabbed my shoulder while we trod water, snarling at me to be quiet. Then, turning from the boat, he began to strike out slowly for the castle, expecting me to follow. For a second I considered the possibility, even at this late hour, of making for the shore and taking my chance in the woods, but I realised I could never swim the distance—not at this temperature, and with the sabre strapped to my back and my sodden clothes dragging at me. I had to stay with Hansen, so I struck out after him, as quietly as I could, sobbing with fear and frustration.

God, I remember thinking, this is too bad. What the hell had I done to deserve this? Left alone I’m a harmless enough fellow, asking nothing but meat and drink and a whore or two, and not offending anyone much—why must I be punished in this hellish fashion? The cold seemed to be numbing my very guts; I knew I couldn’t go much longer, and then a blinding pain shot through my left leg, and I was under water, my mouth filling as I tried to yell. Flailing with my good leg I came up, bleating for Hansen.

“Cramp!” I whimpered. “Christ, I’ll drown!” Even then, I had sense enough to keep my voice down, but it was loud enough to reach him, for next time I went under he hauled me up again, swearing fiercely at me to be quiet, and to stop thrashing about.

“My leg! my leg!” I moaned. “Jesus, I’m done for. Save me, you selfish bastard! Oh, God, the cold!” My leg was one blinding pain, but with Hansen gripping me and holding my face above water I was able to rest until gradually it subsided to a dull ache; I stretched it cautiously, and it seemed to be working again.

When he was sure I could swim on, he whispered that we must hurry, or the cold would get us for certain. I was almost past caring, and told him so; he and his bloody prince and Sapten and the rest of them could rot in hell for me, I said, and he struck me across the face and threatened to drown me if I didn’t keep quiet.

“It’s your life, too, fool!” he hissed. “Now be silent, or we’re lost.”

I called him the filthiest names I knew (in a whisper), and then he swam on, with me behind him, striking out feebly enough, but it wasn’t far now; another couple of freezing minutes and we were under the lee of the castle wall, where it seemed to rise sheer out of the water, and there wasn’t a sight or sound to suggest we had been heard.

Hansen trod water in front of me, and when I came up with him he pointed ahead, and I saw what seemed to be a shadowy opening at the foot of the wall.

“There,” says he. “Silence.”

“I can’t take much more of this,” I whispered feebly. “I’ll freeze, I tell you—I’m dying—I know I am. God damn you, you scabby-headed Danish swine, you … wait for me!”

He was swimming slowly into the gap in the wall; and at that moment the moon chose to come out again, striking its cold light on the rearing battlement above us, and showing that the gap was in fact a tiny harbour, cut out of the rock of the Jotunberg itself. To the left and ahead it was enclosed by the castle wall; to the right the wall seemed to be ruined, and there were dark areas of shadow where the moonlight didn’t penetrate.

I felt a chill that was not from the water as I paddled slowly towards it; exhausted and shocked as I was, I could smell danger from the place. When you burgle a house, you don’t go in by the open front door. But Hansen was already out of sight in the shadow; I swam after him round an angle of the rock, and saw him treading water with his hand up on the stone ledge that bordered the harbour. When he saw me he turned face on to the stone, put up his other hand, and heaved himself out of the water.

For a second he hung there, poised, straining to pull his body onto the ledge; the moonlight was full on him, and suddenly something glittered flying above the water and smacked between his shoulder blades; his head shot up and his body heaved convulsively; for a second he hung, motionless, and then with a dreadful, bubbling sigh he flopped face down on the stone and slid slowly back into the water. As he slipped under I could distinctly see the knife-hilt standing out of his back; then he was floating, half-submerged, and I was scrabbling frantically away from him choking back the shriek of terror in my throat.

There was a low, cheerful laugh out of the shadows above me, and then someone whistled a line or two of “Marlbroug s’en va t-en guerre”.

“Swim this way, Flashman, Prince of Denmark,” said Rudi’s voice. “I have you beaded, and you won’t float long if I put lead ballast into you. Come along, there’s a good chap; you don’t want to catch cold, do you?”

He watched me as I clambered miserably out, shaking with fright and cold, and stood hand on hip, smiling easily at me.

“This is a not entirely unexpected pleasure,” says he. “I had a feeling you would turn up, somehow. Eccentric way you have of arriving, though.” He nodded towards the water. “Who’s our dead friend?”

I told him.

“Hansen, eh? Well, serve him right for a meddling fool. I did him rather proud, I think—twenty-five feet, an uncertain light, and a rather clumsy hunting-knife—but I put it right between his shoulders. Rather pretty work, wouldn’t you say? But you’re trembling, man!”

“I’m cold,” I chattered.

“Not as cold as he is,” chuckled this hellish ruffian. “Well, come along. Ah, but first, the formalities.” He snapped his fingers, and two men came out of the shadows behind him. “Michael, take the gentleman’s sabre, and that most un-English knife in his belt. Excellent. This way.”

They took me through a ruined archway, across a paved yard, through a postern-like door in what seemed to be the main keep, and into a vast vaulted hall with a great stone stairway winding round its wall. To my left was a lofty arch through which I could see dimly the outline of massive chains and a great wheel: I supposed this would be the drawbridge mechanism—not that it mattered now.

Rudi, humming merrily, led the way upstairs and into a chamber off the first landing. By contrast with the gloomy medieval stonework through which we had come, it was pleasantly furnished in an untidy bachelor way, with clothes, papers, dog-whips, bottles, and so on scattered everywhere; there was a fire going and I made straight for it.

“Here,” says he, pushing a glass of spirits into my hand. “Michael will get you some dry clothes.” And while I choked over the drink, and then stripped off my soaking weeds, he lounged in an armchair.

“So,” says he, once I had pulled on the rough clothes they brought, and we were alone, “de Gautet bungled it, eh? I told them they should have let me do the business—if I’d been there you would never even have twitched. Tell me what happened.”

Possibly I was light-headed with the brandy and the shock of what I had been through, or my fear had reached that stage of desperation where nothing seems to matter; anyway, I told him how I had disposed of his colleague, and he chuckled appreciatively.

“You know, I begin to like you better and better; I knew from the first that we’d get along splendidly. And then what? Our Dansker friends got hold of you, didn’t they?” Seeing me hesitate, he leaned forward in his chair. “Come along, now; I know much more than you may think, and can probably guess the rest. And if you hold back, or lie to me—well, Mr Play-actor, you’ll find yourself going for a swim with friend Hansen, I promise you. Who sent you here? It was the Danish faction, wasn’t it—Sapten’s precious bandits?”

“The Sons of the Volsungs,” I admitted. I daren’t try to deceive him—and what would have been the point?

“Sons of the Volsungs! Sons of the Nibelungs would be more appropriate. And you and Hansen were to try to rescue Carl Gustaf? I wonder,” he mused, “how they found out about him. No matter. What did you expect to accomplish, in heaven’s name? Two of you couldn’t hope … ah, but wait a moment! You were the mine under the walls, weren’t you? To open the way for the good Major Sapten’s patriotic horde.” He gave a ringing laugh. “Don’t look so surprised, man! D’ye think we’re blind in here? We’ve been watching them scuttle about the shore all day. Why, with a night-glass in the tower we watched your boat set out an hour ago! Of all the bungling, ill-judged, badly-managed affairs! But what would one expect from that pack of yokels?” He roared with laughter again. “And how did they coerce you into this folly? A knife at your back, no doubt. Well, well, I wonder what they’ll think of next?”

Now, I was beginning to get some of my senses back, what with the warmth and the rest of sitting down. I was out of the frying-pan into the fire, no question, but I couldn’t for the life of me see why he had killed Hansen and taken me prisoner—unless it was for information. And when he had got all that he wanted, what was he going to do with me? I could guess.

“Yes, what will they think of next?” He sauntered in front of the fireplace, slim and elegant in his tight-fitting black tunic and breeches, and turned to flash his teeth at me. “Suppose you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” says I. “It was … as you’ve guessed. We were to try to release him and let down the bridge.”

“And if that failed?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Mm. Do they know our garrison?”

“They think … only a few.”

“Well guessed—or well spied out. Not that it’ll help them. If they try to storm the place their dear Prince will be feeding the fishes in the Jotunsee before they’re over the causeway—do they know that, I wonder?”

I nodded. “They know all about it.”

He grinned happily. “Well, then, we needn’t fret about them, need we? It gives us time to consider. How many men have they over yonder, by the way? And be very, very careful how you answer.”

“I heard them say fifty.”

“Wise Flashman. I knew, you see.” Suddenly he clapped me on the shoulder. “Would you like to meet your royal twin? I’ve been longing to bring the pair of you face to face, you know—and you can see, at the same time, the excellent arrangements we have for his … shall we say, security?—in the event of burglars. Come along.” He flung open the door. “Oh, and Flashman,” he added, carelessly smiling. “You will bear in mind that I’m not de Gautet, won’t you? You’ll do nothing foolish, I mean? You see, it would be a great waste, because I think … I think we may be able to try out a little scheme of mine together, you and I. We’ll see.” He bowed and waved me through. “After you, your highness.”

We went down to the great hall, and there Rudi turned into a side-passage, and down a steep flight of stone steps which spiralled into the depths of the castle. There were oil lamps at intervals, glistening on the nitre which crusted the bare stone, and in places the steps were slippery with moss. We came out into a flagged cloister, with mighty, squat columns supporting the low ceiling; the place was in shadow, but ahead of us light shone from an archway, and passing through we were in a broad stone chamber where two men sat over cards at a rough table. They looked up at our approach, one with his hand on a pistol; they were burly, tall fellows in what looked like cavalry overalls, and their sabres hung at their elbows, but I wasn’t concerned with them. Beyond them was a great iron grille, stretching from floor to ceiling, and before it stood Kraftstein, his huge hands on his hips, like an ogre in the flickering lamplight.

“Here he is, Kraftstein,” says Rudi lightly. “Our old drinking-companion from Schönhausen. Aren’t you pleased, now, that I didn’t let you shoot him in the water? Kraftstein’s got no manners, you know,” he added over his shoulder to me. “And how is our royal guest this evening?”

Kraftstein said nothing, but having glowered at me he turned and drew a bolt in the grille. Rudi waved me through the gate as it groaned back on its hinges, and with the hair prickling on my neck, but spurred by curiosity, I passed through.

The grille, I saw, cut off the end of the vault, and we were in an enclosure perhaps forty feet deep and half as wide. At the end, opposite me, a man lay on a low couch set against the wall; there was a table with a lamp beside him, and at the sound of the creaking hinge he sat up, shading his eyes and peering towards us.

For some reason I felt a nervousness that had nothing to do with the danger of my situation; I felt I was about to see something uncanny—and this although I knew what it was going to be.

“Guten abend, highness,” says Rudi, as we went forward. “Here’s a visitor for you.”

The man took his hand from his face, and I couldn’t help letting out an exclamation. For there I sat, looking at me—my own face, puzzled, wary, and then in an instant, blank with amazement, the mouth open and eyes staring. He shrank back, and then suddenly he was on his feet.

“What is this?” his voice was strained and hoarse. “Who is this man?”

As he moved, there was a heavy, clanking noise, and with a thrill of horror I saw that there was a heavy chain on his left ankle, fettering him to a great stone weight beside the bed.

“May I have the honour to present an old acquaintance, highness?” says Rudi. “I’m sure you remember him, from your mirror?”

It was a weird experience, looking at that face, and hearing that voice when he spoke again—perhaps a trifle deeper than my own, I fancied, and now that I looked at him, he was a shade slimmer than I, and less tall by a fraction. But it was an amazing resemblance, none the less.

“What does it mean?” he demanded. “In God’s name, who are you?”

“Until recently, he was Prince Carl Gustaf of Denmark,” says Rudi, obviously enjoying himself. “But you’d regard him as a most presumptive heir to the title, I’m sure. In fact, he’s an Englishman, your highness, who has been kind enough to deputise for you during your holiday here.”

He took it well, I’ll say that for him. After all, I’d known for weeks that my spitten image was walking about somewhere, but it was all new to him. He stared at me for a long moment, and I stared back, tongue-tied, and then he said slowly:

“You’re trying to drive me mad. Why, I don’t know. It is some filthy plot. In God’s name, tell me, if you have any spark of pity or decency, what it means. If it is money you want, or ransom, I have told you—say so! If it is my life—well, damn you! take it!” He tried to stride forward, but the chain wrenched at his ankle and almost upset him. “Damn you!” he roared again, shaking his fist at us. “You vile, cowardly villains! Let me loose, I say, and I’ll send that creature with my face straight to hell—and you, too, you grinning mountebank!” He was a fearsome sight, wrestling at his chain, and cursing like a Smithfield porter.

Rudi clicked his tongue. “Royal rage,” says he. “Gently, your highness, gently. Don’t promise what you couldn’t perform.”

For a moment I thought Carl Gustaf would burst himself with rage; his face was purple. And then his temper subsided, he strove to compose himself, and he jerked back his lips in that gesture that I had spent so many weary hours trying to copy.

“I forget myself, I think,” he said, breathing hard. “To what end? Who you are, fellow, I don’t know—or what this means. I’ll not entertain you by inquiring any further. When you choose to tell me—if you choose to tell me—well! But understand,” and he dropped his voice in a way which I knew so well, because I do it myself, “that you had better kill me and have done, because if you do not, by God’s help I’ll take such a revenge on you all …”

He left it there, nodding at us, and I had to admit that whatever our resemblance in looks, he was as different from me in spirit as day from night. You wouldn’t have got me talking as big as that, chained up in a dungeon—well, I’ve been in that very situation, and I blubbered for mercy till I was hoarse. I know what’s fitting. But he didn’t, and much good his defiance was doing him.

“Oh, never fear, highness,” says Rudi. “We’ll certainly kill you when the time is ripe. Remember the royal progress we have prepared for you.”

And he pointed off to the side of the great cell; I looked, and my heart gave a lurch at what I saw.

To that side the flags sloped down in a depression, perhaps a dozen feet across and about four feet deep. The sloping stones looked smooth and slippery, and at the bottom of the shallow funnel which they formed there was a gaping hole, circular and more than a yard wide. Carl Gustaf’s face went pale as he, too, looked, and his mouth twitched, but he said nothing. My skin crawled at the thought of what lay beyond the mouth of that shaft.

“Merry lads, the old lords of Jotunberg,” says Rudi. “When they tired of you, down you went, suitably weighted—as our royal guest is here—and hey, splash! It’s not a trip I’d care to take myself—but your highness may not mind so much when I tell you that one of your friends is waiting for you in the Jotunsee. Hansen, his name was.”

“Hansen? Erik Hansen?” The prince’s hand shook. “What have you done to him, you devil?”

“He went swimming at the wrong time of year,” says Rudi cheerily. “So rash—but there. Young blood. Now, your highness, with your gracious permission, we’ll withdraw.” He made a mocking bow, and waved me ahead of him towards the grille.

As we reached it, Carl Gustaf suddenly shouted:

“You—you with my face! Haven’t you a tongue in your head? Why don’t you speak, damn you?”

I blundered out; that hellish place was too much for me; I could imagine all too clearly slithering down into that shaft—ugh! And these murdering monsters would do it to me as soon as to him, if it suited them.

Young Rudi’s laughter rang after me as I stumbled through the vault; he strode up beside me, clapping his hand round my shoulders and asking eagerly what I had thought of meeting my double face to face—had it made me wonder who I was? Had I noticed the amazement of Carl Gustaf, and what did I suppose he was making of it all?

“I’ll swear I hadn’t realised how alike you were till I saw you together,” says he, as we reached his room again. “It’s supernatural. Do you know … it makes me wonder if Otto Bismarck didn’t miss the true possibility of his scheme. By God!” he stopped dead, rubbing his chin. Then:

“You remember a few moments ago I spoke of a plan that you and I might try together? I’ll be frank; it occurred to me the moment I saw you swimming in the lake, and realised that I had both the court cards in my hand, with no one but the worthy Kraftstein to interfere—and he doesn’t count. The two court cards,” he repeated, grinning, “and one of them a knave. Have a drink, play-actor. And listen.”

You’ll have noticed that since my arrival in Jotunberg I had said very little—and, of course, the situation was really beyond comment. Events in the past forty-eight hours had brought me to the point where intelligent thought, let alone speech, was well-nigh impossible. The only conscious desire I felt was to get out of this nightmare as fast as possible, by any means. And yet, the hectoring way in which this cocksure young upstart shoved me into a chair and commanded me to listen, stirred a resentment beneath my miserable fear. I was heartily sick of having people tell me to listen, and ordering me about, and manipulating me like a damned puppet. Much good it had done me to take it all meekly—it had been one horror after another, and only by the luck of the devil was I still in one piece. And here, unless I mistook the look in Starnberg’s eye, was going to be another brilliant proposal to put me through the mill. Open defiance wasn’t to be thought of, naturally, but in that moment I felt that if I did manage to muster my craven spirits to do something on my own behalf, it probably couldn’t be any worse than whatever he had in mind for me.

“Look here,” says he, “how many of these damned Danes know that you are really an impostor?”

I could think of Grundvig and Sapten for certain; their peasant followers I wasn’t sure of, but Rudi brushed them aside as unimportant.

“Two who matter,” says he. “And on my side—Bismarck, Bersonin and Kraftstein—we can forget Detchard and that squirt of a doctor. Now—suppose our captive Prince goes down that excellent pipe tonight, and we let down the bridge to encourage your friends to attack? It would be possible to arrange a warm reception for them—warm enough to ensure that Grundvig and Sapten never got off that causeway alive, anyhow. Kraftstein could easily meet with a fatal accident during the fight—somehow I’m sure he would—and by the time the Sons of the Volsungs had fought their way in and cut up the survivors, you and I could be on our way to the shore, by boat. Then, back to Strackenz and the acclaim of everyone who has been wondering where their beloved prince has been. Oh, we could invent some tale—and who would there be to give you away? Detchard and the doctor daren’t. Your Danish friends couldn’t, being dead. And by this time Bismarck and Bersonin are far too busy, I’ll be bound, to worry about Strackenz.”

Seeing my bewildered look, he explained.

“You haven’t heard the news, of course. Berlin is alive with alarms, it seems. The revolution’s coming, my boy; the student rabble and the rest will have the King of Prussia off his throne in a week or two. So dear Otto has other fish to fry for the moment. Oh, it’s not only in Germany, either; I hear that France is up in arms, and Louis-Phillipe’s deposed, they say. It’s spreading like wildfire.”³⁹ He laughed joyously. “Don’t you see, man? It’s a heaven-sent chance. We could count on weeks—nay, months—before anyone gave a thought to this cosy little duchy—or to the identity of the duchess’s consort.”

“And what use would that be to us?”

“God, you’re brainless! To hold the reins of power—real power—in a European state, even a little one like Strackenz? If we couldn’t squeeze some profit out of that—enough to set us up for life—before we took leave of ’em, then we aren’t the men I think we are. D’you know what the revenues of a duchy amount to?”

“You’re mad,” I said. “Raving mad. D’you think I’d put my neck into that again?”

“Why not? Who’s to stop you?”

“We wouldn’t last a week—why, half the bloody peasants in Strackenz probably know that there are two Carl Gustafs loose about the place! They’ll talk, won’t they?”

“Bah, where’s your spirit, play-actor?” he jeered. “Who would listen to them? And it’s only for a few weeks—you’ve done it once already, man! And think of the fun it would be!”

They are rare, but they do exist, and you can only call them adventurers. Rudi was one; it was the excitement, the mischief, that he lived for, more than the reward; the game, not the prize. Mad as hatters, mark you, and dangerous as sharks—they are not to be judged by the standards of yellow-bellies like me. Flashy don’t want anything to do with ’em, but he knows how their minds work. Because of this, I was wondering furiously how to deal with him.

“You can go back to your pretty duchess, too,” says he.

“Don’t want her,” says I. “I’ve had her, anyway.”

“But there’s a fortune in it, man!”

“I’d rather be alive and poor, thank’ee.”

He stood considering. “You don’t trust me, is that it?”

“Well,” says I, “now that you mention it …”

“But that’s the point!” He clapped his hands. “We are the ideal partners—neither of us trusts the other an inch, but we need each other. It’s the only guarantee in any business. You’re as big a rascal as I am; we would sell each other tomorrow, but there isn’t the need.”

Our financiers know all this, of course, but I’ve often thought that our diplomatists and politicians could have gone to school to Professor Starnberg. I can see him still, arms akimbo, flashing eyes, curly head, brilliant smile, and ready to set fire to an orphan asylum to light his cheroot. I’m a dirty scoundrel, but it has come to me naturally; Rudi made a profession out of it.

“Come on, man, what d’you say?”

I caught the note of impatience in his voice; careful, now, I thought, or he’ll turn vicious. His scheme was unthinkable, but I daren’t tell him so. What was the way out, then? I must pretend to go along with him for the moment; would a chance of escape offer? It was growing on me that the only safe way out—or the least risky—was to find some way of doing what Sapten had wanted. How could I get the drawbridge down; would I survive the assault that would follow? Aye, but for the moment, pretend.

“Could we make certain of Sapten and Grundvig?” I asked doubtfully.

“Be sure of that,” says he. “There are two little cannon below stairs—ornamental things, but they’ll work. Load ’em with chain, and we’ll sweep that causeway from end to end when the rescuers come charging home.”

“There are fifty of them, remember; have you enough here to man the guns and hold the place until we can get away?”

“Two of us, the three you saw in the cellar, and another three in the tower,” says he. “Then there are two on the causeway, but they’ll go in the first rush. They needn’t concern us.” Oh, he was a born leader, all right. But now I knew how many men he had, and where they were. The vital fact was that there was no one, apparently, guarding the drawbridge mechanism on the inside.

“So,” he cried, “you’re with me?”

“Well,” says I, doubtfully, “if we can be sure of holding those damned Volsungs on the bridge long enough …”

“We’ll concentrate all our force by the guns at the drawbridge arch,” says he. “Why, we can have all ready in half an hour. Then, down with the bridge, and let the flies come streaming towards our parlour.” His eyes were shining with excitement, and he put out his hand. “And then, my friend, we embark on our profitable partnership.”

Suddenly it struck me that it was now or never; he would move fast, and somehow I had to forestall him while his small forces were still scattered about the castle and all unsuspecting. I fought down my rising fear of what was to do, steeling myself for a desperate effort. My hand was sweating in his grasp.

“Let’s drink to it!” cries he exultantly, and turned to the table, where the bottles stood.

Oh, Jesus, good luck to me, I thought. I moved up to his side, and as he splashed brandy into the glasses I made a swift examination of the other bottles standing by. A sturdy flask caught my eye, and I made a careless show of examining it, turning it by the neck to see the label. He was so confident in his youth and strength and arrogance that he never thought of being caught off-guard—why should he worry, in a castle held by his men, with only the feeble-spirited Flashman to be watched?

“Here,” says he, turning with a glass, and I breathed a silent prayer, shifted my hand on the bottle neck, and swung it with all my force at his head. He saw the movement, but had no time to duck; the flask shattered on his temple with an explosion like a pistol-shot, and he staggered back, wine drenching his hair and tunic, and hurtled full length to the floor.

I was beside him in a flash, but he was dead to the world, with a great ugly gash welling blood among his curls. For a few seconds I waited, listening, but there was no sound from without. I rose, my heart pounding, and strode quickly across the room, pausing only to take up a sabre from a rack in the corner. I’d done it now, and was in a state of active funk, but there was nothing for it but to hurry ahead and hope.

The door creaked abominably as I pulled it gently open and peeped out. All was still; the stair-lamps shone dimly on the great empty hall. There was no sound of footsteps. I closed the door softly and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, keeping close to the wall. Through the great arch across the hall I could see the wheel and chains of the drawbridge; they looked gigantic, and I wondered uneasily could I lower the bridge single-handed, and would I have the time to do it before someone came into the hall?

I cursed myself for not finishing Starnberg off while I had the chance; suppose he came to? Should I go back and settle him? But I baulked at that, and every second I lingered now increased the chance of discovery. Gulping down my fear I sped down the steps and across the hall, taking cover in the shadows of the archway, holding my breath and trying to listen above the thumping of my heart. Still no sound, and the lighted entrance to the passage leading to the dungeons, which I could see from my hiding-place, remained empty. I stole across to the great wheel, gently laid my sabre on the flags, and tried to make out how the mechanism worked.

There was a big handle on the wheel, with room for at least two men; that was how they wound it up. But there must be a brake on the wheel to hold it; I fumbled in the dark, chittering with fright, and could find nothing that seemed to answer the case. The chains were taut with strain, and when I went farther into the arch I found that its outer end was closed by the raised wooden bridge itself; it was at least ten feet broad and might be three times that in length, for its upper end was lost in the dark above my head; faint streaks of moonlight came through at either side.

Well, at least there were no doors or portcullis to worry about; once the bridge was down the way was open—if I could get it down, and if it survived the fall. The bloody thing looked as though it weighed a ton; when it crashed down across the gap to the causeway there would be no need of any further signal to Sapten and his boarding-party—they would hear the row in Strackenz City. Aye, that would wake the castle, all right, and young Flash would have to light out full tilt for cover before the shooting started.

But I had to get the damned thing down first, by God; how long was it since I had left Rudi? Suppose he was stirring? In a panic I scurried back to the wheel, kicked my sabre in the dark, and sent it clattering across the flags, making a most hellish din. I grabbed at it, whispering curses, and at that moment came the blood-chilling sound of footsteps from the passage-way across the hall. I actually clapped my hand across my own mouth, and dived for the shelter of the wheel, burrowing in close at its foot and trying not to breathe while the steps tramped out into the hall.

There were two of them, Kraftstein and another. They stopped in the middle of the hall, and Kraftstein glanced upwards towards the room where I had left Rudi. Oh my God, I thought, please don’t let them go up; let the lousy bastards go away.

“Was machen sie?” said the second one, and Kraftstein grunted something in reply which I didn’t catch. The other one shrugged and said he was fed up with sitting in the cellar with Carl Gustaf for company, and Kraftstein remarked that at least he was better off than the guards out on the causeway. They laughed at that, and both looked towards the arch where I was hiding; I lay still as a corpse, my nerves almost snapping, watching them through the spokes of the wheel. And then I saw something that brought the icy sweat starting out of me: the hall light, casting its shaft into the mouth of my archway, was glittering on the point of the sabre that lay where I had knocked it, half in and half out of the shadow.

Oh Christ, they couldn’t help but see it—it was shining like a blasted lighthouse. They were standing there, staring straight in my direction, not a dozen paces away; another few seconds and I believe I’d have come bolting out like a rabbit, and then the second one yawned enormously and said:

“Gott, Ich bin müde; wie viel uhr glauben sie dass es sei?”

Kraftstein shook his head. “’Ist spät. Gehen sie zu bette.”

I was willing them feebly both to go to bed, and at last the other one mooched off on his own; Kraftstein took a turn round the hall while my pulse increased to a sickening gallop, and then he went back into the passage leading below.

I waited, trembling, until his footsteps had died away, and then stole out and retrieved my sabre. To my disordered imagination it seemed incredible that there was still no sound from Rudi’s room—though in fact it probably wasn’t five minutes since I had left him. I came back to the wheel, forcing myself to inspect it calmly; it must be held at some point. I felt it all over, both sides, feeling sicker every moment—and then I saw it. Where its rims almost touched the ground there was a bolt thrust through one of the spokes into the housing of the windlass; if it was withdrawn, I guessed, the wheel would be released, but it wasn’t going to be a simple business of pulling it out. It was going to have to be driven out with force.

Well, in God’s name, there had to be something handy to knock it clear; I fumbled about in the shadows, ears pricked and whimpering nonsensical instructions to myself, but the best thing I could find was a heavy billet of wood among some rubbish in the corner. I could only hope that it would do; I was desperate by now, anyway, and I fairly sped round the other side of the windlass, praying audibly as I went, and bashed at the protruding end of the bolt with all my strength.

The thumping was fit to wake the dead; oh, Jesus, it wasn’t moving! I belaboured the bolt frantically, swearing at it, and it moved in a fraction. I hammered away, and suddenly it shot out of sight, there was an ear-splitting clang, the wheel whirred round like some huge animal springing to life, and the handle shot by within an inch of braining me.

I flung myself out of the way, my ears filled with the shrieking and clanking of the chains as they rasped over their rollers; it sounded like a thousand iron demons banging on anvils in hell. But the bridge was falling; I saw it yawn away from the outer arch, and moonlight flooded in, and then with an appalling crash the great mass of wood fell outwards, smashing against the stonework of the causeway, leaping as if it were alive, and settling—oh, thank God!—across the gap.

The clap of the explosion was in my ears as I grabbed my sabre and took cover at the side of the archway. My first thought was to rush out across the bridge—anywhere out of that damned castle—but an outcry from the causeway stopped me. The guards! I couldn’t see them, but they were there, all right, and then I saw a pin-point of light from the far end of the causeway, and the crack of a shot hard behind it. Sapten’s merry men must be getting into action; there was a ragged volley from the shore and a scream, and I hesitated no longer. Anything emerging across that bridge was going to be a prime target; this was no place for Harry Flashman, and I fled back into the hall, looking for a safe corner to hide in until the forthcoming passage of arms was over. By God, I had done my share, and no mistake; not for me to try to steal all the glory which the Sons of the Volsungs so richly deserved.

Someone was running and yelling in the passage from the dungeons; another voice was bellowing from up aloft. The hall was going to be fairly busy in a moment or two, so I scampered towards a doorway hitherto unnoticed, midway between the main gate and the dungeon passage. It was locked; I battered on it for a futile moment, and then swung round to look for another bolthole. But it was too late; Kraftstein was leaping across the hall, sword drawn, bawling to everyone to come and lend a hand; two more were emerging from beyond the stairs. I shrank back in the doorway—fortunately it was fairly deep, and they hadn’t seen me, being intent on their yawning front door.

“Pistols!” roared Kraftstein. “Quickly, they’re coming across! Heinrich! Back this way, man! Come on!” He vanished into the archway, with the other two close behind him; I heard them start shooting, and congratulated myself on having left them a clear field in that direction. Sapten wasn’t going to have things all his own way, by the sound of things, and presently two more of the garrison came racing out of the dungeon arch, and another from the stairs; unless I had miscounted, the whole of the Jotunberg friendly society was now gathered in the main entrance—all except Rudi, who was presumably still stretched out above stairs, and bleeding to death, with any luck.

I wondered if the last man up from below had cut Carl Gustaf’s throat and sent him down the pipe; not that I cared much, but the besiegers would probably feel better disposed towards me if they found him alive. However, he could take his chance; in the meantime, it seemed reasonable that I should seek out another refuge elsewhere; if I made a quick bolt for it there seemed little chance that the defenders would notice me—they were warmly engaged by the sound of yelling and banging from the direction of the drawbridge.

I peeped cautiously out; the dungeon passage seemed a good place, for I recollected openings off it where I ought to be able to lurk in comparative safety. The hall was empty; I made sure there was no one in sight at the main arch, and was flitting stealthily out when a voice from the stairway stopped me dead in my tracks, yelping as I did so.

“Hold on, play-actor! The comedy’s not finished yet!”

Rudi was standing on the bottom step, leaning against the stone balustrade. He was grinning, but his face was ghastly pale, except down the right side, where the blood had dried in a dark streak. He had a sabre in his free hand, and he lifted the point in my direction.

“Bad form to sneak away without saying goodbye to your host,” says he. “Damned bad form. Didn’t they teach you manners at that English school of yours?”

I made a dart towards the dungeon passage, but with a speed that astonished me, considering the wound on his head, he bounded off the step and was there before me, slashing at me so close that I had to leap back out of harm’s way. He laughed savagely and feinted to lunge, tossing the curls out of his eyes.

“Not quick enough, were we? It isn’t de Gautet this time, you know.”

I circled away from him, and he followed me with his eyes, smiling grimly and making his point play about in front of me. I heard a movement behind me, towards the arch, but before I could turn, he sang out:

“No, no, don’t shoot! You attend to the rats outside! I’ll settle the one in here!”

He advanced slowly, his eyes flashing as the light caught them.

“It isn’t played out yet, you know,” says he. “Perhaps your friends will find Jotunberg a tougher nut to crack than they imagined. And if they do—well, they’ll find twin corpses to cheer ’em up!” He flicked out his point, and I parried it and sprang away. He laughed at that. “Don’t like cold steel, do we? We’ll like it even less in a minute. Come on guard, curse you!”

I couldn’t fly; he’d have had his point through my back in a twinkling. So I had to fight. Not many foemen have seen old Flashy’s face in battle, but Rudi was destined to be one of them, and I couldn’t have had a more deadly opponent. I knew he would be as practised with a sword as he was with a knife or a pistol, which put him well above my touch, but there was nothing for it but to grip my hilt with a sweating hand and defend myself as long as I could. I could see only one faint hope; if he was so greedy for my blood that he wasn’t going to let his pals intervene, there was just a chance that I might hold him off long enough for Sapten to overcome the defenders—if I wasn’t a swordsman of his brilliance, I was at least as good as the master-at-arms of the 11th Hussars could make me, and I was strong enough, while Rudi must be weakened by the smash on the head I had given him.

Perhaps the thought showed in my face, for he laughed again and took a cut at me.

“You can have your choice of how you die,” jeers he. “A nice thrust? Or a good backhand cut—it can take a head off very pretty, as I’m sure you know!”

And with that he came in, foot and hand, and had me fighting for my life as I fell back across the hall. His blade was everywhere, now darting at my face, now at my chest; now slashing at my left flank, now at my head—how I parried those thrusts and sweeps is beyond me, for he was faster than any man I’d ever met, and his wrist was like a steel spring. He drove me back to the foot of the stairs and then dropped his point, laughing, while he glanced towards the main gate, where the pistols were cracking away, and the smoke was drifting back like mist into the hall.

“Stand to ’em, Kraftstein!” he shouted. “What, they’re only a pack of ploughmen! Fire away, boys! Sweep ’em into the lake!”

He waved his sabre in encouragement, and I seized the chance to take a wild slash at his head. By God, I nearly had him, too, but his point was up in the nick of time, and then he was driving in at me again, snarling and thrusting with such speed that I had to duck under his blade and run for it.

“Stand and fight, damn you!” cries he, coming after me. “Are you all white-livered, you damned British? Stand and fight!”

“What for?” I shouted. “So that you can show off your sabre-work, you foreign mountebank? Come and get me if you’re so bloody clever! Come on!”

It was the last thing I’d have thought of saying to anybody, normally, but I knew what I was doing. I’d noticed, as he turned to follow me, that he had staggered a little, and as he stood now, poised to lunge, he was swaying unsteadily from side to side. He was groggy from his wound, and tiring, too; for all his speed and skill he wasn’t as strong a man as I. If I could lure him away from the hall, away from the chance to call in his men, I might be able to exhaust him sufficiently to disable or kill him; at least I might hold him in play until Sapten and his damned dilatory Danes came on the scene. So I fell back towards the dungeon doorway, calling him an Austrian pimp, a bedroom bravo, a Heidelberg whoremaster, and anything else that came to mind.

Possibly he didn’t need this kind of encouragement; it only seemed to amuse him, but he came after me hard enough, stamp-stamp-stamp, with arm and sabre straight as a lance when he lunged. I retreated along the passage nimbly, keeping him at full stretch, and got my footing on the steps. After that it was easier, for whoever had built the steps had known his business; they spiralled down to the right, so that I could fight with the wall to cover my open flank, while his was exposed.

“You can’t run forever,” cries he, cutting back-handed.

“So they told Wellington,” says I, taking it on my hilt. “Why didn’t you learn to fence properly, you opera-house buffoon?”

“Sticks and stones,” laughs he. “We’ll have room enough in a moment, and see how well you can fence without a wall to burrow under.”

He came down the stairs at a run, thrusting close to the wall, and I had to jump away and scramble downwards for dear life. He was at my back on the instant, but I won clear with a couple of swinging cuts and went headlong down the steps, stumbling at the bottom and only regaining my balance just in time as he followed me into the open.

“Close thing that time, play-actor,” says he, pausing to brush the hair out of his eyes. He was breathing heavy, but so was I; if he didn’t tire soon I was done for. He came at me slowly, circling his point warily, and then sprang, clash-clash, and I fell back before him. We were in the low cloister now, with plenty of pillars for me to dodge round, but try as I might I found him forcing me back towards the lighted arch leading to the guardroom and Carl Gustaf’s cell. He was fighting at full pitch, his point leaping at me like quicksilver, and it was all I could do to keep my skin intact as he drove me through into the lighted area.

“Not much farther to run now,” says he. “D’ye know any prayers, you English coward?”

I was labouring too hard to answer him with a taunt of my own; the sweat was coming off me like water, and my right wrist was aching damnably. But he was almost spent, too; as he cut at me and missed he staggered, and in desperation I tried the old Flashman triple pass—a sudden thrust at the face, a tremendous kick at his essentials, and a full-blooded downward cut. But where I had been to school, Rudi had graduated with honours; he side-stepped thrust and kick, and if I hadn’t postponed my intended cut in favour of an original parry—a blind sideways sweep accompanied by a squeal of alarm—he would have had me. As it was his point raked my left forearm before I could get out of range. He paused, panting, to jeer at me.

“So that’s the way gentlemen fight in England, is it?” says he. “No wonder you win your wars.”

“You should talk, you back-stabbing guttersnipe.” I was scared sick at the narrowness of my escape, and glad of the respite. “When did you last fight fair?”

“Let’s see, now,” says he, falling on guard again and trying another thrust. “It would be ’45, I think, or ’46—I was young then. But I was never as crude as you—see now.”

And making a play at my head he suddenly spat straight at me, and as I hesitated in astonishment he tried to run me through, but his tiredness betrayed him, and his point went wide.

“Now who’s a gentleman?” I shouted, but his only answer was a laugh and a sudden rush that drove me back almost to the grille of Carl Gustaf’s cell. One backward glance I had to take—God, the grille door was open, and I went through it like a jack rabbit, slamming it as he came rushing after. He got a foot in, and we heaved and cursed at each other. My weight must have told, but suddenly there was a shout behind me, and something crashed against the bars close to my head. It was a pewter pot—that damned Carl Gustaf was not only still alive but hurling his furniture at me. I must have relaxed instinctively, for Rudi forced the door back, and I went reeling into the middle of the chamber just as the royal idiot behind me let fly with a stool, which fortunately missed.

“I’m on your side, you crazy bastard!” I shouted. “Throw them at him!”

But he had nothing left now but his lamp, and he didn’t apparently fancy leaving us in the dark; he stood staring while Rudi rushed me, slashing for all he was worth. I hewed desperately back; the sabres clanged hilt to hilt, and we grappled, kicking and tearing at each other until he broke free. I caught him a cut on the left shoulder, and he swore foully and sprang into the attack again.

“You’ll go together, then!” he shouted, and drove me back across the cell. His face and shoulder were bleeding, he was all in, but he laughed in my face as he closed in for the kill.

“This way! This way!” bawls Carl Gustaf. “To me, man!”

I couldn’t have done it, not for a kingdom; I could feel my arm failing before Starnberg’s cuts. One I stopped a bare inch from my face, and lurched back; his arm straightened for the thrust—and then in a moment he stopped dead, his head turning towards the grille, as a shot sounded from the stairs.

“Help!” yelled Carl Gustaf. “Quickly! This way!”

Rudi swore and sprang back to the grille door; there was the sound of shouting and feet clattering on the steps. He waited only an instant, and glanced back at me.

“Another time, damn you,” he cried. “Au revoir, your highnesses!”, and he swung his sabre once and let it fly at me, whirling end over end. It sailed over my head, ringing on the stones, but I had started back instinctively, my feet slipped out from under me, and I came crashing down on the flags. Christ! they weren’t level! I was sliding backwards, and in a moment of paralysing horror I remembered the funnel and that ghastly pit at its base. I heard Carl Gustaf’s cry of warning too late and Rudi’s exultant yell of laughter; they seemed to slide upwards out of my sight as I clawed frantically at the slippery stone. I couldn’t stop myself; my foot caught for an instant and I slewed round sprawling, helpless as a cod on a fishmonger’s slab. Now I was sliding head first; I had an instant’s glimpse of that hellish black hole as I slithered towards it, then my head was over the void, my arms were flailing empty air, and I shot over the lip, screaming, into the depths. Jesus, down the drain, went through my mind as I hurtled headlong towards certain death.

The pipe ran at an angle; my shoulders, hips and knees crashed against its sides as I rushed into the inky blackness. For sheer horror I have known nothing to come near it, for this without doubt was the end—the frightful, unspeakable finish; I was being shot into the bowels of hell beyond all hope, into eternal dark. Down I went, the ghastly wail of my own screams in my ears, and ever down, down, and then with shattering force I was plunged into icy water, plummeting through it like a stone until it gradually drew me to a halt, and I felt myself rising.

For a moment I thought I must have shot out into the Jotunsee, a moment of frantic hope, but before I had risen a foot my back bumped against the pipe. Christ! I was trapped like a rat, for the shaft was too narrow to turn; I was head down with nothing to do but drown!

That I didn’t go mad in that moment is still a wonder to me. I honestly believe that a brave man would have lost his reason, for he would have known he was beyond hope; only one of my senseless, unreasoning cowardice would have struggled still, stretching down with frantic fingers and clawing at the pipe beneath me. I had had no time to take breath before hitting the water; my mouth and nose were filling as my hands clawed at the pipe and found a ledge. I hauled with the strength of despair, and slid a little farther down the pipe; my fingers found another ledge and hauled again, but then my strength went and I found myself turning on my back. I was gulping water; the stifling agony in my throat was spreading to my chest; I beat feebly at the roof of the pipe, thinking Christ, Christ, don’t let me die, don’t let me die, but I am dying, I am—and as I felt my senses going I was dimly aware that my face was not against the pipe, but only my chest and body.

I can’t remember thinking clearly what this meant, but I know that my hands came up beside my face, which had in fact come out of the pipe’s end, and pushed punily at the stone that was imprisoning me. I must have thrust outwards, for I felt my body rasp slowly along the pipe as I tilted upwards. There was a dreadful roaring in my ears, and nothing but crimson before my eyes, but I could feel myself rising, rising, and I know a vague thought of floating up to heaven went through what remained of my consciousness. And then there was air on my face—cold, biting air—only for a second before the water enveloped me again. But half-dead as I was, my limbs must have answered to the knowledge, for my head came into the air again, and this time I thrashed feebly and kept it above the surface. My sight cleared, and there was a starry sky above me, with a huge, white cold moon, and I was spewing and retching on the surface of the Jotunsee.

Somehow I kept afloat while the agony in my chest subsided and my senses came back enough for me to realise that the water was freezing cold, and threatening to suck me down once more. Sobbing and belching water, I paddled feebly with my hands, and looked about me; to my right the lake stretched away forever, but there on my left, looming upwards, was the great rock of Jotunberg with its beautiful, welcoming, splendid castle. It was a bare twenty yards away; I struggled with all my strength, kicking out against the water, and by the grace of God the rock when I reached it was shelving. I got my head and shoulders on to it and clawed my way out, and then I lay, helpless as a baby, with my face on that blessed cold wet stone, and went into a dead faint.

I think I must have lain there only a few minutes; perhaps the mental shock of the ghastly experience I had endured was greater than the physical one, for the next thing I remember is stumbling slowly over the rocks by the waterside, without knowing where or who I was. I sat down, and gradually it all came back, like a terrible nightmare; it took some moments before I could assure myself that I was alive again.

Looking back, of course, I realise that from the moment I slipped into the funnel in the dungeon until I clambered ashore again on the Jotunberg, can hardly have been more than two minutes. My initial plunge must have taken me to within a foot or two of the pipe’s outlet; I had scrambled out by sheer panicky good luck, and floated to the surface. It was a miracle, no doubt, but a truly horrifying one. If I’m a coward, haven’t I cause to be? Only those who know what it is to die can really fear death, I think, and by God I knew. It haunts me still; any time I have a bellyful of cheese or lobster I try to stay awake all night, for if I drop off, sure as fate, there I am again in that hellish sewer beneath Jotunberg, drowning upside down.

However, at the time, when I realised that I wasn’t dead yet, but that I would be if I sat there much longer, of cold and exhaustion, I took stock of the situation. At the point where I had left the scene of the action so abruptly, it had sounded as though help had arrived. Presumably Kraftstein and his cronies had been overcome, and with any luck Rudi had met a well-deserved end into the bargain. Happy thought! maybe they had slung him down the pipe after me. I couldn’t think of anyone I would rather have had it happen to. Anyway, they were probably getting Carl Gustaf out of his fetters by now, and all would be jollity. How would they respond to my reappearance? It would be a bit of a blow to them, after I had appeared to die so conveniently—would they be tempted to do the job properly this time? No, surely not—not after all I’d done for them, much against my will though it had been.

Anyway, it was settled for me. If I stayed there any longer I would certainly freeze to death. I must just go into the castle and take my chance.

From where I stood I could see the causeway, about a hundred yards ahead, and as I stumbled round the base of the island the drawbridge came into view. There were figures in the castle gateway, and they looked like Volsungs; sure enough, as I came closer, I saw that they were, so I hallooed and scrambled up the little rocky path that ended at the bridge’s foot.

Three gaping, sturdy peasants, they helped me up and led me through the debris-strewn archway into the hall. God, what a mess it was. Kraftstein lay beside the wheel, with his skull split and his great hands crooked like talons; I remembered their grip and shuddered. Nearby were half a dozen other bodies—Sapten had kept his word, then; there would be no survivors of the Jotunberg garrison. There was a pool of blood in the very centre of the hall, and lying in it was the fellow who had complained to Kraftstein of boredom; well, ennui wouldn’t trouble him any longer. The smell of powder was harsh in my nostrils, and a faint cloud of it still hung in the shadows overhead.

The peasants pushed me down on to a bench, and while one helped me strip my sodden clothes—the second time that night—another washed the stinging gash in my arm and bandaged it round. The third, practical fellow, realising that I had to be clad in something, was pulling the garments off one of the corpses—he chose one who had been neatly shot in the head, and had been considerate enough not to bleed much—and I can’t say that I felt any revulsion at all about wearing dead men’s weeds. In fact, they fitted uncommon well.

Then they presented me with a flask of schnapps, and I sent half of it down my throat at once, and felt the fiery warmth running back along my limbs. I poured a little into my palm and rubbed it on my face and neck—a trick Mackenzie taught me in Afghanistan; nothing like it for the cold, if you can spare the liquor.

I sipped the rest slowly, looking round. There were several Volsungs in the hall, staring curiously about them, and I could hear the voices of others in the upper rooms; they seemed to have everything in hand. Of Sapten and Grundvig there was no sign.

Well, this was fine, so far as it went. I was beginning to feel excellent, now that the shock—no, the series of hellish frights—of the evening were wearing off, and I was savouring the blissful knowledge that here I was, hale and whole, with drink in me, warm clothes, and nothing more to fear. With every moment, as I realised what I had endured and escaped, my spirits rose; I could contemplate the future, for the first time in months, without feeling my bowels drooping down into my legs.

“Where’s Major Sapten, then?” says I, and they told me he was down in the dungeon still; on no account, they said, was anyone to intrude. Well, I knew the prohibition wouldn’t include me, so I brushed aside their protests with a show of princely authority—remarkable how habits stick, once learned—and marched across to the passage. I checked at the archway, though, and asked if they were sure all the defenders were dead, and they beamed and chorused “Jah, jah.” I took a sabre along anyway—not for protection, but because I knew it would look well, and went down the staircase and into the cloister. Through the far archway I heard the murmur of voices, and as I came closer Sapten was saying:

“—Hansen’s body in the moat. I wish we had laid Starnberg by the heels, though; that’s one overdue in hell.”

That was bad news; I took a hurried look round, and then cursed my nervousness. Wherever Rudi was, it wouldn’t be here.

“It all passes belief,” said another voice, and I recognised it as Carl Gustaf’s. “Can it be true? A man who could take my place … an English impostor … and yet he came here, alone with Hansen, to try to save me.”

“He didn’t have much choice,” growls Sapten. “It was that or a rope.” Well, damn him; there was gratitude.

“Nay, nay, you wrong him.” It was Grundvig now, excellent chap. “He tried to make amends, Sapten; no man could have done more. Without him …”

“Do I not know it?” says Carl Gustaf. “I saw him fight; he saved me from that scoundrel. My God! what a death!”

There was a pause, and then Sapten says:

“Aye, well, give him the benefit of the doubt. But, I have to say it, in dying he performed you a service, highness, for alive he might have been a confounded embarrassment.”

Well, I wasn’t standing for this—besides, I know a cue when I hear one. I stepped softly through the archway.

“Sorry to be inconvenient, major,” says I, “but embarrassment or not, I am still here to serve his highness.”

It produced a most satisfactory effect; Sapten spun round on his heel, his pipe clattering on the floor; Grundvig sprang up, staring in amazement; the Prince, who had been seated at the table, swore in astonishment; there were two others there, behind the Prince’s chair, and doubtless they were suitably stricken, too.

Well, there was a fine babble and cries of wonder and inquiry, I can tell you; they were certainly surprised to see me, even if they weren’t exactly overjoyed. Of course, it was a difficult situation for them; heroes are so much less of a nuisance when they’re dead. There was even a hint of resentment, I thought, in the questions they poured at me—how had I escaped, where had I come from; I’ll swear Sapten was on the brink of demanding what the devil I meant by it.

I answered fairly offhand, describing the plumbing system of Jotunberg briefly, and how I had escaped from the lake. Grundvig and the Prince agreed it was a marvel; Sapten recovered his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco.

“And so,” says I, in conclusion, “I came back to offer my further services—if they are needed.” And I laid my sabre gently on the table and stood back. This chap Irving has nothing on me.

There was an awkward, very long silence. Sapten puffed—he wasn’t going to break it; Grundvig fidgeted, and then the Prince, who had been frowning at the table, looked up. God, he was like me.

“Sir,” says he slowly, “these gentlemen have been telling me … what has happened in Strackenz of late. It—it defies understanding … mine at least. It seems you have been party to the most dastardly deception, the strangest plot, I ever heard of. Yet it seems it was against your will—is this not so?” He looked at the others, and Grundvig nodded and looked bewildered. “Perhaps I am not clear in my mind,” the Prince went on, “after all this—” and he gestured about him, like a man in a fog, “—but at least I have the evidence of my eyes. Whoever you are, whatever the reasons for what you did …” he broke off, at a loss, and then pulled himself together. “You saved my life tonight, sir. That much I know. If there has been wrong on your side—well, that is for your soul. But it has been cancelled out, for me at least.” He looked at the others, Grundvig still nodding, Sapten puffing grimly and staring at his boots. Then Carl Gustaf stood up, and held out his hand.

I took it, very manly, and we shook and looked each other in the eye. It was not canny, that resemblance, and I know he felt the same eeriness as I did, for his hand fell away.

“Indeed, I think I am in your debt,” says he, a little shaky. “If there is anything I can do … I don’t know.”

Well, to tell the truth, I hadn’t been thinking of rewards, but he seemed to be hinting at something. However, I knew the best policy was to shut up, so I simply waited, and another uncomfortable silence fell. But this time it was Sapten who broke it.

“There’s no question of debt,” says he, deliberately. “Mr Arnold may be said to have made amends. He’s lucky to go off with his life.”

But at this Grundvig and the Prince cried out.

“At least we owe him civility,” says the Prince. “Mr Arnold, you have had my thanks; understand it is the thanks of Strackenz and Denmark also.”

“Aye, very fine,” sneers Sapten. “But with your highness’s leave, a clear passage to our frontier is the most, I think, that Mr Arnold will expect.” He was pretty angry, all right; I began to understand that if Carl Gustaf hadn’t survived it would have been waltzing matilda for Flashy if Sapten had had his way. I didn’t think it politic to mention his promise on behalf of little golden-headed Amelia; the less said about her the better.

“At least he must be allowed to rest first,” says the Prince, “and then conveyed in safety to the border. We owe him that.”

“He can’t stay here,” croaked Sapten. “In God’s name, look at his face! We’ll have difficulty preventing a scandal as it is. If there are two men with the prince’s figurehead in the state, we’ll never keep it quiet.”

The Prince bit his lip, and I saw it was time for a diplomatic intervention.

“If your highness pleases,” says I, “Major Sapten is right. Every moment I continue in Strackenz is dangerous, for both of us, but especially for you. I must go, and quickly. Believe me, it is for the best. And as the major has remarked, there is no debt.”

Wasn’t there, though! I kept my face smooth, but underneath I was beginning to smart with hurt and anger. I hadn’t asked to be embroiled in the politics of their tin-pot little duchy, but I had been bloody near killed more times than I could count, cut and wounded and half-drowned, scared out of my wits—and all I was getting at the end of it was the sneers of Sapten and the handshake of his blasted highness. Ten minutes before I had been thankful to come out with a whole skin, but suddenly now I felt full of spite and anger towards them.

There was a bit of mumbling and grumbling, but it was all hypocrisy; indeed, I don’t doubt that if Carl Gustaf had been given an hour or two longer to recover from the scare he had had, and his consequent gratitude to me, he would have been ready to listen to a suggestion from Sapten that I should be slipped back down the pipe for a second time—with my hands tied this time. After all, his face was like mine, so his character might be, too.

For the moment, though, he had the grace to look troubled; he probably thought he owed it to his princely dignity to do something for me. But he managed to fight it down—they usually do—and the upshot of it was that they agreed that I should ride out as quickly as possible. They would stay where they were for the night, so that his highness could rest and take counsel, and there was a broad hint that I had better be over the frontier by morning. Grundvig seemed the only one who was unhappy about my sudden dismissal; he was an odd one, that, and I gathered from what he said that he alone had come round to the view that I was more sinned against than sinning. He actually seemed rather sorry for me, and he was the one who eventually escorted me up from that dungeon, and ordered a horse to be found, and stood with me in the castle gateway while they went to the mainland for it.

“I am a father, too, you see,” says he, pacing up and down. “I understand what it must mean to a man, when his loved ones are torn from him, and used as hostages against him. Who knows? I, too, might have acted as you did. I trust I should have behaved as bravely when the time came.”

Silly bastard, I thought, that’s all you know. I asked him what had happened to Rudi, and he said he didn’t know. They had seen him vanish through a side door in the outer cell, and had given chase, but had lost him in the castle. Presumably he knew its bolt-holes, and had got away. I didn’t care for the sound of this, but it was long odds I wouldn’t run into him again, anyway. I wasn’t planning on lingering—just long enough for the notion that was beginning to form in my mind.

Then one of the peasants returned with a horse, and a cloak for me. I asked a few directions of Grundvig, accepted a flask and a pouch of bread and cheese, and swung into the saddle. Just the feel of the horse moving under me was heartening; I could hardly wait to be away from that beastly place and everything in it.

Grundvig didn’t shake hands, but he waved solemnly, and then I turned the horse’s head, touched her with my heel, and clattered away across the bridge, out of the lives of Carl Gustaf, the Sons of the Volsungs, Old Uncle Tom Cobley, and all. I took the Strackenz City road, and never looked back at the cold pile of Jotunberg. I hope they all caught pneumonia.