The Swan King

by Nina Clare

  The Swan King

  A Historical Fairy Tale

  Nina Clare

  lost&foundStories

  Copyright © 2019 by Nina Clare

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Guest of Honour

  2. Papa

  3. Schloss Dragenberg

  4. Dreams

  5. The Woodcarver

  6. The King

  7. Strangers

  8. A Gift

  9. The Luxury of Time

  10. Thwarted Schemes

  11. Flight

  12. Henchmen

  13. Swanstein

  14. Swan Maiden

  15. The Friend

  16. New Encounters

  17. The Winter Garden

  18. A Night of Drama

  19. Maiden’s Blushes

  20. A Carriage of Birds

  21. Rumours

  22. Isle of Swans

  23. Gundelfinger

  24. New Power

  25. Warnings of War

  26. Rising Power

  27. Temptation

  28. New Moon

  29. Shadows

  30. Revelations

  31. Treasure

  32. A Way Out

  33. Decisions

  34. Three Wishes

  35. Moonshine

  36. Endings

  37. The True Story

  38. Changeling Child

  39. The Third Wish

  40. Something Magical

  41. King of the Swans

  About The Swan King

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  Also by Nina Clare

  For Ruth

  My fellow Bavarian explorer,

  who also knows that the best royal kingdom

  is yet to be seen…

  I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and to others.

  King Ludwig II of Bavaria

  Prologue

  München, Bayern 1866

  Hansi gripped his fingers around the carving he carried. The feel of the light birch wood comforted him. The magic liked wood. It flowed gently through it; kind, protective magic. Nothing like the powerful stuff that the mountain held. Or did until some days ago.

  The room was very formal. A score or so men were crowded against the wall, watching the proceedings. Although he was taller than most, Hansi still had to bend his neck to one side to see her. She sat on a chair on the platform. He was glad they’d given her a chair and not made her stand.

  She looked very pale. She’d been through so much since he’d first met her. But she had a new look of confidence about her, the kind that comes from knowing who you really are.

  The chairman shuffled his papers, adjusted his monocle, and cleared his throat to show that he now meant to begin. The room quieted from loud chatter to whisperings. The chairman began.

  ‘The Government Committee of Enquiry is now assembled, and charges all witnesses to give true testimony, answer all questions faithfully, and assist in this enquiry as to the whereabouts of the king, and in ascertaining if His Majesty is of sound mind and fit to rule, once he is found—or otherwise.

  ‘Fräulein…’ the chairman rummaged through his papers again, ‘I do not appear to have a name for you. You are listed merely as a distant relative of the queen mother’s.’ He looked pointedly at her, but she did not speak. ‘The Committee of Enquiry requires your testimony, but first we must know who it is who testifies.’

  Hansi strained to hear her voice, which was clear, but muffled by the whisperings of the crowd. He wanted to tell them to be quiet, but they were of the upper classes; it was a wonder they had not thrown him out yet, seeing as he was the only man in the room not wearing a tailored suit.

  ‘You may call me…’ her hesitation was so brief, only Hansi heard it, ‘Fräulein Opel. And I have already given statements of what I know and what I have seen, but no one believes me.’

  She wore unfamiliar clothes. She gave a shiver, and he hoped she hadn’t caught a chill from the water. Poor Herr Haller was in the sanatorium recovering from hypothermia.

  ‘Dr Mensdorff affirms that shock influenced your first testimony, Fräulein Opel, and thus must be discounted. Now you have recovered, you must tell us what you witnessed.’

  She looked at the window, staring past the chairman and the dark-suited men of the committee. The rain was hammering on the glass; it had rained all morning. The snow would be muddy slush in the streets.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything. How did you become a member of the king’s entourage? Who are you, Fräulein Opel, where did you come from, and how was it that you were one of the last persons to see the king? We must know everything.’

  ‘The last person in this world,’ she murmured.

  ‘I beg pardon?’ said the chairman. ‘What did you say?’

  She did not reply, but looked at Hansi. He gave a nod of encouragement. He knew she could not speak freely. He knew this, but the men sat watching her did not. And must not.

  Every word she shared with the committee she must choose with care; she was not safe yet. She might never be safe if they did not believe her.

  ‘Very well,’ she said at last, turning her eyes from Hansi, to look back towards the window, as though she were looking out at a vista of memory; as though remembering was a labour. ‘If you want to know all, then it is not only my own story I must share. My own is intertwined with another’s. I cannot separate them.’

  ‘Very well, Fräulein Opel. Proceed from the beginning.’

  Chapter 1

  Guest of Honour

  ‘The story starts with a girl. A girl who had lived a quiet life near a small town, all of her seventeen years.’

  ‘Of what class was this girl, Fräulein Opel? What was her name? We must have particulars.’

  ‘She was the daughter of a baron.’

  ‘She was the happy child of fortune, then.’

  ‘Fortune had not been kind to the baron. His second marriage was costly, in every way imaginable. He kept his manor. He kept servants, a carriage, horses. Beautiful horses. But there were debts. The story began the evening the young baroness met the count.’

  ‘Fräulein Opel, which baron and which count do you speak of? Are they of Bayern?’

  ‘Yes. And I will reveal their names in due course.’

  ‘We have enough mystery already in this investigation, Fräulein Opel. I adjure you to speak plainly.’

  Her eyes glazed a little. Hansi knew she was seeing the past. She was recalling all that she had once forgotten.

  She had stayed out riding too long. She ran into the house, up the back stairs, taking them two at a time. Her maid’s young face looked anxious as she met her in the door of the bedchamber.

  ‘Quick, my lady, the mistress has been in to hurry you along—I said you was in the bath!’

  The baroness threw her hat on the bed and struggled with the ties on her winter cloak. ‘The wretched thing’s knotted!’

  Her maid freed the knot. ‘Oh, my lady, your boots!’

  A trail of mud sullied the floor.

  ‘I was in such a rush I forgot to take them off at the door. Have the guests arrived?’ the baroness asked, lurching onto the nearest chair to unfasten the long row of buttons on one boot, while her maid worked to unbutton the second.

  ‘More than half an hour ago.’ She tugged one boot off, almost falling backwards with the effort.

  The baroness groaned, got up, and stepped out of her skirts. ‘Don’t
waste time changing my petticoats, Ziller, just give me the gown.’

  ‘But there’s mud on your hem!’

  ‘Only a spatter, the gown will cover it. There are no handsome princes downstairs, are there?’

  ‘Princes? What would a prince be doing here?’

  ‘Exactly. If there’s no princes to dress for, I’m not worrying about a bit of mud.’

  ‘I don’t understand, my lady, I think you’re making one of your jokes. But what shall we do with your hair?’

  The baroness stood in her fresh gown, her dark hair lying windblown round her face and in tangles down her back.

  ‘That new turban thing that Tante Emmeline sent,’ she said, snatching up her hairbrush from her dressing table. ‘It’s ugly, but there’s no time to dress my hair.’

  Ziller hurried to fetch the turban from the rows of hatboxes in the dressing room.

  ‘It’s not a good match,’ Ziller said, looking from the purple turban, with its cluster of dyed feathers to the baroness’s green gown.

  ‘Never mind. Put the thing on me and tuck my hair under it. I’ll pretend it’s the new fashion to wear contrasting colours.’

  Ziller did not return her grin. She burst into tears when the turban was on. ‘You can’t go down in that—the mistress will say I am the worst lady’s maid and send me to the scullery!’

  The baroness turned to the mirror and surveyed herself in her deep green gown with what looked like a laundry pile of purple silk piled on her head. She groaned again.

  ‘Let me put your hair under a net and set this hair piece on top,’ begged Ziller. ‘Mistress said to take care you looked well this evening.’

  ‘Oh, all right, but do stop crying, Ziller.’ She plucked off the turban and sat at the dressing table. ‘Hurry. Oh, why did I ride so far this afternoon?’

  Ziller worked with quick, nimble fingers, twisting the waist-length hair into a fat roll and encasing it under a decorative net. She jabbed the pins in and clipped on the hairpiece. The baroness now had sleek, fashionable curls falling neatly at each side of her face. She flew out of the room, her soft-soled shoes running noiselessly down the stairs to the hall. She paused outside the drawing room to catch her breath, patted her false curls to check they had not moved out of place, folded her hands demurely, and made her entrance.

  ‘And here she is,’ said her stepmother. ‘At last.’

  Her stepmother came gliding across the room, her hooped skirts swaying gently.

  ‘You’re late’, she hissed when she reached her.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ the baroness said. ‘I was riding, and—’

  ‘No time for excuses, Elisabeth. Redeem yourself by being most agreeable this evening to our guest of honour.’

  Elisabeth glanced across the room at the guests and wondered which one was the guest of honour.

  ‘Lift your head. Breathe in. You are a lady. Smile. A natural smile.’ Her voice faltered as she gave her stepdaughter a second look, ‘But what have you done to your hair? It looks as though you’ve stuffed it under a net. Is that a false front? Wait until I see that maid of yours.’

  ‘It was not Ziller’s fault, I—’

  ‘Hush! No time. Shoulders back. Smile.’

  The guests stood talking in the window alcove with the baron. His daughter pasted a smile on her face and hoped it looked less false than her curls.

  ‘My lord,’ said the baronin sweetly, ushering Elisabeth towards a tall, unfamiliar man. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my stepdaughter, Elisabeth.’

  Elisabeth made her curtsey to the tall, lean man with greying moustache and hair. She noted the white silk waistcoat, the jewelled pocket watch chain. Above the orderly folds of an ice-blue cravat she encountered the face of the count. She had never met him before this introduction, but she knew of him. Everyone knew of him; he was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the kingdom. His hooded eyes raked over her, lingering on her figure. He took her hand and bent to kiss it in greeting. She wished she had worn gloves.

  ‘Would you do us the honour of taking Elisabeth into dinner, my lord?’ said the baronin.

  ‘I should be delighted.’ He held out his arm, and Elisabeth was obliged to take it. She searched for her father, wanting a look from him—to reassure her that the baronin could present her to as many middle-aged men whose pomade smelled of camphor as she liked, but Papa would always take her part and say that she was young yet. Plenty of time. But her father was talking with Herr Lenbach, a business associate of his.

  The count seated her at the long dining table. The daylight had faded, and the wax candles were lit. The best tableware was displayed that evening: the Augsburg silver, and the Meissen porcelain. The baronin certainly wanted to make a good impression.

  ‘I hear you are an excellent horsewoman, my lady,’ said the count.

  ‘I enjoy riding very much,’ Elisabeth replied.

  ‘I hear you have a gift with horses.’

  She was startled, and put her glass down quickly, for fear she would spill its contents.

  ‘Gift? I ride well because I practise.’

  He smiled. His teeth were yellow from smoking. He bent his head towards her to speak quietly. ‘Do not worry, my lady. I can keep a secret.’

  She shot a look at her stepmother across the table, and flushed with anger. Who but the baronin would tell this man of her gift? But why? No one was to know of it. She might be called a witch if they did.

  ‘You must come and see my horses.’ The count drew back again. She took a deep breath to steady her voice.

  ‘I understand your horses are of the highest pedigree, sir.’

  ‘Everything I acquire is of the highest quality, or will help me achieve the highest.’ He tilted his raised glass towards her. She flushed again, this time with unease, as his eyes swept over her. His gaze ended with a slight frown as it settled on her hair. She tossed her ringlets like a rebellious horse tossing its mane.

  ‘Shall we say two days hence, my lord?’ said a voice from across the table.

  What sharp ears the baronin had.

  ‘I should be so glad to bring Elisabeth to see your famous stables. Perhaps we may have a peek at your equally famed art gallery?’

  ‘That would be my pleasure, Baronin. And I will show you not just my prize horses and art, but all that is worth seeing.’

  ‘Elisabeth would be delighted,’ said the baronin, arching her eyebrows at her stepdaughter to remind her of her manners.

  ‘Delighted,’ Elisabeth murmured, turning towards her father in appeal. But he was still engrossed in talking business with Herr Lenbach.

  She would not get out of it that easily.

  Chapter 2

  Papa

  Papa’s study was her favourite room. Next to the kitchen, the study had the best smells: rows of leather-bound books, many of them inherited from previous barons, the antique smell of old paper, fragrant bowls of dried orange peel and cinnamon sticks which the housekeeper placed about the room to dispel the smell of Papa’s evening pipe. She liked the way the aromatic pipe smoke mingled with the dried orange. She even liked the mustiness of the fur rugs on the floor, mixed with the smell of a contented dog, for Magni, the aged mountain hound, was usually found stretched out on one, dreaming of his youth.

  No one entered Papa’s study without permission; not even his wife, only his daughter held that privilege from her earliest childhood. She always took Papa his second cup of coffee before business took him away for the day.

  He was at his desk poring over papers, so engrossed that he was unaware of her until she put the cup down beside him. He started and hastily turned over the papers before him. She saw a flash of red ink on the overturned document.

  ‘Is everything well, Papa?’

  He nodded, but he looked tired.

  ‘You work too hard. I’ve barely seen you for weeks.’

  ‘You see me every morning, Elsa.’

  ‘Briefly, and you seem distracted of late.’ She put a ha
nd on his shoulder and he reached up to pat it.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry your young head about.’

  ‘Are those the plans for the new dining room?’ She pointed at a folder with the embossed sign of Tauffenbach & Sons on the cover.

  ‘They are.’ Papa pushed the folder towards her.

  ‘You don’t sound pleased. Are they not to your liking?’ She leafed through the drawings. ‘They’re very…ambitious.’

  The dining room was now too small for the baronin. She wished to entertain on a grander scale. In the four years since Papa had married her there had been a steady schedule of change and expansion under her direction: a new carriage, built to her specification, an extension to her own wing, for the existing dressing room was not big enough to house the wardrobe of a child, let alone a baronin. So she said. The kitchens were updated to make them fit for the new cook, who had cooked for Margravine Wilhemine. Elisabeth and her brother had concluded that the margravine must have greatly favoured horseradish, for it seemed to be in every dish. Or perhaps the margravine had not liked horseradish any more than they did, they joked, and that was why she had let her cook go.

  The baronin had re-dressed every window, re-upholstered every chair, purchased new furniture, new plate, new liveries. Only the baron’s study was forbidden from alteration.