The Zenda Vendetta (TimeWars 4)

“Of course I have been training,” Finn said, suddenly feeling that he was losing control. “I am king now. I should be more fit, I must take better care of myself. I have responsibilities.”

She backed off from him slowly, shaking her head and staring at him with bewilderment. “I find it hard to believe that you are Rudolf,” she said. “I do begin to believe that you really have changed!”

“I am the same man I have always been,” said Finn. ‘I’ve just been thinking about things; that’s all.”

“That, in itself, is quite a change,” she said. Then she flushed. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be insulting.”

“It seems that I shall have a sharp-tongued queen,” said Finn. “Well, a man could do far worse. So, do you agree or don’t you?”

She looked baffled. “Agree? To what?”

“To our spending more time together. To my bringing you flowers if I choose to. To carriage rides through the city streets. To walks in the country or some such thing; I don’t know, what do people do when they are courting?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Those sort of things, I suppose. How would I know? No one has ever courted me before.”

“A fine pair we make,” Finn said. “I know. Let’s call in Fritz and Helen. We shall ask them what they do.”

“Don’t you dare!” she said.

“Such a reaction! Now I really want to know what it is they do.”

“She blushed. “You would only embarrass both of them. Leave them be, please. We shall spend more time together. You shall bring me flowers. We will go for carriage rides and walks. That all sounds quite sufficient. I shall do whatever you command.”

“Well, now you’ve ruined it,” said Finn.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean it that way. You may court me if you wish. I would be delighted.” Her brow furrowed. “Is that what one should say?”

“It’ll do, I suppose,” said Finn. “Well. Shall we make a beginning, then? Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to dinner?”

“But I thought that was all arranged already,” she said.

“I’ve already dressed, you see, and-”

“Damn it, Flavia, will you or won’t you?”

“Oh, I see. Forgive me. Yes, of course, I would be very pleased to have you escort me to dinner, Rudolf.”

Finn offered her his arm. She took it. As they came out into-the sitting room, Fritz and Helen were sitting very close together. They instantly sprang apart the moment that they saw them.

“Well, come on, Fritz, plenty of time for that sort of thing later,” Finn said. “We have a dinner to attend.”

Sapt carefully eased himself over the stone wall, keeping low so that he would not make a silhouette. He dropped down soundlessly onto the grass below, wincing slightly as the impact jarred his back. I’m too old for this sort of thing, he thought. I should be in the old soldier’s home, sitting in a cane chair with a pipe in my mouth, a glass of warm milk at my elbow, and a wool blanket over my lap. Instead, I’m scaling garden walls like some septuagenarian Don Juan. Damn that Rassendyll, anyway.

Still, the man was a surprise. Who would have guessed that a real soldier lurked beneath that dandy’s exterior? How quickly he had assumed his role! How effortlessly he seemed to have taken control of the situation, almost as though he were a real king! He had the makings of one, that much was certain. He would have to be sure to ask him what rank he had held in the English army and in which regiment he’d served, what sort of action he had seen. The man was no dilettante playing at strategy. He knew what he was about. If only Rudolf could be more like him! Rassendyll would make a damn sight better king than he would.

He quickly pushed that thought aside. Even thinking it was treasonous. Staying low, he moved across the tree-sheltered lawn in the darkness, taking careful stock of the surroundings. Rassendyll would expect a detailed report. He was surprised that he hadn’t asked him to draw a map. Perhaps he would. Strange, he thought, how he makes me feel. He can’t be but half my age. Yet it is as though he is the experienced veteran. It’s the mark of a born leader. A true officer. One who leads by both example and charisma. It was something one could learn, but not at so young an age, certainly. Rassendyll appeared to come by it naturally. How had the English army allowed him to get away? He still had years of good service left in him. Perhaps there was some disciplinary problem. That was the trouble with men like that. They made outstanding officers if they could survive their superiors early on in their careers. Men with such natural abilities did not do well under inferior officers. It was a question that he would not ask. Such things were better left unspoken.

He crossed the wide expanse of lawn quickly, heading toward the little summerhouse situated at the end of the garden near the statue of a nymph. It was a small, latticed gazebo, open at both ends, set up on a platform of cobblestones arranged in a pattern of concentric circles. Situated on a slight rise, it gave a commanding view of the landscaped garden and the sloping lawn on the opposite side. Sapt immediately noted that it was fairly isolated, with no bushes or trees anywhere close to it that would afford good concealment for an ambush. However, it would be dark enough at midnight to enable one or more people to approach the little summerhouse completely undetected, especially if they came up on it from one of its latticed sides. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like anything about the whole affair, but Rassendyll was firm on going, damn him. In a way, Sapt could even understand it. If it was managed carefully, this meeting could mislead the enemy, giving them the impression that they were desperate enough to try anything. It all rested with Rassendyll. If he was right, then perhaps it would not be a trap, though the opportunity for it would be excellent. S

omething about it simply didn’t smell right, though. Was Michael being so obvious merely to be devious? Did he hope to buy the imposter off? Or was it even Michael who had sent the note? Rassendyll was correct in saying that there was only one way in which they would learn the truth. Still, it would be a risky business.

Sapt began to look for probable avenues of retreat in the event that something should go wrong. It did not look promising. Open ground upon all sides for a distance of at least some thirty or forty yards. A running man would make an easy target, but there the darkness that would serve any possible assassins would serve Rassendyll, as well. He could still be brought down, though. The question was, how to minimize those odds?

If he thinks that I will remain meekly behind the garden wall, Sapt thought, he’s in for a surprise. There had to be a spot somewhere from which he could keep watch and provide covering fire if the need arose. He began to look around, trying to keep to concealment as much as possible. It was past eight, but there was still a chance he might be seen. It was not that dark yet. He checked the place where Rassendyll would be entering the garden according to instructions. Then he began to walk along the inside of the wall, circling the garden, glancing continuously back at the summerhouse, estimating lines of fire. He found several places where he could wait and watch, but the distance was a bit too great to ensure good visibility in total darkness, even with his excellent vision. He would have to get considerably closer. However, there was no way that he could get closer to the summerhouse from where he was without being in the open. He glanced back towards Michael’s house.

If there would be trickery afoot, they might be expecting someone to be protecting Rassendyll from a position somewhere between the garden wall and the summerhouse. But between the summerhouse and Michael’s house? Cautiously, Sapt made his way towards the west wing of the mansion, where French doors opened out onto a flagstoned patio that overlooked the garden. From the end of the patio, a flight of stone steps led down into the garden and to a path leading up to the summerhouse. At the bottom of this flight of steps were two very large stone planters in the shape of urns, one on each side. If he were to conceal himself behind one of them, up against the stone wall of the steps, he would be invisible unless someone coming down the steps were to look down over the side and see him. He took up position there to see what sort of view it could afford him. Not bad, he thought. Far from ideal, but closer to the summerhouse than if he stayed by the garden wall on the opposite side. He crouched down, took out his pistol, and sighted. If Rassendyll made his escape towards the garden wall, anyone inside the summerhouse would have to take up position on that side in order to shoot at him. He could barely make out the dark shape of the gazebo now; it would be worse still later. He lined up his sight on the entrance to the summerhouse, locked his arm, and slowly brought it down to rest upon the top of the stone urn. He sighted once again from rest. Yes. It would do. Without moving his arm, he reached with his other hand into his pocket and brought out two of the wooden matches he always carried to light his pipe. He stuck the matches into the earth inside the planter on either side of his wrist, then moved his arm. The matches would remain there as sighting posts. He carefully lowered his arm again, so that his wrist rested exactly between the two matches, and sighted once more. It would serve. Even if he could not see well, using the matches to line up his aim would enable him to shoot anyone who stood in the arched entryway of the gazebo.

Above him on the patio, he heard footsteps. He froze, cocking his pistol. He looked up, but could not see who it was because the wall blocked his view. It was just as well, because it meant that he could not be seen, either.