The Prince Commands: Being Sundry Adventures of Michael Karl, Sometime Crown Prince & Pretender to the Thrown of Morvania (16 page)

“His Majesty sent me with a message to His Highness. I joined His Highness’s command.”

“How were the officers in the Cathedral armed when they surrendered?”

“With sabers.”

“Did any of them carry a revolver like this?” Johann picked up a long-barreled gun from the table behind him.

The wolfman shook his head. “No. They had sabers and that was all.”

“Were there any other arms found in the Cathedral after the surrender?”

“Yes. One of the officers told us that when he and the others overpowered Cobentz they had dropped his revolver by the altar. We later found it there.”

“Is this the gun?” Again Johann held out the revolver.

The wolfman looked at it. “It is.”

“Will you swear to that?”

“Yes. The gun had a small red streak, near the grip, on the barrel.”

“When Cobentz was surrendered by his men, was he armed?”

“No. They had bound him.”

“Does the Defense desire to question the witness?”

The lawyer at the table shook his head.

“Professor Rudolph Stadlitz.”

A small, stooped man who short-sightedly blinked at the world through thick glasses shambled forward.

“What is your position in Rein, Professor Stadlitz?”

“I have charge of the Police Laboratories.”

“An hour ago you sent me a message saying that you had some important evidence. Will you give it now?”

The Professor began in his thin, cold voice. “The bullet which killed His Grace was fired from that gun.”

There was a distant rumble like the sea. People in the backs of the galleries were standing to see and hear the better.

“Every bullet that is fired bears the signature of the gun which fired it. The bullet taken from the body bears the signature of that gun. Another bullet was fired from it this morning and compared with the one which killed, and the marks on their sides were identical.”

“Were there any finger prints on the gun?”

“There were many. Around the barrel was a group of confused and smeared prints but on the butt there were two very fine ones.”

“Whose prints are they?”

“The prisoner’s.”

“Does the Defense desire to question?”

Again the lawyer shook his head. He looked decidedly unhappy, and Cobentz’s brazen confidence had quite disappeared.

Johann turned to the throne. “There are no more witnesses, Your Majesty.”

“We have them,” exulted Urich in a whisper, “We have them on toast and they know it. Look at Cobentz.”

Michael Karl looked. The sometime revolutionary leader had slumped in his chair like a pillow whose plump feather stuffing had leaked away. His face was as greenish-yellow as it was when the Cathedral surrendered.

“The Defense may speak,” ordered the King.

“They’ll make a try of it,” prophesied Urich. “But they’re done and they know it.”

The lawyer for the Defense did make an elegant speech. But for the testimony of the Professor which he could not explain away, he might have won.

Johann for the Crown made no long speech but contented himself with repeating the evidence of the Crown point by point. When he had finished, he turned to the table and sat down for the first time in hours. The King arose and, stepping down, took the peeled willow wand from the table.

“My Lords,” his voice was very clear, “what is your verdict?”

Reading from a large book he called them one by one, beginning with the eldest and ending with the youngest. One after another they arose and, placing their hands over their hearts, answered: “Guilty by my honor!”

As the steady “Guilty” rang out, Cobentz writhed in pure fear. His pasty face was such a nasty sight that even his own counsel turned from him in disgust.

At last the youngest Lord seated himself again among his billowing robes. The King hesitated and then asked again, “Do you declare, My Lords, that this man is guilty?”

With one voice the Lords answered, “We judge that he is.”

The King stepped back up on the dais holding aloft the willow wand. Then he snapped it cleanly. The hall was so quiet that the popping snap reechoed faintly. And then there was a great sigh as if every one beneath that vaulted roof had breathed deeply once.

“As in the days of old when the Duke’s Justice sat beneath the tree, so now do we break the willow wand, for the protection of a pleader for justice is no longer yours. Your fellow Lords have judged you guilty of treason against our person and foul murder. Thus on the twenty-fifth day of this month you shall be taken forth and hanged by the neck until you are dead and—May God have mercy on your soul!”

Cobentz lurched to his feet and stood swaying, then with a dreadful yammering cry he fell forward into the arms of his guards and they, staggering a bit under his weight, took him away.

Chapter XVI

Michael Karl Attends A Coronation

“Thanks to His Grace the revolutionists are distinctly in the soup,” exulted Urich as he watched Michael Karl consume a late but very hearty breakfast. Urich was a great deal more than an ordinary aide-de-camp. Since the hour when the King had called him into the forest hut and presented Michael Karl as his future commander, he had made himself guide, guard, and, best of all, friend.

Michael Karl thought that without Urich to coach him he would never have been prepared for this day’s duties. For what they had fought and schemed for had come at last, and this was the morning of Urlich Karl’s coronation day. Michael Karl ate a piece of buttered toast thoughtfully.

“Then we have succeeded?”

“The American Minister and the Representative of the Throne of Great Britain will attend the services in the Cathedral and present their credentials at the first audience to-night. We are, to borrow one of His Majesty’s American expressions, decidedly sitting pretty.”

“I shivered in my shoes before Johann sprung his surprise,” admitted Michael Karl playing with his orange peel, an old trick of his. When he caught himself doing it he looked out of the long window with a trace of a frown. The last time he had done that was in the house on the Pala Horn when he was just a fugitive and a secretary and Ericson was—Ericson, not a remote and sometimes rather terrifying person whom one called “His Majesty.” Michael Karl sighed and dropped his napkin on the table.

“Well,” he turned to Urich, “what is the bad news? What part in this show am I slated for?”

Urich stood up and brushed the wrinkles out of his tunic with a careful hand. He had a passion for being neat. “I thought,” he answered slowly with a mischievous gleam in his brown eyes, “that the Chamberlain informed Your Highness yesterday of your role.”

Michael Karl rumpled up the smoothness of his hair with an impatient hand. “He mentioned some rot about my wearing armor. I’m not going to wear anything that I have to use a can opener to get out of and that’s flat.”

Before Urich could answer, one of the powdered footmen, a ghost of the impressive but vanished Kanda, opened the door with polished smoothness and announced in his low voice:

“His Excellency, the Chamberlain, with His Highness’s coronation robes.”

Urich winked at the worried Michael Karl as the fat little man, a Jan of the nobility, entered with fussy pomp, a small train of footmen and at least one valet in his wake. He bowed very low to Michael Karl, favored Urich, whom he disapproved of, with a brief nod, and gave a stream of orders as to how his helpers’ precious loads were to be disposed of.

“If Your Highness will be so kind,” he said at last to Michael Karl. The valet at his signal held up a suit of soft white doeskin made to fit tight to the body. Michael Karl stared at it in bewilderment, he had no idea that he was to be officially introduced to Rein as a sort of an Indian. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

In spite of all his protests, over the leather jerkin and leggings went fine chain mail, supple as silk and light of weight. Golden spurs were snapped on his heels and a silken surcoat dropped over his head to be fastened with clasps of gold on the shoulders. Last of all, Urich girded him with a jewel-studded sword belt whose sheath contained the ponderous two-handed weapon of the Middle Ages.

“Well,” Urich stepped back to survey their handiwork, “I must say that you make a romantic figure. Here,” he took Michael Karl by the arm and led him over to face the full-length mirror on the dressing room wall, “take a look at yourself, Sir Gareth.”

Michael Karl looked. It was as if one of the recumbent figures in the Cathedral, who marked the tombs of the crusading knights, had come to life. Only, thank goodness, his chain mail was decidedly lighter. He hoped frantically that it wasn’t going to be a hot day.

Thinking of that possibility, Michael Karl turned to his aide-de-camp.

“I hope,” he said viciously, “that you’re doomed to something like this too.” He indicated the mail and surcoat weighted down with his sword.

Urich lost his grin. “I am,” he said dismally as he departed to dress.

Michael Karl paced nervously back and forth, leaving long scratches on the polished floor as he went. For five hundred years or more the Princes of his House had left similar scratches on the floor of that room in Rein Castle. He was slowly but surely losing what little nerve he possessed.

He stepped to the balcony window-door and looked down upon the city. The color of flags, flowers and banners flashed through the darkness of the centuries-old buildings. Rein was clad in her gala dress to-day. Even though it was yet very early, he could see the mass of moving heads struggling for places along the Avenue of the Duke where the coronation procession was to pass on its way to the Cathedral.

This then was the end of adventuring. After Urlich Karl received his crown, he, Michael Karl, would be free to go. But somehow he no longer desired to leave Rein’s frowning Fortress and crooked streets. He watched the scene below a bit wistfully.

“Your Highness is ready?”

Michael Karl turned a bit stiffly on account of his mail. Urich stood within the doorway. Like Michael Karl he wore leather leggings and a leather shirt covered with a short coat of mail. A short sword and dagger hung from his metal studded belt and a smooth helmet covered his head. He might have been an illustration out of
Quentin Durward.
Resting on his hip he carried a great visored helmet with three plumes, yellow, red, and black, waving from its crest.

“I don’t have to wear that too, do I?” demanded Michael Karl in some dismay, surveying the helmet.

Urich laughed. “No, I have to carry it. It’s just for show. The Court is waiting, Your Highness,” he ended formally.

Michael Karl stepped into the corridor. There was a glittering company of dress uniforms which swayed like a giant garden of flowers at his coming and then he was going down the grand staircase.

The inner courtyard was choked with state carriages and mounted troopers, but at his arrival some small space was cleared about a great black horse with the broad back and heavy heels of the medieval war horse. It paced solemnly back and forth, the silver cloth of its caparisons fluttering in the breeze, quite dwarfing the soldier who led it.

Michael Karl mounted awkwardly with the assistance of Urich and another officer he had never seen before. Evidently his mounting was the signal for departure, as the muddle in the courtyard straightened itself out and part of it disappeared through the outer gate.

Far below, Michael Karl could hear the silvery call of a bugle. The march had begun. He wondered just where Urlich Karl was, and then he remembered that the King was to follow later.

The cavalry troop moved off followed by several carriages and then Urich, also mounted, spurred up to his side.

“—Next”—was all Michael Karl could hear. He nodded and shook his reins. The horse understood and at a dignified pace followed the last carriage.

They passed between the saluting sentries of the inner and outer gates and found themselves at the top of the long Avenue. The street was packed except for a lane of half its width which the police had difficulty in keeping open. The population of Rein seemed to have trebled overnight.

The war horse arched his neck and trotted sideways. He at least was enjoying himself. Michael Karl stared straight ahead at the powdered footmen on the coach before him. He just didn’t dare look at the crowd.

They were shouting now: “The Prince! Michael Karl! Long live the Prince!”

A yellow rose fell, its thorns caught on the silver saddle cloth so that the blossom bobbed along at his knee. He reached down and retrieved it. A yellow rose, the crest of the heir to the throne. It might be an omen. He tucked it in the buckle of his sword belt.

The ride was a short one. Already the troop of cavalry had taken its place in the Cathedral Square. Michael Karl stared at the steps. He half imagined he could see the blood-stained barricade and the dreadful litter on the steps beyond.

Dismounting stiffly while Urich held his stirrup he turned to the crimson carpet which wound its fat length up the steps. Now that he was closer there were still grim traces of the battle to be seen. The saints around the carven doorway were chipped and battered. Saint Michael, whose niche had so well protected him in the fight, had lost a toe and half of his stone sword was missing.

Inside the Cathedral the roof arched high above his head, dim and cool. There was a murmur like the distant sound of the sea and thousands of candles gave light to a burnished tapestry of bright uniforms and court dresses.

To the right of the High Altar stood a vacant throne newly erected where the King would take his seat after his coronation. Michael Karl bent knee before the altar and then took his place to the right of the throne on the second step of the dais.

Somewhere a chant had begun, and at last the newly appointed Archbishop arrived. Michael Karl discovered that he could lean upon his sword. He hoped that Urlich Karl wouldn’t keep them waiting long. A rising roar from the Square interrupted the priests at the altar. Michael Karl straightened.

Down the center aisle, their somber green and their wolfskin cloaks a contrast to the uniforms around them, came a detachment of the Wolf Guard. A party of high officers followed them. Michael Karl caught a glimpse of the scarred face of Colonel Grimvich.

And then—alone—came the King.

Michael Karl leaned forward. His cousin’s face was white. There was a grim line about his jaw, but he came confidently, almost triumphantly. He had won.

There was silence in the Cathedral now. The faint clink of Michael Karl’s mail as he moved in- voluntarily seemed like the clank of a great chain.

The archbishop moved forward.

“Who cometh to the High Altar of the Cathedral of Rein?” he asked and his words echoed down the aisle.

“He who is to be crowned,” answered Urlich Karl. He still stood alone, the center of attention for all that throng.

An officer stepped from the crowd. Michael Karl recognized the Duke beneath the gold lace and crimson.

“He who is to be crowned must be the rightful heir. Who speaks for you?”

“I answer!” cried the Duke.

“Is this the rightful heir to the throne, who will hold it as the kings have held it for half a thousand years?”

“He is and thus will he hold it. By the honor of my line do I swear my words to be true.”

“What is thy name, my son?” The Archbishop turned to Urlich Karl and the Duke stepped back.

“Urlich Karl.”

“Urlich Karl, do you now swear that you shall govern this land with the best that is in you, that you will serve it while life is in you, that all that is yours will also belong to it, and that you will never forsake it while you live?”

There was a moment of silence and then Urlich Karl’s voice rang out with a clearness that thrilled.

“I do so swear. I belong to Morvania!”

“Then, Urlich Karl, advance to the altar and receive, as a symbol of thy pledge, the Crown of the Kings.” From the center of the High Altar the Archbishop lifted something that blazed with a glorious light and color of its own and, as Urlich Karl knelt on the cushion before him, he stooped and placed it on the King’s dark head. Urlich Karl arose and turned to face his people.

In an instant every one’s sword was out and as it clashed with his neighbor’s the shout arose:

“Long live the King!”

When the cheering died down, the Duke Johann advanced, a ponderous sword lying across his arm, the great Sword of State of which he was hereditary bearer. Behind him came another lord with the Scepter and a third with the Mantle.

Urlich Karl accepted them after they were blessed by the Archbishop and then he ascended the throne. Michael Karl glanced at his face as he passed. It was a stiff white mask. Urlich Karl, his friend and companion, was gone, the man on the throne was Urlich Karl the King. Again the cheering burst forth.

Michael Karl wet his dry lips nervously. The time for his part in the proceedings was at hand. He clutched tightly the gauntlet of mail Urich had thrust in his belt and stepped down into the center aisle with Urich at his heels. Somewhere a bugle sounded once.

“His Highness, the Prince of Rein and the Champion of the King.” Michael Karl thought that he recognized the droning voice for that of the Chamberlain. He ran his tongue over his dry lips once more, took a firm grip on the gauntlet and then:

“Whosoever declareth that Urlich Karl sitteth wrongfully upon the throne of the Karloffs, him do I declare a liar and do challenge to prove his false and traitorous words upon this, my body. I stand ready!”

Upon the bare stones he tossed the gauntlet. It fell with a crash.

“The Champion stands ready,” droned the voice three times. Then there was silence and a page ran to pick up the gauntlet and return it to Michael Karl. He stepped back to his old place.

And then for the first time since he was crowned, the King spoke.

“Let our Lords and Princes do homage for their lands.”

“Michael Karl Johann Stefan Rene Eric Marie, Prince and Lord of Rein, First Lord of the Kingdom, approach the throne and do homage for thy lands of Casnov, Urnt, Kelive, Klan, Mal, Snadro, Kor, and Amal,” read the voice.

Michael Karl mounted the two steps of the dais and knelt before the King. Into his cousin’s cold outstretched hand he put both his own hot ones.

“My Lord and Master, thus do I humbly seek thy favor for my lands”—for a moment he was afraid he had forgotten their names—”of Casnov, Urnt, Kelive, Klan, Mal, Snadro, Kor, and Amal. I do swear to hold them for the Crown against all comers, to support thy person in war and peace, to be loyal to the throne and the heirs of thy body, to pay the duties of a vassal to his Lord. This do I swear upon the honor of my house.”

The King touched him lightly on the shoulder with the Sword of State.

“My Lord, your lands are yours by our favor. Go in peace.”

Michael Karl backed down. Already the voice was droning out Johann’s lands and titles and he was going up to do homage for them. And so it went on. Lord after Lord came and went. Michael Karl was hot and cramped. He had just begun to wonder if he could go on standing much longer when Urich touched him on the elbow.