by KJ Charles
Winter lingered like an unwanted policeman for endless monotonous weeks, and then departed overnight. We woke one day to green meadows dotted with the beginnings of flowers, as the entire country seemed to throw off its blankets and burst into life at once. Birds sang, lambs appeared from nowhere, the peace of the Castle of Zenda was shattered, and my existence became thirty times as complicated. For the latter two facts, as for so many things, I can only blame Rupert of Hentzau.
My God, how to convey Hentzau on the page? One could not do it honestly without contravening the Obscene Publications Act. A handsome villain, Rassendyll calls him, who feared neither man nor devil. He was not yet twenty-three, with an impossibly fresh youthfulness to his face. His hair was thick and dark, his eyes darker and full of dancing demons. His upper lip had a curl to it that could be sneer or snarl or smile, or all of them, and he was in superb condition, trim, light-muscled, an athlete, a fencer, a rider most of all. I saw him first on horseback, trotting up the long broad avenue to the chateau one fine spring morning, and I will freely admit my mouth went dry.
I was taking the air with Toni in the grounds as the rider approached. I looked, and I may have stopped in my tracks to do it, because she gave me a dig in the side. “Cheri, you are not listening to me.”
“Of course I am.”
“No, you are not. You are—” She followed my gaze to the man approaching us. He rode a roan mare, a wonderfully elegant piece, but who could give a damn for horseflesh given the man-flesh atop it?
“Oh Jasper,” she said. “Not him. No.”
“You know him? Who is he?”
The rider drew level and halted his horse. “Mademoiselle de Mauban!” he cried, lifting his hat and saluting her with a flourish so deep as to seem satirical. There was a feather in his hat, of course. He wore inadvisably tight trousers that hugged his well-muscled thighs, and a jacket of military cut, revealing just enough of his taut arse that I felt a strong curiosity to see more.
Toni inclined her head. The rider turned to me. “Greetings, sir.” His smile was mocking, blinding. “Rupert of Hentzau, at your service.”
“Jasper Detchard.”
“Ah,” he said. “I know your name. I am summoned to appear in His Grace’s presence no later than eleven o’clock at my peril”—it had recently chimed noon—“but that duty done, I shall pay my respects with due ceremony and apology.” His dark gaze flickered over me. “It will be a pleasure,” he added, and clapped his heels to his horse.
I let out a long breath. Toni let out a groan. “Jasper.”
“Why not?” I enquired. “He looks game.”
“For anything,” she retorted somewhat tartly. “Hentzau is a rascal of the first order. Trouble in shining boots. Stay away from him, truly; we have enough on our plates. He is worse than he is handsome.”
“I find it hard to believe that he is more anything than he is handsome.”
“Well, he is. Really, you must not. It will not end well.”
I swept her a bow. “But my dear mademoiselle, when do I ever choose courses that end well?”
She laughed a little at that. “Too true. But believe me, Hentzau will be the pinnacle of your poor decisions. They say he broke his mother’s heart with his wildness,” she offered, in a faux-moralising tone.
“Then he and I have something in common already. May I infer that we have tastes in common too?”
“I have heard he romances men and women alike. Some say simultaneously,” she added with a sideways look.
“How intriguing.”
“He is that, yes. And charming, handsome, pretty-mannered. But I don’t hear that he’s kind.”
“Not being a maid in search of security, I don’t seek kindness,” I observed.
She was silent for a few seconds. When she spoke, she looked away from me. “I wish you would. I never thought of kindness, not really, until I was made to feel its lack. To love someone who is unkind . . .” She left that there, staring up the broad avenue at the gracious chateau, our master’s domain. “Well. Anyway, Hentzau is a pretty piece, I grant you, but he is trouble to the bone. He is one of those men who has no heart.”
“Then we will get on.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You have plenty of heart, just no soul.”
“Thank you for your good opinion. But why do you imagine Hentzau’s heart interests me in the slightest? The rest of his anatomy would do me very well indeed.”
She exhaled. “It is your choice, dear Jasper. I wish you fortune, so long as that unreliable little sod doesn’t get in our way. Go forth and conquer—or be conquered, as you prefer—and enjoy the ride.”
MICHAEL AND HIS VISITOR were closeted together for some hours. I possessed my soul (if I have one) in patience for a while, became bored, and invited Lauengram to a bout with the foils. He was not my match, but a good swordsman nonetheless, and we gave each other a testing time up and down the practice court. It was a hot afternoon, unseasonably so, and we had both stripped to our shirtsleeves by the time we stopped for a cooling draught.
Lauengram took a long swig. “That’s better. His Grace’s kitchen brews an excellent ale.”
“He is well served in all things,” I agreed. “Who is it who serves him now? Some young sprig I saw riding up the great approach.”
“Hentzau.” Lauengram wiped his hand across his moustaches as though that was all he need say.
“And who is that when he’s at home?”
“Oh, a little devil of the minor nobility. Flaunted his mistresses in his mother’s house—a godly woman, on her sickbed—and drove her to her grave by it. He has killed his man in a duel, and cut throats in the street too. Drinking, gambling, wenching—and more than wenching, I hear,” he added with a sideways look at me.
“He sounds a disreputable visitor for the sober Duke of Strelsau.”
Lauengram gave his sharp bark of a laugh. “Oh, the worst of reputations.”
“Then what is he doing here?”
“That I cannot say, but Hentzau has notoriously enjoyed Prince Rudolf’s hospitality in Strelsau for the last few months. Drunken talk, public dissipation—and believe me, if Hentzau is involved, it is always public; he has no discretion. Perhaps he has something to say to Duke Michael on Red Rudolf’s behalf. Or perhaps he acts on our duke’s command. Perhaps it is a taunt. I dare say we will learn.”
We took up the foils again after we had drunk our fill. The practice ground was in a courtyard overlooked on all sides which rapidly trapped the sun’s heat, and after another few brisk bouts I was sweating like a horse. There was a barrel of water in the corner of the ground, and I went over, scooped out a ladleful, and tipped it over my head, drenching the thin linen of my shirt and washing the heat from my scalp. The sensation was delightful. I added another couple of ladles, then splashed my face with a double handful of the cool water, shutting my eyes to enjoy the soaking.
“Good God,” said a light, taunting voice. “What a fascinating display.”
I shook my wet hair and blinked water from my eyes. There he stood in the doorway to the courtyard: Rupert of Hentzau, dark hair glistening in the sunlight, lips curving, eyeing me with an appreciation that struck me as excessively frank given Lauengram was standing there with us. No laws here, I reminded myself: not in Ruritania, and certainly not for Michael’s man in Michael’s stronghold.
I was aware that water ran in rivulets over my shoulders; that my shirt was soaked and, being fine linen, doubtless interestingly translucent; that I was somewhat sweaty and flushed, with my muscles corded from exertion. I dare say I looked well enough. I had ten years on him—thirteen, if I must be tediously accurate—but sun, campaigning, and late nights in smoky rooms had lined my face, while his was so youthful he looked the boy everyone called him.
Youthful, but not innocent. Not that at all.
He was looking me over, taking his time, a leisurely survey that disturbed me in a way I could not quite place, until I realised its meaning: he was look
ing at me as a man looks at a woman he is not obliged to respect.
Now, I am happy to be admired, and will gladly joust with heated glances until one may get down to business, but that was not how he looked at me. I can put it no better than to say, some men’s looks give the message, Shall we? whereas Hentzau’s insolent survey said, all too clearly, Shall I? with no interest in asking my opinion. He was considering if I merited his attention—I, Jasper Detchard, who had fucked and fought my way across two continents while this little shit preened himself in some spotty mirror—and the damned gall of it struck me very forcibly indeed.
“And do you only stand on the sidelines?” I asked.
“Oh, I like to play. If a partner merits my attention. I wonder if you might.”
“Find out,” I said, and I threw my foil at him. Perhaps rather hard, and rather suddenly, aimed at his face, and he flinched away even as his hand came out for it. A visible flinch, and he knew it, and sudden fury dawned on his handsome features.
Lauengram gave a cough of laughter and tossed me his foil, which I caught neatly, flicking the tip through the air with a satisfying hiss. “Go on, Detchard. Be cautious, Hentzau, if you can; you have met your master.”
“Oh, we shall see about that.” He put the foil down to strip off his tight coat and waistcoat, down to his shirt. I took the opportunity to run my eyes—insolently—over his form. A smooth man, agile, tautly and tightly muscled with a dancer’s grace. Annoyance in his first movements, brought under control quickly but not quite quickly enough. Hentzau’s temper might well be his weakness, I decided.
His form was excellent as he came to face me on the practice ground. The blunted tips of the foils whipped up in perfunctory salute, and we fought.
It is an interesting exercise to fight a man when neither of you is attempting to kill the other. Indeed, it is much like the distinction between a fuck that will be the first of many, and a hurried encounter without names or faces. When one does not have to rush to completion for one’s own safety, one can take time to learn, to test, to probe weaknesses and explore peculiarities. The delicious pleasures of advance and retreat, the dance of feints and rushes, the finding of a rhythm that builds in speed and confidence, harder and faster amid the panting of harsh breath to the final thrust—
I seem to be digressing.
Hentzau was fresh where I was already heated, his reactions swift and sure. He was a good fencer, too: athletic in movement, light and swift, his foil flashing in the sun, and a taunting smile on those handsome, arrogant lips that were made to drive men to madness one way or another. I had to work hard in those few minutes to avoid being hit, and he forced me to a graceless twist and retreat that brought a quick pant of mocking laughter to his breath.
I was to see that again and again: Hentzau pricking and poking to drive his opponent into reckless anger. He struck at recklessness in other men because he knew it to be his own weakness, even while it won him prizes of which other men dared not dream.
It was a good strategy for most, but I am not reckless. Rassendyll somewhat patronisingly calls me a cool man, relentless, but without Hentzau’s dash, and that is fair. Heroes are dashing. I prefer winning.
So I set myself to do it. I made a series of feints that forced him to turn until the sun was in his eyes; I used my superior reach and strength mercilessly, striking down the foil that leapt and darted at me with a heavy, joyless hand, knocking his blade out of the way rather than engaging in a test of skill. I could have danced with him to both our pleasure, but I was not here to please him. I wanted to win.
I could observe the growing annoyance on his face, since he had seen me fight far more gracefully with Lauengram. I was insulting his swordplay with my bludgeoning tactics, and he knew it, and was, I hoped, doubly enraged since he could not break through my guard to punish my insolence.
At last he made a daring move, what fencers call a flaconade, his blade circling mine and sliding along it with a rasp of steel to bend my foil out of the way even as he lunged. It was a perfectly executed attack that should, if there were any justice, have gone straight to my heart.
There is no justice, and I am too well acquainted with the showy devices of fencing-masters to be caught by such a thing. I twisted aside from his attack, disengaging my blade as I ducked low to the ground and braced myself with my free hand. It was a perfect passata sotto, if we are to talk of showy Paris-salon manoeuvres, executed with all the artistry I had denied him earlier, and I had then only to straighten my sword arm to tap his chest. I could have hit him hard enough to leave a bruise, but I judged the controlled touch would be more exasperating, and his expression showed that I was right.
“A fine bout,” Lauengram said, applauding with a few slow, ironic claps as I rose.
“Another round,” said Hentzau through his teeth.
“Hardly.” That was a voice from the doorway, and I turned to see Michael standing there, watching. “Detchard, with me. Hentzau, I feel sure I gave certain instructions.”
To give the devil his due, Hentzau showed no discomposure at that rebuke. He swept a dashing bow—naturally—and murmured, “Your Grace.” Michael surveyed him with an assessing eye, and stood in the doorway waiting for me as I splashed my face and found my coat.
WE CLIMBED THE TOWER—SEVERAL steep flights, punishing to overworked legs; I assumed that was deliberate—and walked along the ancient battlements, looking over the little town’s red rooftops, and the rolling forests of Zenda that surrounded us, rising up the mountain slopes. Michael was silent for a while. Finally he said, “That was hard fought.”
“He’s a good swordsman.”
“Oh, you are without question his master,” Michael said dismissively. “He will have to trick you to beat you. I have no doubt he will.”
“Your Grace is most flattering.”
“He is to join us.”
“Hentzau? Join the Five?”
“Now the Six. Indeed.”
“I understood his reputation was of the worst,” I offered cautiously.
“It is. He has partnered my brother in debaucheries which would be a matter of great scandal were they widely known.” Michael’s lips curved in a cold smile.
Rudolf the Red would doubtless soon learn his playmate had gone over to his brother’s side. That would be a daily torture to a man who feared for his reputation, assuming Rudolf had the sense to do so, which I doubted. “I see.”
“Hentzau will behave himself in my service,” Michael added. “Or, at least, he will not make himself notorious in public. That is the subject on which I wished to speak to you, Detchard.”
“Am I to be his keeper also?” I enquired, and received a chilling look.
“You will keep him from Mademoiselle de Mauban. He is a man who aspires to forbidden fruit.”
“He would be brave to do so when it is Your Grace who forbids it.”
Michael clasped his hands behind his back, walking the stone flags with a sure stride. “Hentzau wishes to join my party because he well knows the faction of the Red would not tolerate him. If or when my brother becomes king, wiser counsellors will see his playmates quietly removed, to avoid staining the dignity of the crown.”
“They don’t do that now,” I observed.
“Rudolf would only find new playmates. There is no point trying to restrain him until he is king.”
“But will he not choose his own companions then?”
“He will quickly be fettered to my cousin the Snow Queen. I imagine she will freeze his hot blood.” His voice rang with repressed rage. Evidently he resented Flavia’s refusals. “In any case, Hentzau has now chosen his side—or so he says.”
“You doubt him, sir?”
“I doubt everyone,” Michael said. “You will watch Mademoiselle de Mauban for me, and you will watch Hentzau too and satisfy yourself of his faithfulness. Do not set yourself up as his enemy; I don’t want him to feel he is suspected. And he is an able man. He may be of great use to me. But I wish to be
sure, and you will make sure for me.”
“With pleasure, Your Grace.”
“But, Detchard? Hentzau has . . . charm.” Michael pronounced the word with disdain, having no great interest in talents he lacked. “You will not be charmed.”
“It is not my habit, Your Grace.”
Michael turned abruptly, fixing me with his compelling glare. “Mark me well. I will not have you tumbling into bed with Hentzau. You owe your loyalty, your devotion, to me. Do you understand?”
“Entirely, sir.” I had seen the truth of Antoinette’s words for myself. Michael was as jealous as a child, ever demanding to be first in the hearts of everyone around him, enraged beyond measure at the idea that he was not the centre of all our worlds. He would never let Antoinette go, simply because she dared to wish to leave him; I had no doubt he had removed her daughter in part because he feared the rivalry of a baby. “Your Grace, I am not here for diversions. I prefer work to play. And pretty boys are ten a penny.” I bowed my knee to him, lowering my head. “I have greater ambitions.”
He nodded, a flush of pleasure on his cheeks. “Good. You are a loyal servant, Detchard. But we both know men are weak, so make use of Krafstein’s skills. It’s what he’s there for. Perhaps Hentzau’s intentions are honest, but if they are not— Well, he now knows he can only beat you by trickery or treachery. Be watchful. Be wise. And do not be seduced. That is an order.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I am nothing if not obedient. Michael had ordered me to watch Hentzau, and I did. I watched his walk, the movement of his graceful frame, and the way he smiled, which was an offence to decent citizens in its blend of mockery and invitation.
He mocked continually, as though he lived in a permanent state of amusement with the world, and if Michael had not forbidden serious duelling, I think he would have found himself in grave trouble with at least three of our company. Only to Michael did he speak with courtesy untainted by irony; often he forgot even with Michael, which suggested either courage or foolhardiness. The rest of us were left with the sensation of being continually ridiculed. One could not entirely blame him, since Krafstein and the Belgian were both ridiculous in their vile way; and Hentzau’s endless rhapsodies on de Gautet’s ludicrous facial hair were very funny indeed. He composed an Ode to Monsieur’s Waxed Moustache one evening and declaimed it at the dinner table, and I never saw Michael laugh so hard as then, all ambition and resentment briefly forgotten. We all roared, even the usually humourless de Gautet, and that evening we were not the Duke of Strelsau and his six henchmen, but a party of seven companions, fellows in mirth.