It was at her request that Thilo and his friends had gone, first to the factory, and then on to the house, where they had engaged in a pitched battle with Udo Zirkeler’s private army. That had been the origin of the commotion he had heard coming from Effi’s garden, and which had succeeded in drawing the last of Zirkeler’s men from their hiding place. Now Zirkeler’s ‘apostles’ were locked up, and the factory sealed inside a cordon sanitaire.
Hart paused halfway up the Alpenruh hill. He was struggling for air. It was only then that he realized that he had not slept for thirty straight hours. He lingered for a moment by the bridge, taking deep breaths, trying to regain his equilibrium. He looked across at Effi’s house. It was surrounded by a small army of police vehicles. He recalled how innocent it had seemed at first viewing, surrounded by its lush cattle meadows and its wild bird cover. He remembered all the things that he had done in that house. The words he had said. The emotions he had felt. They all seemed so hollow now. As if someone else had been inhabiting his body and using his mind.
He glanced up towards the Alpenruh. A solitary figure was standing on the terrace, her face turned towards the afternoon sun. Frau Erlichmann. Hart raised his hand and waved at her, but she did not see him.
He continued up the track. When he was about fifteen feet away from where she was standing, she started. He called out and identified himself, and her face changed.
‘Ah. Baron. I didn’t see you. I was enjoying the feel of the sun on my face.’ Frau Erlichmann made an apologetic movement towards her eyes. ‘Come. Let us go inside and take some coffee. It is well past three o’clock. I have made a mirabellenkuchen. The plums come from that tree over there by the shelter.’ She fluttered her hand, but it was plain to Hart that she could not make out the tree herself. ‘It is a good tree. It produces more and more mirabelles every year. Just like Pandora’s box.’ She laughed in delight at her own image. ‘I have covered the cake in walnut streusel. It is your favourite, if I remember?’
‘Yes. It is my favourite. That, and the marzipan kirsch Stollen you made when we first met. Thank you.’
Hart followed Frau Erlichmann into the esszimmer. The smell of the house enfolded him like the memory of a perfect past he had inherited from someone else and arrogated to himself. He caught the bittersweet smell of ground coffee. The odour of chopped walnuts, cinnamon and other spices. The scent of air-dried hams and salamis. The smell of beeswax furniture polish, and of the apple, cherry and cedar wood logs stacked inside the Kachelofen alcove in readiness for winter, and chosen specifically for the scent they would give off.
‘May I stay here for a few days, Frau Erlichmann? Just until Amira is well again and fit enough to travel? I am a little tired.’
‘You may stay as long as you like, Baron. My hotel is empty, as you know. And my maid has little enough to do. Are you and Fräulein Eisenberger going to be together again?’
‘It seems unlikely.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be. One makes one’s own bed in this life. I seem to have contrived the apple-pie version for myself. I feel like a perfect fool.’
Frau Erlichmann didn’t answer. Instead, she busied herself making their coffee. First she set the pot into boiling water. Then she fixed the filter in place and wet the grounds. Then, slowly, she dripped the parboiled water through the filter.
Hart watched her with a half smile on his face. He felt a sudden sense of freedom in her presence. A sense of infinite possibility. If she could lead her life, at close to ninety years of age, with such elegance and grace, surely he should be able to contrive something similar at the age of thirty-nine?
‘This cake is quite wonderful.’
‘Thank you, Baron.’
Hart sat back in his chair. He gazed around the room. At the endless rows of antlers on every wall. At the green-tiled Kachelofen with the neat piles of logs beside it in their dedicated alcove. He looked at the ancient pine floorboards, worn to burnished mahogany by a thousand feet. At the French windows leading out onto the terrace, with their dark green shutters folded neatly out of the way. At the waist-high panelling which strayed onto the windowsills and surrounds of each bow window, as if the carpenter who had made it could not bear to sign off on his work.
‘You can’t possibly leave this place. It can’t pass into other hands. It would be a tragedy.’
‘Everything changes, Baron. Nothing remains the same. We cling to the past at our peril.’
Hart nodded at her. But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Frau Erlichmann inclined her head towards him. She spoke gently, as if to a child. ‘What have they done with the Holy Lance?’
Hart reached down for the bag beside him. He pushed aside the cake plates and laid the Lance on the table between them. ‘I stole it. Just before I left Effi’s house and confronted the police. I also stole my grandparents’ photograph. I don’t think anyone will care. The Viennese authorities think the Lance is a fake, anyway. They are convinced they have the real thing at the Hofburg Palace.’
Frau Erlichmann shook her head. ‘This is not a fake, Baron. I can assure you of that. This is the real Lance.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because the strip of vellum I translated for you leaves no room for doubt. It is in the form of a letter. Written by your ancestor, Johannes von Hartelius, to his direct descendants in the male line. I shall tell you why he did that in a minute. The letter is dated Boreas, 1198. Boreas is one of the Anemoi. He is the Greek God of the freezing north wind that heralds winter. He is called the Devouring One. He had snakes instead of feet, and he blew the winds out of his mouth through a conch shell. He could turn himself into a stallion and father colts. All that the mares he mated had to do was to turn their hindquarters towards where he blew, and they would be impregnated without the need for coition. He lived in Hyperborea. Which is the place beyond the north wind. A place of exile, Baron. A place beyond the pale.’
‘Why are you telling me this? What are you suggesting? That he was exiled?’
‘Be patient, Baron. Age teaches us patience.’ Frau Erlichmann raised her magnifying glass and studied the strip of manuscript in front of her. ‘The ancients understood the importance of symbols. They expected their readers to be literate in such things. Not everything can be written down in black and white.’
Hart sat back in his chair. ‘I’m sorry. I am dog-tired. It makes me tetchy. Please continue. I want to hear what my ancestor has to tell me.’
Frau Erlichmann shook her head. ‘No. You will not want to hear this.’
‘Read it to me. Please.’
Frau Erlichmann remained silent for a long time. At one point Hart began to wonder if she had drifted off to sleep. But when he looked closer he could see her lips moving. He realized she was praying.
Finally she looked up at him. Her eyes were kind. The eyes of a mother. ‘The letter goes like this: “I, Johannes von Hartelius, Baron Sanct Quirinus, hereditary guardian of the Holy Lance, lawful husband of Adelaïde von Kronach, lawful father of Johannes, Paulus, Agathe and Ingrid von Hartelius, former Knight Templar, exonerated from his vows of chastity and obedience by Frederick VI of Swabia, youngest son of the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, acting lawfully in the name of his brother, Henry VI of Staufen, do dictate this letter on the day of my execution, to be placed inside the Holy Lance as a warning to all those who may come after me.”’
‘His execution?’ Hart leant across the table. His face was pale with shock.
‘Yes, Baron. His execution.’
‘Why? What did he do?’
Frau Erlichmann addressed the manuscript again. ‘This explains it better than I can, I think. “Swayed by my unlawful love for Markgräfin Elfriede von Drachenhertz, intended lawful daughter of the king, and former lawful wife of Elfriede von Hohenstaufen, military governor of Carinthia, I turned against my king and misused the Holy Lance, which had been placed in my care. In doing this, I refused to heed Horace’s warning,
passed down to me with the guardianship of the Lance. Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges iuraque servat – He is truly a good man who observes the decree of his rulers and the laws and rights of his fellow citizens. Instead, I purposefully misunderstood the words Catullus handed down to all unvirtuous men – Mulier cupido quod dicit amanti, in vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua. I thus deserve my fate. May God have mercy on my soul.”’
‘What does he mean, Frau Erlichmann? What is he saying?’
‘He is saying that “the vows that a woman makes to her fond lover ought to be written on the wind and in the swiftly flowing stream”.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Oh, Baron. No man has ever understood this. What Catullus is saying is that a woman will tell her besotted lover whatever she thinks he wants to hear.’
Hart sat still for a long time, staring into his coffee cup. ‘Is there more?’
‘No. Need there be?’
Hart sighed. ‘What was the name of the woman who betrayed him?’
‘He betrayed himself, Baron. Your ancestor had only himself to blame.’
‘The name, Frau Erlichmann. Please tell me the name. I sometimes misunderstand your German pronunciation.’
‘Elfriede von Hohenstaufen.’
‘No. Tell me what her married name would have been.’
‘Markgräfin Elfriede von Drachenhertz.’
‘Elfriede Rache?’
Frau Erlichmann smiled. It was the serene smile of one who has seen everything, and who is content that their time should come. ‘Only you can decide that, Baron. Only you can know such a thing.’
The Templar Prophecy Page 28
