Page 110 of The Last Kingdom

“Do you know what we’re after here?” Koger asked.

The curator nodded. “Marc explained what you have learned. ‘Where the minstrel aims his praise, and Parsifal points his gaze, the seer and dove offer help from above.’ Quite a clever twist of words.”

The same conclusion Fenn had come to, which made Cotton wonder.

Who came to it first?

“The king’s desk once stood out here,” Fenn said. “Against the window, in the corridor. Of course, Ludwig lived alone, so that would not have been an issue. He only slept here for about a hundred and seventy days total. When he did, he would sit at the desk and stare out at the panorama of regal old pines, birch groves, and wide valleys. Quite a sight that would have been. The desk was moved into the study a long time ago to accommodate the thousands of visitors who traverse this hall every day.”

The curator pointed at the bright, colorful wall murals. “These were all painted by Joseph Aigner, an artist from Munich, on large canvases built into the wall. Aigner, though, worked too slow for Ludwig’s patience. So he was eventually replaced with another painter. That so-called ‘interference with his artistic vision’ was said to have driven Aigner mad.”

“Any truth to it?” Cotton asked.

The curator shrugged. “No one really knows. Aigner killed himself in 1886, five months before Ludwig died. But before he was fired, Aigner tried to curry Ludwig’s favor.” The curator approached one of the large murals that filled the top half of a side wall. He pointed, then explained,“These paintings tell a story. Once there was an itinerant knight, a singer named Tannhäuser, who fell in love with Elisabeth, the niece of the Landgrave of Thüringen. But their differing social status prevented them from marrying so, in despair, Tannhäuser traveled to a place called Hörselberg, where the goddess Venus resided. There he stayed for a year enjoying the pleasures of her decadent realm.”

The curator pointed to more of the murals that illustrated what he was saying.

“Eventually, Tannhäuser grew weary of the goddess and moved on, arriving at the Wartburg, where a singers’ contest was happening. He joined in, but shocked the other minstrels by singing the praises of sensual love. He was banned from the Wartburg.”

The curator stepped before another of the paintings and pointed.

“In despair, Tannhäuser went on a pilgrimage to Rome seeking the pope’s forgiveness, which was refused, so he returned to Venus’s enchanted mountain. That entire saga is depicted here, in all its colorful glory. Wagner wrote a great opera that took license with the traditional story. What is here is not Wagner’s interpretation of the Germanic legend. Instead, Ludwig wanted everything in this castle to more reflect the original story of the amorous crusading Franconian knight and the great song contest at the Wartburg.”

Cotton could see that Koger was becoming impatient. That he could understand. His patience was also wearing thin. A lot was happening and too many bad guys were around to waste time on legends. But the curator and Fenn both seemed right at home in fantasyland. He decided to bring things back on topic. “The book that was found at Herrenchiemsee was of the Tannhäuser and the minnesingers’ contest at Wartburg. That points to here?”

Fenn nodded and removed the volume from his coat pocket. “I brought it along, in case we need it. Both this book, and the reference we saw below to faithfulness keeping guard by day and night, definitely point to here. Along with one other thing.”

He had no choice, so he asked, “Which is?”

“Parsifal,” Fenn said. “Another of Wagner’s operas that Ludwig II loved. It was loosely based on a thirteenth-century epic poem of the Arthurian knight Parzival and his quest for the Holy Grail.”

“Ludwig was inspired by the poem,” the curator noted. “As Wagner’s patron, Ludwig encouraged the composer to create an opera based on the romance. Which Wagner did. The Singers’ Hall, up on the fourth floor, is decorated with tapestries and paintings depicting that story. Ludwig commissioned eight private performances of the opera just for himself.” The curator stepped over to one of the larger murals. “Ludwig was enamored with opera. He loved the adventure, the romance, the battles between good and evil, love and hate. He liked to refer to himself as Parsifal. There are numerous writings, in his own hand, that have survived, where he referenced himself with that nickname. And then there is this.”

The curator pointed to the upper left corner of the mural where Tannhäuser was singing in the contest. Eight spectators were watching the performance. Three seated. Five standing. All wore medieval clothes and cast a medieval appearance. Save for one bearded face. Right in the middle of the group.

“I told you that the painter Aigner fell out of favor with Ludwig,” the curator said. “He tried to regain favor by including the king’s image in one of his murals. This one. That face, there, with beard and mustache, is the king’s.”

Cotton stepped closer and took in the features. “It does look like him.”

“It is him,” Fenn said. “Parsifal himself.”

The words from Ernst Lehmann flashed again through his mind.But where the minstrel aims his praise, and Parsifal points his gaze, the seer and dove offer help from above.

And he got it. He pointed. “Where the minstrel aims his praise.”

The redheaded singer, standing tall, arm raised in a blue cloak, faced left.

“And Parsifal points his gaze.”

Ludwig II also faced left.

He stepped to the right side of the mural. An ornate porcelain stove, in pale white and green, stood beneath the painting.

“Are they pointing to this?” he asked the curator.

Fenn smiled. “They are pointing to that spot. But not to that stove. It was added only a few years ago. Instead, what is important is what stood here in the early part of the twentieth century, when Ludwig III conceived his mystery game.”

“You know what that was?” Koger asked.

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