The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [135]
‘The Teutonic king very much wanted to catch him alive and present him as a prize to his people back home. He was a rather glorious prince. The invaders chased him to the tip of the cliff, right there.’
Henning pointed to the northern-most tip of the castle, to a rocky ledge just below the walls.
‘They were convinced now they had him,’ he continued. ‘He was trapped on his horse with nowhere to go. But the prince showed no fear.
He dismounted and tied a blindfold gently over his horse’s eyes. Then he got back into the saddle and, with a magnificent battle cry, spurred the horse forward.’ Henning pocketed the flask and finished the story in a single breath.
‘Stallion and rider sailed over the cliff and into the void, dying in a blaze of glory and evading a humiliating surrender.’
Stevie was silent, picturing the scene. ‘Poor horse,’ she said.
‘He wouldn’t have jumped if he hadn’t been blindfolded,’ added Hen-ning, his eyes on the fateful ledge. ‘The prince had to take him with him.’
‘Like the Egyptian pharaohs who took their cats into the tombs—’
Henning turned back to Stevie. ‘The early pharaohs took their servants, too.’
‘Rather awful really.’
‘People were possessions back then—I suppose sometimes they still are.’ Henning began searching the pockets of his overcoat, looking for a cigarette. ‘And the horse in this story was a symbol, as much as the prince.’
‘They fell to their freedom, I suppose.’ Stevie’s thoughts were far away, with the long-ago prince and the white stallion. ‘I’m not sure I would make the same choice. I think I would be less brave and more inclined to try to make the best of a bad situation.’
‘Ah, but you are not a prince,’ said Henning. ‘The sovereign is a symbol, as much as he is a man. “The king is dead, long live the king” and all that.’ He found a cigarette, slightly crumpled, and began smoothing the paper with his fingers. ‘It wasn’t the flesh and blood the marauders wanted, it was what he represented to the Teutonic king. And by jumping, the prince stole the sweetness of triumph from his enemy.’
Stevie closed her eyes, sealing the memory of the prince in her mind. She knew she would want to think about him again. Then she glared at her friend. ‘Remind me not to let you plan our escape if things go awry here. I don’t plan to leap off any cliffs, no matter who comes after us, or what I might mean to a Russian assassin or whatnot.’
Without any warning the lights went out and they were left in darkness. A voice came through the PA—there was a PA system? Stevie hadn’t noticed—‘Lights out and time for rest, liebe Gäste, schlafen Sie gut.’ The melody of ‘rock-a-bye baby’ drifted through, soft music.
Stevie was incredulous. ‘We have a bed time?’
‘You have a bedtime,’ Henning retorted. ‘Obviously you haven’t read the recommendations for your treatment.’
‘No. That was your job as my assistant, Henning.’
Stevie heard him chuckle softly. ‘I thought it would be fun to surprise you.’
With the lights off, Henning’s voice had become rather desperately seductive, velvet in the dark. Was she going mad? Stevie wondered.
She didn’t want him to go back to his room. She wanted him to keep talking.
‘Will Kozkov have a state funeral?’ she asked, keeping her voice low and neutral.
‘I imagine so,’ Henning replied. ‘If we can get the Russian channels here we can watch it—I’m sure they will televise it. Everyone self-importantly sorrowful, mourning a man they are glad to see gone.’
Stevie shivered and leaned close to Henning’s voice. But hadn’t the moment already come and gone? Hadn’t she been the one to turn away? Only somehow it was easier in the dark to let go of—
Stevie interrupted her wayward thoughts. ‘I often think about Irina and Vadim . . .’
Henning flicked the steel wheel of his lighter and put the flame to the tip of his cigarette. Stevie watched as the fire momentarily lit his face then was gone,