Page 31 of The Last Kingdom

At least for now.

He motored through the electronic gate and parked. The swishing of the snow under the tires, the throatiness of the engine, even the modest speed at which he’d been forced to drive all conspired to frustrate him. The time was approaching 10:00P.M.and his day was not done. His appetite for detail, his prodigious memory, his divinations—had all carried him to this point. The moment had come to make things happen and he intended to seize that opportunity despite what had happened at St. Michael’s.

He entered the house and headed straight for his study. Brocades, fringes, tassels, and thick rugs smothered the elegance of white wood paneling that still managed to retain its delicacy through peeling paint. The whole place was an abomination, one he intended to raze and rebuild once he became king. Sherry, brandy, and champagne waited on a sideboard in the study beside a tray of Baccarat crystal laden with foie gras and truffles.

He was pleased.

All seemed ready for his guests.

The plan had been to secure the book from Herrenchiemsee, then examine Ludwig’s crypt, hopefully finding what had been left there long ago.

“They buried the dead king with such pomp and circumstance,” his father said. “How considerate of them considering that they killed him.”

“Who arethey?” Stefan asked with the wonder of a teenager. “Who killed Ludwig?”

“The government. His uncle, Luitpold. Bismarck. The people of Bavaria. All of them conspired to end him.”

“But only Ludwig and von Gudden went on that walk,” Albert said. “No one else was there. No one knows how they died.”

His father smiled. “It’s no mystery, son. We like to make it so. But it is no mystery.”

Now he was curious. All of his young life he’d heard the tales of how Ludwig had died so conveniently only one day after being deposed. Two men went for a walk and never returned. It had to be murder, right? What else could it have been? How could such a difficult political situation simply eliminate itself at precisely the right moment? It had to have been foul play.

Still—

“How did the king die?” Stefan truly wanted to know.

“It is quite simple,” his father said.

And he listened.

The king and von Gudden were walking in the rain. Ludwig was anxious and angry, having been betrayed by his uncle, declared insane by doctors who’dnever examined him, and imprisoned by his own government. He’d been helpless when they seized him at Neuschwanstein but now, free along the shores of Starnberger See, he became empowered. So he seized the moment, turned to the older man walking with him, and swung his rolled umbrella, striking von Gudden on the forehead. He then tossed the umbrella onto a nearby bench and began to flee. Von Gudden recovered and tried to stop the escape, grabbing hold of the king’s overcoat and jacket, stripping them off as Ludwig rushed toward the lake, turning them inside out. The doctor pursued and grabbed the king again. They both tumbled into the underbrush, but Ludwig was able to break free and plunged into the lake. Von Gudden kept pace and entered the water too. The king struck the doctor in the face, bruising the right eye and scratching him. Von Gudden kept fighting, tearing the nail from his right middle finger in the process. The doctor, dazed from the struggle, lapsed into unconsciousness and drowned in the cold water. As a young man Ludwig had been astrong swimmer. But being older, overweight, and exhausted from the fight, the cold water overcame him, too, and he drowned.

It all made sense.

“No murders?” Albert asked. “No plot?”

“I’m afraid not, son. They were both just overcome by their struggle and died.”

“So there’s no mystery?” he asked.

“Did I say that? Quite the contrary. The mystery is not in Ludwig’s death. It’s in what happened after.”

That it was, Stefan thought.

And quite a mystery it was.

Unfortunately, his father had told him only bits and pieces. Not nearly enough. Apparently, the rest had beenfor the duke and his heir.

A soft tap on the study door brought him back to reality.

One of the house staff entered and told him that his guests had arrived.

“Show them in.”

* * *

COTTON RESTED IN THE DEPTHS OF BLACKNESS, A WHIRLPOOL OFlights swirling ever larger, ignoring his subconscious pleas to go away. A voice could be heard, soft at first, growing in volume as the glow grew in brightness. A familiar voice. One that never grew old. Never lost its strength.