Assegai

Twenty days later, in country that Manyoro and Loikot had declared totally devoid of lions, they rode out of camp at dawn for the princess to continue her slaughter of warthogs – she had already accounted for more than fifty, including three boars with incredibly long tusks. They had not ventured more than half a mile from the camp when they came across an enormous solitary black-maned lion standing in the middle of an open grassy vlei. Without a moment’s hesitation, and without dismounting, the princess brought up the little Mannlicher and, with a surgeon’s precision, put a bullet through the lion’s brain.

The two Masai should have been delighted with this performance but they were strangely subdued as they began to skin the carcass. It was left to Leon to tender his congratulations, which the princess ignored. He heard Loikot mutter to Manyoro, ‘This lion should never have been here. Where did he come from?’

‘Nywele Mweupe summoned him,’ Manyoro said sulkily. They had given the princess the Swahili name ‘White Hair’. Manyoro had not combined it with either of the titles of respect, ‘Memsahib’ or ‘Beibi’.

‘Manyoro, even from you that is an enormous stupidity,’ Leon snapped at him. ‘That lion came to the smell of all those warthog carcasses.’ He sensed mutiny in the air. Lusima had obviously had a word or two with Manyoro.

‘The bwana knows best,’ Manyoro conceded, with ostentatious courtesy, but he neither looked at Leon nor smiled. When they had finished the skinning, the two Masai did not perform the lion dance for the princess. Instead they sat apart and took snuff together. When Leon remarked on the omission Manyoro did not respond, but Loikot muttered, ‘We are too tired to dance and sing.’

When he shouldered the bundled green skin and started back for camp, Manyoro’s limp on the leg that had received the Nandi arrow, usually barely noticeable, became heavily pronounced. This was his way of expressing protest or disapproval.

When they rode into camp the princess sprang down from the saddle and strode into the mess tent where she dropped into a canvas chair. She threw her riding whip on to the table, removed her hat and sailed it across the tent, then shook out her braids and commanded, ‘Courtney, tell that useless cook of yours to bring me a cup of coffee.’

Leon relayed the order to the kitchen tent, and minutes later Ishmael hurried in with a steaming porcelain coffee pot on a silver tray. He set it down, poured a cup of the brew and placed it in front of her. Then he stood to attention behind her chair, waiting to be dismissed.

The princess raised the cup to her lips and sipped. She pulled a face of utter disgust and hurled the cup with its contents at the far wall of the tent. ‘Do you think I am a sow that you place such pig swill before me?’ she screamed. She seized her riding whip from the table and leaped to her feet. ‘I will teach you to show me more respect, savage.’ She drew back her whip arm to strike at Ishmael’s face. He made no effort to protect himself but stared at her in terrified astonishment.

Behind her, Leon sprang from his chair and grabbed her wrist before she could launch the blow. He swung her around to face him. ‘Your Royal Highness, there are no savages among my people. If you want this safari to continue you should bear that firmly in mind.’ He held her easily until she stopped struggling. Then he went on, ‘You should go to your tent now and rest until dinner time. You are clearly overwrought by the excitement of the lion hunt.’

He released her and she stormed from the tent. She did not reappear when Ishmael rang the dinner gong and Leon dined alone. Before he retired he checked her tent surreptitiously and saw that her lantern was still burning. He went to his own quarters and filled in his game book. He was about to add a comment about the incident in the mess, but as he started to write he remembered Penrod’s caution. Instead of relieving his feelings he wrote, ‘Today the princess proved once more that she is a remarkable horsewoman and rifle shot. The cool manner in which she despatched the magnificent lion was extraordinary. The more I see of her, the more I admire her skills as a huntress.’

He blotted the page, put the game book back in his campaign bureau and locked the drawer. Then, for half an hour, he read the book his uncle Penrod had written on his experiences during the Boer War, entitled With Kitchener to Pretoria. When his eyelids drooped he set it aside, undressed and climbed under the mosquito net. He blew out the lantern and settled down contentedly to enjoy a good night’s rest.

He had barely closed his eyes before he was startled awake by the loud report of a pistol shot coming from the direction of the princess’s tent. His first thought was that some dangerous animal, lion or leopard, had broken into it. He fought his way out of the folds of the mosquito net and grabbed the big Holland, which stood fully loaded beside the bed, ready for just such an emergency. Clad only in his pyjama bottoms he ran to her tent. He saw that her lantern was still burning.

‘Your Royal Highness, are you all right?’ he called. When he received no reply he pulled open the canvas fly and ducked inside, rifle at the ready. Then he stopped in amazement. The Princess stood facing him in the middle of the floor. Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders and down to her waist. She wore an almost transparent rose pink nightdress. The lantern was behind her so every line of her long lean body was revealed. Her feet were bare but surprisingly small and shapely. She held the riding whip in one hand and the 9mm Luger pistol in the other. The smell of burned nitro powder still hung in the air. Her face was blanched with fury and her eyes blazed like cut sapphires as she glowered at him. She lifted the Luger and fired a second shot through the canvas roof. Then she tossed the pistol on to the enormous bed that filled half the floor space.

‘You swine! Do you think you can treat me like rubbish in front of all your servants?’ she demanded, as she took a step towards him, swinging the whip menacingly. ‘You are no better than the creatures who work for you.’

‘Kindly control yourself, ma’am,’ he warned her.

‘How dare you address me thus? I am a royal princess of the House of Hohenzollern. And you are a commoner of a mongrel race.’ Her English was perfectly enunciated. She smiled icily. ‘Ah, so! Now at last you grow angry, serf! You want to fight back but you dare not. Your bowels are too soft. You do not have the courage. You hate me but you must suffer any humiliation I might choose to heap on you.’

She threw the whip at his feet. ‘Put away that rifle. You cannot use it to bolster your flabby manhood. Pick up the whip!’ Leon laid the Holland on the groundsheet below the entrance wall of the tent and scooped up the whip. He was quivering with rage. Her insults had raked him cruelly and brought him to the brink of abandoning all restraint. He was not certain what to do with the whip, but it felt good in his right hand.

‘M’bogo, is all well? We heard shots. Is there trouble?’ Manyoro called softly through the canvas wall, and the princess drew back a few paces.

‘Go, Manyoro, and take the others with you. None of you must return until I call you,’ Leon shouted back.

‘Ndio, Bwana.’

He heard their soft steps retreating, and the princess laughed in his face. ‘You should have asked them to help you. You do not have the courage to stand up to me on your own.’ She laughed. ‘Ja, now you grow angry again. That is good. You want to strike me but you dare not do so.’ She leaned towards him until their faces were only inches apart.

‘You have a whip in your hand. Why do you not use it? You hate me, but you are afraid of me.’ Suddenly and unexpectedly she spat in his face. Instinctively he lashed out at her and the whiplash snapped across her cheek. She reeled back, clutching the red weal, and wailed piteously, ‘Yes! I deserved that. You’re so masterful when you’re angry.’ She flung herself at his feet, and clung to his knees. He was trembling with disgust at himself and threw the whip across the tent.

‘I wish you good night, Your Royal Highness.’ He tried to turn away to the door but, with surprising strength, she tripped him. The instant he was off balance she landed on his back with all her weight and he fell across the bed, the princess on top of him. ‘Are you mad?’ he demanded.

‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘I am crazy for you.’

It was only an hour short of dawn when she allowed him to leave her tent. On the way to his own bed he noticed that the tents of her staff, her secretary and handmaidens, were in darkness – despite the cries of the princess, which had made the long night clamorous. It seemed that all of them must have become inured long ago to the princess’s peccadilloes.