The Ludwig Conspiracy (44 page)

“The king isn’t going to Linderhof,” I interrupted. “He’s being sent to Berg Castle. They’ll already be on their way here. We must set about planning his escape from Berg.”

“Berg, here on Lake Starnberg?” Hornig looked at me, taken aback. “Well, that changes things, of course. But it isn’t necessarily the worst of news. I have many friends around here.” Only now did he notice my pitiful appearance, and he clapped me sympathetically on the shoulder. “But what am I talking about? Come along in and warm yourself up.”

As I entered the room where a fire blazed, I saw that we were far from being alone. As well as Hornig and his brother, here in the large, smoky room were Dr. Schleiss von Loewenfeld, Kaulbach the painter, and a dozen other persons, some of whom were very clearly simple, earthy fellows. However, I also saw Count Rambaldi from Allmannshausen and Baron Eugen von Beck-Peccoz from Eurasburg. All things considered, they were a motley crew of daring men who now stared at me suspiciously as their conversations died away.

“Never fear, gentlemen,” said Hornig reassuringly to the company at large. “This is Theodor Marot, a good friend of the king. He brings important news.” Turning to me, he helped me out of my wet overcoat. “Tell them, Theodor.”

Briefly and hastily, I gave an account of what had gone on at Neuschwanstein during the last two days. When I had finished, an awkward silence fell in the room. The air in the place was stale and sultry, and combined with all the smoke from the men’s pipes and cigars, it made me feel dizzy.

“My dear Marot,” said Dr. Loewenfeld, breaking the silence at last, “we must all be grateful to you. As you see, the last of the king’s loyal subjects have assembled here to stand by him. Until now, however, we have assumed that any escape must be from Linderhof. Your news changes everything, but it is far from being bad news.”

“Indeed, quite the opposite,” interrupted Hornig, lighting his pipe with a pine splinter from the hearth. “I know the land around Lake Starnberg like the back of my hand, and I have contacts. As for these men . . .” He pointed at the determined expressions of the company. “They will do everything to set their king free.”

“Assuming that he will let them,” growled Kaulbach the painter. “If I understand you correctly, Theodor, he is not so keen on the idea. Obviously His Majesty prefers cyanide.”

“At the end, I thought him very determined again,” I replied, warming my back at the crackling fire on the hearth. “I think that when Ludwig sees his escape will be crowned by triumph, he will not refuse. But as long as he sees a fate like that of his brother, Otto, ahead of him, death will seem the only way out.”

Dr. Schleiss von Loewenfeld struck the wooden floor with his walking-stick. “Then we must act quickly! As soon as the king is free, he must go to the Tyrol and regain his kingdom from there. We will make out a medical certificate of his sanity revealing Gudden’s as a shady, tendentious pamphlet. Then we can arraign Holnstein, Lutz, and the other ministers for high treason.” He shook his head angrily. “A medical certificate made out by a man who hasn’t once spoken to the patient. Any district medical specialist in insanity will debunk that. It’s nothing but a badly planned coup d’état
.
”

A murmur of agreement rose. Several of the common folk present sent up three cheers for the king and raised their glasses.

“When do you think the king will arrive at Berg?” Richard Hornig finally asked.

I shrugged. “Gudden said the carriages would be ready to leave at four in the morning. So they can’t be taking much longer.”

“In that case we must hurry.” Hornig took out a notepad and scribbled a couple of words on it. “The villains will probably stop for a rest in Seeshaupt, if only to change horses at the posting station. So we’ll try to get a message to Ludwig there. I suggest that for safety’s sake we form several rescue commandos who—if Ludwig decides on flight—will wait for the king at different locations on Lake Starnberg.”

“Ought we not to let his cousin Sisi know?” I asked. “After all, she goes to stay at Rose Island in the lake, and she is a friend of his.”

Kaulbach the painter shook his head vigorously. “I consider that too dangerous. The empress of Austria is a member of the Wittelsbach family. Who knows, maybe Prince Luitpold has already been in touch with her.” He buttoned up his white linen jacket and rapidly smoothed it down. “The fewer people who know about this operation, the better.”

“Very well, then that’s decided.” Dr. Schleiss von Loewenfeld rose ponderously from his armchair. “Who’s going to tell the king when he arrives in Seeshaupt?”

“I’ll do that,” I offered. “He trusts me.”

Kaulbach frowned. “But Gudden and Holnstein will recognize you.”

“Leave that to me.” I put my wet hat on again and slipped into my overcoat, which was now steaming with the damp. “It won’t be the first time I have made myself out to be someone else. And if it goes on raining like this, even my own mother wouldn’t know me in these garments.”

T
HE PARTY BRINGING
the king arrived in the village of Seeshaupt shortly after eleven in the morning.

Rain still poured down in torrents; it was as if heaven itself wept for King Ludwig’s fate. After sleeping for far too short a time and eating a frugal breakfast at the Hornig brothers’ house, I set off on a fresh horse for the posting station at the southern end of the lake. In addition to my overcoat and hat, I wore a patch over one eye, and I had brought a stick with me, so that I looked like a disreputable drunken veteran of the French campaign of the year 1870. I killed several hours in the tavern at the posting station, drank a couple of glasses of beer, and practiced my new role by limping through the saloon bar of the place several times, swearing like a trooper at the top of my voice.

When I finally heard the whinnying of many horses, I and several other guests hurried outside, where we witnessed a dismal spectacle. The commission that had taken the king was on its way with four covered black carriages. The drivers looked darkly down from their high boxes at the whispering crowd. A couple of the madhouse attendants stretched their legs. Dr. von Gudden himself was nowhere to be seen; he was presumably waiting with his assistant in one of the carriages, where they were both sheltered from the rain.

From my place in the curious crowd, I tried to make out which of the vehicles carried the king, and at last I saw his pale, bloated face in the window of the front carriage. Several spectators also seemed to have recognized Ludwig, and restrained huzzahs were heard, but there was an overall atmosphere of anxiety. The people realized that their king was a prisoner. A woman, obviously the landlady of the tavern, stepped forward, bowing several times, and handed the king a glass of water, which he gratefully drained.

As the people, gaping but with a certain caution, approached the royal carriage, I plucked up my courage and limped toward the window from which the king was greeting the crowd, waving wearily.

“Your Majesty,” I whispered, after I had looked around for the attendants one last time. “It’s me, Theodor.”

The king looked at me in surprise. Only when I took off the eye patch did recognition cross his face.

“Marot,” he murmured. “Have you come to say goodbye to me? Those in this gang are going to lock me up in Berg. They’ll treat me like a lunatic, like my brother, Otto.” He smiled faintly. “But I will fly away like a swan. I’ll fly where none can follow.”

“My king, all will be well.” I kept my voice low, almost inaudible. All the same, I was afraid that the attendants or coachmen could overhear me. “Hornig and the others were already preparing for your escape. Boats are ready and waiting.”

“Truly?” Ludwig briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Then perhaps all is not lost.”

I looked anxiously around. One of the madhouse attendants had his eye on me. He whispered something to his colleagues and pointed my way.

“I must go now,” I said. “We’ll get a message to you in Berg when the moment for flight has come. Until then . . .”

“Wait one more second,” the king interrupted. “I have a gift for you.”

He reached under the seat in the carriage, and I could see that strong leather straps had been fitted to it, and the door handles had been unscrewed on the inside. Ludwig gave me a small book.

“This contains poems and ballads,” he said in a tone of nostalgia. “Goethe, Schiller, Heine . . . They inhabit a world that is far more mine than this prison that we call reality.”

“My . . . my king,” I said, hiding the book under my overcoat. “I thank you. But now I really must . . .”

“Many of those poems are very close to my heart,” he went on, lost in thought. “Sometimes only lines, or single words. But they mean a great deal to me. Goodbye.”

He gave me his hand in farewell. I was about to turn away, but he held my hand so firmly that I could not tear it from him.

“And one more thing, Theodor,” he said. “I have forgiven you about Maria. Something grew between me and that girl that is stronger than hatred and jealousy. Promise me that you will look after her when I am no more. Look after her and the boy.”

A shudder ran through me, and I found it hard to hold back tears.

“I . . . I promise you that,” I said quietly.

“Then go with God.”

I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. It swung me around, and I was looking into the angry face of one of the madhouse attendants. He had been among the men who came with the first group charged to take the king, and who had been imprisoned on Ludwig’s orders.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” he growled. “This is no king of yours now. He’s a lunatic in need of treatment.” He laughed unpleasantly. “Better be glad he didn’t gouge out your eyes. He’s been known to do that to your betters, you know.”

I gave the madhouse attendant a foolish grin and prayed to God that he wouldn’t recognize me.

“I was only bawling him out for not supporting us old soldiers in the old days against France,” I said. “I thought him crazy even then. A man who doesn’t place himself at the head of his army doesn’t
belong on the throne,” I told him. “You don’t get a chance to speak your mind to a king every day of the week.” I pointed derisively behind me at the carriage, taking care to sway back and forth.

“Well and good, then, well and good,” grumbled the attendant. “And now clear out before you throw up on my coat.”

He gave me a shove, and in relief I tottered away. Once I was at a safe distance, I turned back once more, but Ludwig’s face had already disappeared into the interior of the carriage. Only the attendant was still looking at me, shaking his head. When I put my hand under my overcoat, I felt the king’s book directly over my heart.

My promise was to bind me until death and beyond.

T
HE SOUND OF ZÖLLER’S
hoarse coughing made Steven pause for a moment. He had been reading aloud to Sara in a whisper; now he looked anxiously at the old man. But Uncle Lu seemed to be in a semiconscious state, muttering in his sleep with his eyes closed. Sara mopped the sweat from his brow yet again and then turned to the bookseller.

“Damn it, none of this gets us any closer to solving the puzzle,” she said. “We’re running out of time. Isn’t there another word written in capital letters farther on? Some kind of clue to what those stupid roman numerals could mean? Luise was talking about a place. Is there anything about a special place?”

Steven leafed hastily through the diary, then shook his head. “I’m afraid not. No special place, no clue to the numerals, and none to the titles of the poems in the first part of the memoirs—” He stopped short.

“What is it?” Sara asked.

Steven turned a page back and let his finger run along the text. “The poems,” he said quietly. “Marot says that Ludwig gave him a book of ballads in Seeshaupt. It could be just coincidence, or it could be . . .”

“A clue. You may be right.” Sara was on the alert now. “Read that bit again.”

Leafing back, Steven read out the passage once again:
“Many of those poems are very close to my heart. Sometimes only lines, or single words. But they mean a great deal to me.”

“Do you think . . . ?”

“I think that sounds very much like a clue,” Steven said. “After all, a third of our puzzle words refer to the titles of poems. But then what would the roman numerals mean?”

Roman numerals . . .

For a brief moment there was an eerie silence in the throne room, and then Sara burst out laughing. She opened her laptop and brought up the file with the deciphered code.

“How could we be so stupid?” she cried. “The king mentions
lines
and
words
! We never tried getting the roman numerals to stand for lines of poems and single words.”

Steven frowned. “Wait a moment—there are thirteen titles of poems, the thirteen numbers worked out with the second keyword . . .”

“And the same number of numbers worked out with the third keyword,” Sara interrupted him excitedly. “The poem, the line, the word. Just like Marot wrote. What was the first title again?”

Steven rapidly leafed through the diary. “‘Erl-King,’ it was the ‘Erl-King
.
’ The first roman numeral is XVI, which would be line sixteen. That would mean . . .” He closed his eyes for a minute so as to concentrate on remembering the poem. “
. . . Be calm, my dear, keep calm, my child, In the dry leaves rustles the wind so wild.
Those are lines fifteen and sixteen, so the first word would be
in.
”

“The second poem is Heine’s ‘Belshazzar,’” Sara said. “That’s no problem, I still remember learning that one in school. How did it go again?
The midnight hour was coming on, In peace and quiet lay Babylon . . .
” She glanced at her screen. “Line five, as far as I remember, is
Up there in the royal hall,
so the fourth word is
the.
Put the words together and we have
In the.
” She snapped her fingers. “I think we’re getting somewhere.” She glanced with satisfaction at the screen, where the first two poem titles and the relevant roman numerals had formed into a table.