The last kingdom, p.28
The Last Kingdom, page 28
He stopped and listened.
“The Pöllat gorge accommodates a waterfall about fifty meters high,” Fenn said. “Maximilian, Ludwig II’s father, constructed a wooden bridge across it and named it after his wife, Mary. Ludwig II rebuilt that bridge out of iron when he started construction on Neuschwanstein. It crosses ninety meters above the gorge.”
“It’s not lit?” Malone asked.
“In summer. But not this time of year. The view of the castle from it is most impressive.”
They walked more.
“In Ludwig II’s day, where we are standing was a graveled path,” Fenn said. “The commission that came to take the king into custody was confronted by armed locals right here. Ludwig watched from up there”—Fenn pointed—“in the principal tower.”
“You know this stuff,” Derrick said.
Fenn nodded. “It has been an interest of mine for a long time. I am just glad that my knowledge can now prove useful.”
They kept walking, climbing up the steep path.
“It took thirteen years to build this masterpiece,” Fenn said. “It cost a hundred twenty million gold marks. That was an enormous sum. A stupendous fortune. It placed a huge financial hardship on Ludwig, since he used his own money. Contrary to popular culture, Ludwig did not drain the Bavarian treasury building castles. He used the money allocated to him each year for his household upkeep, along with borrowed money, to build his dreams. But what irony, that what bankrupted Ludwig now produces millions of euros in revenue every year for Germany.”
Derrick stared up at the gatehouse’s redbrick facade, richly ornamented by the cupolas of arched windows, battlements of projecting balconies, leaning roofs, and side fighting towers. The Bavarian coat of arms hung above the main gate. A couple, walking arm and arm and huddled in thick coats, strolled out.
He turned back and stared out at the dark countryside. In the dim light, the view extended for miles to the west, lights dotting the vista, some stationary, most likely houses or farms, others cars moving down the highway they’d navigated on the way in. The hushed silvery landscape glowed here and there with its own luminosity. The glow from the moving cars seared into his retina in a confusing white swirl of brightness and movement.
He thought about earlier in Munich.
And Rife’s attack.
Were any of those vehicles bringing trouble?
Chapter 60
RIFE SHIFTED THE CAR INTO FOURTH GEAR AND SPED DOWN THE highway. Apparently Koger and Malone had figured out they were tracking them through their phones, as both units had gone dark. But Marc Fenn’s remained active. The listening devices within Fenn’s castle had revealed that Koger and Malone had appeared, learned a lot of information, then they and Fenn had left, headed south, apparently to Neuschwanstein. The latest ping showed that Fenn’s phone was right on top of the castle’s location.
Terry Knight sat beside him.
He’d also placed, then received, a call from Prince Stefan, who’d stated that he would be heading south, too, along with his brother, Albert, who had now joined forces with him.
Good.
Things were progressing.
The unexpected alliance between Koger and Malone had presented a threat. Not to mention the two spies in Prince Stefan’s midst. Then there were the four men who’d been killed last night. Two were hired help. Two were Scythe. The hired help had been run over by a car. His men died from bullets to the head. They’d been sent to deal with Luke Daniels, but apparently Daniels had dealt with them. Which served as a warning.
Enemies abounded everywhere.
Nothing new, though. He was accustomed to a rough playing field. The good thing here was that he was unrestrained by any rules or lines of authority. No one was looking over his shoulder or telling him how to handle things. He could literally do whatever was necessary, and he planned on doing just that. All of the clues that had been unearthed so far apparently pointed the way to the fairy-tale castle that now came into view through the windshield. Seemed a bit ironic, considering the carnage he was about to unleash.
A familiar feeling surged through him.
One that said things were about to come to a head.
* * *
STEFAN WAS STILL ASTONISHED BY WHAT HE’D READ IN HIS GREAT-grandfather’s journal, welcome insight from a bitter seventy-four-year-old man. Clearly, Ludwig III had tried to preserve what he could of the Wittelsbach legacy. The horrors of World War I, then the German Revolution, and finally his loss of throne and kingdom had exacted a heavy toll. It made sense that he would take affirmative steps to protect his family’s heritage.
Rätselspiel.
Mystery game.
Indeed.
He was sitting in the passenger compartment of a Eurocopter EC135, the sleek aircraft’s cabin adorned with Hermès signature fabrics and butter-soft leather. A glass partition separated the cockpit from the cabin, providing a high degree of privacy. When he’d asked Albert what needed to be done, his brother had told him they must head south. Now. Albert had been equally cryptic when questioned about the helicopter’s owner, merely saying that the aircraft was at their disposal.
His brother looked tired.
All this exertion had to be hard on him.
“You should have allowed me to handle this,” he said to Albert. “You are not well.”
“I appreciate your concern. But I would like to be a part of this, however small that might be. I have long thought that Neuschwanstein would be key to the quest. Though only partially completed when he died, it remains the most enigmatic of Ludwig II’s three castles.”
They were speeding fast through the cold air. Daylight was nearly gone, the low ceiling of cloud shedding a steady fall of light snow. A row of fierce peaks ripped the southern horizon into jagged strips. Below stretched a sea of snow broken only by dense patches of forest, the occasional house or farm, and the open expanse of frozen lakes.
Neuschwanstein sat near the ancient town of Füssen, only a kilometer from the Austrian border. The town’s claim to fame had long been violin making, but Ludwig II made the location famous. The future king had been raised at Hohenschwangau, another castle just outside of town, where he and his brother, Otto, spent their childhood. Later, after his father died, and Ludwig became king, he bought a nearby summit with an ancient ruin, which was leveled and Neuschwanstein constructed, all within sight of his childhood home. The two castles still remained. One finished, the other never to be completed. One known throughout the world, the other basking in its shadow.
Like he and Albert.
In so many ways.
Strange, this new alliance. He and Albert’s past conversations had usually been friendly, but never familiar. Always before they’d represented conflicting factions, the ideological chasm between them never closing. Two worlds, two eras, locked in confrontation. His represented reform and progression, Albert’s more traditional in patience and satisfaction with the status quo, their priorities irreconcilable.
But not anymore.
“I always thought what Father told me,” Albert said, “about das letzte königreich were simply stories. Fanciful tales of nonsense. But once I read the journal it became clear that Ludwig III took the notion quite seriously and actually created something real.”
Yes, the old king had.
It waits in a safe place, watched over by the Sängerkrieg, protected by the Rätselspiel, waiting for a time when we are once again revered.
“Do you know what he meant by ‘watched over by the Sängerkrieg’?” he asked Albert.
His brother smiled. “I don’t. But there are people here that do.”
Chapter 61
LUKE CHECKED HIS WATCH.
5:20 P.M.
He, Toni, and Christophe had taken refuge in an underground room, just past the chapel—a storage area for cleaning supplies and other equipment. He’d hoped that nothing inside would be needed and, thankfully, no one had disturbed their solitude. The cathedral had closed nearly ninety minutes ago for some sort of private ceremony. For the past fifteen minutes the organ above had been playing.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
Toni opened the door and carefully peered out. “Looks okay.”
They fled the room and returned to the chapel. The music was louder, seeping down below from the stairway through the closed iron gate. Its deep bass tones should offer excellent cover for any noise they might make.
“But first,” Luke said, “we need to find out if that gate is locked.”
Toni climbed the stairs, hesitated a few moments, then descended and shook her head. “Closed. But not locked.”
Good.
Their escape route seemed okay. The idea was to open the burial vault and retrieve the pocket watch Fenn had said should be there. Also, if they came across anything else “out of the ordinary” they should remove that too. Really? Out of the ordinary inside a one-hundred-year-old decayed body? Everything about this screamed trouble. Yet Christophe seemed oblivious to anything. Toni, on the other hand, had tossed him enough looks that he realized she also smelled trouble. Regardless, once done, they should be able to leave by blending in with whatever was happening upstairs. The only glitch would come if whatever was happening included a visit down here.
“Okay,” Christophe said. “You said this wasn’t going to be a problem. Show me.”
He stepped over to the five burial vaults.
“Give me a hand,” he said to Christophe. “Lexi, keep an eye up those stairs for any visitors.”
She nodded and remained at the bottom of the stone risers as he and Christophe turned their attention to the square engraved slab that sealed the final resting place of Ludwig III. He’d not been able to get extra close earlier with all the people around. But now he saw that his hunch was right. The stone was not mortared to the wall. Instead a gap existed, indicating that it was a separate piece. He saw that Christophe likewise understood. They each worked on a side, wedging their fingers into the gap and wiggling the stone outward. It took effort but there was enough play to allow them to work a steady back-and-forth until they could get a solid grip on the outer lid, sliding it out ever so slowly. Together, one on each side, they freed the cap and set it on the floor.
“That was heavy,” Christophe said.
Yes, it was.
Luke stood back up and stared into the receptacle.
Empty. No coffin. No body.
Nothing.
Oh, crap.
This was worse than he’d thought.
* * *
COTTON STOOD AT NEUSCHWANSTEIN’S CRENELLATED GATEWAY AND noticed the stone figure of a dog above one of the doors. Beneath it was an inscription. BEI TAG UND NACHT, DIE TREUE WACHT. Faithfulness keeps guard by day and night. The phrase included in the riddle Dianne McCarter had provided to him.
“Looks like we’re in the right place,” he said.
“I knew that when you showed me back at my castle,” Fenn said. “Those words pointed straight here.”
That they did.
Beyond the gatehouse was a spacious, split-level inner courtyard devoid of people. He felt like he’d come face-to-face with a remnant of a fantastical world that had long been dead. Lights illuminated the open space. Turnstiles and ropes that formed a zigzagging queue stood empty. An uneasy silence passed around him in the icy air, which only made his breathing more noticeable. He hated the cold. He’d been bred in the heat and humidity of middle Georgia with lots of gnats, mosquitos, and onions.
The sound of a waterfall continued in the distance, somewhere out into the darkness. Fenn led the way inside to a gift shop where a man waited. He was short, with light brown hair and scowling eyebrows, a dark mole dotting his right cheek. He introduced himself as the curator, adding a smile that had all the charm of a durable-press shirt.
“We are old friends,” Fenn said. “He is not Guglmänner. But definitely a friend of the brothers.”
“Marc explained what is happening,” the man said in a nasally voice. “This is quite exciting. I have always wondered if the stories were true.”
Cotton smiled. “Why don’t we find out.”
* * *
LUKE INSTANTLY REALIZED THE SITUATION.
“Your buddy, Fenn, sent us here for a reason,” he said to Christophe, “and it’s not to get into this tomb.”
Toni hustled over and saw the empty receptacle.
“Fenn said there was a body in here,” Christophe said.
“Which ought to tell you something,” Toni added.
“We need to get out of here,” he said. But on the off chance that Fenn had truly not known the tomb was empty, he decided that replacing the cap would be best. “First, let’s clean this up.”
Together, all three of them lifted the capstone and slid it back into place. Then they climbed the stairs to the iron gate, which Toni slowly opened. He recalled the nave’s geography and realized that the portal was toward the main altar, a long walk from there to the exit doors. And whatever special event was happening could make their retreat far from unnoticeable. But the chance would have to be taken.
They stepped out.
The organ continued to blare.
Acolytes were busy arranging the altar, about half a dozen young people in robes milling about. The pews were empty. Thank goodness. Whatever was happening had not yet started. Maybe they’d caught a break and could disappear fast. But his hopes were dashed when he stared back through the nave toward the main doors.
Five uniformed police entered.
Which confirmed this was a trap.
He and Toni turned, intent on finding another way out. But Christophe had other ideas, reaching beneath his coat, finding a gun, and firing in the cops’ direction.
“This is not going to be good,” Luke muttered.
Chapter 62
COTTON FOLLOWED KOGER AND THE CURATOR DEEPER INTO Neuschwanstein, admiring the mythical atmosphere. Flashes of another place and time flickered before his eyes. He half expected to see knights in armor strolling the corridors with their squires in tow. The building was now officially closed for the day so the place loomed empty.
At a spiral staircase they climbed up to the third floor.
“The throne hall is down there, to the right,” the curator said as they exited the stairway. “But what you are after is this way.” The man pointed down a long corridor, one side of which was an exterior wall with darkened windows. The other side opened, through Norman arches, into lit rooms. “The normal tour would start ahead at the throne room, moving through the dining room and the king’s bedroom, turning on the far side and then coming back down this corridor to the stairs. But nobody is here, so we can cheat just a little and go in reverse.”
The man seemed pleased at the possible mischief.
The curator led them down the corridor. The rooms to his right were a flaming symphony of color, embellished with rare woods and decorated with exquisite murals, all from Wagnerian operas. Lustrous brass chandeliers contributed to the grand splendor. Cotton wondered how many wood-carvers, painters, goldsmiths, and needleworkers labored to create it. Everything was intensely quiet, like a mausoleum, illuminated by incandescent fixtures and shafts of weak exterior floodlight that filtered in through the mullioned windows.
Halfway, the curator stopped. “This was the king’s study.”
Like the rest of the interior, the walls were a warm, knot-free oak, stained walnut. A gold-plated brass chandelier hung from the center that accommodated electric candles that burned bright. A large writing desk and a high-backed chair with some charming embroidery sat beneath the chandelier. On the desk sat a large inkstand and two bronze lamps. Behind the desk a set of closed double doors led into another room. He breathed in the warm air, heavy with the waft of dust and polish.
“Do you know what we’re after here?” Koger asked.
The curator nodded. “Marc explained what you have learned. ‘Where the minstrel aims his praise, and Parsifal points his gaze, the seer and dove offer help from above.’ Quite a clever twist of words.”
The same conclusion Fenn had come to, which made Cotton wonder.
Who came to it first?
“The king’s desk once stood out here,” Fenn said. “Against the window, in the corridor. Of course, Ludwig lived alone, so that would not have been an issue. He only slept here for about a hundred and seventy days total. When he did, he would sit at the desk and stare out at the panorama of regal old pines, birch groves, and wide valleys. Quite a sight that would have been. The desk was moved into the study a long time ago to accommodate the thousands of visitors who traverse this hall every day.”
The curator pointed at the bright, colorful wall murals. “These were all painted by Joseph Aigner, an artist from Munich, on large canvases built into the wall. Aigner, though, worked too slow for Ludwig’s patience. So he was eventually replaced with another painter. That so-called ‘interference with his artistic vision’ was said to have driven Aigner mad.”
“Any truth to it?” Cotton asked.
The curator shrugged. “No one really knows. Aigner killed himself in 1886, five months before Ludwig died. But before he was fired, Aigner tried to curry Ludwig’s favor.” The curator approached one of the large murals that filled the top half of a side wall. He pointed, then explained, “These paintings tell a story. Once there was an itinerant knight, a singer named Tannhäuser, who fell in love with Elisabeth, the niece of the Landgrave of Thüringen. But their differing social status prevented them from marrying so, in despair, Tannhäuser traveled to a place called Hörselberg, where the goddess Venus resided. There he stayed for a year enjoying the pleasures of her decadent realm.”
The curator pointed to more of the murals that illustrated what he was saying.
“Eventually, Tannhäuser grew weary of the goddess and moved on, arriving at the Wartburg, where a singers’ contest was happening. He joined in, but shocked the other minstrels by singing the praises of sensual love. He was banned from the Wartburg.”
