The Henchmen of Zenda

by KJ Charles

  Still no sound. Had the observer not seen me? I could hardly believe it. Was he—or she—raising the alarm quietly, shaking shoulders and murmuring for help?

  I had looped up my cord as I proceeded. I slipped the bundle into a pocket and gently opened the door that led back into the chateau. Every movement had to be whisper-silent now; I felt a strong urge to run, and reminded myself how foolish it would be.

  I bolted the door to the roof and made my way down the pitch-black stairwell, into the corridor, which seemed almost bright in the moonlight coming through the windows. I slipped along in silence, increasingly reassured that nobody seemed to be making a fuss. Perhaps, after all, the noise had been made by an animal. I had not seen much more of the shape than movement; it could have been a boar or a wolf. And if it was a human, well, it seemed whoever it was did not feel inclined to alert the house. I might yet be safe.

  I reached the turning into the corridor on which my room lay, rounded the corner, and came face-to-face with Rupert of Hentzau, standing in the open hall at half past three in the morning.

  My approach had made no noise, a fact of which I could be sure because he recoiled in shock. That gave me time to conquer my first instinct, pull my hand away from the small of my back and the wicked little blade I kept there, and demand, “What are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” he repeated, with some astonishment. “What are you doing?”

  I pushed him back. He wore a dressing gown which looked garish even with its colours flattened by moonlight. It was open almost to the waist, secured with a loosely tied belt, and he wore no nightshirt, so that his bare chest was visible to the navel. When I pushed him, my fingers met his skin. “There was a noise, outside,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It sounded like an intruder. Did you hear it? Or was it you?”

  “Oh, you’re looking for an intruder?” he retorted. “I see you stopped to dress.”

  He had me there, without question. Our eyes locked in the moonlight. I still held my hand against his chest; I could feel the rise and fall of his breathing under my fingers.

  “You would find yourself at a disadvantage fighting half-naked,” I said, and the necessity of whispering made my words sound too breathy.

  “But what a charming distraction I’d provide. Cold on the feet, though.” I glanced down involuntarily, and saw that his feet were indeed bare, and dirtied too. He’d been outside.

  I looked up again, moving my hand to my hip to put it near my knife, but Hentzau showed no intent to attack; he merely smiled. “You know, Detchard, you needn’t make excuses to me.”

  “Excuses?” I repeated with all the incredulity I could summon.

  “If you were pursuing your own interests, well, you’re not the only one. A man has a right to go about his private affairs unmolested, doesn’t he? Michael would have us all be joyless, but that doesn’t suit me. So perhaps we could agree that your nocturnal activities are no more Michael’s business than, let’s say, my own excursions, hmm?”

  It was as good as telling me, You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I would keep quiet about his trip to Zenda, and he wouldn’t mention a disturbed night, and me fully dressed at three in the morning. I weighed up the odds and concluded I had no choice.

  I stepped back, releasing him. My hand felt cool away from his chest. “As you say. Some matters are nobody else’s business.”

  “I’m so glad we agree. I’d hate to fall out with you, dear Detchard.” His eyes glittered dark. “And I hope your evening was fulfilling. I am for my bed now, unless you feel there might be any chance of unlawful entry tonight? I’d hate to miss the opportunity.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” I said through my teeth.

  “Then I trust we’ll fight tomorrow.”

  “Do you know, Hentzau, I have absolutely no doubt we will.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  My frustrated housebreaking went otherwise unnoticed. Michael’s party returned in a couple of days, and I was forced to tell Antoinette I was no further forwards. I informed Michael that Hentzau had done nothing suspicious in his absence, and could only hope he would hold to our late-night accord.

  I wasn’t sure what he was about. I could not be positive that he had seen my attempted break-in. If he had, and chose to ignore that one of Michael’s most trusted men had attempted to break into his rooms, that would raise a great number of questions about his own loyalty. Even if Hentzau believed I had been out on the fuck, his stipulation still meant that he knew Michael was having him watched, and that he did not want his movements reported back. In fact, the little sod was unquestionably up to something. But I did not accuse him, and he did not accuse me.

  A few weeks passed. Hentzau did not ride alone again, and seemed every inch the loyal, if disrespectful, courtier. I watched him. He watched me back. Sometimes we fought, always with others around us; we did not speak privately.

  Antoinette was permitted another visit to her daughter. I asked Michael if he would have me accompany her and was turned down flat.

  “I am training my hawk to fly from my hand and return without jesses,” he told me. “Antoinette may roam Europe as she chooses; she is not my prisoner.”

  “You no longer feel she needs watching?” I asked doubtfully.

  “If she needed watching still, I should have failed. No. I have given her . . . inducements to behave. That will do, I think. She will travel alone.”

  That was his decree. I soon learned what the inducements were: Michael had announced, quite simply, that if she did not return on the date he had set, or if any effort was made to take the child or follow her keepers, she would never see Lisl again. It was, he told her, a test of her obedience. Antoinette made the journey to Munich alone, and only there was informed she had to go on to Paris to see her daughter. I had no contacts in Paris anyway, since I had not been able to set foot there for years; Antoinette did, but she did not dare use them. She believed Michael was looking for an excuse to punish her, and I imagine she was right. She was away a fortnight all told, dragged over the Continent then made to kick her heels in Paris and carry out errands for Michael, and, she told me later, she was only permitted to see Lisl for three days.

  I did what I could in her absence, which was little enough. Michael handed all his correspondence to his loyal manservant Max; I considered waylaying the fellow and taking his postbag off him, but I doubted I could do that more than once, so the chance of a randomly chosen bag containing something useful was slim. I also endeavoured to ingratiate myself further with Michael so that he might hand the business over to me, but got nowhere. Michael preferred to torment her himself.

  I attempted one of these conversations the morning before he set out for Strelsau. Letters had been flying back and forth, and I hoped to “take some work off his hands.” Michael was in a truly foul mood that day, tense and irritable, and dismissed me discourteously enough that I went out for a walk to regain control of my temper. I strode the hills for several hours without achieving that aim, and was marching back up the drive when I heard a cheery cry and saw Hentzau hailing me.

  “There you are, Detchard. I was looking for you. A bout with the blades?”

  “No.” I kept walking.

  He caught up after a few steps. “You seem unusually grim. And considering that you’re usually grim, that’s saying something.”

  “I just want solitude.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity,” he said, setting himself to match my pace. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  It was beautiful weather, with spring shading into summer. The trees were in bright leaf, the meadows sweet with wild flowers, and the birds made their usual racket. “Appreciate it yourself,” I said.

  “I am, I am. Have you heard, the old king is on his last legs?”

  “I have heard variations on that theme for months.”

  “They say he has spoken to the Senate, asked if he can give his blessing to Michael. They say he wishes to choose his successor. That’s why Michael is hea
ding for Strelsau now: he intends a last-ditch appeal to the Princess Flavia to accept his hand. He believes that their alliance would surely sway the King and Senate in his favour.”

  “I wish him luck.”

  “You may well. It’s his last chance to do this honourably. If Rudolf is made king and marries the princess, Michael will be out in the cold for good.”

  “I dare say.”

  “I would expect you to be more distraught,” he said with a sideways glance. “As Michael’s loyal man.”

  “I would have expected you to be heading for Strelsau ready to help him woo the princess,” I said. “As—as you say—his loyal man.”

  “I wasn’t invited,” Hentzau said with a grin. “I dare say he’s afraid I’ll snatch her royal heart from under his nose.”

  “I’m sure a princess of the Blood would raise her skirts at the first snap of your fingers.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he agreed. “And yet when I met her, she seemed inexplicably unmoved by my charms. Perhaps she had a cold.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. He was an arrogant rogue, but he could laugh at himself. “You should have tried harder.”

  “Clearly. I don’t think I’m in the mood for red hair, though. You know how it is: some days one wants beefsteak, other days only the lightest pastry will do.”

  “Tell Flavia she doesn’t suit your delicate palate,” I suggested. “I’m sure it will go well.”

  “I can’t help my feelings,” Hentzau said soulfully. “Princesses mean nothing to me. I want— Do you want to know what I want?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, I thought you would. I’m in a mood for blondes, I think.”

  “Really.”

  “Blondes and secrets. I find that fascinating: fair hair and dark motives. Does anyone like that spring to mind?”

  I had wondered if he would raise the topic of that late-night meeting again; this was more blatant than I had expected, and I was not sure how to respond. I would have liked to believe it was simply an approach; I highly doubted that, but I decided to play the game as though it were. “Nobody available to you, no. I thought you had a paramour tucked away in the town?”

  “Sir, you cast doubt on my good name. Come, Detchard, might we not be frank with one another?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “Michael has forbidden me to fuck you, but since I imagine that has deprived me of at most half an hour’s mild entertainment—”

  “Oh, now, that’s just rude.”

  “—I am happy to obey him,” I concluded. “So I’m afraid you will have to satisfy your longings elsewhere.”

  “And what about my curiosity?”

  “You were practising your English idioms recently,” I said. “Let me remind you that curiosity killed the cat. Good day.”

  “THEY SAY THE PEOPLE cry Michael’s name in Strelsau,” de Gautet observed that evening. Michael had taken his two respectable Ruritanians with him to the capital, the better to create an unflattering contrast to Prince Rudolf, who was being dragged back from the fleshpots of Berlin to his father’s deathbed. We three foreigners and Hentzau were seated around the table with a bottle. Hentzau seemed to have taken my rebuff in good spirits; I wondered all the more what it was he wanted. “They say the city will rise for him.”

  “And will this ‘they’ take up a musket or a pitchfork?” I asked. “Colonel Sapt of the king’s guard seems to be keeping Michael’s supporters down with a heavy hand.”

  “If anyone rises it will be the republicans, not our party,” Bersonin observed.

  I felt a certain sympathy for anyone calling for an end to the Elphbergs, of whom I was becoming heartily sick, but Ruritania’s republicans were a vile and fanatical crew. Their leader, Anders, announced as his aims the seizure of the royal lands and wealth for the common good, which was to say his own pocket, and the expulsion of all foreigners. His definition of that group included any citizen who had a non-Ruritanian parent or grandparent, and anyone, no matter how long settled here, who did not adhere to the Christian religion. “Anders is a prick,” I said. “Michael had me attend a public meeting of his, and a nastier rabble I have rarely seen. Have you heard him speak? The man is a ranting demagogue.”

  “The duke should have him disposed of,” Bersonin said. “It would only take a little powder in a cup of ale. A pinch or two, no more.” He sounded rather wistful at the prospect.

  “It would end this dissent,” de Gautet agreed.

  “The dissent could be ended by anointing a competent monarch, if King and Senate had the sense to choose one on anything but the colour of his hair,” I said. It never hurt to remind people of my fervent loyalty to Michael. Hentzau leaned back and, unseen by the others, rolled his eyes.

  De Gautet shook his head. “It would not work. You are too English, Detchard, too much in the habit of picking and choosing your kings.”

  “That’s rich coming from a Frenchman.”

  He ignored me. “If the King and Senate may select the ruler, the people will ask themselves why they should not do the same, and they will ask loudly. There will be riots. The fact is, Rudolf is not fit to be king, Michael is not born to be king, and Flavia lacks the wherewithal to be king.” He made an obscene gesture to convey the wherewithal that Flavia lacked. “The King and Senate will not dare to challenge tradition, because that is all that keeps the entire edifice from falling around their ears. Michael cannot become king while Rudolf lives. I am certain of it.”

  “There’s only one solution to that,” Bersonin said. “Would that the duke would take it.”

  THE OLD KING DIED TWO days later. He left Michael the castle and estate of Zenda outright, a generous share of the country’s lands and wealth in a highly significant strategic position, but as de Gautet had predicted, he did not dare to hand away the crown. The prize, as was always destined, went to the Red Prince, now Rudolf V of Ruritania. Long live the king.

  Michael summoned the nobles Hentzau and Lauengram to his side for the State funeral while the rest of us kicked our heels in Zenda. The ducal party returned a week later, in a flurry of black mourning weeds and blacker temper. I stood with Antoinette as we watched the carriages coming up the drive. Rupert Hentzau rode in front, his graceful form and the magnificent beast between his legs enough to mark him out at a distance. Antoinette was tense by my side.

  Hentzau trotted up to the steps on which we stood, wheeling his horse and doffing his feathered hat like a chevalier. “Madame, monsieur. Greetings.”

  “How is he?” Antoinette asked without preamble.

  “Terrible. I would suggest you get out of the way and do not appear till he has sent for you. You too, Detchard. He is ripe to murder. I am quite serious.”

  He had, I noted, a bruise on his cheekbone, marring the smooth beauty of his features. I lifted a finger to my own face. He gave me a sour smile. “Indeed. Be warned.”

  “I shall not,” Antoinette said. “He will need someone by him. I shall not leave him now.” She looked every inch the loyal lover. I could only applaud her acting skills.

  “I really would,” Hentzau said. “On your head be it, my lady, but I really, truly would. Come to the stables with me, Detchard.”

  “I think I’ll stay,” I said.

  Hentzau shut his eyes in exasperation, then gave a laughing shrug. “On both your heads, then. À bientôt.”

  He trotted his horse away. We waited in silence for a few minutes as the slower conveyances drew up. A footman came to open the door of Michael’s carriage and was sent stumbling back as the man inside emerged with a curse.

  Michael had brooding features at the best of times; now the skin was drawn tight such that we saw the skull under the skin. His lips were white with pressure, and I could see a tic pulse in his throat. He stalked up the stairs without a word or a look, and I stepped instinctively back. Antoinette came forwards, hands out.

  “Michael,” she said, voice soft and aching with compassion. “My dear.”

 
He turned to her. She did not recoil at the expression on his face, but reached out and put a loving hand on his forearm.

  He swung his arm up violently, throwing off her hand, and then the back of his own hand cracked savagely against her cheek.

  Antoinette gave a cry and staggered back, clutching her face. Michael took another pace forwards, hand still raised and fingers forming a fist, and I said, “Your Grace.”

  He did not acknowledge me, even look at me, but he lowered his hand and said in a tone of pure venom to the cowering woman, “There. You have what you wanted: my failure, my shame. Be satisfied, bitch.”

  He strode off. I offered Antoinette a hand, but she shook me off, saying in a muffled voice, “Don’t,” and hurried into the hall. I let out a long breath, and went looking for Hentzau.

  He had evidently finished rubbing down his horse—careless though he was with human life, I never saw him ignore a horse’s needs—and was standing outside the stable door stretching the kinks from his back as I approached. I was not in a mood to appreciate the view, as he seemed to glean from my face, for his first remark was (inevitably), “I told you so.”

  “He hit her,” I said in English, for discretion.

  “The bastard hit me.”

  “You deserve it. You ought to be kicked regularly.”

  “There’s no point abusing me because you failed to do anything to him,” Hentzau observed with annoying accuracy. “Come for a walk.”

  “I don’t want to come for a walk.”

  “In that case, come and help me take these riding boots off.”

  I let him know, in no uncertain terms, that I was not his valet. He laughed at me. “Michael will be rendering the chateau a hellhole. Come and hide in the Tower.”