By Royal Command Read online

  James shook his head.

  ‘We had to learn his speech by heart,’ said Eugen, and he laughed. He then reverted to his native language and did a fair imitation of the German chancellor, his voice clipped and harsh.

  ‘My programme for educating youth is hard,’ he ranted. ‘Weakness must be hammered away. In my castles of the Teutonic Order a youth will grow up before which the world will tremble. I want a brutal, domineering, fearless, cruel youth. Youth must be all that. It must bear pain. There must be nothing weak and gentle about it. The free, splendid beast of prey must once again flash from its eyes!’

  It was James’s turn to laugh now. ‘I think Gerhardt took it all to heart, somewhat,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid there’s more to being tough than having the “free, splendid beast of prey” flashing from your eyes.’

  ‘Oh, there is more,’ said Eugen, and resumed his impression of Hitler. ‘That is how I will eradicate thousands of years of human domestication! That is how I will create the New Order!’

  He stopped and looked around guiltily. ‘I hope nobody can hear me. I would never dare do this among other Germans. They would have me hung.’ He turned to James. ‘The worst thing is they teach us to hate. To hate anyone who is not one of us. Gerhardt and the others will be confused. We have been told many times that the English are weak and ineffective.’

  A blast of wind whistled down the valley and James shivered, thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets to keep warm. ‘In the end we’re all just people,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter where we come from. You are who you are.’

  ‘I had a friend,’ said Eugen, looking away down the track as it spooled out behind the train. ‘My best friend. A Jewish boy called Siggy Canter. We had grown up together. I never really thought about his religion. But I am not allowed to see him any more. I am scared for the future.’

  James could say nothing to reassure Eugen. He had seen enough of the world to know that bad things happened all the time and that human beings had a tendency to be cruel and destructive. He hated gangs. Where weak people joined together to become one strong entity and bully anyone they didn’t approve of. The Hitler Youth were just another gang. The Nazi party in Germany were a gang. The Bolsheviks in Russia…

  He once more made an effort to put aside any depressing thoughts and the two of them chatted together until it got too cold. As they went back inside Eugen put a hand on James’s arm. ‘I hope there will not be another war,’ he said. ‘I hope I will never have to face you on a battlefield with a gun in my hand.’

  It was late afternoon by the time the train did an almost complete circuit of the town and pulled into Kitzbühel station. There had been a recent heavy snowfall and many excited skiers from the towns and cities along the route bundled off the train, carrying their skis and poles.

  James stepped down from his carriage and took in his surroundings. Kitzbühel was 2,500 feet up in the eastern Alps, sitting in a lush valley ringed by mountains. Behind the station was the Kitzbühler Horn, and opposite was the huge flattened peak of the Hahnenkamm, linked to the town by a cable-car. Away to the north, standing out against the sky like a line of broken grey teeth, was the range known as the Wilder Kaiser.

  James found a porter, and discovered that his hotel was in easy walking distance. He felt the need to stretch his legs after the long journey and set off after the man into town. They crossed a river and a main road and then took a curving street that ran below the twin fairy-tale churches that dominated Kitzbühel – the tall, narrow Liebfrauenkirche and the baroque Andreaskirche, whose tower, like so many in the Tyrol, was topped off by what looked like a sultan’s turban. It started to snow as they came into the main street, the Vordere Stadgasse, and light powdery flakes drifted aimlessly in the air. The porter cheerfully pushed his laden trolley along the well-made pavement, pointing out the sights to James. There was a picture-book feel about the old medieval town, and it was hard to believe that people lived and worked in these outsized, brightly painted doll’s houses with their red, green and blue shutters and overhanging eaves.

  The shops were closing for the day and the cheerful locals were thronging the streets. They were mostly stout alpine types, the women as sturdy-looking as the men. Some were dressed in traditional Tyrolean outfits, the men with feathers in their caps, the women in heavy embroidered dresses, which only added to the feeling that James was on a vast stage set.

  As they passed a pastry shop James felt the hairs in the back of his neck tingle and he glanced back. For a moment he caught sight of a man standing out from the crowd in an English coat and hat. But as James blinked a snowflake out of his eyes the man seemed to melt away.

  James told himself he had imagined it. Hopefully he would see fewer phantoms after a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.

  They entered an archway that ran right through a building at the end of the street and James followed the porter down the street on the other side to where a wrought-iron sign announced their arrival at the Hotel Franz Joseph. The porter took James’s luggage into the reception area, James tipped him and he scuttled off out into the darkening evening.

  The reception was dominated by a large painting of the emperor Franz Joseph after whom the hotel was named. James was just admiring his great handlebar moustache and huge bushy sideburns when there was a shout and he turned to see his friend Andrew Carlton coming towards him, a broad smile on his face.

  Andrew was a couple of years older than James, but they had made friends when James first arrived at Eton and had shared many adventures together in the secret club they both belonged to – The Danger Society.

  ‘You’re bang on time,’ said Andrew, clapping him on the shoulders. ‘I’ll say something for the locals: they know how to make their trains stick to their timetables, whatever the weather. Don’t bother with the paperwork; it’s all taken care of. Everyone else is having supper. Eat early, sleep well, up with the sparrows. Come on through. Someone will take your bags up.’

  Before James could say anything he found himself being marched off by Andrew through the hotel. All the woodwork was elaborately painted or carved, and there was barely a square inch of wall that wasn’t covered by an alpine painting, or a mirror, or a stuffed deer’s head.

  A cheer went up as James entered the restaurant, even though, when he looked round the faces of the twenty-five or so boys and masters assembled around the long wooden table, he recognised only a few faces: Mister Merriot, his classical tutor, sitting with the other masters at the far end; Freddie Meyer, a German boy James had somewhat lost touch with since his first half; two boys from his house, Tom Llewellyn and Teddy Mackereth, and a couple of others. They all smiled and waved and called out to him. There was a jolly, festive atmosphere. The boys were evidently enjoying their trip.

  Andrew had saved a place for him, and he sat down next to another friend, Gordon Latimer. He quickly caught up with all the Eton gossip, and Andrew and Gordon told him what had happened in the run-up to his best friend, Perry Mandeville, being sent down for putting several sheep in the Head Master’s bedroom. Perry was the founder and captain of the Danger Society, and since he had left Eton the club had shut down.

  It was a shame that Perry wasn’t there. James would have liked to see him, but he was glad of the other familiar faces. He had missed the last half at Eton and had only just got back from Mexico, which was why he was two days late in joining the others.

  Now, though, he was back among friends.

  He told them a little about his recent adventures, but left out most of what had happened. It was buried deep inside, along with many other secrets. All James wanted was to return to being an ordinary schoolboy. He was looking forward to three weeks of walking and climbing and, with any luck, learning how to ski.

  ‘You’re sharing a room with me and two others,’ Gordon explained. ‘One of them’s a decent enough sort, Grenville Warner; he’s about your age, I think. I’m afraid the other one, Miles Langton-Herring, is a bit of a bore,
with a deep love of facts and figures. You know the sort, reckons he’s an expert on everything, and won’t let you forget it. He could blither for England at the next Olympics. That’s him down there, talking with his mouth full.’

  James looked down the table towards where Gordon was pointing. He saw a large boy with wavy brown hair and a ruddy complexion. He had big horse-like teeth, but was good-looking in a somewhat burly, rugby-playing sort of way. He was talking loudly and quickly and laughing a lot – presumably at his own jokes as nobody else around him could get a word in.

  James smiled. He had never expected to feel this way, but it was good to get back to his normal school life. The problems were all small and easily solved. Nothing could scare him. He understood now that school was a simple time when you could be yourself, enjoy yourself and not have to worry too much about the big world that was waiting for you outside like a hungry wolf.

  He went up to bed that night with his belly full and his heart light. The hearty Austrian food – soup with noodles, Wiener Schnitzel and Apfelstrudel – had been just the ticket. He even felt strong enough to face the dreaded Miles Langton-Herring, who was sporting a pair of pyjamas monogrammed with his initials. Miles barely paused to take breath after introducing himself before launching into a long and dull history of skiing.

  James fell asleep to the sound of his pompous, fruity voice droning on…

  ‘Of course skiing is by no means a new invention. There are cave paintings from thousands of years ago showing men with skis strapped to their feet. But for a long time skiing was simply a way of getting about on the snow. Nobody ever thought of climbing to the tops of mountains just to ski down them. The Norwegians developed the art of cross-country skiing, but when they brought their sport to the Alps they were faced with bigger mountains and steeper slopes and so new techniques had to be learnt. An Austrian called Zdarsky developed the Lilienfield technique at the end of the last century, but it was Hannes Schneider who developed most of the modern techniques of skiing…’

  Outside, a man in an overcoat and trilby stood in the dark space between two big square houses smoking a cigarette, shielding its glowing tip between cupped hands. Apart from the small adjustments as he smoked, he barely moved at all and seemed unaffected by the cold.

  One by one the lights in the hotel went out.

  It was quiet now. Nobody moved in the streets. Nobody approached the entrance to the Franz Joseph.

  At last the man dropped his cigarette to the ground where it joined a small pile of butts, and he ground it out carefully before slipping away into the shadows.

  4

  Austrian Waltzing Blood

  James was first up. Before the alarm had even gone off he climbed out of bed, went over to the window and threw back the curtains. The valley was still in shadow, the sun had not yet cleared the top of the Hahnenkamm, but the sky was thrillingly clear and blue. He pushed the window open and drew in a breath of the deliciously cold air. It tasted different from any other air he had ever breathed, sharp and clean and somehow empty.

  James’s room was at the front of the hotel, facing the Hahnenkamm. There were small patches of brown, dead-looking grass spotting its lower slopes, but higher up it was blanketed with snow. He could see the Hahnenkamm-Bahn, the cable-car that ran to the top, parting the pine trees in its path in a long straight line. At the summit the cable-car station was sitting in a halo of light.

  The scene promised so much. He was impatient to get out there.

  Miles Langton-Herring stirred as the cold air filled the room. He sat up and swore at James. James merely laughed.

  ‘What time is it?’ Miles grumbled.

  ‘About a quarter to seven,’ said James.

  ‘We’ve another fifteen minutes before we need to be up.’

  ‘Stay in bed, then,’ said James. ‘It’s all the same to me.’

  ‘At least shut that blasted window, can’t you?’

  James closed the window and went down the corridor to the bathroom, where he washed quickly and combed his hair. He then dressed in silk long johns and a long-sleeved vest. Over this he wore a flannel shirt and woollen jumper, heavy cotton twill trousers and thick socks. Finally he put on his boots and picked up his leather gauntlets. They were joined by a string so that they wouldn’t get lost if they fell off in the snow, and he had to thread them through the sleeves of his waterproof red wind-cheater.

  He was first down to breakfast and filled up on bread and pastries, eggs and ham and cheese, washed down with pure mountain spring water and a strong coffee. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt this carefree.

  As he worked his way through his breakfast, the other boys slowly trickled in to join him. For the most part they looked tired and bleary-eyed. They shuffled about, speaking quietly, and obviously wished they were back in their warm and cosy beds.

  Mr Merriot came over to sit at James’s table. He looked brighter and more alert than his fellow masters. In fact James had never seen him look anything other than comfortably at peace with the world.

  ‘I didn’t have the chance to welcome you back properly last night,’ he said, sitting down and taking out his pipe. ‘How have you been? Actually you need not answer that question. Us English, eh? Always asking each other how we are, and never expecting an honest reply. In your case I know perfectly well how you’ve been. Your aunt filled me in on everything.’ He glanced around the room, leant in closer and went on in a lower voice. ‘It seems we can’t keep you away from trouble, can we, James?’

  ‘It seems not,’ said James with a wry smile.

  ‘But somehow or other you keep bouncing back!’ said Merriot, a little louder. And he stuck his pipe between his lips. He made no attempt to light it, however, and merely sucked the stem thoughtfully as he busied himself with buttering a slice of toast.

  ‘I predict an interesting future for you, young Bond,’ he said, once he was satisfied with his work. ‘I think you will be either a great hero or a great villain.’

  ‘I don’t really want to be either,’ said James. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir. I’ve had my fill of adventures. I sometimes feel I’ve been missing out on some of the ordinary things that other boys get up to in their lives.’

  ‘I think you’d be hard pressed to find any red-blooded boy in England who wouldn’t want to swap lives with you, James.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said James, ‘but I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s really rather better to hear about adventures than be part of them.’

  ‘I believe you may be right,’ said Mr Merriot quietly, looking off out of the windows at the glorious morning. ‘I suppose I had my fill of adventure in the Great War, and, yes, the reality was very different to what one reads about in books. You’d think war was just a big noisy game if you hadn’t actually been in one.’

  ‘Wasn’t it also something of an adventure running for England in the 1924 Olympics?’ said James.

  ‘It was certainly exciting,’ said Merriot. ‘But that is behind me now. All I do these days is teach others. Though, in its way, teaching can be equally as thrilling.’

  James tried to suppress a smile.

  ‘Ah,’ said Merriot, who didn’t miss a thing. ‘He thinks I’m an old fool. Rambling on about the glories of teaching. But teaching another person to do something really well and seeing them succeed is as rewarding as doing it oneself. When you won the cross-country event in the Hellebore Cup my heart was beating like a drum. I had never felt such excitement and such pride.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said James. ‘Despite what I might have said just now, I don’t think I could swap winning a race for merely teaching someone to win one.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Merriot. ‘But the glory soon passes. Standing on top of a mountain, the only way is down. There’s no getting around the fact that the moment when you are at your very best is the moment you begin to become worse and worse. Others will come along who can run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and you will be forgotten. Your winning moment
will only be a memory. Your fame is already fated to die. It is much more satisfactory to be a good teacher and give your knowledge to others instead of thrilling the crowd for one brief moment. For you, James, I think the moment of glory is all. For men like me it is different. We are playing the long game. I am happy to be a teacher, though I shan’t be out there on the slopes teaching you to ski, you’ll be glad to hear. That honour goes to a local chap called Hannes Oberhauser, who is really first rate. Austrian instructors, especially those from the Arlberg school, where he learnt his skills, are the best in the world. You should see him in action, a picture of grace and elegance. It’s those few drops of Austrian waltzing blood in his veins, I think.’

  After breakfast James was taken to a large wooden hut opposite the hotel where he selected a fine pair of hickory skis edged with steel. They were taller than he was and curved up steeply at the end. His parents had taken him skiing for a couple of weekends when he was younger but he remembered little about it. He had to be shown how to fasten his boots into the bindings that held the skis on, first strapping his toes into fixed metal plates and then pulling what looked like long springs around his heels to grip them in place. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but once done he felt secure on the skis. He then picked out some lightweight bamboo sticks that had small hoops at the ends loosely attached by a latticework of leather straps. He was looking forward to getting out on to the snow.

  An hour later he was standing on the lower slopes of the Hahnenkamm with the other novices, feeling considerably less confident. It was hard enough just standing up on the long skis, let alone trying to move forward. The instructor from the Kitzbühel ski school, Hannes Oberhauser, was very patient and encouraging, but James felt as if he would never get the hang of it.