The Ludwig Conspiracy(127)

“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.





33





THE 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?”