‘Here you can see more of the Lohengrin saga.’ He stationed himself in front of the frescoes on the wall, and I struggled manfully to keep my place not too far away from him. ‘The swan was the emblem of the Lords of Schwangau and the castle is known as the Castle of the Swan.’
‘Excuse me, could …’
The guide glared. ‘The blue silk drapes and chair coverings are all embroidered with the motif of the swan, as are the iron doorhandles.’
He pointed to a flower vase on a tiled stove. ‘This vase of Nymphenburg china is also made in the shape of a swan. This favourite animal of King Ludwig appears in every room in the castle. There is no escaping from it.’
No escape. I said defiantly, ‘ Bitte, wo gibt es ein Telefon?’
Curtly he turned. ‘Madam, I must ask you to remain silent while we are on a tour of inspection of the rooms.’
When I spoke again, my voice was wavering, worn down by the fear, the hopelessness and the heat. ‘If you would just tell me where there is a telephone.’
‘The nearest telephone is at the restaurant near the car park. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the fresco behind me depicts the miracle of the Holy Grail. According to the legend, the Grail is the Holy chalice Jesus used at the Last Supper and into which Joseph of Arimathea …’
The car park. If the nearest phone was at the car park I didn’t stand a chance. I clenched my hands into icy knots, shaking my head, trying to clear it of the words ‘ no escape, no escape’, trying to think positively.
‘This chalice was preserved in the Castle Monsalvat, specially built for it and watched by the knighthood that served the Grail and fought for right and justice. When …’
He couldn’t be talking in English to only me! I said suddenly, ‘Would you ask who else is English here, please?’
‘Madam!’ he hissed. I ignored him and turned, desperate with hope. ‘Is anyone here English, please?’
Curious and displeased faces stared back at me as I waited in vain. The guide spoke to me through clenched teeth. ‘ Madam, for the last time …’
‘I’m sorry, but …’
‘When Elsa of Brabant is innocently accused, God grants her prayers by sending Lohengrin, the Knight of the Grail, to fight for her. Therefore, the name “Lohengrin” is to be seen on the chalice. On the wall …’ he continued firmly, studiously avoiding looking in my direction. ‘On the wall where the entrance is, Lohengrin’s arrival in Antwerp. In the recess …’
I stared unseeingly. There must be some way of escape. My powers of reasoning seemed to be frozen. The castle wasn’t so big, sooner or later Gunther was going to catch up with this particular party of tourists. What was the most sensible thing to do?
My first idea, that of seeking help from the guides, seemed less practicable now I was face to face with one of them. Presuming they had a rest-room and let me stay in it, Gunther would simply do what he had done at Nordlingen: explain that I was mentally disturbed and that he was my doctor. After my bizarre story the guides would need very little persuasion. Courteously he would thank them, apologize for any trouble I had caused … and lead me away. To kill me with as little effort as it takes to swat a fly. The guide’s persistent voice broke in on my thoughts.
‘He defeats Telramund thus proving Elsa’s innocence. Lohengrin becomes Elsa’s husband on condition that she should never enquire from where he comes …’
Any chance of leaving the castle and travelling back to the car park was utterly remote. If there had been a delay in Stephen being given my message (I refused to contemplate the fact that Gunther might have had Ellis or Levos with him in Oberammergau and that Stephen might be dead). If he hadn’t received the message straight away he surely would have by now. Any minute and the castle would be swarming with police. All I had to do was hide from Gunther until they arrived. The guide may have been right in that there was no escape from the castle, but in the castle …’
‘After some time, Elsa, in spite of having promised, asks the question, thus destroying her happiness. Lohengrin has to leave Elsa and his two little sons.’
In a castle like this, there must be one corner or recess in which a young woman weighing only eight stone could hide.
The people around me began to move once more.
‘The next room is the King’s dressing-room. Here the impression was intended of an open bower with the blue sky above.’
I let them file past me, scouring the room for any place that could offer a hidey-hole. There were no cupboards, only panelled walls of oak and the richly covered stools and chairs covered with blue silk. The long curtains that fell behind each white stuccoed pillar were caught half-way down and gathered back, offering no hope of concealment. I could hear more people climbing the staircase leading to the room and I hurried after my own party, worming my way into their centre again. By this time I was conscious that I was regarded very much as an eccentric, as they made room for me, grumbling and holding their cameras and handbags well out of my reach.
The guide was saying in his monotonous voice, ‘The ceiling is painted sky-blue with clouds and birds, around the sides a trellis with clinging vine, the painting on the wall is of the Meistersinger Hans Sachs and of the minstrel Walther von Stolzing. The birds teach Walther how to sing …’
There wasn’t room to hide a thimble. The only furnishings were a richly carved wash-stand with a pretty toilet-set, and a small table with a jewel-box. As I listened to the guide extolling the beauties of the metal work on the doors I tried to decide which was safest. To stay with the group until I could see somewhere I might hide, or leave them and hurry through the castle by myself, searching for a place? If I came face to face with Gunther on my own …
‘And now the Oratory. This small chapel is devoted to St Louis, the patron saint of King Ludwig. On the altar, in the centre of the triptych, St Louis. The crucifix is of ivory.’
There was not enough room to walk into it, and those around me peered forwards to catch a glimpse of the altar and the praying desk covered in violet velvet and lavish gold embroidery. Since we had climbed the stairs I had been unable to see down into the courtyard or on to the steep path leading up through the woods. Surely the police would be on their way by now? I looked at my watch. It was twelve-fifteen. Where in the world were they?
‘And now this next room was the King’s private dining-room. It is a comparatively small room as the King used to dine alone and there were never any feasts. The dishes were brought up from the kitchen by means of a food-lift in the corridor. In contrast to the other castles there is no magic table which may be lowered into the floor. On the walls …’
Opposite me, set in the centre of the wall, was a large door with ornate metal hinges. Red silk curtains hung at either side of it from a polished wooden rail, and in front of it, barring the way, was a Romanesque chair. Wherever it led, it was obviously not in the official itinerary.
‘The pictures on the walls are all from the times of the minstrels. The centre-piece of the table is a sculpture in gilded bronze showing Siegfried fighting the dragon. The base of the table decoration is polished marble and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds.’
By sheer will-power I prevented myself from running over there and then to see if the door opened. I forced myself to stand still, to wait until he had described in painful detail the wall painting and the unusual ceiling, the ferns and thistles surrounding Siegfried and the dragon. Then, as they moved forward once more, I hung back, hoping against hope. The last straggler left the room and I ran over to the door. The handle was hidden by the chair and I had to move the chair forward, off the wood floor on which it stood on to the carpeting.
It was very heavy and I could hear the next party enter the Oratory. It would only take a few minutes to describe the few furnishings in there. Panting, I pulled the chair clear of the door, grasping the heavy metal handle. My fingers slipped, sticky with sweat, as I strained at the stiff bolt. The guide was describing the altar.
Frantically I
pushed for all I was worth, but it didn’t move. Now he was describing the praying desk. I tugged and strained, panic rising in my throat until I thought I would choke. Then the handle turned, opening into what must have been a servants’ room but was now bare and empty and obviously not open to public view. I heaved the chair back off the carpet, pulling the door to, and edging the chair back into its original position as near as I was able. It was impossible to pull it as far back as it had been, but I managed to get it clear of the carpet, and at least straight, before I closed the door and sank shivering and trembling to the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
I just sat there, head against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me, eyes closed. Dimly I was aware of the sound of people entering the room beyond, and of the guide lecturing monotonously on the paintings and the wooden ceiling. His voice broke over me in waves of German, French, English, then it receded, as he led the way into the next room, followed by the shuffling feet of the tourists. I breathed a sigh of relief. If he hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the chair’s position then the chances were that successive guides wouldn’t either.
I opened my eyes. There was a window set in the wall opposite, but it was too high to see out of and there were no chairs or anything else on which to stand. The room was completely bare. I closed my eyes again, incapable of feeling any further frustration or anxiety.
I was tired. Dog tired. Tired of everything. The continual flight, the fear, the doubt. It had been two days since I had slept. Really slept. Faint sounds from the courtyard below drifted up and into the room. If there was a great hue and cry I would be bound to hear it. Until then, I would sleep.
Intermittently I half-woke, stiff and uncomfortable on the hard floor, but only long enough to settle my head on to my shoulder-bag, find a fresh position and doze off again. When I did finally wake it was because of the cold. I sat up, rubbing my arms and shivering. The sunlight that had streamed through the window had been replaced by quickly falling twilight. I stared at my watch unbelievingly. It was half-past eight. I jumped to my feet. Half-past eight! Stephen would be out of his mind with worry. And where was everyone?
I stood motionless in the centre of the room. There wasn’t a sound. Hurriedly I searched through my bag for my literature. In the fast dwindling light I read: The castle is open to the public, May 1st to Oct 31st. 7.30 am to 5.30 pm.
Five-thirty! Dear God, I’d already been locked in for three hours! Hastily I opened the door, pushing it against the heavy chair outside until there was room for me to squeeze out. Then I halted. The room was lit only by moonlight and looked enormous and mysterious.
It seemed, as I stood in the near darkness, surrounded by the grossness of King Ludwig’s fantasy, that all the fear I had felt in the past had been nothing but a prelude. Nothing but a foretaste of what was happening to me now. Through open doors, other rooms led off, the walls lined with scenes of knights and minstrels, saints and kings, the interiors cluttered with pillars and columns, the high vaulted ceiling echoing every sound. Through the day it had been the fairy-tale castle of Cinderella, the sanctuary of a romantic maniac. Now in the shadows of approaching night, the medieval splendour was grotesque, the suits of armour and sumptuous hangings, macabre. The thought of spending the night alone, locked in this edifice to a dead legend, was horrifying.
The barren rooms were alive with the spirits of the figures thronging the walls. The silence, the isolation of the castle perched high on the mountain-top, was overwhelming. In these Bavarian forests tales of vampires and werewolfs were still prevalent and my twentieth-century common sense vanished as I stared with dread into the deepening gloom.
I dug my nails into my palms, forcing myself to move. If I didn’t go now while there was still some light to see by, I would never find my way out. Apprehensively I skirted the table in the centre of the room, crossing the ante-room at the far side and going out into the passage, my footsteps echoing and re-echoing on the bare floor.
Stifling all thoughts of the supernatural, I hurried past the dragon’s head lanterns on the wall, averting my eyes from the scenes of hunting and killing beneath them, intent only on reaching the top of the stairs. The faint light that glimmered through a stained glass window was barely sufficient for me to see my way down them, and I had to hug the wall, feeling my way into utter blackness. Carefully I edged down step by step, my hands running feverishly along the smooth wood, feeling my way to the heavy, oak door at the bottom.
By the time I reached it I was in a cold sweat, expecting any minute to hear the clanking of ghostly chains. Blindly I felt over the door for the handle and pulled hard. Nothing happened. Again and again I twisted and turned it, pulling with all my might, but it was no use. The door was locked. I didn’t know whether it was beads of perspiration or tears that were dripping down my face. I only knew that when they opened the door in the morning they would find a raging maniac beating and clawing at the wood. I pressed my hands against my cheeks, struggling for self-control. I must force myself to go back up the stairs and find another way out. Trembling, I turned, groping my way upwards, my mouth dry and parched.
Moonlight shone through the arched window on the landing, lighting my way as I hesitated between the King’s apartments on my right and a marbled doorway on my left. The darkness seemed less intense on the left hand side, and with my heart beating painfully against my chest, I stepped beneath the arch.
My feet clicked on to mosaic tiles and pale, silvery light streamed through two tiers of windows, illuminating a huge cavern of a place, glittering and gleaming with gold and silver, ivory and lapis lazuli. A flight of marble stairs led up to an apse of Byzantine splendour, with Christ, his apostles and angels, soaring in glory beneath a golden dome. Tremulously I walked to the foot of the stairs, but the semi-circle at the top, guarded by giant brass candelabra, led nowhere. I turned, lifting my eyes to the second tier of windows where a narrow gallery encircled three sides of the room. There had to be a way leading up to it. Bars of moonlight shone down on to the centre of the floor, leaving the far recesses impenetrable.
I clicked my way across to the polished columns of porphyric rock, then slipped, my heart in my mouth, into the blackness beyond. Edging forward inch by inch my foot stumbled on the first step, then the second. Minutes later I stood at the high windows looking down on to the spectacular view of forest and gorge, with the mountains beyond, stark and white beneath the star-filled sky. Far below was the shiny surface of the lake and the dark outline of Hohenschwangau. As I watched I saw the pin-prick of car lights approaching the lake, disappearing into the thick woods, then reappearing again, this time nearer.
I stiffened, straining to see in the darkness. Seconds later they flickered again at the foot of the gorge. ‘Dear God,’ I whispered. ‘Let it be Stephen. It must be Stephen!’
With renewed hope I stumbled back down the stairs, my footsteps ringing metallically on the tesselated floor as I hurriedly crossed it back into the corridor. There was no other way down into the courtyard from here, but perhaps if I climbed the staircase to the next floor I would have better luck.
I trod warily, my hands sliding along the smooth wood of the walls as the stairs climbed higher and higher. Gradually, slender shafts of moonlight pierced the inky blackness and I breasted the landing, gazing unbelievingly at what appeared to be a huge palm tree of marble rising from the centre of the stairs, merging into the ceiling above me.
I paused, trying to get my bearings. I had turned to my left on the lower landing, therefore if there was another staircase leading down to the courtyard it must be on the right. Carefully I stepped past a stone dragon, heading in what I hoped was the right direction, peering once more into the shadows.
The room was even more splendid than the last. A polished wood floor stretched endlessly down to what could have been a stage, more giant candelabras, visible only as dimly looming shapes, flanked the walls, and hanging in the half-light above my head were golden, crown-shaped chande
liers.
Purposefully I began to walk to the lower end of the room, scanning the walls, searching for a doorway. As I did so I became aware of another sound other than my own footsteps. Somebody was moving through the room below me.
I stood perfectly still. I had been so obsessed with the need to escape from the castle that I had forgotten Gunther and the possibility that he, too, had hidden away … And now he was here, bringing death closer and closer.
I tip-toed to the wall and pressed myself flat against it. The darkness here was thick and black. Below me was the stealthy tread of feet. I hugged the wall, this time completely without hope, stupefied, motionless with fear.
Then I heard him flick a match. There was a soft step; another. From outside came the screech of an owl swooping on its prey; the heavy rustle of the wind in the trees, and then silence.
If he should mount the stairs …
With slow deliberation the footsteps changed course, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then began to climb. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t swallow. I was rooted to the spot. My heart felt as if it was bursting within me as I stared, rigid with terror, into the darkness.
Then it was still, the only sound that of the owl, hooting as it flew past the windows. I licked my lips. I had to move, to act: he couldn’t find me here, cowering against the wall. I had to move …
There was the warm trickle of blood beneath my nails where they had dug into my palms. My body was trembling, shaking from head to toe. I pressed my hands against the wall behind me and began carefully, oh so carefully, to inch my way along it.
He was still there. Listening and waiting. The slightest sound and he would be upon me. I could see the stage now, half-formed and insubstantial in the darkness, and above it, a gallery.
Rendezvous With Danger Page 15
